But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.

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

And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.

We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?

It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

Estragon: Nothing to be done.