Quote

Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.

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
Great
Images
Clashing
Really
Flying
Merging
Never
Calm
Tumult
Beyond
Endlessly
Head
Riot
Words
Troubled
Running
Pursuing
Anything
Indifference

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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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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If by Godot I had meant God I would have said God, and not Godot.
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The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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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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Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.
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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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Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.
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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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You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
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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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I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?
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There is no escape from yesterday because yesterday has deformed us, or been deformed by us. The mood is of no importance. Deformation has taken place.
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Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.
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I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
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In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
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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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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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Poetry is essentially the antithesis of Metaphysics: Metaphysics purge the mind of the senses and cultivate the disembodiment of the spiritual Poetry is all passionate and feeling and animates the inanimate Metaphysics are most perfect when concerned with universals Poetry, when most concerned with particulars.
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I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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