Beckett Quotes

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ive-played-beckett-i-put-on-in-1950s-first-australian-production-waiting-for-godot-i-played-estragon-the-most-interesting-conversation-ive-had-about-beckett-was-with-dublin-taxi-
beckett-had-unerring-light-on-things-which-i-much-appreciated-harold-pinter
becketts-stories-texts-for-nothing-is-probably-my-favorite-book
these-are-your-beautiful-days-julia-beckett-he-promised-softly-susanna-kearsley
my-favorite-playwright-is-probably-samuel-beckett-he-was-always-laughing-at-abyss
her-smile-was-like-samuel-beckett-play-easy-to-read-but-difficult-to-interpret-bob-smith
i-am-not-interested-in-living-in-city-where-there-isnt-production-by-samuel-beckett-running-edward-albee
samuel-beckett-once-said-every-word-is-like-unnecessary-stain-on-silence-nothingness-on-other-hand-he-said-it-art-spiegelman
my-exposure-to-beckett-to-late-oneill-was-probably-important-right-at-time-i-gave-up-poetry-novel
all-really-great-artists-jackson-pollack-john-cage-beckett-joyce-you-are-never-indifferent-to-them-jonathan-safran-foer
i-dont-think-theres-been-any-writer-like-samuel-beckett-hes-unique-he-was-most-charming-man-i-used-to-send-him-my-plays
i-just-completed-long-car-trip-on-sunday-in-august-with-two-small-children-which-believe-me-is-enough-to-convince-you-that-samuel-beckett-was-right-about-everything-lev-grossman
beckett-does-not-believe-in-god-though-he-seems-to-imply-that-god-has-committed-unforgivable-sin-by-not-existing-anthony-burgess
according-to-becketts-kafkas-law-there-is-immobility-beyond-movement-beyond-standing-up-there-is-sitting-down-beyond-sitting-down-lying-down-beyond-gilles-deleuze
where-do-i-begin-i-loved-working-with-kate-hepburn-which-was-one-highlights-my-life-working-with-richard-burton-in-beckett-was-another-great-joy-peter-otoole
you-have-infiltrated-me-completely-you-make-me-feel-alive-harlow-i-love-that-feeling-i-have-had-my-heart-walled-off-for-long-you-have-melted-it-i-can-feel-again-beckett-sm-stryke
i-was-in-hollis-band-for-eight-years-playing-drums-at-one-time-we-had-barry-beckett-jimmy-johnson-david-hood-everybody-but-roger-hawkins-we-had-hell-donnie-fritts
the-first-play-i-saw-was-samuel-beckett-play-which-was-great
je-suis-comme-e-ou-joublie-tout-de-suite-ou-je-noublie-jamais-samuel-beckett-en-attendant-godot-im-like-that-either-i-forget-right-away-i-never-forget-samuel-beckett
food-is-necessary-component-to-life-people-can-live-without-renoir-mozart-gaudi-beckett-but-they-cannot-live-without-food
i-spent-lot-time-in-college-studying-theater-absurd-beckett-genet-then-i-spent-lot-time-after-that-at-gossip-girl-auditions-thinking-wow-i-really-wasted-my-money
It might be useful here to say a word about Beckett, as a link between the two stages, and as illustrating the shift towards schism. He wrote for transition, an apocalyptic magazine (renovation out of decadence, a Joachite indication in the title), and has often shown a flair for apocalyptic variations, the funniest of which is the frustrated millennialism of the Lynch family in Watt, and the most telling, perhaps, the conclusion of Comment c'est. He is the perverse theologian of a world which has suffered a Fall, experienced an Incarnation which changes all relations of past, present, and future, but which will not be redeemed. Time is an endless transition from one condition of misery to another, 'a passion without form or stations, ' to be ended by no parousia. It is a world crying out for forms and stations, and for apocalypse; all it gets is vain temporality, mad, multiform antithetical influx. It would be wrong to think that the negatives of Beckett are a denial of the paradigm in favour of reality in all its poverty. In Proust, whom Beckett so admires, the order, the forms of the passion, all derive from the last book; they are positive. In Beckett, the signs of order and form are more or less continuously presented, but always with a sign of cancellation; they are resources not to be believed in, cheques which will bounce. Order, the Christian paradigm, he suggests, is no longer usable except as an irony; that is why the Rooneys collapse in laughter when they read on the Wayside Pulpit that the Lord will uphold all that fall. But of course it is this order, however ironized, this continuously transmitted idea of order, that makes Beckett's point, and provides his books with the structural and linguistic features which enable us to make sense of them. In his progress he has presumed upon our familiarity with his habits of language and structure to make the relation between the occulted forms and the narrative surface more and more tenuous; in Comment c'est he mimes a virtually schismatic breakdown of this relation, and of his language. This is perfectly possible to reach a point along this line where nothing whatever is communicated, but of course Beckett has not reached it by a long way; and whatever preserves intelligibility is what prevents schism. This is, I think, a point to be remembered whenever one considers extremely novel, avant-garde writing. Schism is meaningless without reference to some prior condition; the absolutely New is simply unintelligible, even as novelty. It may, of course, be asked: unintelligible to whom? -the inference being that a minority public, perhaps very small-members of a circle in a square world-do understand the terms in which the new thing speaks. And certainly the minority public is a recognized feature of modern literature, and certainly conditions are such that there may be many small minorities instead of one large one; and certainly this is in itself schismatic. The history of European literature, from the time the imagination's Latin first made an accommodation with the lingua franca, is in part the history of the education of a public-cultivated but not necessarily learned, as Auerbach says, made up of what he calls la cour et la ville. That this public should break up into specialized schools, and their language grow scholastic, would only be surprising if one thought that the existence of excellent mechanical means of communication implied excellent communications, and we know it does not, McLuhan's 'the medium is the message' notwithstanding. But it is still true that novelty of itself implies the existence of what is not novel, a past. The smaller the circle, and the more ambitious its schemes of renovation, the less useful, on the whole, its past will be. And the shorter. I will return to these points in a moment.

Frank Kermode
it-might-be-useful-here-to-say-word-about-beckett-as-link-between-two-stages-as-illustrating-shift-towards-schism-he-wrote-for-transition-apocalyptic-magazine-renovation-out-deca
Outside of the dreary rubbish that is churned out by god knows how many hacks of varying degrees of talent, the novel is, it seems to me, a very special and rarefied kind of literary form, and was, for a brief moment only, wide-ranging in its sociocultural influence. For the most part, it has always been an acquired taste and it asks a good deal from its audience. Our great contemporary problem is in separating that which is really serious from that which is either frivolously and fashionably "radical" and that which is a kind of literary analogy to the Letterman show. It's not that there is pop culture around, it's that so few people can see the difference between it and high culture, if you will. Morton Feldman is not Stephen Sondheim. The latter is a wonderful what-he-is, but he is not what-he-is-not. To pretend that he is is to insult Feldman and embarrass Sondheim, to enact a process of homogenization that is something like pretending that David Mamet, say, breathes the same air as Samuel Beckett. People used to understand that there is, at any given time, a handful of superb writers or painters or whatever-and then there are all the rest. Nothing wrong with that. But it now makes people very uncomfortable, very edgy, as if the very idea of a Matisse or a Charles Ives or a Thelonious Monk is an affront to the notion of "ain't everything just great!" We have the spectacle of perfectly nice, respectable, harmless writers, etc., being accorded the status of important artists... Essentially the serious novelist should do what s/he can do and simply forgo the idea of a substantial audience.

Gilbert Sorrentino
outside-dreary-rubbish-that-is-churned-out-by-god-knows-how-many-hacks-varying-degrees-talent-novel-is-it-seems-to-me-special-rarefied-kind-literary-form-was-for-brief-moment-onl
You've a perfect right to call me as impractical as a dormouse, and to feel I'm out of touch with life. But this is the point where we simply can't see eye to eye. We've nothing whatever in common. Don't you see... it's not an accident that's drawn me from Blake to Whitehead, it's a certain line of thought which is fundamental to my whole approach. You see, there's something about them both... They trusted the universe. You say I don't know what the modern world's like, but that's obviously untrue. Anyone who's spent a week in London knows just what it's like... if you mean neurosis and boredom and the rest of it. And I do read a modern novel occasionally, in spite of what you say. I've read Joyce and Sartre and Beckett and the rest, and every atom in me rejects what they say. They strike me as liars and fools. I don't think they're dishonest so much as hopelessly tired and defeated." Lewis had lit his pipe. He did it as if Reade were speaking to someone else. Now he said, smiling faintly, "I don't think we're discussing modern literature." Reade had an impulse to call the debater's trick, but he repressed it. Instead he said quietly, "We're discussing modern life, and you brought up the subject. And I'm trying to explain why I don't think that murders and wars prove your point. I'm writing about Whitehead because his fundamental intuition of the universe is the same as my own. I believe like Whitehead that the universe is a single organism that somehow takes account of us. I don't believe that modern man is a stranded fragment of life in an empty universe. I've an instinct that tells me that there's a purpose, and that I can understand that purpose more deeply by trusting my instinct. I can't believe the world is meaningless. I don't expect life to explode in my face at any moment. When I walk back to my cottage, I don't feel like a meaningless fragment of life walking over a lot of dead hills. I feel a part of the landscape, as if it's somehow aware of me, and friendly.

Colin Wilson
youve-perfect-right-to-call-me-as-impractical-as-dormouse-to-feel-im-out-touch-with-life-but-this-is-point-where-we-simply-cant-see-eye-to-eye-weve-nothing-whatever-in-common-don
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