Samuel Beckett
Samuel Beckett
Samuel Barclay Beckettwas a French-Irish avant-garde novelist, playwright, theatre director, and poet, who lived in Paris for most of his adult life and wrote in both English and French. He is widely regarded as among the most influential writers of the 20th century...
NationalityIrish
ProfessionPlaywright
Date of Birth13 April 1906
CityFoxrock, Ireland
CountryIreland
thinking want ass
All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.
sad frustration wings
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
years world wander
Spend the years of learning squandering Courage for the years of wandering Through a world politely turning From the loutishness of learning.
silence kind fine
Silence, yes, but what silence! For it is all very fine to keep silence, but one has also to consider the kind of silence one keeps.
waiting-for-godot speak stay-with-me
Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!
eye cells dust
I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.
dream fall dark
...and a dream away in space with neither her nor there where all the footsteps ever fell can never fare nearer to anywhere nor from anywhere further away. Nor for in the end again by degrees or as though switched on dark falls there again that certain dark that alone certain ashes can. Through it who knows yet another end beneath a cloudless sky of a last end if ever there had to be another absolutely had to be.
loss thinking sight
The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred.
giving waiting-for-godot magician
Estragon: We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist? Vladimir: Yes, yes, we're magicians.
memories lying writing
I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.
sadness eye brain
The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.
writing letters life-is
My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.
life daughter horse
[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.
suffering artistic conditions
Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.