He who has waited long enough, will wait forever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain.
SAMUEL BECKETTPoets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
More Samuel Beckett Quotes
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All life long, the same questions, the same answers.
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Fail, fail again, fail better.
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I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.
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We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
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But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
SAMUEL BECKETT -
Don’t look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.
SAMUEL BECKETT -
But what matter whether I was born or not, have lived or not, am dead or merely dying. I shall go on doing as I have always done, not knowing what it is I do, nor who I am, nor where I am, nor if I am.
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Do we mean love, when we say love?
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Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
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Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.
SAMUEL BECKETT -
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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If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.
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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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My mistakes are my life.
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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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Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.
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The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust.
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Dear incomprehension, it’s thanks to you I’ll be myself, in the end.
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For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
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Birth was the death of him.
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I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.
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All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
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All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.
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Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
SAMUEL BECKETT