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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?
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
Moves
Moved
Moving
Soul
Great
Love
Movers
Cursed
Deadly
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
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Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
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If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
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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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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
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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 gave up before birth.
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Try again. Fail again. Try better.
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It is better to adopt the simplest explanation, even if it is not simple, even if it does not explain very much. A bright light is not necessary, a taper is all one needs to live in strangeness, if it faithfully burns.
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Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
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What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come
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Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.
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The situation is that of him who is helpless, cannot act, in the event cannot paint, since he is obliged to paint. The act is of him who, helpless, unable to act, acts, in the event paints, since he is obliged to paint.
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The short winter’s day was drawing to a close. It seems to me sometimes that these are the only days I have ever known, and especially that most charming moment of all, just before night wipes them out.
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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.
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My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.
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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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Birth was the death of him.
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Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.
Samuel Beckett