IN SAMUEL Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot, two old clownish tramps come from nowhere in particular and seem to have nowhere in particular to go. So, they wait, and wait, and wait, in the simple sameness of the empty world, no more than a country road, a single tree, and always it is evening, a little late for Godot to show up. Immersed in the boredom of expecting that which does not come, they find that nothing happens, no one comes, and no one goes.
They have defined their existence as a time of waiting for Godot. But who or what is Godot? God? Fate? Meaning, First Principle, Higher Purpose? Perhaps Godot is merely a hopeless name for a nameless hope. What if Godot is nothing? Still, nothing matters except the expected arrival of Godot. So, the characters fill their time with games, play-acting, arguing— distractions from the purposelessness of it all.
To make what we can of the time we have, we must give up asking others, “When will Godot arrive?” and instead ask ourselves, “What are we doing here waiting?”
If we wait to act until we’re handed a script, our lives will be one long intermission.