The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
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.
It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
Words are all we have.
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.
I had little talent for happiness.
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.
I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
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.
Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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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