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Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.
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
Picks
Graveyards
Air
Graveyard
Dying
Willingly
Perhaps
Bone
Death
Elsewhere
Take
Personally
Must
Bones
Pick
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
I can't go on. I'll go on.
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The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
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If by Godot I had meant God I would have said God, and not Godot.
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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
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I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
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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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Estragon: Nothing to be done.
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In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.
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Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
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Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
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My mistakes are my life.
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Sloth is all passions the most powerful.
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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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I don’t like animals. It’s a strange thing, I don’t like men and I don’t like animals. As for God, he is beginning to disgust me.
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Do we mean love, when we say love?
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We all are born mad. Some remain so.
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Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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The time-state of attainment eliminates so accurately the time-state of aspiration, that the actual seems the inevitable, and, all conscious intellectual effort to reconstitute the invisible and unthinkable as a reality being fruitless, we are incapable of appreciating our joy by comparing it with our sorrow.
Samuel Beckett
Words are all we have.
Samuel Beckett
