Beckett in 1977
|Born||Samuel Barclay Beckett
13 April 1906
Foxrock, Dublin, Ireland
|Died||22 December 1989
|Pen name||Andrew Belis|
|Occupation||Novelist, playwright, poet, theatre director, essayist|
|Alma mater||Trinity College Dublin|
|Genre||Drama, fiction, poetry, screenplays, personal correspondence|
|Notable works||Murphy (1938)
Malone Dies (1951)
The Unnamable (1953)
Waiting for Godot (1953)
Krapp’s Last Tape (1958)
How It Is (1961)
|Notable awards||Nobel Prize in Literature
Croix de Guerre
We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?
If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
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.
To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.
James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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.
Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.
It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.
Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile… a stain upon the silence.
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.