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I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

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
Art
Awareness
Philosophy
Knowing
History

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.
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I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously, nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot. I do not feel like spending the rest of my life writing books that no one will read. It is not as though I wanted to write them.
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The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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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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In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
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What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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We wait. We are bored. (He throws up his hand.) No, don't protest, we are bored to death, there's no denying it. Good. A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come, let's get to work! (He advances towards the heap, stops in his stride.) In an instant all will vanish and we'll be alone more, in the midst of nothingness!
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Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
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I know those little phrases that seem so innocuous, and, once you let them in, pollute the whole of speech. 'Nothing is more real than nothing.' They rise up out of the pit and know no rest until they drag you down into its dark.
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I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
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Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.
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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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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.
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Make sense who may. I switch off.
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Try again. Fail again. Try better.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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Do we mean love, when we say love?
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There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
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