grist

 

Friday, July 26, 2002
I'll be able to go on, no, I'll be able to stop, or start, another guzzle of lies but piping hot, it will last my time, it will be my time and place, my voice and silence, a voice of silence, the voice of my silence. It's with such prospects they exhort you to have patience, whereas you are patient, and calm, somehow, somewhere calm, what calm here, ah, that's an idea, say how calm it is here, and how fine I feel, and how silent I am, I'll start right away, I'll say what calm and silence, which nothing has ever broken, nothing will ever break, which saying I don't break, or saying I'll be saying, yes, I'll say all of that tomorrow, yes tomorrow evening, some other evening, not this evening, this evening it's too late, too late to get things right, I'll go to sleep, so that I may say, hear myself say, a little later, I've slept, he's slept, be he won't have slept, or else he's sleeping now, he'll have done nothing, nothing but go on, doing what, doing what he does, that is to say, I don't know, giving up, that's it, I'll have gone on giving up, having had nothing, not being there.

This from Beckett's Texts for Nothing, and is a dizzying circularity of the persistence of energy and hope and the persistent lack of courage and imagination that spirals down for every writer, straining after a fit subject, playing with voice, and then instantly doubting and casting away until he imagines himself out of existence entirely. The lack of progress and the collapse after collapse are bleak, but the energy rising again and again in waves, the persistent hopefulness, and sharpness of the rhythm keep this in balance, show its struggle, and is evidence in itself that refutes what the narrator is saying.



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