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The only sin is the sin of being born.

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
Sin
Born

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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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We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
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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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in reality we are one and all from the unthinkable first to the no less unthinkable last glued together in a vast imbrication of flesh without breach or fissure
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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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Clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most
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Vladimir: I don't understand. Estragon: Use your intelligence, can't you? Vladimir uses his intelligence. Vladimir: (finally) I remain in the dark.
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Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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Not to want to say, not to know what you want to say, not to be able to say what you think you want to say, and never to stop saying, or hardly ever, that is the thing to keep in mind, even in the heat of composition.
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Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.
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I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?
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What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.
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Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
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Do they [the publishers of Murphy] not understand that if the book is slightly obscure it is because it is a compression and thatto compress it further can only make it more obscure?
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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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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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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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