Samuel Beckett

Samuel Beckett Biography

Samuel Barclay Beckett (13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989) was an 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. His work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human nature, often coupled with black comedy and gallows humour.

Beckett is widely regarded as among the most influential writers of the 20th century. Strongly influenced by James Joyce, he is considered one of the last modernists. As an inspiration to many later writers, he is also sometimes considered one of the first postmodernists. He is one of the key writers in what Martin Esslin called the "Theatre of the Absurd". His work became increasingly minimalist in his later career.

Beckett was awarded the 1969 Nobel Prize in Literature "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation". He was elected Saoi of Aosdána in 1984.

Samuel Beckett Quotes

11 November 2014

At this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not.

11 November 2014

What are we doing here, that is the question.

11 November 2014

Women are all the bloody same ... you can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.

11 November 2014

This is going to be a happy day. Another happy day.

11 November 2014

An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.

11 November 2014

The tears of the world are a constant quality. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

11 November 2014

Ah earth you old extinguisher.

11 November 2014

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

11 November 2014

That penny farthing hell you call your mind

11 November 2014

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

11 November 2014

What is this love that more than all the cursed deadly or any other of its great movers so moves the soul and soul what is this soul that more than by any of its great movers is by love so moved?

11 November 2014

What we know partakes in no small measure of the nature of what has so happily been called the unutterable or ineffable, so that any attempt to utter or eff it is doomed to fail, doomed, doomed to fail.

11 November 2014

Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.

11 November 2014

Sloth is all passions the most powerful.

11 November 2014

Do we mean love, when we say love?

11 November 2014

Success and failure on the public level never mattered much to me, in fact I feel more at home with the latter, having breathed deep of its vivifying air all my writing life up to the last couple of years.

11 November 2014

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

11 November 2014

Hamm as stated, and Clov as stated, together as stated, nec tecum nec sine te, in such a place, and in such a world, that's all I can manage, more than I could.

11 November 2014

[T]he syndrome known as life is too diffuse to admit of palliation. For every symptom that is eased, another is made worse. The horse leech's daughter is a closed system. Her quantum of wantum cannot vary.

11 November 2014

Have at last written another [play, i.e., Endgame].... Rather difficult and elliptic, mostly depending on the power of the text to claw, more inhuman than "Godot."

11 November 2014

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

11 November 2014

I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.

11 November 2014

All that is active, all that is enveloped in time and space, is endowed with what might be described as an abstract, ideal and absolute impermeability.

11 November 2014

My work is a matter of fundamental sounds (no joke intended) made as fully as possible, and I accept responsibility for nothing else. If people want to have headaches among the overtones, let them. And provide their own aspirin.

11 November 2014

I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.

11 November 2014

I want very much to be back in the caul, on my back in the dark forever.

11 November 2014

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

11 November 2014

To be together again, after so long, who love the sunny wind, the windy sun, in the sun, in the wind, that is perhaps something, perhaps something.

11 November 2014

Birth was the death of him.

11 November 2014

I love order. It's my dream. A world where all would be silent and still and each thing in its last place, under the last dust.

11 November 2014

I see ... a multitude ... in transport ... of joy.

11 November 2014

Slowly he entered dark and silence and lay there for so long that with what judgement remained he judged them to be final.

11 November 2014

His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.

11 November 2014

The unthinkable last of all. Unnamable. Last person. I.

11 November 2014

What visions in the dark of light!

11 November 2014

The screaming silence of no's knife in yes's wound.

11 November 2014

All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

11 November 2014

The words too, slow, slow, the subject dies before it comes to the verb, words are stopping too.

11 November 2014

With what words shall I name my unnamable words?

11 November 2014

You are not satisfied unless form is so strictly divorced from content that you can comprehend the one without almost without bothering to read the other.

11 November 2014

Union ... brothers ... Marx ... capital ... bread and butter ... love. It was all Greek to me.

11 November 2014

Here form is content, content is form.

11 November 2014

Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.

11 November 2014

Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now.

11 November 2014

Those with stomach still to copulate strive in vain.

11 November 2014

In the meantime no sense in bickering about pronouns and other parts of blather.

11 November 2014

There I sat, in the biting wind, wishing she were gone.

11 November 2014

There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.

11 November 2014

How all becomes clear and simple when one opens an eye on the within, having of course previously exposed it to the without, in order to benefit by the contrast.

11 November 2014

Watt had watched people smile and thought he understood how it was done.

Samuel Beckett Comments

Parwath.H 07 January 2019

Please send me the bhodanes of Alalma prabhu in Kannada

0 0 Reply
Fabrizio Frosini 14 August 2016

no poems, here.. pity.. then I'm going to post a few lyrics by Samuel Beckett.. ___________________________________________________________ Quatre Poèmes (translated from French by the author) 1. Dieppe again the last ebb the dead shingle the turning then the steps toward the lighted town [Samuel Beckett]

34 0 Reply
Fabrizio Frosini 14 August 2016

2. my way is in the sand flowing between the shingle and the dune the summer rain rains on my life on me my life harrying fleeing to its beginning to tis end my peace is there in the receding mist when I may cease from trreading these long shifting thresholds and live the space of a door that opens and shuts [Samuel Beckett]

34 0 Reply
Fabrizio Frosini 14 August 2016

3. what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where ebery instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been without this wave where in the end body and shadow together are engulfed what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die the pantings the frenzies toward succour towards love without this sky that soars above it's ballast dust what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness [Samuel Beckett]

34 1 Reply
Fabrizio Frosini 14 August 2016

4. I would like my love to die and the rain to be falling on the graveyard and on me walking the streets mourning the first and last to love me [Samuel Beckett]

38 1 Reply

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