Samuel Beckett
[Writer, b. 1906, Foxrock, Dublin, Ireland, d. 1989, Paris.]

 I still smile it’s not worth the trouble any more
for a long time now it’s not been worth the trouble
the tongue spring goes into the mud I stay like
this not thirsty any more the tongue goes back into
the mouth it closes it has to make a straight line
now it’s done I’ve made the image. 
 I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father’s face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?