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

I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.

Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.

Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

There's no lack of void.