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There's never an end for the sea.

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
Sea
Ends
Never

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All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
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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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Birth was the death of him.
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We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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Light black. From pole to pole.
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We all are born mad. Some remain so.
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I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.
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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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Clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most
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Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.
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Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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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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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.
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God is love. Yes or no? No.
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What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?
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The time-state of attainment eliminates so accurately the time-state of aspiration, that the actual seems the inevitable, and, all conscious intellectual effort to reconstitute the invisible and unthinkable as a reality being fruitless, we are incapable of appreciating our joy by comparing it with our sorrow.
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