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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
Life
Wretched
Mess
Awful
Silence
Gone
Upon
Left
Stain
Without
Stains

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Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.
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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
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How hideous is the semicolon.
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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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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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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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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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Love requited is a short circuit.
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Light black. From pole to pole.
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James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.
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It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.
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Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
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It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
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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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We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.
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Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.
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