Aunque es algo habitual en este tipo de textos, no deja de ser curiosa la cantidad y variedad de interpretaciones a la que se presta la obra, solo hay que leer los comentarios de los compañeros y compañeras de goodreads, entre los que se defienden posiciones a veces radicalmente opuestas. Ahí es donde, pienso yo, radica la gran popularidad de la que goza: al igual que una imagen del test de Rorschach, la obra se metamorfosea en aquello que le importa a cada lector.

Pero, ¿cuál es la interpretación correcta? No creo que se pueda hablar en estos términos. ¿Correcta es la interpretación que coincide con el propósito del autor? Si es así, tenemos un problema. Beckett, con toda la inteligencia del mundo, nunca quiso aclarar el sentido de la obra más allá de negar a Dios como el ser que figura detrás del personaje de Godot, lo que no ha impedido nunca que infinidad de lectores sigan haciendo dicha correspondencia.

Obviamente, yo también tengo mi interpretación a esta mancha de Rorschach.

n  POZZO: Díganme el medio de ser breve y claro al mismo tiempo. Déjenme reflexionar.
ESTRAGON: Sea locuaz, así acabará antes.n

Intentaré acabar antes:

Yo no soy uno de los que ven a Dios detrás de Godot, como tampoco me encuentro entre los que piensan que el propósito de la obra sea denunciar el absurdo de la existencia humana, ni su falta de propósito, ni su vacío, ni la ausencia de salida, ni pienso, por supuesto, que la obra sea un mero absurdo sin pies ni cabeza como símbolo del sinsentido del destino humano. Mi opinión es que “Esperando a Godot” nos dice, nos grita, justo lo contrario: ACTÚA, NO ESPERES A GODOT.

La obra es absurda como absurdo ha sido, es, y seguramente será, el comportamiento del ser humano, un comportamiento que no responde a un destino sino a una ignorante elección.

n  ESTRAGÓN.- La gente es estúpida.n

La obra critica precisamente que la historia de la humanidad haya sido la historia de una espera, de una espera sin recompensa. Generación tras generación se ha procedido de la misma forma, sin aprender, sin recordar lo que se hizo ayer, donde se estuvo y, claro está, sin saber dónde se estará mañana ni lo que se hará más allá de... sí, eso precisamente, esperar a Godot. Toda la historia de la humanidad no ha sido más que un trágico círculo recorrido un millón de veces. No es, por tanto, un relato sobre el callejón sin salida que se establece entre la desesperación y el cálido refugio de los dioses, es una llamada a la acción, a volver a recuperar nuestros derechos:

n  ESTRAGON: ¿Ya no tenemos derechos?
VLADIMIR: Me harías reír, si me estuviera permitido.
ESTRAGON: ¿Los hemos perdido?
VLADIMIR: Los hemos vendido.n

Hay que rebelarse ante el poderoso, darse cuenta de que el poderoso depende absolutamente del siervo; hasta el poderoso debe despertar del sueño de sus razonamientos injusta y patéticamente justificativos.

n  POZZO: Trata de inspirarme piedad para que no me separe de él... Cree que, viéndole tan eficaz cargador, le emplearé como tal en el futuro... Cree que al verle infatigable, me arrepentiré de mi decisión. Tal es su lamentable cálculo. Como si me faltasen peones... Piensan que yo hubiera podido estar en su lugar y él en el mío. Si el azar no se hubiera opuesto. A cada cual lo suyo... en lugar de ponerle de patitas en la calle, es tal mi bondad que lo llevo al mercado de San Salvador, en donde espero sacar algo de él. Lo cierto es que a seres como éste no se les puede echar. Para hacerlo bien, sería necesario matarles.n

Los Vladimir tiene que darse cuenta de que no es cierto que lo único que se pueda hacer es ocupar la espera;

n  VLADIMIR: Con esto hemos pasado el rato
ESTRAGON: Hubiera pasado igual de todos modos.
VLADIMIR: Sí, pero menos rápido.n

los Estragón deben tener el coraje de desligarse de los Vladimir; y ambos deben de dejar de conformarse con juegos de palabras, paradojas y discusiones bizantinas que les alejen del enfrentamiento con su condición, ambos deben optar por la valentía del movimiento;

n  ESTRAGON: ¿Y qué hacemos ahora?
VLADIMIR: No sé.
ESTRAGON: Vayámonos.
VLADIMIR: No podemos.
ESTRAGON: ¿Por qué?
VLADIMIR: Esperamos a Godot.
ESTRAGON: Es cierto.n

Tampoco hay que excusarse en atávicos pecados originales.

n  ESTRAGON: Habría que volver de una vez a la naturaleza.
VLADIMIR: Lo hemos intentado.
ESTRAGON: Es cierto.
VLADIMIR: Oh, lo peor es eso, desde luego.
ESTRAGON: Entonces, ¿qué es?
VLADIMIR: Haber pensado.
ESTRAGON: Evidentemente.n

Ni en la fugacidad de la existencia.

n  POZZO: un día nacimos, un día moriremos, el mismo día, el mismo instante, ¿no le basta? Dan a luz a caballo sobre una tumba, el día brilla por un instante, y, después, de nuevo la noche. n

Ni echar la culpa a la época en la que nos ha tocado vivir, ni enredarnos con las palabras.

n  POZZO:No hablemos mal de nuestra época, no es peor que las pasadas. (Silencio) Pero tampoco hablemos bien. (Silencio) No hablemos.
ESTRAGON: Entretanto, intentemos hablar sin exaltarnos, ya que somos incapaces de callarnos.
VLADIMIR: Es cierto, somos incansables.
ESTRAGON: Es para no pensar.
VLADIMIR: Tenemos justificación.
ESTRAGON: Es para no escuchar.
VLADIMIR: Tenemos nuestras razones.
ESTRAGON: Todas las voces muertas.
VLADIMIR: Hacen ruido de alas.
(...)
VLADIMIR: No les basta haber vivido.
ESTRAGON: Necesitan hablar de ella.
VLADIMIR: No les basta con estar muertas.
ESTRAGON: No es suficiente.n

No hay que parapetarse tras una condición humana inamovible

n  VLADIMIR: No se puede hacer nada.
ESTRAGON: Es inútil esforzarse.
VLADIMIR: Uno sigue siendo lo que es.
ESTRAGON: Por mucho que se retuerza.
VLADIMIR: El fondo no cambia.
ESTRAGON: Nada que hacer. n

En definitiva:

NO PREGUNTES QUÉ PUEDE HACER GODOT POR TI; PREGÚNTATE QUÉ PUEDES HACER TÚ POR TI, POR TODOS.

One of the most entertaining and uplifting stories you will ever come across. Every time I get done with this read I feel wonderful and inspired. Why? Because Beckett sees the truth about being human: there is Nothing to be done. And laughter is such a potent weapon against despair.

تو سال جدید قرار بر این شد حتی چند خط شده درمورد هر کتابی که میخونم بنویسم به خصوص به احترام اون چند نفری که ریویوهای نپخته و درنیومده منو فالو میکنن : ) و امیدوارم مثل پست های فیس بوک وقتی بعد چند سال برمیگردم و میخونمشون حس حماقت نکنم D:
واقعیت اینه که فقط به یاد چیپس و پنیر کافه گودو رفتم سراغ این نمایشنامه ! بعد تموم کردنش کاملا پوکرفیس بودم و چون اصراری ندارم که حتما از چیزی که میخونم یا میبینم نکته خاصی دربیارم نقدها های نمایشنامه خوندم و متوجه شدم قضیه از چه قراره .
از این قسمت به بعد مطالبی که از طریق نقدها متوجه شدم :
هیچ اشاره ای به زمان و موقعیت در داستان نشده به طوریکه در ابتدای داستان من تصور میکردم شخصیت های داستان سرباز هستن .
نمایشنامه به سبک مدرن هستش که شخصیت ها به طور خلاصه این خصوصیات دارن :
قهرمان ندارد به مفهوم کلاسیک. نتیجه گیری نداریم، نتیجه باز است. با درامی به نام درام وضعیت رو به رو هستیم.
بکت از اعتیاد به بطالت صحبت میکنه و بی تفاوت بودن به گذر ساعت ها و روزها
و جزئیات جذاب دیگه ای که میتونید اینجا https://www.google.ca/amp/s/netnevesh...
بخونید .
در آخر توصیه می‌کنم ابتدا درمورد نمایشنامه بخونید و بعد سراغش برید تا بیشتر لذت ببرید .

those crazy mfs sure did wait for Gadot

Okay, I should probably actually review this, but God, I really don't want to. I really think I would hate watching this. I also feel very strongly that if I ever met Samuel Beckett in real life, I would probably want to punch him in the face. Just vibeswise. I will also mention that I don't care for nihilism.

It's not really that I didn't *get* it, per se, leaving out that Beckett did not care whether or not you got it, famously not even telling his actors what the hell he was on about. I have interpretations of this play. They don't make me like it that much more, but I have them.

From the beginning of this I thought Godot was a stand-in for God. The comparison of Estragon to Adam, the first man, and Pozzo to both Cain and Abel, violent descendants of the first, only added to my feeling of this. There is other Christ-like commentary contained in the play worth considering: Vladimir and Estragon’s interrogation of Lucky felt almost like they were assigning him the role of a sinner. Estragon saying “All my life I've compared myself to him” about Christ feels right.

But as the play carried on, I became more convinced that actually, Godot could be anyone, or anything. The point is that we are waiting for something that is not coming and will not come. We might kill ourselves tomorrow. We certainly want to. We must occupy ourselves as we wait. A deeper meaning is coming, we believe. It will not arrive.

Sort of tying into that, I was considering the commentary on whether or not the theatrical stage is real, or parallels real life, in terms of existentialism. Pozzo can’t depart from the stage midway through Act one, which struck me as commentary on the role of an actor: The actor can only leave the stage when it is convenient to the narrative, or sensical to the story. By the end of Act I, no one can leave, which adds to that commentary. A sense of at first interpollation (the role of all humanity) and then interchangeability occurs within the development of Vladimir and Estragon as characters.

I mean, that's all I really have to say. It's interesting to analyze. I guess. I would prefer to analyze something that I actually enjoy, and whose author wasn't so strangely pretentious, but that's just me.

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You spin me right round, baby
Right round like a record, baby
Right round round round

Still absurd. Quite ridiculous. Occasionally philosophical. However, since its completion, the comedy of Waiting for Godot has become commonplace. Because the humor could be said to be Three Stooges-esque at times, one could say this play was even behind the times. I say it could be said, not that I say it is.

Does Waiting for Godot deserve all the attention it has received? After all, it seems to state the meaning of life while asserting life is meaningless, and that's quite a significant statement. From the mouths of the characters Vladimir and Estragon, Beckett says that nothing in life matters. However, the characters contempt suicide, and that is the ultimate matter of life. That they then neglect to do so would indicate that they believe there to be value in life. Or is it that they are just too lazy to do even this deed, which would release they from having to do anything afterwards forever and always?

Ah, but look at me, foolishly trying to make sense of it all when, if anything is clear, that is surely not what Beckett intended.

Instead, let me explain why this received no better than a middling rating from me. It has too many Falstaffs. When everybody's a comedian real conversation turns into a comedian's lingua franca and much of the humor's basis of being funny in the first place is lost. In other words, we laugh at the absurdity of life, but if life is absurd the humor dissipates. In Waiting for Godot the humor dissipated too much for me. There, I said it.

PASSARE IL TEMPO


Il film francese di Emmanuel Courcol (2020).

L’occasione per due parole intorno al capolavoro di Samuel Beckett mi è offerta da un film francese che ho visto di recente.
Film francese (Un triomphe – The Big Hit – Un anno con Godot) che si ispira a un fatto successo in Svezia nel 1985: cinque detenuti, impegnati dal carcere come attori di teatro, approfittarono di una replica teatrale per evadere.
Fatto che aveva già ispirato un film svedese del 1999: Vägen ut – Breaking Out, del quale è possibile esista anche un remake americano.



Il film francese parte da un attore in cattive acque – l’unico lavoro che sembra avere è insegnare l’haka maori a dirigenti e impiegati di qualche azienda, scena che fa ridere ma mette anche alquanta tristezza – che accetta di sostituire un collega nell’incarico di insegnare recitazione ai detenuti.
Che sono cinque, poi diventano sei – ma uno lascia il posto a un altro.
Il nostro attore si inventa dunque regista, pur non avendolo mai fatto. Ma un po’ di esperienza l'ha messa insieme lasciandosi dirigere da altri. E forse è arrivato il momento di togliersi qualche sassolino dalla scarpa.
Capisce presto che l’occasione per fare qualcosa di diverso, di meritevole, di rimarchevole è ghiotta: e così, appena possible sostituisce il testo di studio e pratica, dalle favole di La Fontaine ad Aspettando Godot. Ottima scelta.



Certo, conoscere il testo di Beckett aiuta: perché è più facile fare il collegamento tra i vagabondi del drammaturgo irlandese (errante proprio come il suo concittadino Joyce) e i detenuti, tra l’assurdità della vita di chi aspetta Godot – che non arriva mai, ed è più che probabile che chi lo aspetta, non lo conosca affatto, questo Godot – e l’assurdità della vita carceraria, che è basata sull’attesa. Attesa quotidiana: del pasto, dell’ora d’aria, delle visite, della posta. Attesa della fine della pena, attesa della liberazione.
A ben guardare anche la ripetitività di gesti e parole della coppia di vagabondi Vladimiro ed Estragone rispecchia l’immobilità e reiterazione esasperata della vita dietro le sbarre.



Il film francese m’è parso perfetto per come rispetta i canoni del genere (o, sottogenere). Per come sa toccare la giusta corda al momento giusto. Il cast è ottimo: nessuna star, tutti azzeccati, bravi e convincenti.
Forse c’è un po’ d’accumulo, un po’ troppe vicende personali. Tutto il contrario dell’approccio scarno di Beckett, che probabilmente direbbe, Meno è meglio. Ma un palcoscenico è luogo diverso da uno schermo.
Quando raccontarono a Beckett quello che era successo in Svezia, il premio Nobel fu contento e commentò che gli sembrava un finale perfetto.


Il film svedese di Daniel Lind Lagerlöf (1999).

I had heard that this was a worthwhile thing to read during the pandemic, and indeed I found that to be true.

Waiting for Godot is something I had been meaning to read for years. I decided to finally pick it up after seeing a talk-show interview with one of my favorite actors, Ethan Hawke, who was discussing an upcoming performance of it. First, I watched a filmed version of the play that was posted online, and then I focused on the printed script. There are so many thought-provoking passages that I will include my favorites below.

The two primary characters are Estragon and Vladimir, and we meet them along a quiet road, near a lone tree:

E: We came here yesterday.
V: Ah no, there you're mistaken.
E: What did we do yesterday?
V: What did we do yesterday?
E: Yes.
V: Why... [angrily] Nothing is certain when you're about.
E: In my opinion we were here.
V: You recognize the place?
E: I didn't say that.
V: Well?
E: That makes no difference.
V: All the same ... that tree ... that bog ...
E: You're sure it was this evening?
V: What?
E: That we were to wait.
V: He said Saturday. I think.
E: You think.
V: I must have made a note of it.
E: But what Saturday? And is it Saturday? Is it not rather Sunday? Or Monday? Or Friday?
V: It's not possible!
E: Or Thursday?
V: What'll we do?
E: If he came yesterday and we weren't here you may be sure he won't come again today.
V: But you say we were here yesterday.
E: I may be mistaken.

That bit of dialogue rang so confusingly and hopelessly true it's as if Beckett had experienced a year-long pandemic lockdown of being stuck in the same place while one's faith in humanity continued to crumble around him.

Or consider this passage of existential angst:

E: [eating a carrot] Funny, the more you eat the worse it gets.
V: With me it's just the opposite.
E: In other words?
V: I get used to the muck as I go along.
E: Is that the opposite?
V: Question of temperament.
E: Of character.
V: Nothing you can do about it.
E: No use struggling.
V: One is what one is.
E: No use wriggling.
V: The essential doesn't change.
E: Nothing to be done.

The two men continue their inane-yet-philosophical chatter, but are interrupted by the arrival of two men, Pozzo and Lucky, whose dialogue can be just as inscrutable:

Pozzo: The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. Let us not speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all.

And here's another mention of time that resonated during the pandemic:

Pozzo: I must really be getting along, if I am to observe my schedule.
V: Time has stopped.
P: Don't you believe it, Sir, don't you believe it. Whatever you like, but not that.
E: (to Pozzo) Everything seems black to him today.

After Pozzo and Lucky depart, a boy comes to talk to Vladimir and Estragon, telling them that the man they are waiting for, Godot, isn't coming to meet them today:

V: What's the matter with you?
E: I'm unhappy.
V: Not really! Since when?
E: I'd forgotten.
V: Extraordinary the tricks that memory plays!

In Act II, we meet V & E the next day on the same country road, near the same tree.

V: The tree, look at the tree.
E: Was it not there yesterday?
V: Yes of course it was there. Do you not remember? We nearly hanged ourselves from it. But you wouldn't. Do you not remember?
E: You dreamt it.
V: Is it possible you've forgotten already?
E: That's the way I am. Either I forget immediately or I never forget.
V: And Pozzo and Lucky, have you forgotten them too?
E: Pozzo and Lucky?
V: He's forgotten everything!
E: I remember a lunatic who kicked the shins off me. Then he played the fool.
V: That was Lucky.
E: I remember that. But when was it?
V: And his keeper, do you not remember him?
E: He gave me a bone.
V: That was Pozzo.
E: All that was yesterday, you say?
V: Yes of course it was yesterday.
E: And here where are we now?
V: Where else do you think? Do you not recognize the place?
E: Recognize! What is there to recognize? All my lousy life I've crawled about in the mud! And you talk to me about scenery! Look at this muckheap! I've never stirred from it!

Later, Vladimir has his most rousing speech, when Lucky and Pozzo return and are in need of assistance:

V: Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! Let us do something, while we have the chance! It is not every day that we are needed. Not indeed that we personally are needed. Others would meet the case equally well, if not better. To all mankind they were addressed, those cries for help still ringing in our ears! But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us! What do you say? It is true that when with folded arms we weigh the pros and cons we are no less a credit to our species. The tiger bounds to the help of his congeners without the least reflexion, or else he slinks away into the depths of the thickets. But that is not the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come —
E: Ah!
Pozzo: Help!
V: Or for night to fall. We have kept our appointment and that's an end to that. We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?

In one of the last scenes, we learn that Lucky has lost his wits since the last time we saw him, and no longer speaks:

V: Before you go tell him to sing.
Pozzo: Who?
V: Lucky.
P: To sing?
V: Yes. Or to think. Or to recite.
P: But he is dumb.
V: Dumb!
P: Dumb. He can't even groan.
V: Dumb! Since when?
P: Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

And lastly, I liked this affecting exchange between V & E, while discussing some boots that are beside the road:

V: This is becoming really insignificant.
E: Not enough.
V: What about trying them.
E: I've tried everything.
V: No, I mean the boots.
E: Would that be a good thing?
V: It'd pass the time. I assure you, it'd be an occupation.
E: A relaxation.
V: A recreation.
E: A relaxation.
V: Try.
E: You'll help me?
V: I will of course.
E: We don't manage too badly, eh Didi, between the two of us?
V: Yes yes. Come on, we'll try the left first.
E: We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?
V: Yes yes, we're magicians. But let us persevere in what we have resolved, before we forget.

I've never seen Waiting for Godot performed live, but I'm glad I got to experience both a taped performance and also the scripted play. I did find meaning in the work, and now it will always be tied in my memory to the pandemic. Unless, of course, I forget where I am and what I'm doing. If only Vladimir were here to remind me.

WAITING FOR GODOT IN ANTARCTICA

An audience gathers to preview a screening of a new version of this Samuel Beckett play. The directed striped his rendition down to bare existential black and white by filming in Antarctica and using penguins as actors. The problem of dialogue is solved by the technique of voice-over.

In the first act, two penguins stand on bleak, snow-covered ice. There’s a close up of one penguin. The voice-over says, “Nothing to be done.”

The camera slowly scans to the other penguin who waddles next to the first. His voice-over begins, “I’m beginning to come round to that opinion.”

The play continues in this manner. Occasionally, the two penguins rock back and forth in their stark, empty white world. When in the middle of the second act, a third penguin approaches, the two penguins waddle awkwardly to an icy hill and then toboggan on their stomachs down the hill and into the water.

After a soul-searching monologue, the third penguin also toboggans down the hill into the water. At the end of the play the two original penguins rock back and forth. One penguin says, “Well, shall we go swimming again?

The other penguin replies, “Yes, let’s go.”

But the penguins do not move.

[Curtains Fall]

Stage: I lived good, within all of you. Heck! You would not even survive a second without me. Why? I even took that wretched boot and that stinky feet on my chest!

Feet: Ha.. Stinky you say! Did you ever eavesdrop into Beckett’s mind when he was scribbling? Ah, I was the one who inspired him. Not some dumbheads as they would like to believe.

Human: Come on, now! Really? Like can someone be so obnoxiously imbecile? No wonder you both have no identity without me. Subtract my dialogue and that truck-load of humor and you are like that filthy hat, empty.

Hat: Excuse me, Sir. Your decorated language overshoots its limits. I only talk to people who float at the same thought altitude as me. For all others, I am like the aeroplane, seen from the land; once into the clouds, construed as lost.

Meaning: Nothing is ever lost, except for me that is. All of you kept waiting for me, yeah, you called me some weird name… Godot, is it? Right. I agree, it’s a weird name but well, I come in all weird identities and packages.

Human: You are Godot! Drop the veil I say! I lost precious time waiting for you!

Meaning: Ah! You are indeed blind, dear Human. You wait for something that is right in front of you.

Human: What do you mean?

Meaning: Well, just what I said. I come in different avatars. And if I am not in the attire that you have chosen for me, you assume I am not in the picture at all.

Human: That is precisely the reason I hate you; you complicate simple things.

Meaning: On the contrary, I provide you a thousand things to find me in; a Friend, a Stranger, a Slave, a Hat, a Tree, A Rope, A Carrot, A Boot…the list is endless. But in your blindness, you overlook all my manifestations and hinge all your energies at a haloed nothingness.

Human: Err…. I guess …

Meaning: And the worst thing about you? Even when I broadcast to you, in the clearest terms possible, that whatever is around you, is enough to keep you sane and going, you forever look starry eyed to the other side of the sky.

[Silence. Then a blink of an eye.]

Human: I am sorry. But Tomorrow is bewitching.

Meaning: I agree, my dear. But Today is blessing.

[Curtains Rise]

| ولادیمیر: آیا خواب بودم، وقتی دیگران رنج می‌کشیدند؟ آیا الان هم خوابم؟ فردا، وقتی بیدار شدم، یا فکر کردم که شدم، در مورد امروز چی بگم؟..|

When he wrote Godot, Samuel Beckett was setting out to Flatten his self and its native habitat into a thin strip of organic material, much as a biologist would slice a strip of life paper-thin, in order to prepare a glass slide for his microscope.

Next, Beckett applied the reductionism of a modern Occam’s Razor (the KISS Principle: ‘keep it simple, stupid!’) to his belief that the universe is absurd.

Henceforth all meaning would become for him and his audience a reductio ad absurdem into sharp Meaninglessness.

Now, it’s funny - but I just realized tonight that I often take a Bachelardian turn with my reviews, and turn the irreducibly hard and fractious facts of my daily life into the soft butter of rêverie through the mediation of imagination and dreaming. That’s my Asperger’s speaking.

I was, you see, wondering how to pound the irréfragable walnut of Beckett into digestible bite-sized morsels. For Beckett - and Godot - are notoriously hard nuts to crack, even if sliced paper-thin. His iron will was irréfragable, as is mine.

So for starters, I turned to memories of James Knowlson’s authorized (Beckett himself blessed it) biography of the Grand Old Absurdist...

In it, we learn a key clue to Godot: Beckett, unlike so many of us avidly introverted readers, was a hard-edged extroverted egghead. He liked his beer blasts during his beloved boys' nights out!

Think of Bertrand Russell.

Like Beckett, he was an extroverted intellectual who worked fiendishly to forget life’s prickly pains and aporias.

Extroverts seem perhaps to have turned out that way largely in an effort to forget private painful emotions.

And Beckett, perhaps similarly to Russell, felt suffocated by the rowdily demonstrative emotions of his Irish family.

So like Stephen Dedalus, he created an escape world of pure intellect. Emotionally, he was running on empty.

Vladimir and Estragon are also running on empty.

They see life as a hopeless dead end. Their affective foils, Pozzo and Lucky, live a sadomasochistic tragicomedy that, because of its emotion, nevertheless always contains hope.

Vladimir and Estragon are extroverted intellectuals who agree with Voltaire when he said life is a comedy to those who think, but a tragedy to those who feel.

Lucky and Pozzo would only respond that life is fullness to those who feel, but emptiness to those who think.

The epochal director Werner Herzog once made a brief film about the deranged Antarctic penguins who abandon their happy friends to venture alone, deep within the subcontinent to certain death. Like Ulysses' fabled Second Voyage.

Who’s right? All depends which side of the fence you’re sitting on. I'm not an intellectual penguin either (I take my Happy Pills on schedule)!

As for me, I’m mostly a Lucky, who’s never given up on life no matter HOW much it hurts. That was the Lord’s way too.

You have to keep moving upward, He tells us. And moreover, nihilism is a sinkhole - an aporetic Slough of Despond. And Herzog and Beckett knew that, but kept travelling into the emptiness within. Are they right?

I think I’ll follow the LORD's way out of this mess, rather than indulge in Beckett’s hollow laughter, on his endless inner voyage -

ANY DAY.

Even though I share Beckett’s flattened but steely simplified self...

For that is the penultimate step before realising the End is Endless -

And eternal, insofar as we give up our unending pursuit of an ultimate impregnable position of rest.

ACT I



ACT II