Quote

The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.

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
Story
Faint
Ends
Memory
Stories
Courage
Might
Strength
Without
Cold
Mean
Memories
Life
Told
Came
Likeness

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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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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Better hope deferred than none.
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How hideous is the semicolon.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?
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Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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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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There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
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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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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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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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Habit is a compromise effected between an individual and his environment.
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No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
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God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
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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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