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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.
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
Sometimes
Especially
Days
Wipes
Known
Wipe
Moment
Charming
Moments
Drawing
Night
Winter
Seems
Short
Ever
Close
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
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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There is this to be said for Dachsunds of such length and lowness as Nelly, that it makes very little difference to their appearance whether they stand, sit or lie.
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Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
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There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
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Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
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To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
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I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
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And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.
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The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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I can't go on. I'll go on.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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Ah, the old questions, the old answers, there's nothing like them!
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But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!
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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
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Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.
Samuel Beckett