Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you thatâ€¦ 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 m
Fail, fail again, fail better.
That's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.
If I were in the unenviable position of having to study my work my points of departure would be the "Naught is more real ..." and the "Ubi nihil vales ..." both already in Murphy and neither very rational.
The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?
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
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.
Was I asleep? Had I slept?
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.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.
It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.
We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness. Samuel Bec
Already all confusion. Things and imaginings. As of always. Confusion amounting to nothing. Despite precautions. If only she could be pure figment. Unalloyed. This old so dying woman. So dead. In the madhouse of the skull and nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be taken. No precautions possib
You would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery.
Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear
The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.
Vladimir: I don't understand. Estragon: Use your intelligence, can't you? Vladimir uses his intelligence. Vladimir: (finally) I remain in the dark.
I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side. (Pause. Krapp's lips move. No sound.) Past midnight. Never knew such silence. The earth might be uninhabited.
Name, no, nothing is nameable, tell, no, nothing can be told, what then, I don't know, I shouldn't have begun.
In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness. Samuel Bec
Where you have nothing, there you should want nothing.
I know those little phrases that seem so innocuous, and, once you let them in, pollute the whole of speech. 'Nothing is more real than nothing.' They rise up out of the pit and know no rest until they drag you down into its dark.
Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They gi
Sloth is all passions the most powerful.