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But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.

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
Thinking
Succeeded
Impossible
Speak
Seems
Nothing
Something
Always
Think
Overlook

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An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.
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The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.
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Poetry is essentially the antithesis of Metaphysics: Metaphysics purge the mind of the senses and cultivate the disembodiment of the spiritual Poetry is all passionate and feeling and animates the inanimate Metaphysics are most perfect when concerned with universals Poetry, when most concerned with particulars.
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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.
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There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.
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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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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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Enough to know no knowing.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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I want very much to be back in the caul, on my back in the dark forever.
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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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Yes, light, there is no other word for it.
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The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
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In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.
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We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
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There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.
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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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The fact is, it seems, that the most you can hope is to be a little less, in the end, the creature you were in the beginning, and the middle.
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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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