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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.

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
Away
Rearing
Make
Frantic
Think
Keepers
Thinking
Stirring
Inch
Inches
Prisoner
Danger

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Better hope deferred than none.
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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.
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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
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What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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Try again. Fail again. Try better.
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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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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.
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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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If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.
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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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Clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most
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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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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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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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That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
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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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Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.
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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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