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Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

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
Gone
Chance
Happiness
Back
Best
Years
Wouldn
Perhaps
Fire

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You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.
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Ah, the old questions, the old answers, there's nothing like them!
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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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How hideous is the semicolon.
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To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
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Mysterious affair, electricity.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
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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 notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.
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To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
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It was the only way to progress, to stop.
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There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
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Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
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Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.
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I don’t like animals. It’s a strange thing, I don’t like men and I don’t like animals. As for God, he is beginning to disgust me.
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An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.
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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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