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But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late!

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
Mankind
Whether
Moment
Moments
Place
Make
Time
Godot
Like
Late

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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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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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I want very much to be back in the caul, on my back in the dark forever.
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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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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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My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.
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There is no escape from yesterday because yesterday has deformed us, or been deformed by us. The mood is of no importance. Deformation has taken place.
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Enough to know no knowing.
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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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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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I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
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We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?
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