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The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
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
Turns
Great
Good
Cycling
Bicycle
Employed
Nasty
Ill
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More quotes by Samuel Beckett
That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
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Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.
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The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
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It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
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It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.
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My mistakes are my life.
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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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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 should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.
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In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
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If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
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And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.
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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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Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.
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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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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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Estragon: I can't go on like this. Vladimir: That's what you think.
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Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.
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There's never an end for the sea.
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