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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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
Something
Always
Think
Thinking
Exist
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Better hope deferred than none.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.
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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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Try again. Fail again. Try better.
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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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The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
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We all are born mad. Some remain so.
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Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.
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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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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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Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.
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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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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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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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Birth was the death of him.
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Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.
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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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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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