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Hardly had the glow been kindled by some good deed on your part or by some little triumph over your rivals or by a word of praisefrom your parents or mentors when it would begin to cool and fade leaving you in a very short time as chill and dim as before.

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
Part
Leaving
Deed
Littles
Achievement
Chill
Little
Praise
Mentor
Good
Begin
Fades
Kindled
Would
Short
Hardly
Mentors
Time
Parents
Triumph
Glow
Parent
Deeds
Fade
Word
Cool
Rivals

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Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
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Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... 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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Estragon: I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.
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It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.
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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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Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.
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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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All has not been said and never will be.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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The only sin is the sin of being born.
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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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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but stretch out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for all eternity. A pity I should have to give tongue at the same time, it prevents it from bleeding in peace, licking the lips.
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I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
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