Best 41 quotes in «beckett quotes» category

Estragon:-¿Cuál es nuestro papel en este asunto? Vladimir:-¿Nuestro papel? Estragon:-Tómate tiempo. Vladimir:-¿Nuestro papel? El del suplicante. Estragon:-¿Hasta este extremo? Vladimir: ¿El señor tiene exigencias que hacer valer? Estragon:-¿Ya no tenemos derechos? (Risa de Vladimir, quien se reprime como antes. Mismos gestos, salvo la sonrisa) Vladimir:-Me harías reír si me estuviera permitido. Estragon:-¿Los hemos perdido? Vladimir (con claridad):-Los hemos vendido.

Ada: And why life? (Pause.) Why life, Henry? (Pause.) Is there anyone about? Henry: Not a living soul. Ada: I thought as much. (Pause.) When we longed to have it to ourselves there was always someone. Now that it does not matter the place is deserted.

Any pub will do?” “McPherson’s, I think. One with music that will alter my life forever, give me eternal happiness, and make me see God. You know. One like that.” “So you need the magical sound of Ireland and some information about an Abbeyglen native. Francine”—Beckett’s eyes danced in the streaming sunlight—“I’m about to solve your every problem.” Beckett stood up and gave my hair a light tug. “Prepare to worship and adore me.

Beckett's probably the hardest man there is to love," Blake said. "He does life wrong for all the right reasons.

Don't ever die in my head again. Please, never again,

A cheval sur une tombe et une naissance difficile. Du fond du trou, rêveusement, le fossoyeur applique ses fers. On a le temps de vieillir. L'air est plein de nos cris.

And as for girls who try to stay away from me—my charm always wears them down.” “I’m up-to-date on my shots, so I’m pretty much immune to everything.

Beckett started the Hummer and texted Eve: Tak4e Ur Cloth3s OFF Im on my qway Her reply came back quick as lightning: Take ur clothes off and f*ck yourself. “One way or another, this chick is gonna kill me,” Beckett growled as the Hummer roared away.

HAMM: Yesterday! What does that mean? Yesterday! CLOV (violently): That means that bloody awful day, long ago, before this bloody awful day. I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent. (Pause.)

HAMM: Scoundrel! Why did you engender me? NAGG: I didn't know. HAMM: What? What didn't you know? NAGG: That it'd be you. (Pause.)

He thought of hanging himself, to pass the time.

I have Shakespeared my Moliere to Tenessee, and I am Wild for Becket! But I got a little tired of the redundancy.

I am interested in the shape of ideas, even if I do not believe in them

I happened to look up and there it was. All over and done with, at last. I sat on for a few moments with the ball in my hand and the dog yelping and pawing at me. (Pause.) Moments. Her moments, my moments (Pause.) The dog's moments.

I haven't event started yet Wood! I need time to process... it's not every day hell falls below zero.

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.

In a sense, Joyce was Beckett's Don Quixote, and Beckett was his Sancho Panza. Joyce aspired to the One; Beckett encapsulated the fragmented many. But as each author accomplished his task, it was in the service of the other. Ultimately, Beckett's landscapes would resound with articulate silence, and his empty spaces would collect within themselves the richness of multiple shadows--a physicist would say the negative particles--of all that exists in absence, as in the white patches of an Abstract Expressionist painting. Becket would evoke, on his canvasses of vast innuendo and through the interstices of conscious and unconscious thought, the richness that Joyce had made explicit in words and intricate structure.

I think it's in Malone Dies that Beckett's creature is in a kind of prison or hospital. As I recall, he is visited twice a day, slop brought in and slop taken out. He has a stub of a pencil, a bit of paper. And he asks questions, ten, sven, I don't remember, "Why am I here?" "What day is it?" The last one, no. 10 maybe, says "Number your answers." This is not just desperation and clinging to something called 'reason'--by his fingertips--that is humanity, shit-smeared, hopeless, and mad humanity--in the face of all denial. Our work is about that. My work.

Se alejó, visiblemente en el mismo estado que aquel día de abril de 1992 en que vio una obra de Samuel Beckett en un teatro alternativo

People can be complicated. We can also be ridiculously simple.

She dragged me across the floor, stopping from time to time only to kick me. I didn't know our cows too could be so inhuman.

Simple shit makes this chick crap bubbles and rainbows" -Beckett

The Exo went pale when he realized what we were dealing with. Well, what he thought we were dealing with. I never really thought he was a paragon of courage, mister ‘I’ll-be-Captain-one-of-these-days’ Beckett. He wanted to turn a blind eye as it were, and keep going. Of course we didn’t want to break the law – or tempt karma… so the Captain over-ruled him and decided to stop. It was. A trap, I mean. But nothing like we thought – not something as mundane as Corsairs. Oh, no. And it didn’t spring on us till days later, when we were light-years away.

So I'm sitting in that damn chair, ready to die, and I say to her, 'You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'm so damn glad you're going to kill me instead of some brainless, toothless druggie." Beckett smiled again at the memory of his almost-murder. "Then she traded the knife for her lips, and now she works for me." Beckett put his hands behind his head and flexed his giant biceps. "She won't tell me who hired her to come here. She's the deadliest person I've ever encountered. I still think she might kill me, but I can't stop looking at her.

There are few poets today who can equal, in their esthetic exploitation of language, in their depth of commitment to their medium, in their range of conceptual understanding, in the purity of their closed forms, the work of Nabokov, Borges, Beckett, Barth, Broch, Gaddis, or Calvino, or any of half-a-dozen extraordinarily gifted South Americans.

What is certain is this, that I never rested in that way again, my feet obscenely resting on the earth, my arms on the handlebars and on my arms my head, rocking and abandoned. It is indeed a delporable sight, a deplorable example, for the people, who so need to be encouraged, in their bitter toil, and to have before their eyes manifestations of strength only, of courage and joy, without which they might collapse, at the end of the day, and roll on the ground.

Vladimir:-Cuando uno piensa, oye. Estragon:-Cierto. Vladimir:-Y eso impide reflexionar. Estragon:-Claro. Vladimir:-Impide pensar. Estragon:-De todos modos se piensa. Vladimir:-¡Qué va!, resulta imposible. Estragon:-Eso es, contradigámonos. Vladimir: Imposible. Estragon:-¿Tú crees? Vladimir:-Ya no nos arriesgamos a pensar. Estragon:-Entonces, ¿De qué nos lamentamos?

When she was this wild he was a monster for her. He bruised her, took her blows and fought to give her the pleasure she made him earn.

You're barebacking, aren't you?

You lean back against the door with bowed head making ready to set out. By the time you open your eyes your feet have disappeared and the skirt of your great coat come to rest on the surface of the snow. The dark scene seems lit from below. You see yourself at the last outset leaning against the door with closed eyes waiting for the word from you to go. To be gone.Then the snowlit scene. You lie in the dark with closed eyes and see yourself there as described making ready to strike out and away across the expanse of light. You hear again the click of the door pulled gently to and the silence before the steps can start. Next thing you are on your way across the white pasture afrolic with lambs in spring and strewn with red placantae.

[Contemporary writer] could be a kind of [Samuel] Beckett who would not be felt to be totally committed to despair.

You’re not too bad, Finley Sinclair.” I couldn’t have looked away from this boy if the room had caught on fire. “You’re okay yourself. At times.” “But we can’t get involved.” “No.” I swallowed. “Definitely not.” His face lowered a fraction of an inch. “Because I’m infamously bad.” “And I’m staying away from trouble.” His voice was rough, husky. “It would never work.” I took a step closer. “Impossible.” He traced my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “We don’t even like each other." “I pretty much can’t stand you.” And then his lips crushed to mine.

All really great artists, Jackson Pollack, John Cage, Beckett or Joyce - you are never indifferent to them.

As Beckett said, it's not enough to die, one has to be forgotten as well.

Beckett does not believe in God, though he seems to imply that God has committed an unforgivable sin by not existing.

Food is a necessary component to life. People can live without Renoir, Mozart, Gaudi, Beckett, but they cannot live without food.

I admire [Samuel] Beckett, but I am totally against him. He seeks no improvement.

The one living playwright I admire without any reservation whatsoever is Samuel Beckett. I have funny feelings about almost all the others.

Unfortunately, I'm not a history buff. I don't read biographies, except of some of those writers whom I've collected over the years - particularly Samuel Beckett and Henry Miller, people like Charles Bukowski and John Fante and David Foster Wallace.

Ibsen, Chekhov, Shakespeare, and Beckett to me are the most revolutionary.

These are your beautiful days, Julia Beckett," he promised softly.