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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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
Cross
Crosses
Forgotten
Dies
Littles
Little
Every
Godot
Men
Till
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
Nothing is more real than nothing.
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Two in distressmake sorrow less.
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The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.
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God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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Try again. Fail again. Try better.
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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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We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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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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There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
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The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.
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My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.
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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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Adulterers, take warning, never admit.
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If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
Samuel Beckett
Yes, light, there is no other word for it.
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I can't go on. I'll go on.
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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.
Samuel Beckett
