Quote

Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.

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
Must
Inability
Make
Solitude
Things
Silent
Life
Since
Call
Speak
Three
Best

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But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
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To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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Sloth is all passions the most powerful.
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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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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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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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My mistakes are my life.
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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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What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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Better hope deferred than none.
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Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
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What are we doing here, that is the question.
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How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.
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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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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
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All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
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There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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