Vladimir and Estragon wait by a tree for someone named Godot who never comes. Beckett wrote it in French between 1948 and 1949, and it premiered in Paris in 1953 to bafflement and acclaim. Nothing happens, twice: the two acts mirror each other, and the waiting continues. The dialogue is comic, philosophical, and heartbreaking; the silence between the words carries as much meaning as the words. Is Godot God? Is he nobody? Beckett refused to explain. The play changed theater permanently. We are still waiting. We will keep waiting. That is the play.