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We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
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
Much
Punctuality
People
Appointment
Appointments
Boast
Saints
Saint
Kept
Many
Punctual
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Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
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If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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God is love. Yes or no? No.
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HAMM: We're not beginning to... to... mean something? CLOV: Mean something! You and I, mean something! (Brief laugh.) Ah that's a good one!
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My work is a matter of fundamental sounds (no joke intended) made as fully as possible, and I accept responsibility for nothing else. If people want to have headaches among the overtones, let them. And provide their own aspirin.
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Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.
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Not to want to say, not to know what you want to say, not to be able to say what you think you want to say, and never to stop saying, or hardly ever, that is the thing to keep in mind, even in the heat of composition.
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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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I know those little phrases that seem so innocuous, and, once you let them in, pollute the whole of speech. 'Nothing is more real than nothing.' They rise up out of the pit and know no rest until they drag you down into its dark.
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It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
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Better hope deferred than none.
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Try again. Fail again. Try better.
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