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

Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.

People are bloody ignorant apes.

What are we doing here, that is the question.

That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.

I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously, nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot. I do not feel like spending the rest of my life writing books that no one will read. It is not as though I wanted to write them.

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