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Perhaps That's What I Feel, An Outside And An Inside And Me In The Middle, Perhaps That's What I Am, The Thing That Divides The World In Two, On The One Side The Outside, On The Other The Inside, That Can Be As Thin As Foil, I'm Neither One Side Nor The Other, I'm In The Middle, I'm The Partition, I've Two Surfaces And No Thickness, Perhaps That's What I Feel, Myself Vibrating, I'm The Tympanum, On The One Hand The Mind, On The Other The World, I Don't Belong To Either.

-Samuel Beckett

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Perhaps That's What I

Samuel Beckett

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Perhaps That's What I Feel, An Outside And An Inside And Me In The Middle, Perhaps That's What I Am, The Thing That Divides The World In Two, On The One Side The Outside, On The Other The Inside, That Can Be As Thin As Foil, I'm Neither One Side Nor The Other, I'm In The Middle, I'm The Partition, I've Two Surfaces And No Thickness, Perhaps That's What I Feel, Myself Vibrating, I'm The Tympanum, On The One Hand The Mind, On The Other The World, I Don't Belong To Either.

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The Human Eyelid Is Not Teartight (happily For The Human Eye).

Silence, Yes, But What Silence! For It Is All Very Fine To Keep Silence, But One Has Also To Consider The Kind Of Silence One Keeps.

To-morrow, When I Wake, Or Think I Do, What Shall I Say Of To-day?

Waiting For Godot

Go On Failing. Go On. Only Next Time, Try To Fail Better.

But I Know What Darkness Is, It Accumulates, Thickens, Then Suddenly Bursts And Drowns Everything.

The Sun Shone, Having No Alternative, On The Nothing New.

I Hope I Am Not Too Old To Take It Up Seriously, Nor Too Stupid About Machines To Qualify As A Commercial Pilot. I Do Not Feel Like Spending The Rest Of My Life Writing Books That No One Will Read. It Is Not As Though I Wanted To Write Them.

All That Is Active, All That Is Enveloped In Time And Space, Is Endowed With What Might Be Described As An Abstract, Ideal And Absolute Impermeability.

We Are All Born Crazy. Some Remain That Way.

How Hideous Is The Semicolon.

Yes, In My Life, Since We Must Call It So, There Were Three Things, The Inability To Speak, The Inability To Be Silent, And Solitude, That’s What I’ve Had To Make The Best Of.

Use It Or Lose It

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.

All I Want To Do Is Sit On My Ass And Fart And Think Of Dante.

Unhappy, But Not Unhappy Enough.

Estragon: We Always Find Something, Eh Didi, To Give Us The Impression We Exist? Vladimir: Yes, Yes, We're Magicians.

Waiting For Godot

Dublin University Contains The Cream Of Ireland: Rich And Thick.

Ireland And The Irish

It Was Long Since I Had Longed For Anything And The Effect On Me Was Horrible.

Normally I Didn’t See A Great Deal. I Didn’t Hear A Great Deal Either. I Didn’t Pay Attention. Strictly Speaking I Wasn’t There. Strictly Speaking I Believe I’ve Never Been Anywhere.

I Say Me, Knowing All The While It's Not Me.

The Essential Is To Go On Squirming Forever At The End Of The Line, As Long As There Are Waters And Banks And Ravening In Heaven Asporting God To Plague His Creature, Per Pro His Chosen Shits.

Unfathomable Mind, Now Beacon, Now Sea.

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.

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 To Know, I Simply Do Not Know, Perhaps Shall Never Know.

I Want Very Much To Be Back In The Caul, On My Back In The Dark Forever.

The End Of A Life Is Always Vivifying.

Life Is Habit. Or Rather Life Is A Succession Of Habits.

No, I Regret Nothing, All I Regret Is Having Been Born, Dying Is Such A Long Tiresome Business I Always Found.

You're On Earth. There's No Cure For That.

I Always Thought Old Age Would Be A Writer’s Best Chance. Whenever I Read The Late Work Of Goethe Or W. B. Yeats I Had The Impertinence To Identify With It. Now, My Memory’s Gone, All The Old Fluency’s Disappeared. I Don’t Write A Single Sentence Without Saying To Myself, ‘it’s A Lie!’ So I Know I Was Right. It’s The Best Chance I’ve Ever Had.

She Felt, As She Felt So Often With Murphy, Spattered With Words That Went Dead As Soon As They Sounded; Each Word Obliterated, Before It Had Time To Make Sense, By The Word That Came Next; So That In The End She Did Not Know What Had Been Said. It Was Like Difficult Music Heard For The First Time.

Let Us Do Something, While We Have The Chance! ... Let Us Make The Most Of It, Before It Is Too Late! Let Us Represent Worthily For One The Foul Brood To Which A Cruel Fate Consigned Us!

Already All Confusion. Things And Imaginings. As Of Always. Confusion Amounting To Nothing. Despite Precautions. If Only She Could Be Pure Figment. Unalloyed. This Old So Dying Woman. So Dead. In The Madhouse Of The Skull And Nowhere Else. Where No More Precautions To Be Taken. No Precautions Possible. Cooped Up There With The Rest. Hovel And Stones. The Lot. And The Eye. How Simple All Then. If Only All Could Be Pure Figment. Neither Be Nor Been Nor By Any Shift To Be. Gently Gently. On. Careful.

We Are Not Saints, But We Have Kept Our Appointment. How Many People Can Boast As Much?

I Cannot Explain My Plays. Each Must Find Out For Himself What Is Meant

Every Word Is Like An Unnecessary Stain On Silence And Nothingness.

It's So Nice To Know Where You're Going, In The Early Stages. It Almost Rids You Of The Wish To Go There.

It Is Suicide To Be Abroad. But What It Is To Be At Home, ... What It Is To Be At Home? A Lingering Dissolution.

We All Are Born Mad. Some Remain So.

Waiting For Godot

Was I Asleep? Had I Slept?

My Life, My Life, Now I Speak Of It As Of Something Over, Now As Of A Joke Which Still Goes On, And It Is Neither, For At The Same Time It Is Over And It Goes On, And Is There Any Tense For That? Watch Wound And Buried By The Watchmaker, Before He Died, Whose Ruined Works Will One Day Speak Of God, To The Worms.

Suffering Is The Main Condition Of The Artistic Experience.

Dance First. Think Later. It's The Natural Order.

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.

I Write About Myself With The Same Pencil And In The Same Exercise Book As About Him. It Is No Longer I, But Another Whose Life Is Just Beginning.

I, Of Whom I Know Nothing, I Know My Eyes Are Open, Because Of The Tears That Pour From Them Unceasingly.

If You Do Not Love Me I Shall Not Be Loved If I Do Not Love You I Shall Not Love.

It Is Right That He Too Should Have His Little Chronicle, His Memories, His Reason, And Be Able To Recognize The Good In The Bad, The Bad In The Worst, And So Grow Gently Old Down All The Unchanging Days, And Die One Day Like Any Other Day, Only Shorter.

Never But The One Matter. The Dead And Gone. The Dying And Going. From The Word Go.

Do We Mean Love, When We Say Love?

Finished, It's Finished, Nearly Finished, It Must Be Nearly Finished. Grain Upon Grain, One By One, And One Day, Suddenly, There's A Heap, A Little Heap, The Impossible Heap. I Can't Be Punished Any More. I'll Go Now To My Kitchen, Ten Feet By Ten Feet By Ten Feet, And Wait For Him To Whistle Me. Nice Dimensions, Nice Proportions, I'll Lean On The Table, And Look At The Wall, And Wait For Him To Whistle Me.

James Joyce Was A Synthesizer, Trying To Bring In As Much As He Could. I Am An Analyzer, Trying To Leave Out As Much As I Can.

I Shall State Silences More Competently Than Ever A Better Man Spangled The Butterflies Of Vertigo.

It's A Lot To Ask Of One Creature, It's A Lot To Ask, That He Should First Behave As If He Were Not, Then As If He Were, Before Being Admitted To That Peace Where He Neither Is, Nor Is Not, And Where The Language Dies That Permits Of Such Expressions.

There's Something Dripping In My Head. A Heart, A Heart In My Head.

What Do We Do Now, Now That We Are Happy?

What Is That Unforgettable Line?

There Is No Use Indicting Words, They Are No Shoddier Than What They Peddle.

And What I Have, What I Am, Is Enough, Was Always Enough For Me, And As Far As My Dear Little Sweet Little Future Is Concerned I Have No Qualms, I Have A Good Time Coming.

The Situation Is That Of Him Who Is Helpless, Cannot Act, In The Event Cannot Paint, Since He Is Obliged To Paint. The Act Is Of Him Who, Helpless, Unable To Act, Acts, In The Event Paints, Since He Is Obliged To Paint.

How Long Have I Been Here, What A Question, I've Often Wondered. And Often I Could Answer, An Hour, A Month, A Year, A Century, Depending On What I Meant By Here, And Me, And Being, And There I Never Went Looking For Extravagant Meanings, There I Never Much Varied, Only The Here Would Sometimes Seem To Vary.

It's Impossible I Should Have A Mind And I Have One

I Know Those Little Phrases That Seem So Innocuous, And, Once You Let Them In, Pollute The Whole Of Speech. 'nothing Is More Real Than Nothing.' They Rise Up Out Of The Pit And Know No Rest Until They Drag You Down Into Its Dark.

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.

All I Say Cancels Out, I’ll Have Said Nothing.

I Am Interested In The Shape Of Ideas Even If I Do Not Believe In Them. There Is A Wonderful Sentence In Augustine . . . "do Not Despair: One Of The Thieves Was Saved; Do Not Presume: One Of The Thieves Was Damned." That Sentence Had A Wonderful Shape. It Is The Shape That Matters.

Enough Of Acting The Infant Who Has Been Told So Often How He Was Found Under A Cabbage That In The End He Remembers The Exact Spot In The Garden And The Kind Of Life He Led There Before Joining The Family Circle.

Vladimir: Did I Ever Leave You? Estragon: You Let Me Go.

I Lay Down Across Her With My Face In Her Breasts And My Hand On Her. We Lay There Without Moving. But Under Us All Moved, And Moved Us, Gently, Up And Down, And From Side To Side.

Art Has Always Been This--pure Interrogation, Rhetorical Question Less The Rhetoric--whatever Else It May Have Been Obliged By Social Reality To Appear.

Better Hope Deferred Than None.

We Should Have Thought Of It When The World Was Young, In The Nineties.

...and A Dream Away In Space With Neither Her Nor There Where All The Footsteps Ever Fell Can Never Fare Nearer To Anywhere Nor From Anywhere Further Away. Nor For In The End Again By Degrees Or As Though Switched On Dark Falls There Again That Certain Dark That Alone Certain Ashes Can. Through It Who Knows Yet Another End Beneath A Cloudless Sky Of A Last End If Ever There Had To Be Another Absolutely Had To Be.

Poets Are The Sense, Philosophers The Intelligence Of Humanity.

Women Are All The Bloody Sameyou Can't Love For Five Minutes Without Wanting It Abolished In Brats And House Bloody Wifery.

I Could Not Have Gone Through The Awful Wretched Mess Of Life Without Having Left A Stain Upon The Silence.

I've Tried Not To Exaggerate The Glory Of Athletes. I'd Rather, If I Could, Preserve A Sense Of Proportion, To Write About Them Asexcellent Ballplayers, First-rate Players. But I'm Sure I Have Contributed To False Values--as Stanley Woodward Said, "godding Up Those Ballplayers." The Sun Shone, Having No Alternative, On The Nothing New.

If There Is One Question I Dread, To Which I Have Never Been Able To Invent A Satisfactory Reply, It Is The Question What Am I Doing.

Sometimes I Wonder If I'm In My Right Mind. Then It Passes Off And I'm As Intelligent As Ever.

What Are We Doing Here, That Is The Question.

Waiting For Godot

It Is Better To Adopt The Simplest Explanation, Even If It Is Not Simple, Even If It Does Not Explain Very Much. A Bright Light Is Not Necessary, A Taper Is All One Needs To Live In Strangeness, If It Faithfully Burns.

Yes, There Were Times When I Forgot Not Only Who I Was But That I Was, Forgot To Be.

All I Know Is What The Words Know, And Dead Things, And That Makes A Handsome Little Sum, With A Beginning And A Middle And An End, As In The Well-built Phrase And The Long Sonata Of The Dead.

There Is At Least This To Be Said For Mind, That It Can Dispel Mind.

I Use The Words You Taught Me. If They Don't Mean Anything Any More, Teach Me Others. Or Let Me Be Silent.

Estragon: Nothing To Be Done.

We Could Have Saved Sixpence. We Could Have Saved Fivepence. But At What Cost?

Don’t Wait To Be Hunted To Hide, That Was Always My Motto.

Hold The Old Holding Hand. Hold And Be Held. Plod On And Never Recede. Slowly With Never A Pause Plod On And Never Recede.

Ah, The Old Questions, The Old Answers, There's Nothing Like Them!

Nothing Matters But The Writing. There Has Been Nothing Else Worthwhile... A Stain Upon The Silence.

No Painting Is More Replete Than Mondrian's.

What Goes By The Name Of Love Is Banishment, With Now And Then A Postcard From The Homeland, Such Is My Considered Opinion, This Evening.

Watt Had Watched People Smile And Thought He Understood How It Was Done.

Sloth Is All Passions The Most Powerful.

Make Sense Who May. I Switch Off.

The Fact Would Seem To Be, If In My Situation One May Speak Of Facts, Not Only That I Shall Have To Speak Of Things Of Which I Cannot Speak, But Also, Which Is Even More Interesting, But Also That I, Which Is If Possible Even More Interesting, That I Shall Have To, I Forget, No Matter. And At The Same Time I Am Obliged To Speak. I Shall Never Be Silent. Never.

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.)

If By Godot I Had Meant God I Would Have Said God, And Not Godot.

The Sky Sinks In The Morning, This Fact Has Been Insufficiently Observed.

Enough To Know No Knowing.

I Pause To Record That I Feel In Extraordinary Form. Delirium Perhaps.

It Sometimes Happens And Will Sometimes Happen Again That I Forget Who I Am And Strut Before My Eyes, Like A Stranger.

Do You Always Believe In The Life To Come? Mine Was Always That.

I Marshalled The Words And Opened My Mouth, Thinking I Would Hear Them. But All I Heard Was A Kind Of Rattle, Unintelligible Even To Me Who Knew What Was Intended.

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.

There Are Two Moments Worthwhile In Writing, The One When You Start And The Other When You Throw It In The Waste-paper Basket.

Just Under The Surface I Shall Be, All Together At First, Then Separate And Drift, Through All The Earth And Perhaps In The End Through A Cliff Into The Sea, Something Of Me. A Ton Of Worms In An Acre, That Is A Wonderful Thought, A Ton Of Worms, I Believe It.

We Have Time To Grow Old. The Air Is Full Of Our Cries. But Habit Is A Great Deadener.

Waiting For Godot

It Was The Only Way To Progress, To Stop.

How Do You Manage It, She Said, At Your Age? I Told Her I'd Been Saving Up For Her All My Life.

We Always Find Something, Eh Didi, To Let Us Think We Exist?

There Is This To Be Said For Dachsunds Of Such Length And Lowness As Nelly, That It Makes Very Little Difference To Their Appearance Whether They Stand, Sit Or Lie.

Do They [the Publishers Of Murphy] Not Understand That If The Book Is Slightly Obscure It Is Because It Is A Compression And Thatto Compress It Further Can Only Make It More Obscure?

To Restore Silence Is The Role Of Objects.

Poetry Is Essentially The Antithesis Of Metaphysics: Metaphysics Purge The Mind Of The Senses And Cultivate The Disembodiment Of The Spiritual; Poetry Is All Passionate And Feeling And Animates The Inanimate; Metaphysics Are Most Perfect When Concerned With Universals; Poetry, When Most Concerned With Particulars.

Be Again, Be Again. (pause.) All That Old Misery. (pause.) Once Wasn't Enough For You.

They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.

Words Are The Clothes Thoughts Wear.

Love Requited Is A Short Circuit.

Habit Is A Great Deadener.

Have You Not Done Tormenting Me With Your Accursed Time! It's Abominable! When! When! One Day, Is That Not Enough For You, One Day He Went Dumb, One Day I Went Blind, One Day We'll Go Deaf, One Day We Were Born, One Day We Shall Die, The Same Day, The Same Second, Is That Not Enough For You? They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.

[t]he Syndrome Known As Life Is Too Diffuse To Admit Of Palliation. For Every Symptom That Is Eased, Another Is Made Worse. The Horse Leech's Daughter Is A Closed System. Her Quantum Of Wantum Cannot Vary.

Yes, There Is No Denying It, Any Longer, It Is Not You Who Are Dead, But All The Others. So You Get Up And Go To Your Mother, Who Thinks She Is Alive. That's My Impression. But Now I Shall Have To Get Myself Out Of This Ditch. How Joyfully I Would Vanish Here, Sinking Deeper And Deeper Under The Rains.

For To Know Nothing Is Nothing, Not To Want To Know Anything Likewise, But To Be Beyond Knowing Anything, To Know You Are Beyond Knowing Anything, That Is When Peace Enters In, To The Soul Of The Incurious Seeker.

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.

Dear Incomprehension, It's Thanks To You I'll Be Myself, In The End.

For The Only Way One Can Speak Of Nothing Is To Speak Of It As Though It Were Something, Just As The Only Way One Can Speak Of God Is To Speak Of Him As Though He Were A Man, Which To Be Sure He Was, In A Sense, For A Time, And As The Only Way One Can Speak Of Man, Even Our Anthropologists Have Realized That, Is To Speak Of Him As Though He Were A Termite.

All Mankind Is Us, Whether We Like It Or Not.

Waiting For Godot

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?

Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.

We Spend Our Life, It's Ours, Trying To Bring Together In The Same Instant A Ray Of Sunshine And A Free Bench

Words And Images Run Riot In My Head, Pursuing, Flying, Clashing, Merging, Endlessly. But Beyond This Tumult There Is A Great Calm, And A Great Indifference, Never Really To Be Troubled By Anything Again.

Against The Charitable Gesture There Is No Defence.

All The Things You Would Do Gladly, Oh Without Enthusiasm, But Gladly, All The Things There Seems No Reason For Your Not Doing, And That You Do Not Do! Can It Be We Are Not Free? It Might Be Worth Looking Into.

Absolute Virtue Is As Sure To Kill A Man As Absolute Vice Is, Let Alone The Dullness Of It And The Pomposities Of It.

You Cried For Night - It Falls. Now Cry In Darkness.

In Reality We Are One And All From The Unthinkable First To The No Less Unthinkable Last Glued Together In A Vast Imbrication Of Flesh Without Breach Or Fissure

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.

The End Is In The Beginning And Yet You Go On.

Pozzo: I Am Blind. (silence.) Estragon: Perhaps He Can See Into The Future.

Then I Went Back Into The House And Wrote, It Is Midnight. The Rain Is Beating On The Windows. It Was Not Midnight. It Was Not Raining.

Friendship, According To Proust, Is The Negation Of That Irremediable Solitude To Which Every Human Being Is Condemned.

The Tuesday Scowls, The Wednesday Growls, The Thursday Curses, The Friday Howls, The Saturday Snores, The Sunday Yawns, The Monday Morns, The Monday Morns. The Whacks, The Moans, The Cracks, The Groans, The Welts, The Squeaks, The Belts, The Shrieks, The Pricks, The Prayers, The Kicks, The Tears, The Skelps, And The Yelps.

Don't Touch Me! Don't Question Me! Don't Speak To Me! Stay With Me!

Waiting For Godot

Silence And Darkness Were All I Craved. Well, I Get A Certain Amount Of Both. They Being One.

But At This Place, At This Moment Of Time, All Mankind Is Us, Whether We Like It Or Not. Let Us Make The Most Of It, Before It Is Too Late!

Waiting For Godot

We Lose Our Hair, Our Teeth! Our Bloom, Our Ideals.

In The Landscape Of Extinction, Precision Is Next To Godliness.

Enough. Sudden Enough. Sudden All Far. No Move And Sudden All Far. All Least. Three Pins. One Pinhole. In Dimmost Dim. Vasts Apart. At Bounds Of Boundless Void. Whence No Farther. Best Worse No Farther. Nohow Less. Nohow Worse. Nohow Naught. Nohow On.

To Find A Form That Accommodates The Shape Of The Mess, That Is The Task Of The Artist Now.

If You Don't Know Where You Are Currently Standing, You're Dead.

And Truly It Little Matters What I Say, This Or That Or Any Other Thing. Saying Is Inventing. Wrong, Very Rightly Wrong. You Invent Nothing, You Think You Are Inventing, You Think You Are Escaping, And All You Do Is Stammer Out Your Lesson, The Remnants Of A Pensum One Day Got By Heart And Long Forgotten, Life Without Tears, As It Is Wept.

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.

Estragon: I'm Like That. Either I Forget Right Away Or I Never Forget.

It Is Useless Not To Seek, Not To Want, For When You Cease To Seek You Start To Find, And When You Cease To Want, Then Life Begins To Ram Her Fish And Chips Down Your Gullet Until You Puke, And Then The Puke Down Your Gullet Until You Puke The Puke, And Then The Puked Puke Until You Begin To Like It.

What Kind Of Country Is This Where A Woman Can't Weep Her Heart Out On The Highways And Byways Without Being Tormented By Retired Bill-brokers!

The Blind Have No Notion Of Time. The Things Of Time Are Hidden From Them Too.

Habit Is A Compromise Effected Between An Individual And His Environment.

The Whisky Bears A Grudge Against The Decanter.

There Is No Escape From Yesterday Because Yesterday Has Deformed Us, Or Been Deformed By Us. The Mood Is Of No Importance. Deformation Has Taken Place.

I Gave Up Before Birth.

Birth Was The Death Of Him.

Words Fail, There Are Times When Even They Fail.

The Tears Stream Down My Cheeks From My Unblinking Eyes. What Makes Me Weep So? There Is Nothing Saddening Here. Perhaps It Is Liquefied Brain.

Words Are All We Have.

Not To Want To Say, Not To Know What You Want To Say, Not To Be Able To Say What You Think You Want To Say, And Never To Stop Saying, Or Hardly Ever, That Is The Thing To Keep In Mind, Even In The Heat Of Composition.

There's Never An End For The Sea.

The Only Sin Is The Sin Of Being Born.

Habit Is A Compromise Effected Between The Individual And His Environment, Or Between The Individual And His Own Organic Eccentricities, The Guarantee Of A Dull Inviolability, The Lightning-conductor Of His Existence.

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.

My Notes Have A Curious Tendency, As I Realize At Last, To Annihilate All They Purport To Record.

Estragon: What About Hanging Ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd Give Us An Erection.

Let Me Go To Hell, That's All I Ask, And Go On Cursing Them There, And Them Look Down And Hear Me, That Might Take Some Of The Shine Off Their Bliss.

...you Must Say Words, As Long As There Are Any, Until They Find Me, Until They Say Me, Strange Pain, Strange Sin, You Must Go On, Perhaps It's Done Already, Perhaps They Have Said Me Already, Perhaps They Have Carried Me To The Threshold Of My Story, Before The Door That Opens On My Story, That Would Surprise Me, If It Opens, It Will Be I, It Will Be The Silence, Where I Am, I Don't Know, I'll Never Know, In The Silence You Don't Know, You Must Go On, I Can't Go On, I'll Go On

Spend The Years Of Learning Squandering Courage For The Years Of Wandering Through A World Politely Turning From The Loutishness Of Learning.

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.

God Is Love. Yes Or No? No.

Art Has Nothing To Do With Clarity, Does Not Dabble In The Clear And Does Not Make Clear

I Knew It Would Soon Be The End, So I Played The Part, You Know, The Part Of — How Shall I Say, I Don’t Know.

Decidedly It Will Never Have Been Given To Me To Finish Anything, Except Perhaps Breathing. One Must Not Be Greedy.

Let's Go." "we Can't." "why Not?" "we're Waiting For Godot.

Waiting For Godot

The Short Winter’s Day Was Drawing To A Close. It Seems To Me Sometimes That These Are The Only Days I Have Ever Known, And Especially That Most Charming Moment Of All, Just Before Night Wipes Them Out.

The Dust Will Not Settle In Our Time. And When It Does Some Great Roaring Machine Will Come And Whirl It All Skyhigh Again.

The Day You Die Is Just Like Any Other, Only Shorter.

Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.' You Won't Believe What You Can Accomplish By Attempting The Impossible With The Courage To Repeatedly Fail Better.

Lick Your Neighbor As Yourself!

My Keepers, Why Keepers, I'm In No Danger Of Stirring An Inch, Ah I See, It's To Make Me Think I'm A Prisoner, Frantic With Corporeality, Rearing To Get Out And Away.

I Have My Faults, But Changing My Tune Is Not One Of Them.

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.

All Life Long, The Same Questions, The Same Answers.

The Time-state Of Attainment Eliminates So Accurately The Time-state Of Aspiration, That The Actual Seems The Inevitable, And, All Conscious Intellectual Effort To Reconstitute The Invisible And Unthinkable As A Reality Being Fruitless, We Are Incapable Of Appreciating Our Joy By Comparing It With Our Sorrow.

The Old Endless Chain Of Love, Tolerance, Indifference, Aversion And Disgust

Love, That Is All I Asked, A Little Love, Daily, Twice Daily, Fifty Years Of Twice Daily Love Like A Paris Horse-butcher's Regular, What Normal Woman Wants Affection?

Yes, I Dont Know Why, But I Have Never Been Disappointed, And I Often Was In The Early Days, Without Feeling At The Same Time, Or A Moment Later, An Undeniable Relief.

The Search For The Means To Put An End To Things, An End To Speech, Is What Enables The Discourse To Continue.

Deplorable Mania, When Something Happens, To Inquire What.

The Essential Doesn't Change.

Humbly To Ask A Favour Of People Who Are On The Point Of Knocking Your Brains Out Sometimes Produces Good Results.

It's A Rare Thing Not To Have Been Bonny-- Once.

There's Man All Over For You, Blaming On His Boots The Fault Of His Feet.

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