Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.

And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.

POZZO: I am blind. (Silence.) ESTRAGON: Perhaps he can see into the future.

But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.

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.