Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? 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? Probably. But in all that what truth will there be?
(Estragon, having struggled with his boots in vain, is dozing off again. Vladimir looks at him.)
He’ll know nothing. He’ll tell me about the blows he recieved and I’ll give him a carrot.
Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down the hole, lingeringly, the grave-digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries.
But habit is a great deadener.
(He looks again at Estragon.)
At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, he is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on.
I can’t go on!
What have I said?