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What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!

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
Bill
Bills
Woman
Byways
Without
Brokers
Country
Tormented
Heart
Highways
Kind
Weep
Retired

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There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
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We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
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Estragon: Nothing to be done.
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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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God is love. Yes or no? No.
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When a man in a forest thinks he is going forward in a straight line, in reality he is going in a circle, I did my best to go in a circle, hoping to go in a straight line.
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Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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My mistakes are my life.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
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I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
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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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They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.
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How hideous is the semicolon.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
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No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.
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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 creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
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