Samuel Beckett Quotes - Page 6

How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.

I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it that nobody ever noticed it?

Birth was the death of him.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.

Yes, I dont know why, but I have never been disappointed, and I often was in the early days, without feeling at the same time, or a moment later, an undeniable relief.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.

The only sin is the sin of being born.

Our vulgar perception is not concerned with other than vulgar phenomena.

Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.

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.

How hideous is the semicolon.

If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.

I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.

Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.

There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.

To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.

The bicycle is a great good. But it can turn nasty, if ill employed.

And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.

The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).

Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea.