BIFF: I’m thirty-four years old, I oughta be makin’ my future. That’s when I come running home. And now, I get here, and I don’t know what to do with myself. [After a pause] I’ve always made a point of not wasting my life, and everytime I come back here I know that all I’ve done is to waste my life.
HAPPY: You’re a poet, you know that, Biff? You’re a – you’re an idealist!
BIFF: No, I’m mixed up very bad. Maybe I oughta get married. Maybe I oughta get stuck into something. Maybe that’s my trouble. I’m like a boy. I’m not married, I’m not in business, I just – I’m like a boy. Are you content, Hap? You’re a success, aren’t you? Are you content?
HAPPY: Hell, no!
BIFF: Why? You’re making money, aren’t you?
HAPPY: [moving about with energy, expressiveness]: All I can do now is wait for the merchandise manager to die.

MILLER, A. Death of a Salesman. London: Penguin, 1962. p. 16-17.

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