Samuel Beckett
Playwright
1906-04-13 – 1989-12-22
Samuel Beckett was an Irish playwright, novelist, and poet, and a major figure in twentieth-century literature and theatre. Born in 1906, he is best known for Waiting for Godot and for his contributions to modernist and absurdist writing. He died in Paris on 1989-12-22.
Books by Samuel Beckett
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Molloy
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Watt
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Quotes by Samuel Beckett
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With a cluther of limbs and organs, all that is needed to live again, to hold out a little time, I'll call that living, I'll say it's me, I'll get standing, I'll stop thinking, I'll be too busy, getting standing, staying standing, stirring about, holding out, getting to tomorrow, tomorrow week, that will be ample, a week will be ample, a week in spring, that puts the jizz in you.
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Incontinent the void. The zenith. Evening again. When not night it will be evening. Death again of deathless day. On one hand embers. On the other ashes. Day without end won and lost. Unseen.
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A mug's game in my opinion and tiring on top of that, in the long run. But I lent myself to it with a good enough grace, knowing it was love, for she had told me so.
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Unfathomable mind: now beacon, now sea.
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Light heat all known all white heart breath no sound.
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But even them, my pains, I understand ill. That must come from my not being all pain and nothing else. There's the rub. Then they recede, or I, till they fill me with amaze and wonder, seen from a better planet. Not often, but I ask no more. Catch-cony life! To be nothing but pain, how that would simplify matters! Omnidolent! Impious dream.
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You are on your back at the foot of an aspen. In its trembling shade. She at right angles propped on her elbows head between her hands. Your eyes opened and closed have looked in hers looking in yours. In your dark you look in them again. Still. You feel on your face the fringe of her long black hair stirring in the still air. Within the tent of hair your faces are hidden from view. She murmurs, Listen to the leaves. Eyes in each other's eyes you listen to the leaves. In their trembling shade.
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Ada: And why life? (Pause.) Why life, Henry? (Pause.) Is there anyone about?Henry: Not a living soul.Ada: I thought as much. (Pause.) When we longed to have it to ourselves there was always someone. Now that it does not matter the place is deserted.
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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. So that I was never disappointed, so to speak, whatever I did, in this domain. And these inseparable fools I indulged turn about, that they might understand their foolishness.
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To be always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
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To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
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What is certain is this, that I never rested in that way again, my feet obscenely resting on the earth, my arms on the handlebars and on my arms my head, rocking and abandoned. It is indeed a delporable sight, a deplorable example, for the people, who so need to be encouraged, in their bitter toil, and to have before their eyes manifestations of strength only, of courage and joy, without which they might collapse, at the end of the day, and roll on the ground.
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ESTRAGON: Don't touch me! Don't question me! Don't speak to me! Stay with me!VLADIMIR: Did I ever leave you?ESTRAGON: You let me go.
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As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.
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Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
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Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven't yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle.
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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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The forms are many in which the unchanging seeks relief from its formlessness.
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Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.
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POZZO:I am blind.(Silence.)ESTRAGON:Perhaps he can see into the future.
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