Samuel Beckett Quotes

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.

You, my body, my mind...one must go.

I felt ill at ease with all this air about me, lost before the confusion of innumerable prospects.

Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.

story … if you could finish it … you could rest … you could sleep … not before … oh I know … the ones I’ve finished … thousands and one … all I ever did … in my life … with my life … saying to myself … finish this one … it’s the right one … then rest …

It is indeed becoming more and more difficult, even senseless, for me to write an official English. And more and more my own language appears to me like a veil that must be torn apart in order to get at the things (or the Nothingness) behind it. Grammar and style. To me they have become as irrelevant as a Victorian bathing suit or the imperturbability of a true gentleman. A mask. Let us hope the time will come, thank God that in certain circles it has already come, when language is most efficiently used where it is being most efficiently misused. As we cannot eliminate language all at once, we should at least leave nothing undone that might contribute to its falling into disrepute. To bore one hole after another in it, until what lurks behind it - be it something or nothing - begins to seep through; I cannot imagine a higher goal for a writer today.

From things about to disappear I turn away in time. To watch them out of sight, no, I can't do it.

From the meanest creature one departs wiser, richer, more conscious of one's blessings.

Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it's me?

Tears, that could be the tone, if they weren't so easy, the true tone and tenor at last.

Nell: Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.
Nagg: Oh?
Nell: Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world. And we laugh, we laugh, with a will, in the beginning. But it's always the same thing. Yes, it's like the funny story we have heard too often, we still find it funny, but we don't laugh any more.

آنچه عشق می خوانند نوعی تبعید است.

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.

The earth makes a sound as of sighs and the last drops fall from the emptied cloudless sky. A small boy, stretching out his hands and looking up at the blue sky, asked his mother how such a thing was possible. Fuck off, she said.

Let's hang ourselves immediately!