“It is rare for a capitol to be without a zoo.” *

I thought I’d kicked Beckett, I really did, but here I am reading him again. Beckett puts things together that otherwise wouldn’t be put together. He’s the best baggy pants writer in the world

Reading Beckett—is it a male thing? I mean by that the voice, a tussle between what is said and who is saying it, always the writer himself making his one identity into many. The sound of it comes from someplace deep in the ribcage, non-platitudinous, the sound itself making a kind of rough exit in which the King and the Clown have non-linear dialogs that go on for hours. And then after it’s all said and done they sit down to a banquet, eating their wine and drinking their cheese.

Beckett varies from pretty good to very good and then slides backwards to lousy, pitiful, disgusting, like hearing someone else in the house at 2 am when you thought you were alone, someone other than you who’s gotten up to gargle or cough or sneeze.

*”Texts for Nothing”, Samuel Beckett, p. 17.