ESTRAGON, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot. He pulls at it with both hands, panting. He gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again. As before.
ESTRAGON : [Giving up again.] Nothing to be done.
VLADIMIR : [Advancing with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart.] I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying, Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven’t yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle. [He broods, musing on the struggle. Turning to ESTRAGON.] So there you are again.
ESTRAGON : Am I?
VLADIMIR : I’m glad to see you back. I thought you were gone for ever.
ESTRAGON : Me too.
VLADIMIR : Together again at last! We’ll have to celebrate this. But how? [He reflects.] Get up till I embrace you.
ESTRAGON : [Irritably.] Not now, not now.
VLADIMIR : [Hurt, coldly.] May one inquire where His Highness spent the night
ESTRAGON : In a ditch.
VLADIMIR : [Admiringly.] A ditch! Where?
ESTRAGON : [Without gesture.] Over there.
VLADIMIR : And they didn’t beat you?
ESTRAGON : Beat me? Certainly they beat me.
VLADIMIR : The same lot as usual?
ESTRAGON : The same? I don’t know.
VLADIMIR : When I think of it … all these years … but for me … where would you be …? [Decisively.] You’d be nothing more than a little heap of bones at the present minute, no doubt about it.
ESTRAGON : And what of it?
VLADIMIR : [Gloomily.] It’s too much for one man. [Pause. Cheerfully.] On the other hand what’s the good of losing heart now, that’s what I say. We should have thought of it a million years ago, in the nineties.
ESTRAGON : Ah stop blathering and help me off with this bloody thing.
– Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot