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Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

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
Matters
Silence
Upon
Else
Nothing
Matter
Stain
Writing
Stains
Worthwhile

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.
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Estragon: I can't go on like this. Vladimir: That's what you think.
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I can't go on. I'll go on.
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There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
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Vladimir: I don't understand. Estragon: Use your intelligence, can't you? Vladimir uses his intelligence. Vladimir: (finally) I remain in the dark.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.
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The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.
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[T]he syndrome known as life is too diffuse to admit of palliation. For every symptom that is eased, another is made worse. The horse leech's daughter is a closed system. Her quantum of wantum cannot vary.
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Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
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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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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
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How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.
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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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What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.
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Do we mean love, when we say love?
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Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
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