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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
Rain
Window
Went
Raining
House
Beating
Back
Windows
Midnight
Wrote

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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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Better hope deferred than none.
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Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.
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Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.
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Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.' You won't believe what you can accomplish by attempting the impossible with the courage to repeatedly fail better.
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Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.
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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
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Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
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The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
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I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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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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Light black. From pole to pole.
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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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