Waiting for Godot

by Samuel Beckett

There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet.

Remark that I might just as well have been in his shoes and he in mine. If chance had not willed otherwise. To each one his due.

The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

POZZO: I don’t seem to be able . . . (long hesitation) . . . to depart. ESTRAGON: Such is life.

Extraordinary the tricks that memory plays!

We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?

I’m tired breathing.

Let us do something, while we have the chance! It is not every day that we are needed. Not indeed that we personally are needed. Others would meet the case equally well, if not better. To all mankind they were addressed, those cries for help still ringing in our ears! But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us!

What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come—

ESTRAGON: (aphoristic for once). We are all born mad. Some remain so.

Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, with his carrier, and that he spoke to us?