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My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.
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
Curious
Notes
Record
Realize
Purport
Records
Annihilate
Realizing
Nothingness
Lasts
Tendency
Last
Tendencies
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
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That penny farthing hell you call your mind
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VLADIMIR: What do they say? ESTRAGON: They talk about their lives. VLADIMIR: To have lived is not enough for them. ESTRAGON: They have to talk about it.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
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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 tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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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.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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I don’t like animals. It’s a strange thing, I don’t like men and I don’t like animals. As for God, he is beginning to disgust me.
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How hideous is the semicolon.
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I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
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Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
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Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
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God is love. Yes or no? No.
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Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
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The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
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It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.
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There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
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