Quote

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.

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
Ends
Circles
Cabbage
Remember
Atheism
Remembers
Enough
Garden
Joining
Kind
Told
Infant
Life
Acting
Exact
Family
Spot
Often
Circle
Found
Spots

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We wait. We are bored. (He throws up his hand.) No, don't protest, we are bored to death, there's no denying it. Good. A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come, let's get to work! (He advances towards the heap, stops in his stride.) In an instant all will vanish and we'll be alone more, in the midst of nothingness!
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Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
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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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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
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The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.
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The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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Do they [the publishers of Murphy] not understand that if the book is slightly obscure it is because it is a compression and thatto compress it further can only make it more obscure?
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There's never an end for the sea.
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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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But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.
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I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
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We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
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Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.
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All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.
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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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Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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