We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

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

Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.

We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.

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.