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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.
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
Hear
Knew
Heard
Unintelligible
Words
Rattle
Even
Intended
Kind
Opened
Would
Mouth
Thinking
Mouths
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
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My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.
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I can't go on. I'll go on.
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What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.
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Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
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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, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
Samuel Beckett
I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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What are we doing here, that is the question.
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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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There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
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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.
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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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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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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.
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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
Samuel Beckett
Birth was the death of him.
Samuel Beckett