I gave up before birth.
Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it’s me? Answer simply, someone answer simply.
Troviamo sempre qualcosa, vero, Didi, per darci l’impressione d’esistere?
That is why nothing appears, all is silent, one is frightened to be born, no, one wishes one were, so as to begin to die.
But is it enough, that’s what tortures me, is it enough?
By all means, nothing simpler. It’s the natural order.
They forget, they think they change and they never change, they’ll be there saying the same thing till they die, then perhaps a little silence, till the next gang arrives on the site.
ESTRAGON: Don’t let’s do anything. It’s safer.
Scratch an old man and find a Quintilian.
Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.
But let us persevere in what we have resolved, before we forget.
That passed the time. ESTRAGON: It would have passed in any case.
He had a curious hunted walk, like that of a destitute diabetic in a strange city.
Leave them there, sweating and icy, there is better elsewhere. No, life ends and no, there is nothing elsewhere, and no question now of ever finding again that white speck lost in whiteness, to see if they still lie still in the stress of that storm, or of a worse storm, or in the black dark for good, or the great whiteness unchanging, and if not what they are doing.
ESTRAGON: Let’s hang ourselves immediately!
But to-morrow I won’t remember having met anyone to-day. So don’t count on me to enlighten you.
What I’d like now is to speak of the things that are left, say my goodbyes, finish dying. They don’t want that. Yes, there is more than one, apparently. But it’s always the same one that comes. You’ll do that later, he says.
It is easier to raise a shrine than bring the deity down to haunt it.
POZZO: He speaks to me again! If this goes on much longer we’ll soon be old friends.
Gnawing to be gone. Less no good. Worse no good. Only one good. Gone. Gone for good. Till then gnaw on. All gnaw on. To be gone.
I say living without knowing what it is. I tried to live without knowing what I was trying.