What is Beckett's central idea about human existence?
That it is a void. A vast, unbridgeable emptiness. We are born into this, mad. And we stay so. All our efforts, our searching for meaning, for Godot, for a purpose, are illusions. A distraction from the fundamental truth: that there is nothing. No grand design, no inherent sense. We are condemned to consciousness, to the awareness of this lack. The words we use, the stories we tell, they are just a way to pass the time, to ward off the silence. To go on. But it's a losing game. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. The tears of the world are a constant quantity.
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