Name, no, nothing is nameable, tell, no, nothing can be told, what then, I don't know, I shouldn't have begun.

Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.

Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.