The essential doesn't change.
The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
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.
Words are all we have.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
I had little talent for happiness.
If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
How all becomes clear and simple when one opens an eye on the within, having of course previously exposed it to the without, in order to benefit by the contrast.
To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
Mysterious affair, electricity.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.
Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.
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.
Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
Birth was the death of him.
But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
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