
My feelings on Beckett are ambiguous, but I think the following from James Mustich's recent newsletter is worth posting:
“And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain.“
Like words that have wandered out of Shakespearean soliloquies, liberated but lost, stripped of the assurances of meter and the surety of drama, Beckett‘s phrases wander👇