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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
Age
Time
Bloom
Aging
Teeth
Ideals
Hair
Lose
Loses

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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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Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.
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What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come
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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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Hardly had the glow been kindled by some good deed on your part or by some little triumph over your rivals or by a word of praisefrom your parents or mentors when it would begin to cool and fade leaving you in a very short time as chill and dim as before.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
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Make sense who may. I switch off.
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What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.
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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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What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
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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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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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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
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But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
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Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
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When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.
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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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