He who has waited long enough, will wait forever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain.
Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.
Let's go." "We can't." "Why not?" "We're waiting for Godot.
I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.
Tears and laughter, they are so much Gaelic to me.
I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?
The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?
We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
Success and failure on the public level never mattered much to me, in fact I feel more at home with the latter, having breathed deep of its vivifying air all my writing life up to the last couple of years.
What can it matter to me, that I succeed or fail ? The undertaking is none of mine, if they want me to succeed I'll fail, and vice versa, so as not to be rid of my tormentors.
We are all born; some remain so.
Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.
It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.
Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.
Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.
The fact is, it seems, that the most you can hope is to be a little less, in the end, the creature you were in the beginning, and the middle.
Light black. From pole to pole.
I cannot explain my plays. Each must find out for himself what is meant
You cried for night - it falls. Now cry in darkness.
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