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Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.

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
Ever
Vladimir
Leave

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Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
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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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And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.
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And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.
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[T]he syndrome known as life is too diffuse to admit of palliation. For every symptom that is eased, another is made worse. The horse leech's daughter is a closed system. Her quantum of wantum cannot vary.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.
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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.
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I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
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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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You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
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What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!
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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
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