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

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
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They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.
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Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.
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What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!
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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
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The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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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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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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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
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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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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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Words are all we have.
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Do we mean love, when we say love?
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There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
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Make sense who may. I switch off.
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The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
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Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
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The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.
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I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
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