Quote

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.

Samuel Beckett

Change background

T
T
T

Change font

TAGS & TOPICS

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
Language
Place
Many
Heart
Soft
Loves
Words

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

Image
Light black. From pole to pole.
Samuel Beckett
Image
The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
Samuel Beckett
Image
To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
Samuel Beckett
Image
Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
Samuel Beckett
Image
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.
Samuel Beckett
Image
Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.
Samuel Beckett
Image
How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.
Samuel Beckett
Image
Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.
Samuel Beckett
Image
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Samuel Beckett
Image
Two in distressmake sorrow less.
Samuel Beckett
Image
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.
Samuel Beckett
Image
To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
Samuel Beckett
Image
The Tuesday scowls, the Wednesday growls, the Thursday curses, the Friday howls, the Saturday snores, the Sunday yawns, the Monday morns, the Monday morns. The whacks, the moans, the cracks, the groans, the welts, the squeaks, the belts, the shrieks, the pricks, the prayers, the kicks, the tears, the skelps, and the yelps.
Samuel Beckett
Image
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.
Samuel Beckett
Image
In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
Samuel Beckett
Image
I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.
Samuel Beckett
Image
We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
Samuel Beckett
Image
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
Samuel Beckett
Image
Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.
Samuel Beckett
Image
All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
Samuel Beckett