I am going to explain the title and, with it, my intention of clinging, somehow, to an already-known sensation: Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, as an initial invitation to a challenging, unspecific knowledge, to an incursion to oneself, to the self, a

Abstract

I am going to explain the title and, with it, my intention of clinging, somehow, to an already-known sensation: Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, as an initial invitation to a challenging, unspecific knowledge, to an incursion to oneself, to the self, a kind of strolling with no purpose, no prejudice, a seducing to a permissive dreaming, even to a tempting aspiration to the fantastic.