On The 60^thAnniversary Year Of The First Production Of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

He spoke of the existential plight, he spoke of the absurdity of modern existence, he spoke of running that rock up the hill and having it come crashing down, he spoke of dusting off those scabbed knees and starting over, he spoke of the despair of modern humankind (and maybe ancient, ancient Hibernian-kind too), he spoke of struggle, struggle against the night, against the night-bringers, he spoke of tragedy, the tragedies of hunger, sex and death. He spoke too of whimsy, of foolery, of comedy (in the theatrical sense), of lusts and laughs, of stagecraft and mirror tricks, of symmetry, and symmetrical lives. Mostly though he spoke of language, the curl of it, the rough of it, the perfidiousness of it, the sway of it, the airlessness of it, the sparseness of it, the vanity of it, and the preciousness of it. And in the end that language matters. Hats off.