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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.

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
Feelings
Disappointed
Moments
Relief
Without
Later
Never
Early
Time
Days
Feeling
Moment
Undeniable
Often
Dont

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
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The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
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How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.
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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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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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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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What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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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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My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.
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To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
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in reality we are one and all from the unthinkable first to the no less unthinkable last glued together in a vast imbrication of flesh without breach or fissure
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The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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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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God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
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There's never an end for the sea.
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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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Better hope deferred than none.
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