Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

ESTRAGON: I can't go on like this. VLADIMIR: That's what you think.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.

But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.

Not to want to say, not to know what you want to say, not to be able to say what you think you want to say, and never to stop saying, or hardly ever, that is the thing to keep in mind, even in the heat of composition.

And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.

My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.

All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.