The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

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

Estragon: Nothing to be done.

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

I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.

In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

That passed the time. It would have passed in any case. Yes, but not so rapidly.