My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.

I don't know why I told this story. I could just as well have told another. Perhaps some other time I'll be able to tell another. Living souls, you will see how alike they are.

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.

As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.

Estragon: Suppose we repented. Vladimir: Repented what? Estragon: Oh...(He reflects.) We wouldn’t have to go into the details. Vladimir: Our being born?