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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.

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
Artistic
Condition
Main
Conditions
Suffering
Experience

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Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.
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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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Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.
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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.
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Adulterers, take warning, never admit.
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Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.
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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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The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
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Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.
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Two in distressmake sorrow less.
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And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.
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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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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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Vladimir: I don't understand. Estragon: Use your intelligence, can't you? Vladimir uses his intelligence. Vladimir: (finally) I remain in the dark.
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But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
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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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VLADIMIR: What do they say? ESTRAGON: They talk about their lives. VLADIMIR: To have lived is not enough for them. ESTRAGON: They have to talk about it.
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Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
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in reality we are one and all from the unthinkable first to the no less unthinkable last glued together in a vast imbrication of flesh without breach or fissure
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What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come
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