To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.
We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench
To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.