Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
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.
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.
For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
There's never an end for the sea.
Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
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.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
All life long, the same questions, the same answers.
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.
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
Birth was the death of him.
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation-Time.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
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.
If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.
It is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.
Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
You're on earth. There's no cure for that.
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!
Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
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.
I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
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.
Hamm: There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
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.)
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 have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.