Most writers waste people’s time with too many words. I’m trying to reduce everything down to the minimum. My last work will be a blank piece of paper. — Samuel Beckett
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. ― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot. (Grove Press; 1 edition, May 17, 2011) Originally published 1952. Premiered 5 January 1953 at theThéâtre de Babylone, Paris France.
The fact that a believer is happier than a skeptic is no more to the point than the fact that a drunken man is happier than a sober one. The happiness of credulity is a cheap and dangerous quality of happiness, and by no means a necessity of life. ― George Bernard Shaw, Androcles and… Continue reading George Bernard Shaw
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. ― Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan. Originally published: 1893
Your songs, when you sing them with your two eyes closed As you always do, are like a local road We’ve known every turn of in the past— That midge-veiled, high-hedged side-road where your stood Looking and listening until a car Would come and go and leave you lonelier Than you had been to begin… Continue reading Seamus Heaney
In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name? ― James Joyce, Dubliners: The Dead. (Grant Richards Ltd., London June 1914)
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition. ― James Joyce, Dubliners: Eveline. (Grant Richards… Continue reading James Joyce