Quote

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
Nothing
Streams
Sadness
Tears
Perhaps
Unblinking
Brain
Saddening
Eyes
Weep
Eye
Cheeks
Makes
Stream

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Hardly had the glow been kindled by some good deed on your part or by some little triumph over your rivals or by a word of praisefrom your parents or mentors when it would begin to cool and fade leaving you in a very short time as chill and dim as before.
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It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.
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If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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Enough to know no knowing.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
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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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In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.
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The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
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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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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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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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Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.
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I want very much to be back in the caul, on my back in the dark forever.
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Yes, light, there is no other word for it.
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Yes, there is no denying it, any longer, it is not you who are dead, but all the others. So you get up and go to your mother, who thinks she is alive. That's my impression. But now I shall have to get myself out of this ditch. How joyfully I would vanish here, sinking deeper and deeper under the rains.
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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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