There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.

The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of.

I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.

There's no lack of void.

The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.

HAMM: We're not beginning to... to... mean something? CLOV: Mean something! You and I, mean something! (Brief laugh.) Ah that's a good one!