One is no longer oneself, on such occasions, and it is painful to be no longer oneself, even more painful if possible than when one is. For when one is one knows what to do to be less so, whereas when...
Nothing to do but stretch out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for all eternity.
Name, no, nothing is nameable, tell, no, nothing can be told, what then, I don't know, I shouldn't have begun.
My master then, assuming he is solitary, in my image, wishes me well, poor devil, wishes my good, and if he does not seem to do very much in order not to be disappointed it is because there is not ver...
My anger subsides, I'd like to pee.
Misfortunes, blessings, I have no time to pick my words, I am in a hurry to be done. And yet no, I am in no hurry.
Incontinent the void. The zenith. Evening again. When not night it will be evening. Death again of deathless day. On one hand embers. On the other ashes. Day without end won and lost. Unseen.
Ik dacht zwak en zonder spijt aan het verhaal dat ik had kunnen vertellen, een verhaal naar voorbeeld van mijn leven, ik bedoel zonder de moed te eindigen noch de kracht om verder te gaan.
If I had known who Godot is, I would have written it in the script.
Clov: Why this farce, day after day? Hamm: Routine. One never knows. [Pause.] Last night I saw inside my breast. There was a big sore. Clov: Pah! You saw your heart. Hamm: No, it was living. [Pause. A...
But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
Que ferais-je sans ce monde que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questionsoù être ne dure qu'un instant où chaque instantverse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir étésans cette onde où à la finc...
Will night never come?
Then he was sorry he had not learnt the art of thinking, beginning by folding back the second and third fingers the better to put the index on the subject and the little finger on the verb, in the way...
She had at least the anagram of a good face
Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
Je suis comme ça. Ou j'oublie tout de suite ou je n'oublie jamais.Samuel BECKETT, En attendant Godot
It's not me, it's not true, it's not me, I'm far.
In reality I said nothing at all, but I heard a murmur, something gone wrong with the silence, and I pricked up my ears, like an animal I imagine, which gives a start and pretends to be dead.
I too, weary of pleading an incomprehensible cause, at six and eight the thousand flowers of rhetoric, let myself drop among the contumacious, nice image that, telescoping space, it must be the Pulitz...