her disorientation. That probably explains how she became so addled as to ask the moon out in the first place.)
The moon eventually noticed that there was a Coleman lantern it hadn’t noticed before, so the girl quickly transformed herself into a hare, a broomstick, the shingles on the gardening shed, and even a set of second-mortgage papers, but the moon knew enough, if not to see through each successive disguise,to realize it was getting the runaround. Its love turned suddenly to hate; these things happen even in astronomical circles, and it swore it would kill her when she stopped transforming. At this point her parents asked it to leave, and as it ascended into the sky, it vowed it would never return, and it never has.
At hearing his vow, the girl turned back into herself and ran out onto the lawn to taunt the moon as it receded, an unnecessarily cruel fillip, but she was willful and that is what happened.
After his stinging rejection, from that day to this, the moon has had phases, and you certainly must be able to sympathize with that.
THE ART OF FICTITIOUSNESS
AN INTERVIEW WITH SAMUEL BECKETT
Samuel Beckett, born in Dublin in 1906 and a resident of Paris since 1937, is the author of the trilogy of novels
Molloy, Malone Meurt,
and
L’Innomable,
and the plays
En Attendant Godot, Fin de Partie (Endgame), Happy Days
(not the television series), and numerous others. The one you’ve read
, Waiting for Godot,
was staged in America with Bert Lahr, who played the Cowardly Lion in
The Wizard of Oz.
It must be said that Beckett looks all of his eighty years, and during our interview progressed from a kind of charged, essential silence into a state of sullen resentfulness, and finally, of despair. He wore a worn dressing gown throughout our conversation at his Paris flat, although on several occasions he did attempt to get dressed. There were no refreshments served, not even coffee.
Beckett:
Qui est là?
Interviewer: Candygram!
Beckett:
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
Interviewer: You don’t have to speak in French, Mr. Beckett. I’m an American.
Beckett: I didn’t order any candy.
Interviewer: And you aren’t getting any. Excuse me, it was drafty out in the corridor. Shall we sit down?
Beckett: I don’t understand.
Interviewer: SHALL I SPEAK MORE LOUDLY?
Beckett: I don’t understand what you’re doing here.
Interviewer: I’d say I’m a fan of your writing, but given its blasted-beyond-frippery starkness, that would be fatuous. I’d say I was a devotee except that sounds like I’d commit murder if you asked me to. Speaking of stark, this isn’t the most upholstered chair I ever sat in.
Beckett: I’m very tired, and I’m not feeling well.
Interviewer: May I observe something? You sound like one of your characters.
Beckett: I will not be interviewed against my will.
Interviewer: You’re crusty, Mr. Beckett, you’re a regular character. I’m Irish, too, you know. Well, Irish American. Anyway, my dad’s dad was Irish. Mymother’s family came from Yugoslavia. With my red hair everyone thinks I’m Irish, though, even though in the summer it’s more blond. Once this bum on the street who was drunk called me a Nazi rat. In a way it’s not a compliment but I figured he thought I was blond.
Beckett: This cannot continue.
Interviewer: See, there you go again! It sounds like something out of that play where they’re buried up to their necks in—wait a second, I guess it’s just one woman. There’s one with urns where they’re stuck in urns and they do the whole play twice and you mention Lipton tea, I figure you get a big kickback from Lipton every time they do that one, huh? I’m a playwright, too, I get obscure prizes too, and like you, I’m too far out for Broadway or movie deals. I had one play that was optioned for the movies but you can imagine how that turned out. You know all about mortal misery, huh?
Beckett: I’m discovering more all the time.
Interviewer: See, you’re worried
The moon eventually noticed that there was a Coleman lantern it hadn’t noticed before, so the girl quickly transformed herself into a hare, a broomstick, the shingles on the gardening shed, and even a set of second-mortgage papers, but the moon knew enough, if not to see through each successive disguise,to realize it was getting the runaround. Its love turned suddenly to hate; these things happen even in astronomical circles, and it swore it would kill her when she stopped transforming. At this point her parents asked it to leave, and as it ascended into the sky, it vowed it would never return, and it never has.
At hearing his vow, the girl turned back into herself and ran out onto the lawn to taunt the moon as it receded, an unnecessarily cruel fillip, but she was willful and that is what happened.
After his stinging rejection, from that day to this, the moon has had phases, and you certainly must be able to sympathize with that.
THE ART OF FICTITIOUSNESS
AN INTERVIEW WITH SAMUEL BECKETT
Samuel Beckett, born in Dublin in 1906 and a resident of Paris since 1937, is the author of the trilogy of novels
Molloy, Malone Meurt,
and
L’Innomable,
and the plays
En Attendant Godot, Fin de Partie (Endgame), Happy Days
(not the television series), and numerous others. The one you’ve read
, Waiting for Godot,
was staged in America with Bert Lahr, who played the Cowardly Lion in
The Wizard of Oz.
It must be said that Beckett looks all of his eighty years, and during our interview progressed from a kind of charged, essential silence into a state of sullen resentfulness, and finally, of despair. He wore a worn dressing gown throughout our conversation at his Paris flat, although on several occasions he did attempt to get dressed. There were no refreshments served, not even coffee.
Beckett:
Qui est là?
Interviewer: Candygram!
Beckett:
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
Interviewer: You don’t have to speak in French, Mr. Beckett. I’m an American.
Beckett: I didn’t order any candy.
Interviewer: And you aren’t getting any. Excuse me, it was drafty out in the corridor. Shall we sit down?
Beckett: I don’t understand.
Interviewer: SHALL I SPEAK MORE LOUDLY?
Beckett: I don’t understand what you’re doing here.
Interviewer: I’d say I’m a fan of your writing, but given its blasted-beyond-frippery starkness, that would be fatuous. I’d say I was a devotee except that sounds like I’d commit murder if you asked me to. Speaking of stark, this isn’t the most upholstered chair I ever sat in.
Beckett: I’m very tired, and I’m not feeling well.
Interviewer: May I observe something? You sound like one of your characters.
Beckett: I will not be interviewed against my will.
Interviewer: You’re crusty, Mr. Beckett, you’re a regular character. I’m Irish, too, you know. Well, Irish American. Anyway, my dad’s dad was Irish. Mymother’s family came from Yugoslavia. With my red hair everyone thinks I’m Irish, though, even though in the summer it’s more blond. Once this bum on the street who was drunk called me a Nazi rat. In a way it’s not a compliment but I figured he thought I was blond.
Beckett: This cannot continue.
Interviewer: See, there you go again! It sounds like something out of that play where they’re buried up to their necks in—wait a second, I guess it’s just one woman. There’s one with urns where they’re stuck in urns and they do the whole play twice and you mention Lipton tea, I figure you get a big kickback from Lipton every time they do that one, huh? I’m a playwright, too, I get obscure prizes too, and like you, I’m too far out for Broadway or movie deals. I had one play that was optioned for the movies but you can imagine how that turned out. You know all about mortal misery, huh?
Beckett: I’m discovering more all the time.
Interviewer: See, you’re worried
Similar Books
