Would it disappoint you if I opined that all of Beckett's work that I have attempted to engage with (always giving up after not too long) appears to me to be irredeemable pretentious nonsense? If so, perhaps I should not opine so, but still, it is my opinion. There is, however, a market for irredeemable pretentious nonsense, so fair play to the lad. (To make matters worse I will repeat that my opinion of Jimmy Joyce's Ulysses is similar... I am, perhaps, irredeemable myself?)
I have waded though the fist few pages of Ulysses several times and on each occasion soon find myself thinking, "why on Earth would I bother to continue trying to make any sense of this tedious mess?" I suppose I just don't "get" it, but I won't be trying again, and ditto with Beckett. Apologies... I have now moaned too much.
Absolve te! ;-)