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Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.

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
Asks
Knocking
Point
Favour
Sometimes
Cunning
Good
Produces
People
Brains
Produce
Results
Brain
Humbly

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It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
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Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.
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All has not been said and never will be.
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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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How hideous is the semicolon.
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The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
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Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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Not to want to say, not to know what you want to say, not to be able to say what you think you want to say, and never to stop saying, or hardly ever, that is the thing to keep in mind, even in the heat of composition.
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They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.
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I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.
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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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An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.
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How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.
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Enough to know no knowing.
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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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Estragon: I can't go on like this. Vladimir: That's what you think.
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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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The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.
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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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