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Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
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
Dabble
Clarity
Clear
Art
Doe
Nothing
Make
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.
Samuel Beckett
Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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Make sense who may. I switch off.
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What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?
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Better hope deferred than none.
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Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
Samuel Beckett
To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
Samuel Beckett
Sloth is all passions the most powerful.
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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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It was the only way to progress, to stop.
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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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To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.
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I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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Love requited is a short circuit.
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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust
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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