Words to live by

Words to live by, from a strange man of letters, Samuel Beckett

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

If you do not love me I shall not be loved.

If I do not love you I shall not love.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

We are all born mad. Some remain so.

You're on earth. There's no cure for that.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.

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.

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.

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.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.

Words are all we have.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.

I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.

Birth was the death of him.

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.