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
littles talent
I had little talent for happiness.
long horrible effects
It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.
prayer poetry paradigm
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
giving hmm
Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection.
interesting may matter
The fact would seem to be, if in my situation one may speak of facts, not only that I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak, but also, which is even more interesting, but also that I, which is if possible even more interesting, that I shall have to, I forget, no matter. And at the same time I am obliged to speak. I shall never be silent. Never.
men good-man goodness
I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?
beautiful failing
Fail, fail again, fail better.
believe belief always-believe
Do you always believe in the life to come? Mine was always that.
mean taught use
I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
love women house
Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.
expression firsts language
It's a lot to ask of one creature, it's a lot to ask, that he should first behave as if he were not, then as if he were, before being admitted to that peace where he neither is, nor is not, and where the language dies that permits of such expressions.
time language failing
Words fail, there are times when even they fail.
love horse years
Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?
eye self tears
I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.