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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

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
Godot
Morrow
Wake
Shall
Think
Thinking

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Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.
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I want very much to be back in the caul, on my back in the dark forever.
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Adulterers, take warning, never admit.
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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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Ah, the old questions, the old answers, there's nothing like them!
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VLADIMIR: What do they say? ESTRAGON: They talk about their lives. VLADIMIR: To have lived is not enough for them. ESTRAGON: They have to talk about it.
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Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
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Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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in reality we are one and all from the unthinkable first to the no less unthinkable last glued together in a vast imbrication of flesh without breach or fissure
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The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust
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We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.
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Two in distressmake sorrow less.
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Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
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God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
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No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.
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The short winter’s day was drawing to a close. It seems to me sometimes that these are the only days I have ever known, and especially that most charming moment of all, just before night wipes them out.
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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
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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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