Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.

Name, no, nothing is nameable, tell, no, nothing can be told, what then, I don't know, I shouldn't have begun.

I had little talent for happiness.

Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.

The only sin is the sin of being born.

Birth was the death of him.