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There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
Samuel Beckett
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Samuel Beckett
Age: 83 †
Born: 1906
Born: April 13
Died: 1989
Died: December 22
Artist
Author
Cricketer
Film Director
French Resistance Fighter
Intellectual
Linguist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Teacher
Dublin city
Samuel Barclay Beckett
Andrew Belis
Sam Beckett
Sa-miao-erh Pei-kʻo-tʻe
Samuel Beḳeṭ
Blame
Feet
Hate
Godot
Men
Blaming
Life
Boots
Fault
Faults
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
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To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.
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Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
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The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
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The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust
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I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
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Clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most
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I can't go on. I'll go on.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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Hardly had the glow been kindled by some good deed on your part or by some little triumph over your rivals or by a word of praisefrom your parents or mentors when it would begin to cool and fade leaving you in a very short time as chill and dim as before.
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Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
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Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
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I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
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I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
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There's never an end for the sea.
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They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.
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