Quote

In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.

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
Head
Open
Universe
Parading
Always
Variously
Windows
Several
Window
Perhaps

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I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.
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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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I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
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Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.
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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We're waiting for Godot.
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Yes, light, there is no other word for it.
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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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Yes, there is no denying it, any longer, it is not you who are dead, but all the others. So you get up and go to your mother, who thinks she is alive. That's my impression. But now I shall have to get myself out of this ditch. How joyfully I would vanish here, sinking deeper and deeper under the rains.
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It is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.
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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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But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.
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Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
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It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
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If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.
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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
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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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