What Do I Know Of Man's Destiny?

The Day You Die Is Just Like Any Other, Only Shorter.

I Speak For An Art ... Weary Of Its Puny Exploits, Weary Of Pretending To Be Able, Of Being Able, Of Doing A Little Better The Same Old Thing, Of Going A Little Further Along A Dreary Road.

The Sun Shone, Having No Alternative, On The Nothing New.

I Had Little Talent For Happiness.

Estragon: Nothing To Be Done.