“HAMM: We're not beginning to... to... mean something?CLOV: Mean something! You and I, mean something!(Brief laugh.) Ah that's a good one!”

“Hamm: And the horizon? Nothing on the horizon?Clov: (Lowering the telescope, turning towards Hamm, exasperated): What in God's name would there be on the horizon? (Pause.)Hamm: The waves, how are the waves?Clov: The waves? (He turns the telescope on the waves.) Lead.Hamm: And the sun?Clove: (Looking) Zero.Hamm: But it should be sinking. Look again.Clov: (Looking) Damn the sun.Hamm: Is it night already then?Clov: (Looking) No.Hamm: Then what is it?Clov: (Looking) Gray. (Lowering the telescope, turning towards Hamm, louder.) Gray! (Pause, still louder.) GRRAY!”

“Clov: If I don't kill the rat, he'll die.Hamm: That's right.”

“Estragon: We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?Vladimir: Yes, yes, we're magicians.”

“Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time.”

“When are they going to stop making me mean more than I say?”

“I am in my mother's room. It's I who live there now. I don't know how I got there. Perhaps in an ambulance, certainly a vehicle of some kind. I was helped. I'd never have got there alone. There's this man who comes every week. Perhaps I got there thanks to him. He says not. He gives me money and takes away the pages. So many pages,so much money. Yes, I work now, a little like I used to, except that I don't know how to work any more. That doesn't matter apparently. What I'd like now is to speak of the things that are left, say my good-byes, 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. Good. The truth is I haven't much will left. When he comes for the fresh pages he brings back the previous week's. They are marked with signs I don't understand ... Here's my beginning. It must mean something, or they wouldn't keep it. Here it is.”