Estragon: We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist? Vladimir: Yes, yes, we're magicians.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
When a man in a forest thinks he is going forward in a straight line, in reality he is going in a circle, I did my best to go in a circle, hoping to go in a straight line.
There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
What I assert, deny, question, in the present, I still can. But mostly I shall use the various tenses of the past. For mostly I do not know, it is perhaps no longer so, it is too soon toknow, I simply do not know, perhaps shall never know.
It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.
The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
I love order. It's my dream. A world where all would be silent and still, and each thing in its last place, under the last dust.
My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all.
I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better. Samuel Beck
Estragon: Suppose we repented. Vladimir: Repented what? Estragon: Oh...(He reflects.) We wouldnâ€™t have to go into the details. Vladimir: Our being born?
Birth was the death of him.
We wait. We are bored. (He throws up his hand.) No, don't protest, we are bored to death, there's no denying it. Good. A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come, let's get to work! (He advances towards the heap, stops in his stride.) In an instant all will vanish and we'
The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.
If I was dead, I wouldn't know I was dead. That's the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
VLADIMIR: What do they say? ESTRAGON: They talk about their lives. VLADIMIR: To have lived is not enough for them. ESTRAGON: They have to talk about it.
The pendulum oscillates between these two terms: Suffering-that opens a window on the real and is the main condition of the artistic experience, and Boredom ... that must be considered as the most tolerable because the most durable of human evils.
To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.
POZZO: I am blind. (Silence.) ESTRAGON: Perhaps he can see into the future.
The new light above my table is a great improvement. With all this darkness around me I feel less alone. (Pause.) In a way. (Pause.) I love to get up and move about in it, then back here to... (hesitates) ...me. (Pause.)
That's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.
There's no lack of void.