Tuesday, April 13, 2010

[...] full of nuts [...]

Part two


  1. Oooh something to enjoy at my leisure.. Excellent!

  2. Hahaha! He was mad, y'know! But smart enough not to go to the Nobel Prize Ceremony.

  3. Jams,

    well, one might say strange he was, but mad?

  4. From Waiting for Godot: "We all are born mad. Some remain so."

  5. Claudia,
    The more I am sure you will agree that someone putting such words into a protagonist's mouth, hardly's a mad man.

  6. As we often do, in our (so-called fiction) writing, I believe that Beckett, very often, in the mouth of his protagonists, described himself to a tee. The poor man....

    As he said: "Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness."

  7. Claudia,
    I have written and am writing similar sentences, myself, and ... I'd not for a second think I am a poor man.

  8. If you think that life is a disease, you're a poor man, Sean. It's hard, it's tough, more on some than others. It's a challenge but I would never think:

    Sleep till death
    come ease
    this life disease.

    unless I would be sick in my mind, or in my body.

    I never said, once, he wasn't a good writer. For a man who didn't value words, he sure wrote a great numbers of them!!!! He was also a generous man. Giving the Nobel Prize money to poor writers. But he was the gloomiest, unpassionate fellow I ever read in my 20s. I pitied his wife...

  9. The word which dominates his writing is nullity.

    That's why I tell him: Buzz off, Sammy! Fous le camp, Sammy!

  10. Nullity and Nothingness. Which translated in: Empty world worth nothing. If he would have said it only once, I would forgive him. But he repeated it ad infinitum. It gave him fame and money. Allow me to say that he knew that!

  11. Claudia,
    You do not see me not amused, at all.
    I am delighted. So you do know who values words, and who doesn't? Congratulations!

  12. Thank you, dear Sean. So good to be appreciated. You make me feel alive. When I listen to Beckett, I feel I was dying when I was born.

    Birth is the death of him. (Monologues)