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Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

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
Window
Went
House
Raining
Back
Beating
Windows
Midnight
Wrote
Rain

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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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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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I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.
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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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Estragon: I can't go on like this. Vladimir: That's what you think.
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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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To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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