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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

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
Aging
Teeth
Ideals
Hair
Lose
Loses
Age
Time
Bloom

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[T]he syndrome known as life is too diffuse to admit of palliation. For every symptom that is eased, another is made worse. The horse leech's daughter is a closed system. Her quantum of wantum cannot vary.
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Vladimir: I don't understand. Estragon: Use your intelligence, can't you? Vladimir uses his intelligence. Vladimir: (finally) I remain in the dark.
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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
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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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But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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I can't go on. I'll go on.
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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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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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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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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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Better hope deferred than none.
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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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Absolute virtue is as sure to kill a man as absolute vice is, let alone the dullness of it and the pomposities of it.
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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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What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
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To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
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