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
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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!
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Let's go." "We can't." "Why not?" "We're waiting for Godot.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.
Godot is whatever it is in life that you are waiting for: 'I'm waiting to win the lottery. I'm waiting to fall in love'. For me, as a child, it was Christmas. At least that eventually came.
What are we doing here, that is the question.
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.
To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
Samuel Beckett's 'Waiting for Godot,' billed as 'the laugh sensation of two continents,' made its American debut at the Coconut Grove Playhouse, in Miami, Florida, in 1956. My father, Bert Lahr, was playing Estragon, one of the two bowler-hatted tramps who pass the time in a lunar landscape as they wait in vain for the arrival of a Mr. Godot.
As it happened, I had a friend who was a good person who liked to present himself as a dreadful one. Using him as a role model, I created the first Buck Godot strip.
When we'd suggested doing it, the Theatre Royal management had said, 'Nobody wants to see Waiting for Godot.' As it happened, every single ticket was booked for every single performance, and this confirmation that our judgment was right was sweet. Audiences came to us from all over the world. It was amazing.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
If by Godot I had meant God I would have said God, and not Godot.
Estragon: I can't go on like this. Vladimir: That's what you think.
Waiting for Godot has achieved a theoretical impossibility — a play in which nothing happens, that yet keeps the audience glued to their seats. What's more, since the second act is a subtly different reprise of the first, he has written a play in which nothing happens, twice.
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!
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!
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.
We all are born mad. Some remain so.
Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
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