Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.
But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.
There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
Habit is a great deadener.
He who has waited long enough, will wait forever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain.
Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously, nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot. I do not feel like spending the rest of my life writing books that no one will read. It is not as though I wanted to write them.
Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?
We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
Let's go." "We can't." "Why not?" "We're waiting for Godot.
For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.
Success and failure on the public level never mattered much to me, in fact I feel more at home with the latter, having breathed deep of its vivifying air all my writing life up to the last couple of years.
The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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?
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