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We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

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
Habit
Grow
Full
Grows
Great
Godot
Time
Cries
Cry
Air

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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The short winter’s day was drawing to a close. It seems to me sometimes that these are the only days I have ever known, and especially that most charming moment of all, just before night wipes them out.
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Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.
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I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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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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My work is a matter of fundamental sounds (no joke intended) made as fully as possible, and I accept responsibility for nothing else. If people want to have headaches among the overtones, let them. And provide their own aspirin.
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Yesterday is not a milestone that has been passed, but a daystone on the beaten track of the years, and irremediably part of us, within us, heavy and dangerous. We are not merely more weary because of yesterday, we are other, no longer what we were before the calamity of yesterday.
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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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Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
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The situation is that of him who is helpless, cannot act, in the event cannot paint, since he is obliged to paint. The act is of him who, helpless, unable to act, acts, in the event paints, since he is obliged to paint.
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I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.
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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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Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.
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My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.
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VLADIMIR: What do they say? ESTRAGON: They talk about their lives. VLADIMIR: To have lived is not enough for them. ESTRAGON: They have to talk about it.
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They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.
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No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
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Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
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The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
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In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.
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