We are all born; some remain so.

Just under the surface I shall be, all together at first, then separate and drift, through all the earth and perhaps in the end through a cliff into the sea, something of me. A ton of worms in an acre, that is a wonderful thought, a ton of worms, I believe it.

I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.

POZZO: I am blind. (Silence.) ESTRAGON: Perhaps he can see into the future.

To what will love not stoop!

You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.

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.