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I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
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
Tears
Open
Eyes
Eye
Nothing
Unceasingly
Self
Introspection
Pour
Torn
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and going. From the word go.
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There's never an end for the sea.
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Absolute virtue is as sure to kill a man as absolute vice is, let alone the dullness of it and the pomposities of it.
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In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.
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Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.
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How hideous is the semicolon.
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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.
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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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Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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Words are all we have.
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Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.
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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
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Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
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We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.
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I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
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All the things you would do gladly, oh without enthusiasm, but gladly, all the things there seems no reason for your not doing, and that you do not do! Can it be we are not free? It might be worth looking into.
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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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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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