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Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.

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
Wonder
Ever
Right
Sometimes
Mind
Passes
Intelligent

More quotes by Samuel Beckett

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I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
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There is no escape from yesterday because yesterday has deformed us, or been deformed by us. The mood is of no importance. Deformation has taken place.
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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 is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
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And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.
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Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
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Estragon: Nothing to be done.
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It is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.
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Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
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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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I don't know why I told this story. I could just as well have told another. Perhaps some other time I'll be able to tell another. Living souls, you will see how alike they are.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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Do we mean love, when we say love?
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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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We wait. We are bored. (He throws up his hand.) No, don't protest, we are bored to death, there's no denying it. Good. A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come, let's get to work! (He advances towards the heap, stops in his stride.) In an instant all will vanish and we'll be alone more, in the midst of nothingness!
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We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
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The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.
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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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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
Samuel Beckett