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In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
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
Eggs
Name
Bacon
Shall
Phantoms
Names
Cave
Swallow
Caves
Chicken
Chickens
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
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Adulterers, take warning, never admit.
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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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HAMM: We're not beginning to... to... mean something? CLOV: Mean something! You and I, mean something! (Brief laugh.) Ah that's a good one!
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To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.
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The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
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I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
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How hideous is the semicolon.
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Estragon: Nothing to be done.
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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.
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I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.
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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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Better hope deferred than none.
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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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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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How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.
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You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.
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Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
Samuel Beckett
