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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

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
Perhaps
Records
Form
Feel
Delirium
Feels
Pause
Pauses
Extraordinary
Record

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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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The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.
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Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
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What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come
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The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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Ah, the old questions, the old answers, there's nothing like them!
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Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
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Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
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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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My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.
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In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.
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What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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Love requited is a short circuit.
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The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
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That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
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All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
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I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?
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