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Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
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
University
Rich
Funny
Dublin
Hilarious
Contains
Ireland
Cream
Thick
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
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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Clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most
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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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Love requited is a short circuit.
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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
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I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.
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Sloth is all passions the most powerful.
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For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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It was the only way to progress, to stop.
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All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.
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We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
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Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
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Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
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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 sin is the sin of being born.
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I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.
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If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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