On The 60^th Anniversary Year Of The First Production Of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot –Take Two

 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

 

He spoke of the existential plight, he spoke of the absurdity of modern existence, or better of its absurd moments, he spoke of running that rock up the hill Prometheus-style and having it come crashing down, he spoke of dusting off those scabbed knees and starting over, he spoke of the despair, the quiet choking despair, of modern humankind (and maybe ancient, ancient Hibernian-kind too a reflex of John Bull’s tyranny), he spoke of ashes, ashes in the mouth taking  away all good,  he spoke of struggle, struggle against the night, against the night-bringers and their hangers-on, and he spoke of tragedy, the three great tragedies of human existence -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. Spoke often of paradox, of jugglers, clowns, con men, grifters, drifters, an occasional midnight shifter (not a night-bringer), all the refuse brought by humankind building, furiously building, a thing from which they had to run, or should.    

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. Spoke of it in an exile’s exile tongue, spoke of it in some cave tongue to fend off the night-bringers, the night-bringers of his Europe, all hard and sea-sprayed. Spoke of it like a departed lover, longed for, all red passion. Yeah, but in the end, in the end that mattered, his soul spoke loud and clear that language matters.

Hats off.