Avant-garde · Classic · Drama · Dramaturgy · Excerpt · Fiction · French Culture · French Literature · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Paraphrase · Passage · Play · Postmodernism · Quote · Stream of Consciousness · Theatre · Theatre of the Absurd

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.

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Avant-garde · Classic · Drama · Dramaturgy · Excerpt · Fiction · French Culture · French Literature · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Paraphrase · Passage · Play · Postmodernism · Stream of Consciousness · Theatre · Theatre of the Absurd

Samuel Beckett

Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go. ― 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.

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Avant-garde · Classic · Drama · Dramaturgy · Excerpt · Fiction · French Culture · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Paraphrase · Passage · Play · Postmodernism · Quote · Stream of Consciousness · Theatre · Theatre of the Absurd

Samuel Beckett

There’s no lack of void. — 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.

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Avant-garde · Classic · Excerpt · Fiction · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Stream of Consciousness · Theatre of the Absurd · Trilogy

Samuel Becket

Weary with my weariness, white last moon, sole regret, not even. To be dead, before her, on her, with her, and turn, dead on dead, about poor mankind, and never have to die anymore, from among the living. Not even, not even that. My moon was here below, far below, the little I was able… Continue reading Samuel Becket

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Avant-garde · Classic · Excerpt · Fiction · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Novel · Passage · Stream of Consciousness · Theatre of the Absurd · Trilogy

Samuel Beckett

I’m all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, and nothing else, yes, something else, that… Continue reading Samuel Beckett

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