En attendant Godot

I had long heard that this was a worthwhile thing to read during the pandemic, and truly, I found that to be the case.

Waiting for Godot had been on my reading list for years. After seeing a talk-show interview with my favorite actor, Ethan Hawke, discussing an upcoming performance of it, I finally decided to pick it up. First, I watched a filmed version of the play online, and then I delved into the printed script. There are numerous thought-provoking passages, and I'll include some of my favorites below.

The two main characters, Estragon and Vladimir, are introduced along a quiet road, near a solitary tree. Their initial dialogue is both confusing and hopelessly true, as if Beckett had lived through a year-long pandemic lockdown,被困在同一个地方，而对人性的信念在身边逐渐崩塌。

The play is filled with such existential angst. For example, when Estragon remarks that the more he eats, the worse it gets, and Vladimir responds that he gets used to the muck as he goes along. Their inane-yet-philosophical chatter continues until they are interrupted by the arrival of Pozzo and Lucky, whose dialogue can be equally inscrutable.

The theme of time also resonates strongly during the pandemic. Pozzo's comment that the tears of the world are a constant quantity and that time has not stopped, despite Vladimir's claim to the contrary, highlights the sense of timelessness and uncertainty that many people felt during the lockdown.

In Act II, we find V & E on the same country road the next day, near the same tree. Their confusion and forgetfulness persist, and their dialogue once again touches on themes of existence, identity, and the meaning of life.

Later in the play, Vladimir has a rousing speech when Lucky and Pozzo return and need assistance. He urges them to make the most of the moment and to represent their species worthily. This speech can be seen as a call to action, a reminder that even in the midst of chaos and uncertainty, we have the power to make a difference.

In one of the final scenes, we learn that Lucky has lost his wits and can no longer speak. This further emphasizes the theme of the transience of life and the inevitability of change.

Overall, I'm glad I got to experience both the taped performance and the scripted play. I found meaning in the work, and it will always be tied to my memory of the pandemic. Unless, of course, I forget where I am and what I'm doing. If only Vladimir were here to remind me.

Repetition, repetition, repetition.

Repetition is the most special part of this show.

Capturing two people on a carousel and, more importantly, the anticipation!!!

Anticipation!!!

If you have studied in Iran, surely among the textbooks, we have read a lot about anticipation... Anticipation of a bright future, a more beautiful person, the appearance of a human who is more capable than us!

In my opinion, anticipation is one of the parts of human existence!

No one is completely happy and all of us have experienced pain and hardship one day, and the hope for more beautiful people (who mostly haven't come) has made it possible for us to endure the pain and suffering of those days; the more beautiful the future we imagine is, the more we can endure the hardships in proportion, and what future is more beautiful than the arrival of Godot...

However, the translation.

This was the first time I read a translation by Asghar Rastegar (published by Negah), and I didn't like it at all. I didn't read the original version of the book to be able to compare, but while reading, I felt that it had become overly Persianized, there were a lot of Persian terms, and even a part was written as "why do you get acquainted", which made me not have a good feeling about the translation! And I feel that it didn't convey the style and only conveyed the meaning...

Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot is indeed a remarkable work that he aptly described as "a tragi-comedy in two acts".

This play is a prime example of the "Theatre of the Absurd" as it lacks the typical elements of a traditional play such as a clear plot, plausible situations, and easily comprehensible dialogue. Beckett's intention was to effectively convey the vision of absurdity, and he firmly adhered to this principle. By bombarding the audience with perplexing actions and seemingly meaningless dialogues, he aimed to give them a taste of the absurd nature of life.

Despite its short length, Waiting for Godot is thematically complex. Themes such as the search for the meaning of life, the identity of self, appearance, and reality are intertwined, all falling under the umbrella of the human condition. The play serves as a powerful exposition of the true situation of human life on earth, filled with meaningless absurdities and suffering, yet often presented with a touch of dark humour through the few characters Beckett creates.

The central premise of the play, the waiting of Vladimir and Estragon for the never-appearing Godot, is a poignant reflection of how we live our lives. We too often wait for uncertainties with hope, not really sure if what we are waiting for will ever come.

My initial attempts to engage with the play were not easy. The audiobook didn't work for me as the dialogues went over my head. Reading the ebook helped me to understand the play to some extent, but I still didn't fully connect with it. It was only after reflecting on my expectations of a traditional play with a linear plot and meaningful dialogue, which are absent in Waiting for Godot, that I was able to reread and fully appreciate the play after three consecutive reads (including the audio listen).

Waiting for Godot is widely regarded as a revolutionary play that had a profound impact on twentieth-century theatre. Whether or not it truly revolutionised theatre to the extent claimed, there is no doubt that Beckett pioneered a new and unique style of addressing the true nature of life through his work.

For more of my reviews, visit http://piyangiejay.com/

The Final ACT

A different country road stretches out before us. Standing tall beside it is a magnificent banyan tree. It is evening, and the soft glow of the setting sun bathes the scene in a warm hue. In the distance, a cow's mooing can be heard, adding a touch of rural charm to the atmosphere.

Estragon is sitting under the tree, cross-legged, in a dhyana pose, with his eyes closed. He seems lost in thought, perhaps waiting for something or someone. Enter Vladimir from stage right.

Vladimir: Good evening, Gogo.
Estragon: (opening his eyes) Good evening, Didi.
Vladimir: So here we are again, what?
Estragon: Yes.
Vladimir: Waiting for Godot again? After these... (closes his eyes in concentration) seventy-odd years, he still has not come?
Estragon: No. (Pause) Let's go.
Vladimir: No, let's wait.

Just then, Pozzo enters from stage right, wearing khaki shorts and carrying a lathi. He has Lucky on a leash, but this time, Lucky is carrying a TV camera and a microphone instead of his usual bags and stool.

Vladimir: Here's our old friend Pozzo. (To Pozzo) Good evening, sir!
Estragon: Who? I don't remember.
Vladimir: Don't you remember? It's our old friend Pozzo and his pig, Lucky.
Pozzo: Sorry! In these seventy years, I had a name change. I am called Vikas Purush. And this is not my pig, Lucky, but my dog, Doorknob.
Vladimir: (goes and inspects Lucky) Looks like your pig Lucky.
Pozzo: Ah, but looks can be deceiving! He's my dog, and he does a good job of guarding. Just try approaching him.
Vladimir: (to Estragon) Go to him, Gogo.
Estragon: Not on your life! Last time he kicked me! What if he bites?
Pozzo: Oh, no worries! He only barks. Just go and try to get the mic from him.

Vladimir, unable to persuade Estragon, himself goes and tries to grab the mic. Lucky/Doorknob immediately jerks into action.

Doorknob: (at the top of his voice) The nation wants to know! The nation wants to know! The nation wants to know! (Vladimir jumps back in fright)
Pozzo: See? What a fine job he does of guarding? Now he will stop only if I tell him to. (To Doorknob) Quiet, Dog! (He goes quiet)
Vladimir: Pozzo, is Godot coming?
Pozzo: Godot is not coming. But don't worry. Someone bigger is!
Estragon: Who is it?
Pozzo: He is named Vikas! Once he comes, everything will be fine, I assure you! He has been on the way since 2014! In fact, he is right behind me!

Pozzo and Doorknob exit. After a while, a figure in black enters from the right.

Vladimir and Estragon: (rushing to him, together) Vikas?
Stranger: No. Vikas will not come today. In fact, he won't be coming - so he sent me.
Vladimir and Estragon: Who are you, then?
Stranger: I am named Corona. You can call me Covid.

The curtain falls, leaving the audience with a sense of mystery and anticipation. What will happen next? Will Vikas ever come? And what does the arrival of Corona/Covid mean for Vladimir and Estragon? Only time will tell.

Nothing Happening Here

There is absolutely nothing happening in this book. As a result, I made the decision to utilize this space in an attempt to figure out how to operate this new Kindle dictation gizmo. However, I am having great difficulty getting it to create a new paragraph. There must be some sort of magic word that I'm not aware of. When I say, "new paragraph," the Kindle simply writes "new paragraph" as text. The same thing occurs when I say, "new line." It's extremely frustrating. Let's see what happens when I say, "new line." Oh, look, it writes: "new line." You see, it's just crazy. There's truly nothing happening. I think I'll give Kindle a call. I just did, and they haven't quite figured that out yet. So, I guess I have to resort to using the return key.

So, now what? Well, I'll use this space to share with you a story that I wrote in high school, specifically during my freshman year with Mr. Stephanovich. I believe that's how you spell his name. Anyway, after class one day, he assigned us to write a story. He said we could write about anything, as long as it was only one page. So, I went home and this is more or less what I wrote. I can't really recall it precisely since it's been approximately 64 years. Here it goes, maybe: "I am sitting in my room on my bed, with a pencil in hand and a piece of paper. Mr. Stephanovich wants me to write a story on one page of paper, but I simply cannot think of anything to write about. My mind is completely blank because nothing is happening in my life. So, I just sit here and think and think. Still, nothing comes to me. My mom eventually comes to my door and asks, 'What are you doing?' 'Nothing, Mom. I'm trying to write a paper, a story, but I can't think of anything to write about.' Satisfied with my answer, she walks away. Now I'm stuck again. I turn on my radio in the hopes of finding some inspiration, but there's nothing good playing, just nothing. So, I end up writing about nothing."

The sad aspect of this whole thing is that I no longer know how to write like a kid. I only remember that my mom said those things. I handed in my paper, and the teacher read it aloud to the class. Then, he asked if he could keep it. I really wish I had made a copy of it first. Now, it's lost forever, unless his family happened to keep everything in a box after he passed away. But still, it feels like it's truly lost.

A nice homage would be to write nothing.

That is what I wrote this afternoon. Before that, a friend told me to write something. He was so sure that I could. I am never sure about what I can or cannot do. But he thought so. That was nice.

Nothing much happened after that, until another kind friend paid this review a visit and said "to wait". And "if he does not show up tomorrow...". Well, what is to be done then? There are messengers that assured me he would come. I will keep waiting. Contemplating the same places, the same scenarios, over and over, until I can predict the entire world. \n  Never neglect the little things of life.\n

And then I think. And then, some more. Do I really want to keep waiting? I wonder if I even have that choice.

Then, a beautiful woman with a quick mind that could leave you staring at your shoes, utterly perplexed, came along. She told me that I comprehended an author with finesse. I thanked her, of course. But... did I? In the middle of this constant—and often tiresome—analysis that I cannot escape from, can I even begin to grasp the concept of anything at all?

There is meaning, somewhere. But I fear it will keep evading our presence until... Ah. Choose the metaphor you like. \n  This is getting alarming.\n

A couple of minutes later, another lovely woman said that this was clever. I am not sure of that since I believe Goodreads would delete this in a heartbeat. But, oh well. \n  Nothing to be done.\n

The second I finished writing this, a third woman, equally stunning and of enviable wits, appeared. This good friend that I so admire, asked me something like "Can we keep waiting even when he makes an appearance?" And that made me ponder. Are we prepared for such a visit? Us, simple mortals, are we ready to face that kind of revelation? We are still waiting by that tree. Still complaining about so much waiting. But I wouldn't know what to do if... \n  I may be mistaken\n, though. I have the feeling I thought about this yesterday. Not sure what day is today but I definitely thought about this... yesterday. God. \n  Either I forget immediately or I never forget.\n

I was about to leave when another kind man approached and left a lovely comment about the quality of this review. I often disagree but that is how my head functions. And it is always nice to read that, so I thanked him. \n  It's the normal thing.\n

After some time—do not know how much time since I can never measure it—another friend stopped by. He was asking when to read a certain book. He was not waiting for Godot, he was waiting for the right time. Oh. That might just be him...

No. Ah, yes. Time. That unforgiving time that refuses to stop. Time flows, always. Always the minutes. Always the decades. Even if we remain in the same place, with the same glance, the same companionship: ourselves. I would like that friend to read this book as soon as possible. But I do not own the proper words to convince him. Hell, I do not own any word. They own me; a powerless captive. So, I think, I believe, I cannot say much.
\n  We wait... A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come, let's go to work! In an instant all will vanish and we'll be alone once more, in the midst of nothingness!\n

Or worse, we won't be here at all.
\n  ...you have to decide\n, my friend.

Later, another friend came along and said that this review was his favorite of the year so far. And I thought that was a lovely compliment. The problem is that I kept thinking. And analyzing. And in further reflection I said to myself, “okay, I know I cannot measure time, I know that I am not sure if I am still living a yesterday or I am already living my tomorrow because this permanent sense of ennui that fills each day makes me forget everything, but I am aware that the year has just started.” And here we are, standing on this immense world with a myriad of possibilities and its inexorable absurdity haunting us everyday—an absurdity that allows anything to happen—so the fact that this review full of nonsense is someone's favorite of the year that has just begun, made me think. A better one might be written tomorrow. Or in a minute. And then, that's it. Ah. Stop thinking. \n  All I know is that the hours are long, under these conditions.\n... \n  Let us not waste our time in idle discourse!\n I will make sure to say this as soon as I see this friend. Because days will pass and time will pass and things must be said.

\n  ...the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.\n But that endless process does not apply to our ephemeral nature.

"Lovely musings", another friend wrote a couple of minutes ago. But when you think about it, there's nothing much to do, really. We are always looking for something new. Something else. Nothing much for me to find. \n  It'd pass the time\n, they say. I haven't met anyone yet with the ability of breaking that vicious circle. We are here to spend time... And watch the sky as it changes its colors. A constant feeling of \n  another day done with\n. We want to move, we say we'll go, we stay right here, like a not so lucky man with a rope around his neck.

Honestly. \n  One is not master of one's mood.\n

As I was about to conclude with this illogical ode to the absurd, this dull melody that echoes the unpredictable nature of things and the tiresome search for what we are not meant to know, two more friends came along. The first one claimed to have seen him, the reason of it all. Apparently, he was trying to remember something. And at a cafe, no less! Whereas some of us are part of this useless but inevitable seek of meaning in life, trying to fill the gaps with something that might embody some source of comfort rather than simply embrace such absurdity of existence, hope for nothing and achieve a sense of freedom—if not freedom itself—Godot is passing the time at a cafe, completely unaware of our existence and our strong desire to meet him, as we see our days go by. Days that no longer perceive a different color. \n  ...habit is a great deadener.\n

The last friend recommended me to watch the play that introduced me to these people that were waiting for Godot. And then mentioned another one. I cannot think of a better ending to this preposterous review. To postpone for a while this awfully exhausting search for meaning and enjoy another play that will probably make me think of that search almost immediately.

Human nature, my friend.

To be continued.
If you write.

Jan 12, 16

* Also on my blog.

It seems that in certain aspects, we are all 'waiting for Godot'. This is at least the theme that emerges from Samuel Beckett's renowned two-act play. The brilliance of this play lies in the fact that it was written as a departure from the prose Beckett was working on at the time. To be able to pen a play regarded as one of the greatest of the 20th century while simultaneously engaged in a longer work is truly a remarkable feat.

The play itself is minimalist and absurd to varying degrees. It follows two main characters, Vladimir and Estragon, as they wait by a tree for a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Godot. As they wait, the men discuss various philosophical, ethical, and moral dilemmas. They bicker, fight, and behave much like close friends do. Into the scene enter Pozzo and Lucky, a master-slave duo who interact with Vladimir and Estragon. It appears that Pozzo is on his way to sell Lucky, but nothing is entirely clear in Beckett's play. In fact, part of Beckett's masterful delivery is the ambiguity that shrouds the play, leaving the audience uncertain about its exact purpose. Indeed, what one can glean from the play depends on the particular analysis one adopts and the general sense one derives from it. Nothing is straightforward in Beckett's play's setting.
There is much speculation about the fact that the title of Beckett's play reminds one of 'waiting for God'. This interpretation has gained significant traction in mass analysis. However, Beckett himself indicated that if he had meant God, he would have said God, not Godot. It seems that the idea of 'death of the author' criticism has overshadowed anything Beckett himself might have said about the play. I, for one, am inclined to believe Beckett, as he first wrote the play in French, and from all accounts, the word 'Godot' has more in common with a particular word for a boot. This interpretation naturally adds to the absurdist nature of the play. At the same time, 'Waiting for a Boot' would be a highly fitting title, as both characters in the play seem to need a figurative kick to move them from the gloomy depression in which they live their lives.
All this being said, it seems difficult to completely divorce 'Waiting for Godot' from Christianity. Many religious references exist in the play, and Beckett was, by all accounts, a man well-versed in scripture. If this is not a play about waiting upon God, it is certainly a play that questions the role of God in a modern world and what mankind's role is. The underlying assertion appears to be that man is meant to be an active participant in the world, rather than someone who simply waits and hopes for things to improve.
Vladimir's words, "Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, with his carrier, and that he spoke to us? Probably, but in all that what truth will there be?" highlight the sense of self-reflection and uncertainty in the play.
In conclusion, Beckett's 'Waiting for Godot' is a complex and multi-faceted play that invites various interpretations. It can be seen as a modernist work that explores themes of individuality, narcissism, and the human condition. It also raises questions about the role of God and man's place in the world. Whether one views it as a profound philosophical exploration or an absurd and crazy play, it无疑 leaves a lasting impression on its readers and viewers.

Time passes by while waiting for what doesn't come.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. The anticipation lingers, but the expected never materializes.

The world around continues to move forward, yet one remains stuck in this state of waiting.

Every passing moment seems to taunt with the false hope that maybe, just maybe, this will be the time when it arrives.

But as the seasons change and the years go by, it becomes clear that the wait may be in vain.

Still, one holds on, unable to let go of the possibility that what is being awaited might still come.

The passage of time is a cruel reminder of the uncertainty and the unfulfilled longing.

Yet, in the face of it all, the wait persists, a silent vigil in the hope that one day, the wait will finally be over.