Quotes by Samuel Beckett

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Samuel Barclay Beckett (April 13 1906 - December 22 1989) was an Irish playwright, novelist and poet. Beckett's work is stark, fundamentally minimalist, and, according to some interpretations, deeply pessimistic about the human condition. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1969 "for his writing, which - in new forms for the novel and drama - in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation".

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We are all born mad. Some remain so.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
Probably nothing in the world arouses more false hopes Than the first four hours of a diet.
Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's awful.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
Make sense who may. I switch off.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
The bastard! He doesn't exist!
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.
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.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
Just under the surface I shall be, all together at first, then separate and drift, through all the earth and perhaps in the end through a cliff into the sea, something of me. A ton of worms in an acre, that is a wonderful thought, a ton of worms, I believe it.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
Birth was the death of him.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

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