“When my mother cooked us pasta for dinner, she spent hours, sometimes the whole day, making sure the sauce and the vegetables or meats were perfect, but never once made her own pasta from scratch, ‘because it took too much time.’ I never understood this about her, until she finally explained it to me one day. ‘It’s the sauce that has to be perfect,’ she said. ‘It’s the pasta’s job to get the sauce to your mouth. In a perfect world the pasta would be perfect too, but it’s not a perfect world, so all the pasta has to do is be not terrible.’ To me, the music is the sauce, and opera is the pasta that gets the sauce to your mouth.”
—So sad, said Mr. Earwicker. —Yes, said Mr. Estragon, —but when I think about all the wonderful things in the world that God has given us, I truly feel better than the man who has made love to all the angels of paradise. —Yes, said Mr. Earwicker.
Someone turned the air in Orange Island purple. London has its pea-soupers, and Orange Island has its borscht.
I scanned the present company, whose vices were all spoken for, scanned the beach around me for anyone who might be present against my knowledge, and then, of course, excluded the possibility of myself. I reassured the company before me that none of us suffered from superbia, and thank goodness for that.
No one wears boots to the beach. That's preposterous!
No, we needed a vessel for you you-ness that is as similar to you as possible. In a way, sir, you’re actually very lucky your son died not long after you did.
We all belong here. We’re all torturing each other, all the time, whether we know it or not, whether we want to or not, whether we enjoy it or not.