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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
Wrote
Rain
Window
Went
House
Raining
Back
Beating
Windows
Midnight

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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.
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I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?
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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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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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My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.
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Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.
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There is no escape from yesterday because yesterday has deformed us, or been deformed by us. The mood is of no importance. Deformation has taken place.
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The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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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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To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
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Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
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Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.
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But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
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Enough to know no knowing.
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