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The Time Is Perhaps Not Altogether Too Green For The Vile Suggestion That Art Has Nothing To Do With Clarity, Does Not Dabble In The Clear And Does Not Make Clear, And More Than The Light Of Day (or Night) Makes The Subsolar, -lunar, And -stellar Excrement. Art Is The Sun, Moon, And Stars Of The Mind, The Whole Mind.

-Samuel Beckett

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The Time Is Perhaps

Samuel Beckett

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The Time Is Perhaps Not Altogether Too Green For The Vile Suggestion That Art Has Nothing To Do With Clarity, Does Not Dabble In The Clear And Does Not Make Clear, And More Than The Light Of Day (or Night) Makes The Subsolar, -lunar, And -stellar Excrement. Art Is The Sun, Moon, And Stars Of The Mind, The Whole Mind.

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More From Samuel Beckett

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

I Am Still Alive Then. That May Come In Useful.

So All Things Limp Together For The Only Possible.

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

I Tried To Groan, Help! Help! But The Tone That Came Out Was That Of Polite Conversation.

Asking For Help

Two In Distressmake Sorrow Less.

Nothing Happens. Nobody Comes, Nobody Goes. It's Awful.

Waiting For Godot

Any Fool Can Turn A Blind Eye But Who Knows What The Ostrich Sees In The Sand.

How Can One Better Magnify The Almighty Than By Sniggering With Him At His Little Jokes, Particularly The Poorer Ones?

What A Joy To Know Where One Is, And Where One Will Stay, Without Being There. Nothing To Do But Stretch Out Comfortably On The Rack, In The Blissful Knowledge You Are Nobody For All Eternity. A Pity I Should Have To Give Tongue At The Same Time, It Prevents It From Bleeding In Peace, Licking The Lips.

There's No Lack Of Void.

Better Hope Deferred Than None.

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.

People Are Bloody Ignorant Apes.

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

Waiting For Godot

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

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.

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

Poets Are The Sense, Philosophers The Intelligence Of Humanity.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

God Is Love. Yes Or No? No.

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

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.

Words Are The Clothes Thoughts Wear.

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

Nothing Is More Real Than Nothing.

Waiting For Godot

Light Black. From Pole To Pole.

All This Business Of A Labour To Accomplish, Before I Can End, Of Words To Say, A Truth To Recover, In Order To Say It, Before I Can End, Of An Imposed Task, Once Known, Long Neglected, Finally Forgotten, To Perform, Before I Can Be Done With Speaking, Done With Listening, I Invented It All, In The Hope It Would Console Me, Help Me To Go On, Allow Me To Think Of Myself As Somewhere On A Road, Moving, Between A Beginning And An End, Gaining Ground, Losing Ground, Getting Lost, But Somehow In The Long Run Making Headway.

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.

Enough To Know No Knowing.

That Double-headed Monster Of Damnation And Salvation--time.

If I Had The Use Of My Body, I Would Throw It Out The Window.

My Characters Have Nothing. I'm Working With Impotence, Ignorance... That Whole Zone Of Being That Has Always Been Set Aside By Artists As Something Unusable - Something By Definition Incompatible With Art.

How Time Flies When One Has Fun!

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

You Would Do Better, At Least No Worse, To Obliterate Texts Than To Blacken Margins, To Fill In The Holes Of Words Till All Is Blank And Flat And The Whole Ghastly Business Looks Like What It Is, Senseless, Speechless, Issueless Misery.

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

Personally I Have No Bone To Pick With Graveyards.

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

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

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.

We All Are Born Mad. Some Remain So.

Waiting For Godot

Reality, Whether Approached Imaginatively Or Empirically, Remains A Surface, Hermetic.

What Are We Doing Here, That Is The Question. And We Are Blessed In This, That We Happen To Know The Answer. Yes, In The Immense Confusion One Thing Alone Is Clear. We Are Waiting For Godot To Come

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'll Be Alone More, In The Midst Of Nothingness!

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

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

What Do I Know Of Man's Destiny? I Could Tell You More About Radishes.

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

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.

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.

Adulterers, Take Warning, Never Admit.

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.

Nothing Is Funnier Than Unhappiness, I Grant You That… Yes, Yes, It's The Most Comical Thing In The World. And We Laugh, We Laugh, With A Will, In The Beginning. But It's Always The Same Thing. Yes, It's Like The Funny Story We Have Heard Too Often, We Still Find It Funny, But We Don't Laugh Any More.

The Time Is Perhaps Not Altogether Too Green For The Vile Suggestion That Art Has Nothing To Do With Clarity, Does Not Dabble In The Clear And Does Not Make Clear, And More Than The Light Of Day (or Night) Makes The Subsolar, -lunar, And -stellar Excrement. Art Is The Sun, Moon, And Stars Of The Mind, The Whole Mind.

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

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

Where You Have Nothing, There You Should Want Nothing.

I Asked Her To Look At Me And After A Few Moments - (pause) - After A Few Moments She Did, But The Eyes Just Slits, Because Of The Glare I Bent Over Her To Get Them In The Shadow And They Opened. (pause. Low) Let Me In.

Fail, Fail Again, Fail Better.

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.

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!

Words Are All We Have.

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.

Abode Where Lost Bodies Roam Each Searching For Its Lost One.

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!

What Is More True Than Anything Else? To Swim Is True And To Sink Is True. One Cannot Speak Any More Of Being, One Must Speak Onlyof The Mess.

Suffering Is The Main Condition Of The Artistic Experience.

In The Name Of Bacon Will You Chicken Me Up That Egg. Shall I Swallow Cave-phantoms?

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.)

Against The Charitable Gesture There Is No Defence.

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

To Every Man His Little Cross. Till He Dies. And Is Forgotten.

Waiting For Godot

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

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

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.

That Penny Farthing Hell You Call Your Mind

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

What Was God Doing With Himself Before The Creation?

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

Deplorable Mania, When Something Happens, To Inquire What.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

Watt's Concern, Deep As It Appeared, Was Not After All What The Figure Was, In Reality, But With What The Figure Appeared To Be, In Reality.

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

As It Is With The Love Of The Body, So With The Friendship Of The Mind, The Full Is Only Reached By Admittance To The Most Retired Places.

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

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.

Unhappy, But Not Unhappy Enough.

Estragon: Nothing To Be Done.

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.

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

Waiting For Godot

In My Head There Are Several Windows, That I Do Know, But Perhaps It Is Always The Same One, Open Variously On The Parading Universe.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

Waiting For Godot

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

God Is A Witness That Cannot Be Sworn.

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

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.

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.

But He Had Hardly Felt The Absurdity Of Those Things, On The One Hand, And The Necessity Of Those Others, On The Other, (for It Is Rare That The Feeling Of Absurdity Is Not Followed By The Feeling Of Necessity), When He Felt The Absurdity Of Those Things Of Which He Had Just Felt The Necessity (for It Is Rare That The Feeling Of Necessity Is Not Followed By The Feeling Of Absurdity.)

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

Waiting For Godot

What Is That Unforgettable Line?

Over, Over, There Is A Soft Place In My Heart For All That Is Over, No, For The Being Over, Words Have Been My Only Loves, Not Many.

Hamm: We're Not Beginning To... To... Mean Something? Clov: Mean Something! You And I, Mean Something! (brief Laugh.) Ah That's A Good One!

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

Waiting For Godot

They Never Lynch Children, Babies, No Matter What They Do They Are Whitewashed In Advance.

The Only Thing You Must Never Speak Of Is Your Happiness.

We Are All Born Crazy. Some Remain That Way.

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.

I Am Such A Good Man, At Bottom, Such A Good Man, How Is It That Nobody Ever Noticed It?

The Confusion Is Not My Invention. We Cannot Listen To A Conversation For Five Minutes Without Being Aware Of The Confusion. It Is All Around Us And Our Only Chance Now Is To Let It In. The Only Chance Of Renovation Is To Open Our Eyes And See The Mess. It Is Not A Mess You Can Make Sense Of.

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

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

When The Object Is Perceived As Particular And Unique And Not Merely The Member Of A Family, When It Appears Independent Of Any General Notion And Detached From The Sanity Of A Cause, Isolated And Inexplicable In The Light Of Ignorance, Then And Only Then May It Be A Source Of Enchantment.

Vladimir: I Don't Understand. Estragon: Use Your Intelligence, Can't You? Vladimir Uses His Intelligence. Vladimir: (finally) I Remain In The Dark.

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.

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

Hardly Had The Glow Been Kindled By Some Good Deed On Your Part Or By Some Little Triumph Over Your Rivals Or By A Word Of Praisefrom Your Parents Or Mentors When It Would Begin To Cool And Fade Leaving You In A Very Short Time As Chill And Dim As Before.

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

Words Fail, There Are Times When Even They Fail.

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

Ireland And The Irish

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

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

No Painting Is More Replete Than Mondrian's.

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.

Nothing Is Funnier Than Unhappiness.

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.

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.

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.

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

There's Never An End For The Sea.

Habit Is A Great Deadener.

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

Waiting For Godot

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

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.

Clear To Me At Last That The Dark I Have Always Struggled To Keep Under Is In Reality My Most

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

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

Don't Look For Meaning In The Words. Listen To The Silences.

That Passed The Time. It Would Have Passed In Any Case. Yes, But Not So Rapidly.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

To Restore Silence Is The Role Of Objects.

I Still Smile It's Not Worth The Trouble Any More For A Long Time Now It's Not Been Worth The Trouble The Tongue Spring Goes Into The Mud I Stay Like This Not Thirsty Any More The Tongue Goes Back Into The Mouth It Closes It Has To Make A Straight Line Now It's Done I've Made The Image.

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.

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.

Unfathomable Mind, Now Beacon, Now Sea.

I Don't Know Why I Told This Story. I Could Just As Well Have Told Another. Perhaps Some Other Time I'll Be Able To Tell Another. Living Souls, You Will See How Alike They Are.

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.

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

What Is This Love That More Than All The Cursed Deadly Or Any Other Of Its Great Movers So Moves The Soul And Soul What Is This Soul That More Than By Any Of Its Great Movers Is By Love So Moved?

Do We Mean Love, When We Say Love?

It Was The Only Way To Progress, To Stop.

I Can't Go On. I'll Go On.

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

Estragon: Suppose We Repented. Vladimir: Repented What? Estragon: Oh...(he Reflects.) We Wouldn’t Have To Go Into The Details. Vladimir: Our Being Born?

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.

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

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.

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.

We Are All Born; Some Remain So.

An Imaginative Adventure Does Not Enjoy The Same Corsets As Reportage.

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

Lick Your Neighbor As Yourself!

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

...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.

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

The Whisky Bears A Grudge Against The Decanter.

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.

Mysterious Affair, Electricity.

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.

Where Am I, I Don't Know, I'll Never Know, In The Silence, In The Silence You Don't Know, You Must Go On, I Can't Go On, I'll Go On.

To What Will Love Not Stoop!

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

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.

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.

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