First Love with Beckett

Two of the greatest writers in the world, both Irish, had to leave this isle of ours to write in some peace, their genius given air to breathe, censorship and small mindedness left behind, as in Matthew 13:57, "Only in his hometown and in his own house is a prophet without honour". Appreciation for Beckett and Joyce spread until it reached all round the world, finding its way home, eventually, that we may claim them as our own, now, even as we ignored them then. I cannot assert to have attempted the Herculean task of all that is Ulysses but having dipped my toe into Beckett’s prose I folded down his novellas with a sigh and slight shortness of breath, this master of the comma left nothing to chance, swept away all peripheral nonsense, flaunted a writerly arabesque of strength and balance as he determined each inflection with ease, a fluid languid march towards the inevitable, eventual, ineluctable, assured and certain full stop.

I was surprised to find First Love and Other Novellas by Samuel Beckett so readable. I did have to concentrate, mind you, full attention to every word but it was definitely worth it. His style of writing must have burst onto the literary world like a breath of fresh air. He didn’t clutter the page with all kinds of punctuation but seemed to find the comma and the full stop more than enough for expressing himself. I came across a single exclamation mark that stood out like an astonished soldier standing to attention!

I thought, mistakenly, that Beckett would be so abstruse, too full of otherness that would leave me cold, out of the loop, floundering in ignorance, but found instead a charm of mighty proportions, a secret waiting to be discovered, not to be denied me or anyone with two good eyes, curiosity, pleasure, drama in the everydayness waiting for the hand of Sam, Sam I Am, Samuel, name of God or God has heard, indeed apt for such a man who waited, for Godot, but not for long, nor I.