But it is useless to dwell on this period of my life. If I go on long enough calling that my life I'll end up by believing it. - Samuel Beckett

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.

I do nothing, with as little shame as satisfaction. It is the state that suits me best. I write the odd poem when it is there, that is the only thing worth doing. There is an ecstasy of accidia — will-less in a grey tumult of idées obscures. There is an end to the temptation of light, its polite scorchings & consolations. It is good for children & insects. There is an end of making up one's mind, like a pound of tea, an end of patting the butter of consciousness into opinions. The real consciousness is the chaos, a grey commotion of mind, with no premises or conclusions or problems or solutions or cases or judgments.

ولادیمیر: ... ولی ما سر قرارمون موندیم، و این دیگه آخرشه. ما قدیس نیستیم، ولی سر قرارمون ایستادیم. چند نفر می تونند این قدر به خودشون ببالند؟

استراگون: میلیون ها نفر.