POZZO: I am blind. (Silence.) ESTRAGON: Perhaps he can see into the future.

I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?

If I were in the unenviable position of having to study my work my points of departure would be the "Naught is more real ..." and the "Ubi nihil vales ..." both already in Murphy and neither very rational.

I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.

But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!

All that is active, all that is enveloped in time and space, is endowed with what might be described as an abstract, ideal and absolute impermeability.