Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
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.
I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
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.
Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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.
Birth was the death of him.
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.
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.
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.
To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
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.
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.
There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
Habit is a great deadener.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?
Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
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