Quote

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
House
Raining
Back
Beating
Windows
Midnight
Wrote
Rain
Window
Went

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
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The Tuesday scowls, the Wednesday growls, the Thursday curses, the Friday howls, the Saturday snores, the Sunday yawns, the Monday morns, the Monday morns. The whacks, the moans, the cracks, the groans, the welts, the squeaks, the belts, the shrieks, the pricks, the prayers, the kicks, the tears, the skelps, and the yelps.
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When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.
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They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.
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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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Enough of acting the infant who has been told so often how he was found under a cabbage that in the end he remembers the exact spot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the family circle.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
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Better hope deferred than none.
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Estragon: Nothing to be done.
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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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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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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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Words are all we have.
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I don’t like animals. It’s a strange thing, I don’t like men and I don’t like animals. As for God, he is beginning to disgust me.
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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but stretch out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for all eternity. A pity I should have to give tongue at the same time, it prevents it from bleeding in peace, licking the lips.
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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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