What a visage: like a tor you’ve spent ages attempting to scale. What writing: past, present and an elusive future. Samuel Beckett would have been 120 today- imagine.
His detractors thought him morbid, or impenetrable. They’re wrong on the latter. He’s touching, hilarious, tender, raw. Even his pauses have eloquence; his silences, poetry. Who else could have audiences howling with laughter at the unseen uncorking of a bottle.
He spoke the truth, regardless of how uncomfortable. To me, he was an archaeological digger of the human psyche, and that’s why I love him. Happy birthday you absolute genius.
“You must go on.
I can’t go on.
I’ll go on.”
Hit The North 