There’s never an end for the sea.
SAMUEL BECKETTThe dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
More Samuel Beckett Quotes
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Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.
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What are we doing here, that is the question.
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Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
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People are bloody ignorant apes.
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Words are the clothes thoughts wear.
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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.
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You won’t believe what you can accomplish by attempting the impossible with the courage to repeatedly fail better.
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Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
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We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
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Nothing is more real than nothing.
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Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.
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You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.
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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 -
The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
SAMUEL BECKETT -
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
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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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All life long, the same questions, the same answers.
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If you don’t know where you are currently standing, you’re dead.
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I gave up before birth.
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Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.
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Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
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All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
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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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I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.
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All has not been said and never will be.
SAMUEL BECKETT