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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.

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
Phenomena
Vulgar
Perception
Concerned
Experience

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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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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Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
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The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
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All that is active, all that is enveloped in time and space, is endowed with what might be described as an abstract, ideal and absolute impermeability.
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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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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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Mysterious affair, electricity.
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Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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My work is a matter of fundamental sounds (no joke intended) made as fully as possible, and I accept responsibility for nothing else. If people want to have headaches among the overtones, let them. And provide their own aspirin.
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The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
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Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
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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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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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Yes, light, there is no other word for it.
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I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously, nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot. I do not feel like spending the rest of my life writing books that no one will read. It is not as though I wanted to write them.
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Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.
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