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Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.
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
Never
Pause
Pauses
Slowly
Holding
Held
Hold
Hand
Plod
Hands
Recede
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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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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There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
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If by Godot I had meant God I would have said God, and not Godot.
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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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How hideous is the semicolon.
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We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.
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Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
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Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
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The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.
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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of 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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We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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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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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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Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
Samuel Beckett
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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