But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!

God is love. Yes or no? No.

Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

Estragon: We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist? Vladimir: Yes, yes, we're magicians.

I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.

I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.