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I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
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
Awful
Silence
Gone
Upon
Stain
Left
Stains
Without
Wretched
Life
Mess
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
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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I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.
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We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.
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There is this to be said for Dachsunds of such length and lowness as Nelly, that it makes very little difference to their appearance whether they stand, sit or lie.
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Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
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God is love. Yes or no? No.
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Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.
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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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Do they [the publishers of Murphy] not understand that if the book is slightly obscure it is because it is a compression and thatto compress it further can only make it more obscure?
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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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Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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All has not been said and never will be.
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
Samuel Beckett
Enough to know no knowing.
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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.
Samuel Beckett
