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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
Feel
Delirium
Feels
Pause
Pauses
Extraordinary
Record
Perhaps
Records
Form
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
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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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Make sense who may. I switch off.
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Hardly had the glow been kindled by some good deed on your part or by some little triumph over your rivals or by a word of praisefrom your parents or mentors when it would begin to cool and fade leaving you in a very short time as chill and dim as before.
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There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
Samuel Beckett
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.
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Enough to know no knowing.
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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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That penny farthing hell you call your mind
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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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Light black. From pole to pole.
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How hideous is the semicolon.
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The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
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That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
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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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We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.
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I can't go on. I'll go on.
Samuel Beckett
