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I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
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
Trying
Fail
Failing
Better
More quotes by Samuel Beckett
There's never an end for the sea.
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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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That penny farthing hell you call your mind
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I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of — how shall I say, I don’t know.
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There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
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Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
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The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
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Love requited is a short circuit.
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It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
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There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
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Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.
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Yes, light, there is no other word for it.
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Sloth is all passions the most powerful.
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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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[T]he syndrome known as life is too diffuse to admit of palliation. For every symptom that is eased, another is made worse. The horse leech's daughter is a closed system. Her quantum of wantum cannot vary.
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But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.
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And all these questions I ask myself. It is not in a spirit of curiosity. I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing. Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric.
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You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.
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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
Samuel Beckett