Well, well, well, well. If it isn't fat, stinking billygoat Billy-Boy in poison. How art thou, thou globby bottle of cheap, stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou.

Art is rare and sacred and hard work, and there ought to be a wall of fire around it.

As we are all solipsists, and all die, the world dies with us. Only very minor literature aims at apocalypse.

The unconscious mind has a habit of asserting itself in the afternoon.

To be left alone is the most precious thing one can ask of the modern world.

Immortality makes sense only when the individual soul can be thought of as merging into a great collective mush of sainthood. If we take anything with us into the next world, it is not what survives in the memories of our relicts.

Beckett does not believe in God, though he seems to imply that God has committed an unforgivable sin by not existing.