Quote

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.

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
Kind
Opened
Would
Mouth
Thinking
Mouths
Hear
Knew
Heard
Unintelligible
Words
Rattle
Even
Intended

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?
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Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
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Adulterers, take warning, never admit.
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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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Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
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Enough to know no knowing.
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Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.
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What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but stretch out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for all eternity. A pity I should have to give tongue at the same time, it prevents it from bleeding in peace, licking the lips.
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To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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It was the only way to progress, to stop.
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I know those little phrases that seem so innocuous, and, once you let them in, pollute the whole of speech. 'Nothing is more real than nothing.' They rise up out of the pit and know no rest until they drag you down into its dark.
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When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.
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I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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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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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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I don't know why I told this story. I could just as well have told another. Perhaps some other time I'll be able to tell another. Living souls, you will see how alike they are.
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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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