Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

All that is active, all that is enveloped in time and space, is endowed with what might be described as an abstract, ideal and absolute impermeability.

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.

Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.

I asked her to look at me and after a few moments - (pause) - after a few moments she did, but the eyes just slits, because of the glare I bent over her to get them in the shadow and they opened. (Pause. Low) Let me in.

Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.