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

I don’t like animals. It’s a strange thing, I don’t like men and I don’t like animals. As for God, he is beginning to disgust me.

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: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.

Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear

All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.