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

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How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.
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What are we doing here, that is the question.
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I can't go on. I'll go on.
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Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.
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When the object is perceived as particular and unique and not merely the member of a family, when it appears independent of any general notion and detached from the sanity of a cause, isolated and inexplicable in the light of ignorance, then and only then may it be a source of enchantment.
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Estragon: I can't go on like this. Vladimir: That's what you think.
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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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And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.
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James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
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Try again. Fail again. Try better.
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Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
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Do they [the publishers of Murphy] not understand that if the book is slightly obscure it is because it is a compression and thatto compress it further can only make it more obscure?
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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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We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
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What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!
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What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?
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Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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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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Dear incomprehension, it's thanks to you I'll be myself, in the end.
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