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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

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
Whether
Hermetic
Reality
Imaginatively
Empirically
Approached
Skepticism
Realism
Surface
Remains

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Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.
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That penny farthing hell you call your mind
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Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
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Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence.
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That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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God is love. Yes or no? No.
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God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
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Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
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Light black. From pole to pole.
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We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.
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Mysterious affair, electricity.
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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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Enough to know no knowing.
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The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.
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Enough of acting the infant who has been told so often how he was found under a cabbage that in the end he remembers the exact spot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the family circle.
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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.
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There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
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No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.
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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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