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 fincorps...

Ada: And why life? (Pause.) Why life, Henry? (Pause.) Is there anyone about?Henry: Not a living soul.Ada: I thought as much. (Pause.) When we longed to have it to ourselves there was always someone. Now...

A cheval sur une tombe et une naissance difficile. Du fond du trou, rêveusement, le fossoyeur applique ses fers. On a le temps de vieillir. L’air est plein de nos cris.

All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long...

HAMM:Scoundrel! Why did you engender me?NAGG:I didn’t know.HAMM:What? What didn’t you know?NAGG:That it’d be you.(Pause.)

How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I’d been saving up for her all my life.

I asked her to look at me and after a few moments – (pause) – after a few moments she did, but the eyes just slits, because of the glare I bent over her to...

I happened to look up and there it was. All over and done with, at last. I sat on for a few moments with the ball in my hand and the dog yelping and pawing...

I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from...

The new light above my table is a great improvement. With all this darkness around me I feel less alone. (Pause.) In a way. (Pause.) I love to get up and move about in it,...

HAMM:Yesterday! What does that mean? Yesterday!CLOV (violently):That means that bloody awful day, long ago, before this bloody awful day. I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me...

Henry: I usen’t to need anyone, just to myself, stories, there was a great one about an old fellow called Bolton, I never finished it, I never finished any of them, I never finished anything,...

In a sense, Joyce was Beckett’s Don Quixote, and Beckett was his Sancho Panza. Joyce aspired to the One; Beckett encapsulated the fragmented many. But as each author accomplished his task, it was in the...

The earth makes a sound as of sighs and the last drops fall from the emptied cloudless sky. A small boy, stretching out his hands and looking up at the blue sky, asked his mother...

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.

Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn’t enough for you.

What is certain is this, that I never rested in that way again, my feet obscenely resting on the earth, my arms on the handlebars and on my arms my head, rocking and abandoned. It...