Let's go.

We can't.

Why not?

We're waiting for Godot.

Samuel Beckett, renowned as one of the bleakest writers, had a penchant for American film comedians. He adored the sadsack Buster Keaton. Here's a 21-minute short film, "the Goat": (Oh, come on, just take a minute to look at it!)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_6kE2JfkJ1c

And here's another short film where Keaton and Beckett collaborated! (Thanks, Ean!)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tjdXiFrlOzM

He also liked Laurel and Hardy, who I believe were a model for the hapless and lovable Didi and Gogo. Here's a 20-minute L&H film, "Helpmates" (1932) in case you're unfamiliar or doubt the connection: (See above, watch a minute, and note there's a new film based on them just released)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YPhYNOme-Y

There's also a hat exchange scene in the play that likely owes something to the famous Marx Brothers' "mirror scene". If you haven't seen it, it takes 3:21 to witness some genius old-time comedy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_fmUYyWSyE

Oh, the play? It's a classic of world literature, perhaps the text that earned Beckett the Nobel Prize in Literature. Written in 1948, three years after WWII, with bombed cities everywhere (like in Ukraine now), it features two tramps, Vladimir (Didi) and Estragon (Gogo), who mainly just sit around and wait for Godot. And talk to each other.

"They also serve who only stand and wait" (Milton)? Maybe, but in this play, it's unclear who Godot is or why they're waiting for him. Some speculate Godot is God, but Beckett denied this. The setting is spare, with a single bare tree. They mainly talk to pass the time: "Words, words, words. . ."

I like the playfulness: Yes, let’s abuse each other! Moron! Vermin! Abortion! Morpion! Sewer-rat! Curate! Cretin! Critic! Oh! He wilts, vanquished, and turns away. Well, that passed the time. It was passing, anyway. But it made it pass more quickly.

So they converse. They're friends, supporting each other in poverty and bleak circumstances. They also meet Pozzo and his slave, Lucky, showing a contrast to their relationship. It could be an allegory of choices for us. Or maybe it's a dystopian allegory, a precursor to Cormac McCarthy's "The Road".

The play is about how they got to this dystopian place, about language, and about rationality. Beckett makes fun of thinking here. But the play finally presents two possible directions for humankind: Hope or despair.

Does Beckett choose? Maybe he leaves it to us. With more fascist tendencies, climate apocalypse, and so on, we need to decide to act or just keep doing what we do in paralysis. I think he chooses hope in the image of Didi and Gogo.

All hail Bazpierce and his impeccable taste in literature. Holy motherfuck!

Waiting for Godot is a truly phenomenal play and has definitely become one of my new favourites. I'm extremely grateful that I had the good fortune to discover this play so early in life. Now, it will accompany me through the coming decades of my rather bleak existence, granting me both comfort and joy. The comfort here is in a nihilistic sense, meaning that life is ultimately futile and I should just keep waiting for my inevitable death. But still, good times.

ESTRAGON: Well, shall we go?
VLADIMIR: Yes, let's go.
(They do not move.)

Waiting for Godot is a play penned by Samuel Beckett. In it, two characters, Vladimir (Didi) and Estragon (Gogo), wait for the arrival of someone named Godot who never shows up. I mean, who would want to see a play in which nothing happens... twice? Well, me: *raises hand and jumps up and down*

Do I pretend to have grasped the full scope of this play with all of its references and hidden meanings? No. Nope. Nopity nope. But what I do know is that this play is fucking awesome, brilliant, and innovative.

In general, I would highly recommend this particular edition by Faber & Faber. It has a brilliant introduction and a useful timeline of Beckett's life. Like holy fuck, I am so interested in Beckett right now. When I saw that he was buried at the Cimitière de Montparnasse in Paris, I actually squealed and thought: "I'm coming for you, babyyyy, just you wait." Bet you can guess where you'll find me at the beginning of October. Catch me in Montparnasse, bitches, I will be crying at Beckett's grave.

It's been a long time since a play could entertain me on that level. Sure, Reza's Carnage was fucking awesome and probably comes closest in terms of the entertainment factor. But it hasn't been since I read An Ideal Husband by good ole Oscar that I felt so thoroughly entertained and educated while reading a play. What is it about the Irish and their mad playwriting skills? Ya gurl is shook!

POZZO: You are severe. (To Vladimir.) What age are you, if it's not a rude question? (Silence.) Sixty? Seventy? (To Estragon.) What age would you say he was?
ESTRAGON: Eleven.

I am crying. Didi and Gogo are my gay trash children and their relationship is one of my absolute faves. My beautiful stupid sons! I could literally listen to them talking trash for the rest of my life and it would be such a good life, man.

For real, this play is so awesome that I already want to reread it. I find it fascinating that Beckett originally wrote it in French and then only translated it a couple of years later. It kind of makes me wonder if I should seek out the French original for my reread, but then I fear that it won't be able to capture the same spirit and tone. Ahhhh. I don't know. We'll see. For now, Waiting for Godot is the best piece of trash I've read in a while. It won't be for everyone but it so is for me!

All we have to do is to take a moment for ourselves, setting aside all the things we've created to keep ourselves occupied. The people crowding around us, the overdue work, the dates to meet, the places to reach, and the days yet to come. Just make the world outside you quiet. Sit and think about all that has passed like the wind. Sit and look deep within ourselves, at our past actions, the struggles that have turned into strengths, the loves we weren't brave enough to embrace or those who left us thinking we were unworthy. The moments we cherished the most and kept replaying in our minds until memory stored them in the subconscious. The triumphs we savored, the people we wanted to be, the words we had to say, the lies we desired to tell or the truths we spoke and regretted. It's all been for nothing!

What does it mean to be in this world? To be born and follow a long-scripted routine, with only a few changes made by others? This is what we've been doing, and this is what we'll continue to do. We are the routine robots, the actors on the stage waiting for our roles from the director, and in the meantime, entertaining the audience! With our senseless chatter, plotless story, helpless hope, and too tired to move on to the next stage, waiting for the director to assign roles. This is where the actors need to sit and realize. There is no director coming, there never has been. They are alone, and the stage is theirs to perform on. All they have to do is to create roles for themselves, to accept the stage without a director, and to honor themselves as the ultimate authority.

"Waiting for Godot" can easily go from being a sublime absurdist play to a ridiculous continuation of nonsense. No matter how carefully you try to decipher the meaning between the lines, how deep you dig, and how many times you do it, it offers nothing but the words that are performed. There is no hidden meaning, and that is the beauty of the play. It leads you to no definite end because there was never a methodical beginning. What surprises me is that it is the play version of Camus's suggested ways to confront the absurdity of life in his "Myth of Sisyphus". Suicide is the first option, as the characters suggest hanging themselves while they wait for Godot to pass the time. They also tend to engage in a religious narrative, the denial of absurdity as proposed by Camus, which consequently leads to one's philosophical death. The characters also consider achieving erections, another petty way to confront the absurdity of life by simply ignoring its existence. But they never reach acceptance, as Sisyphus did. So they will always be waiting for Godot and be sad when he doesn't come.

And as for Godot, Beckett himself said, "The great success of Waiting For Godot Has arisen from a misunderstanding: critics and public alike were busy in allegorical or symbolic terms a play which strove at all costs to avoid definition" (Ben-Zvi 142). Because there has never been any Godot to wait for!

“Faith”, she said. “You must have faith in something. It is necessary.”

These are the exact words as said to me by a colleague a few days back. Faith. I smiled. I knew I couldn't go ahead and say anything which might upset her. I had seen that urgency in her eyes, with which she seemed to be guarding her words. Watching, lest, she might encounter something unpleasant.

By ‘Faith’ she definitely did mean God.

The conversation brought to my mind the question I have kept asking myself. It has been a search rather. Search for something I can believe in. Ah, yes, I do have people around, loving and caring. Family. I believe in the relationships. It is necessary. But the search, search is for something higher. Something I still can’t understand. Something I wish to put my “Faith” into, like I had before. It is perhaps a ‘wait’. I am waiting for the truth I need to see and believe.

But wait, ‘what’ truth do I need to see and believe? Wouldn't it be the truth which must better suit me? Which might go well down inside me? But what if I don’t like what I find? What will I do then?

Well, then perhaps I will keep waiting.

I am not sure whether through this play Beckett intended to illustrate religious or philosophical inference. I read somewhere that he refuted such claims. But I liked it because it resonated well with what I was pondering upon during the time I read it.

You surely send a shiver down my spine Beckett, but I love you all the more for that.

Faith is a complex and often mysterious concept. It can mean different things to different people. For some, it is a belief in a higher power, like God. For others, it could be a trust in oneself or in the goodness of humanity. In my case, I find myself in a state of searching for that which I can truly have faith in. I have my family and the relationships I cherish, but there is still something more that eludes me. I wonder if the truth I seek is one that will align with my own desires and values, or if it will be something that challenges and changes me. As I continue to wait and search, I am reminded of Beckett's work and how it has touched upon these very themes. Whether his intentions were religious or philosophical, his words have had a profound impact on me. I may not know what the future holds, but I am determined to keep looking for that which I can put my faith in.

After Kafka's "Metamorphosis", this is the second book that turns me upside down so much ⁦
⁦⁦ಠ_ಠ⁩.

This book has a unique charm that grabs my attention from the very beginning. The story unfolds in a way that keeps me on the edge of my seat, constantly eager to know what will happen next. The characters are vividly portrayed, and I can easily empathize with their emotions and experiences.

The author's writing style is also very engaging. The language is rich and descriptive, painting a detailed picture in my mind. I find myself completely immersed in the world created by the author.

Overall, this book has had a profound impact on me. It has made me think about life, relationships, and the human condition in a whole new way. I highly recommend it to anyone who is looking for a thought-provoking and engaging read.