Samuel Beckett (April 13, 1906 - December 22, 1989) was an Irish avant-garde playwright, poet and novelist best known for his play Waiting for Godot. Strongly influenced by fellow Irish writer, James Joyce, Beckett is sometimes considered the last of the Modernists, however, as his body of work influenced many subsequent writers, he is also considered one of the fathers of the Postmodernist movement. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1969, "for his writing, which- in new forms for the novel and drama- in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation." (Click here for full article)
Ah, the old questions, the old answers, there's nothing like them!
All I say cancels out, I'll have said nothing.
Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.
Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.
Don't wait to be hunted to hide, that's always been my motto.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
God is a witness that cannot be sworn.
Habit is a great deadener.
I can't go on. I'll go on.
I do not feel like spending the rest of my life writing books that no one will read. It is not as though I wanted to write them.
If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.
In me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.
Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all.
My mistakes are my life.
Nothing is more real than nothing.
The contented person is never poor- the discontented is never rich. The quantum of wantum remains constant.
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
The fact is, it seems, that the most you can hope is to be a little less, in the end, the creature you were in the beginning, and the middle.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
There is a little of everything, apparently, in nature, and freaks are common.
There is something... more important in life than punctuality, and that is decorum.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet.
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
Words are all we have.
You're on earth. There's no cure for that.