Quote

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

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
Less
Fissure
Reality
Glued
Together
Breach
Firsts
Unthinkable
Without
Vast
First
Flesh
Lasts
Last

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.
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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.
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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
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We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
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That penny farthing hell you call your mind
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There is this to be said for Dachsunds of such length and lowness as Nelly, that it makes very little difference to their appearance whether they stand, sit or lie.
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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
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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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If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
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An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.
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Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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Adulterers, take warning, never admit.
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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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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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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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There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
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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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God is love. Yes or no? No.
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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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