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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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
Tasks
Artist
Form
Find
Accommodates
Accommodate
Task
Mess
Chaos
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
Enough to know no knowing.
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Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
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Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.
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Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.
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Birth was the death of him.
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The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
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And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.
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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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The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.
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An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.
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Absolute virtue is as sure to kill a man as absolute vice is, let alone the dullness of it and the pomposities of it.
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To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
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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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What are we doing here, that is the question.
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We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
Samuel Beckett
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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What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?
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If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but stretch out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for all eternity. A pity I should have to give tongue at the same time, it prevents it from bleeding in peace, licking the lips.
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