Dreaming of me moving, season after season, towards the last, like the living, till suddenly I was here, all memory gone.
Have been enjoying this long read in 3:AM Magazine recently: Beckett the Nietzschean Hedonist. Taking my good time reading this over a few days is definitely something to look forward to, adding gusts of of gleeful provocation and somber concentration to some mid-week, workaday, spring doldrums. 3:AM Magazine pieces often have that effect on me, as a matter of fact.
Have also been dipping in and out of The Complete Short Prose for some re-reads and some new encounters. The Texts for Nothing are amazing, some of my favorite Beckett that I’ve read. Now at Lessness, from 1969, and it’s amazingly poetic, the rhythm drawing you in as the weird physiological images are whipped up in a frenzy.
And this is pretty amusing. I especially like the claim that, “If Beckett were alive today, he might insist that it’s not even a play at all. It could be a novella, or a screenplay.”