The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

HAMM: We're not beginning to... to... mean something? CLOV: Mean something! You and I, mean something! (Brief laugh.) Ah that's a good one!

James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.

How time flies when one has fun!

When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.