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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
Good
Produces
People
Brains
Produce
Results
Brain
Humbly
Asks
Knocking
Point
Favour
Sometimes
Cunning
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
Ah, the old questions, the old answers, there's nothing like them!
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It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
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To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?
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How hideous is the semicolon.
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Yes, there is no denying it, any longer, it is not you who are dead, but all the others. So you get up and go to your mother, who thinks she is alive. That's my impression. But now I shall have to get myself out of this ditch. How joyfully I would vanish here, sinking deeper and deeper under the rains.
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No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
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But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
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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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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
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The Tuesday scowls, the Wednesday growls, the Thursday curses, the Friday howls, the Saturday snores, the Sunday yawns, the Monday morns, the Monday morns. The whacks, the moans, the cracks, the groans, the welts, the squeaks, the belts, the shrieks, the pricks, the prayers, the kicks, the tears, the skelps, and the yelps.
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Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
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An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.
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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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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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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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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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Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
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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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