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The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.
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
Tears
Perhaps
Unblinking
Brain
Saddening
Weep
Eyes
Cheeks
Eye
Stream
Makes
Streams
Nothing
Sadness
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
The situation is that of him who is helpless, cannot act, in the event cannot paint, since he is obliged to paint. The act is of him who, helpless, unable to act, acts, in the event paints, since he is obliged to paint.
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That penny farthing hell you call your mind
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Mysterious affair, electricity.
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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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We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
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I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.
Samuel Beckett
Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.
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Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
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Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.
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Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.
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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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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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Enough to know no knowing.
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Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
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James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.
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If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
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It's a lot to ask of one creature, it's a lot to ask, that he should first behave as if he were not, then as if he were, before being admitted to that peace where he neither is, nor is not, and where the language dies that permits of such expressions.
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In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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Better hope deferred than none.
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