Quote

For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.

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
Little
Fool
Might
Among
Nothing
Stay
Always
Less
Imagining
Life
Others
Slightly
Two
Fools
Littles
Horrible
Better
Asking

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.
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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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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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Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
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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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Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
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Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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God is love. Yes or no? No.
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The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
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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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It is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.
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in reality we are one and all from the unthinkable first to the no less unthinkable last glued together in a vast imbrication of flesh without breach or fissure
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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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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
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The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
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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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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.
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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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