POZZO: I am blind. (Silence.) ESTRAGON: Perhaps he can see into the future.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.
That penny farthing hell you call your mind
Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.
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.