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To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.
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
Failure
Desertion
Failing
Housekeeping
Living
Shrink
Artist
Shrinks
Art
Craft
Good
Crafts
World
Dare
Fail
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.
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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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My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.
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Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
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Adulterers, take warning, never admit.
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And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.
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We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
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How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.
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All that is active, all that is enveloped in time and space, is endowed with what might be described as an abstract, ideal and absolute impermeability.
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The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.
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We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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Enough of acting the infant who has been told so often how he was found under a cabbage that in the end he remembers the exact spot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the family circle.
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Light black. From pole to pole.
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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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The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
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What are we doing here, that is the question.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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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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Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
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