Samuel Beckett: Millennium Poet Laureate
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By ROBERT BRUSTEIN
Samuel Beckett would have turned 100 this year, but in a sense he was
always 100. One is almost tempted to say he was always 1,000. Although he
died 11 years short of the year 2000, no writer better deserves the title
Millennium Poet Laureate. From a man obsessed with endings, not
beginnings, with the old age of the world rather than its regeneration,
his writing reverberates with overtones of fatigue, apocalypse,
exhaustion, and decrepitude from the start. Beckett's earliest literary
work, Whoroscope, a 98-line poem with 17 footnotes, featured an
aging René Descartes, waiting for his breakfast, reflecting on the passage
of time and the approach of death. Beckett wrote this when he was 24.
Barely into his 40s, he was already depicting himself as the worn-out,
destitute Molloy and the even more feeble Malone, confined to his bed in
what may very well be a nursing home. In Axel's Castle (C.
Scribner's Sons, 1931), Edmund Wilson rebuked T.S. Eliot for prematurely
representing himself, at the age of 40, as an "aged eagle" too feeble to
spread his wings. Imagine what he would have said about Beckett at the age
of 24.
It is obvious why Beckett chose Eliot (along with Joyce and Proust) as
one of his earliest literary models. They are the wasteland prophets of
the Western world. At the age of 76, Beckett was still sounding like an
aged eagle, and — with his tufted white crest, his penetrating gaze,
and his prominent beak — even beginning to look like one. In an
interview included in George Plimpton's Playwrights at Work (Modern
Library, 2000), Beckett mused: "With diminished concentration, loss of
memory, obscured intelligence ... the more chance there is for saying
something closest to what one really is. Even though everything seems
inexpressible, there remains the need to express. A child needs to make a
sand castle even though it makes no sense. In old age, with only a few
grains of sand, one has the greatest possibility."
All who knew Beckett personally have testified to his gift for
raillery, his lively wit, his cordiality, his love of energetic
conversation. By all accounts, he was a warmhearted friend and a
delightful drinking companion. But the qualities that describe his
characters are diminished concentration, loss of memory, obscured
intelligence, paralysis, paraplegia, memory loss, apatheia, and
aphasia — all symptoms of Alzheimer's disease. Certainly, the Beckett
dramatis personae no longer seem to have procreative functions, only
painful excretory ones. The labors of "Testew and Cunard" are
"unfinished": "Man ... in spite of the strides of alimentation and
defecation wastes and pines." And like Didi's bladder, even one's
excremental organs are not always in decent working order. "Joyce,"
Beckett told Israel Shenker in an interview, "is tending towards
omniscience and omnipotence as an artist. I'm working on impotence,
ignorance."
In spite of this emphasis on the failure of function, however, what
better characterizes Beckett's driving motivation than the need to express
the inexpressible? His desire to fashion "something closest to what one
really is," with just a few grains of sand, is undoubtedly why this Irish
writer preferred French to English as the language of his plays, novels,
and poetry. "It is easier," he famously confessed to Nicholas Gessner, "to
write without style in French," while English, he told another
interviewer, "holds out the temptation to rhetoric and virtuosity." As one
who began his literary career helping to translate Joyce's "Anna Livia
Plurabelle" into French, Beckett understandably needed to purge his
vocabulary of the stylistic excess and verbal pyrotechnics associated with
works like Finnegans Wake, not to mention the "quaquaqua" of
academic philosophers and critics. It was no doubt Beckett's dislike of
semantic bloat that made him chafe over the need to translate
Endgame into English for the Royal Court production. In English, he
believed, most of its sharpness and rhythm would be lost. (Although the
play is actually sublime in English, almost all of the London critics
roasted it anyway.)
It was Beckett's passion for pared-down, unobtrusive speech that made
him subject his art to such a remorseless process of verbal refinement.
And the antistyle he mastered — simple, terse, ironic, repetitive,
nonallusive, vaudevillian — soon became one of the most glorious
instruments in the literary orchestra. His dislike of excess may also
suggest why his works grew increasingly shorter as his career progressed.
As early as 1945, he was finding his artistic direction "in
impoverishment, in lack of knowledge and in taking away, in subtracting
rather than in adding." Was he trying to distill his vision into that
process Stephen Dedalus mentions in Ulysses that would essentialize
the entire meaning of our lives into a single word and thereby render
writing unnecessary? In two mime plays called Act Without Words, he
began to abandon language altogether, and his dramatic vignette,
Breath, consists of nothing more than a brief inhalation and
expiration.
That suggests how for Beckett existence was a brief, if at the same
time endless, purgatorial period stretching between our first mortal
breath and our last — the verbal equivalent of Dali's limp watches
sliding off a table or hanging on a tree. Endgame's Clov defines
yesterday as "that bloody awful day, long ago, before this bloody awful
day." The passage of time in Beckett may be swift or tedious, but it is
always "bloody awful." Life goes by in an instant, yet creeps in a petty
pace from day to day, an idiot tale of endless tomorrows, with little
sound and less fury. (The Macbeth images are intentional —
Beckett deeply identified with the "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow"
speech, as the director Peter Sellars emphasized in a Boston production
called Play/Macbeth that combined Beckett and Shakespeare
passages.)
Beckett's sense of time was indebted to the writings of his only
critical subject, Marcel Proust (who was indebted in turn to Henri-Louis
Bergson). But his forebear in the theater was actually Chekhov, who also
knew how slowly and quickly life can pass, as he demonstrated through that
Beckett prototype, the doddering old Firs in The Cherry Orchard
("My life has slipped by as though I'd never lived").
Fatigue, decrepitude, exhaustion, as embodied in an old man or woman
ceaselessly trying to refine the languagethose are the recurrent
characters and pervasive characteristics of Beckett's plays. So is a sense
of isolation. It is rare that Beckett's stage supports more than one or
two characters at the same time, and often they are master and slave. When
Pozzo and Lucky join Didi and Gogo for a few moments in Waiting for
Godot, or Nagg and Nell pop out of their Endgame dustbins to
natter at Hamm and Clov, the space seems positively crowded. Often the
plays feature a solitary speaking character, like the remorseful hermit of
Krapp's Last Tape, or the chattering housewife of Happy
Days, or the offstage female voice of Rockaby, whispering off
her aged parent in the rocker, or, supremely, the disembodied mouth in
Not I, crooning its lonely prosody in a void of Cimmerian gloom.
This is a landscape, possibly postnuclear, without civic population or
social infrastructure or transportation system or political engagement, a
human vacuum that makes Beckett's lone protest work, Catastrophe
(written in homage to Václav Havel), seem like an anomaly.
That this most solitary and unengaged of writers should have chosen the
most social of the arts as his favored medium is also anomalous. One
remembers with a start that Beckett joined the French Resistance during
World War II. Hard to imagine this poet of passivity and isolation joining
the partisans and fighting the Nazis. Yet it was in writing plays that
Beckett found his clearest way, his most comfortable medium, and while the
collective nature of the theater often caused him considerable grief (more
about that later), he never chose to abandon it. That may be why he leaned
so heavily on dependable theatrical collaborators — Jean-Louis
Barrault in France, Donald McWhinnie in England, Walter Asmus in Germany,
Alan Schneider in the United States. Until he decided to direct his own
plays, he was forced into the arms of those he could trust to transfer his
vision faithfully from the page to the stage. ("I've the feeling no author
was ever better served," he wrote to Schneider, an expression of rueful
gratitude that became the title of their collected letters.)
Beckett depended on directors, but it was through actors that his
vision was most fully realized on stage — Hume Cronyn, Alvin Epstein,
Michael Gambon, Bert Lahr, Jack MacGowran, Patrick Magee, Barry McGovern,
Frederick Neumann, Chris O'Neill, Madeleine Renaud, Jessica Tandy, David
Warrilow, Billie Whitelaw, and Irene Worth, a formidable list that is not
exhausted here. Most of these actors were either in their older age or
carried the sand and grit of old age in their very bones. Beckett's
theater is hardly about youth, freshness, or renewed energy. I think that
is why the Mike Nichols production of Godot proved unsatisfying to
some critics. Those excellent actors Steve Martin and Robin Williams had
too much show-biz vitality to capture the lethargic qualities of Didi and
Gogo (though F. Murray Abraham and Bill Irwin were superb as Pozzo and
Lucky). At the American Repertory Theatre, we did two different
productions of Godot, the first with actors in their 20s and 30s
(Mark Linn-Baker and John Bottoms), the second with two aging veterans
(Alvin Epstein and Jeremy Geidt). The younger men captured the wonderfully
engaging music-hall turns of the characters, but it was the older actors
who truly heard their melancholy music.
Alongside his vocabulary of isolation, Beckett created a thesaurus of
inertia. Perhaps his most oft-quoted lines are from The Unnamable,
"I can't go on. I'll go on." It is a sentiment he paraphrased often, most
strikingly at the conclusion of Waiting for Godot: "Well, shall we
go? "Yes, let's go." They do not move. One critic remarked that
while Shakespeare's Hamlet is ruminating on the question, "To be, or not
to be," Beckett's characters are exploring the "or." Actually, Beckett is
as interested as Shakespeare in the metaphysical infinity buried in the
existential infinitive. Just like Hamlet, Didi and Gogo contemplate
nonbeing, first to pass the time, then (in Tennyson's sense) to cross the
bar. But when Gogo tries to hang himself, his belt breaks. Hamlet
considers suicide as a passport to the undiscovered country. Didi and Gogo
remain rooted in the frustrations of the barren mortal landscape. They do
not move.
Indeed, inertia and imprisonment may be the unifying themes of
Beckett's work. Those qualities are personified in Endgame, with
Hamm blinded and frozen in his chair, and his aged parents immobilized in
their ashcans; it is the metaphor of Play, whose three characters
are imprisoned in urns, a cold finger of light picking cruelly at their
heads as they rehearse the adulterous relationship that brought them to
this pass; and it is the central theme of Happy Days, in which
Winnie is buried in the ground, the earth literally rising over her body,
like a grave being covered over by an invisible gravedigger. Representing
the way Beckett carried his images from play to play, Happy Days
literalizes the central idea of Godot: "They give birth astride a
grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more. ... The
grave-digger puts on the forceps." Winnie's living room is her dying room,
her life the inhalation and exhalation of a single breath.
But Beckett's fascination with inertia and old age is not so much a
longing for death, a passion for extinction, as it is an expression of
nostalgia and regret, a rumination on the entropy of the universe. And
nowhere are those rueful feelings more beautifully expressed than in that
elegy of old age, Krapp's Last Tape, the only play Beckett
originally wrote in his native tongue. Krapp is a genuine formal
advance for Beckett after Godot, which, though clearly his
masterpiece, is perhaps a bit hamstrung by its length and repetitiveness.
In Godot, Beckett dramatized his notion that life was a series of
inconsequential and monotonous events, that one day is pretty much like
another, by laying his first and second acts side by side like two sets of
railroad tracks. It was in Krapp's Last Tape, and the plays that
followed, that he began to recognize that his art lent itself more readily
to shorter statements, that his own creative purpose lay in "subtracting
rather than adding."
In Krapp, Beckett economizes his theme through a simple
mechanical device. Today and tomorrow are, through the instrument of a
tape recorder, simultaneously revealed. Set in the future (I suspect all
of Beckett's plays are), the work revolves around a solitary character,
the incredibly ancient Krapp, who putters around his eremitic cell,
shortsightedly examining his keys, peering myopically into his books,
testing his shrunken vocal organs on words that please him, pouring
whiskey noisily down his throat, sucking toothlessly on a banana with the
same relish and resignation as Estragon eats his carrot and Nagg his soda
biscuit. Reduced to his most elementary appetites, Krapp has no purpose or
occupation except to listen to his organs decay and to feel his functions
fail. He is, like Eliot's Gerontion, "an old man in a draughty house under
a windy knob," but without even Gerontion's dream of rain.
Krapp is surrounded, almost buried, by his past, in the form of boxes
upon boxes of magnetic tapes, the aural diary of his entire life. The
single action of the play is the replaying of one spool, recording a
mundane yesterday when Krapp was middle-aged and already rather juiceless.
The droning, slightly pompous voice from the machine evokes a variety of
responses from the ancient Krapp: interest, melancholy, contempt, despair.
A memory of feeling returns to his withered hand during a description of a
black rubber ball; after listening to a tape about a girl in a tattered
dress he once glimpsed on a railway platform, he hurriedly plays the
section over; he turns the set off in disgust hearing his excited
discovery of the meaning of life; he collapses into ruins of longing
during the indifferently intoned narrative of a sexual experience in a
rocking boat.
On the last tape, Krapp intends to record his present day's activities,
but there is now nothing left in him, "not a squeak," nothing but memory,
loss, and impotent desire, nothing to do but replay the tape about that
boat drifting and sticking among the flags and eavesdrop on his past, when
he still had the capacity to press his flesh against that of another
living being. The last scene shows us Krapp stiffening in his rented room,
his head lying miserably on the machine, his arms around it like a
grotesque and wizened lover.
Of all Beckett's characters, Krapp seems the closest to his creator,
which suggests a touch of self-contempt in his choice of name. Beckett's
elegiac regret over an unfulfilled life is not unlike that of Jamie Tyrone
in O'Neill's Long Day's Journey Into Night where, quoting from
Rossetti, he says: "My name is Might-Have-Been. I am also called No More,
Too Late, Farewell." But Krapp's Last Tape is a glimpse into the
abyss without solace or hope or rescue. Beckett is perhaps the
quintessential playwright of existential rebellion, that futilitarian
protest against a God-forsaken naturalist universe that Shakespeare was
perhaps the first to theatricalize in King Lear. No wonder the
Roman Catholic Church regarded Beckett as a blasphemer.
Considering how self-effacing he usually was about his plays and his
personality (he once thanked Alan Schneider for his "great warmth of
attachment for my dismal person and devotion to my grisly work"),
Beckett's extreme vigilance regarding any deviations from the written word
seems odd. He was agitated enough to threaten suit when Schneider reported
an Andre Gregory production of Endgame that departed from his stage
directions ("My work is not holy writ but this production sounds truly
revolting & damaging to the play"). He vetoed an all-female
Endgame and steamed over "a scandalous parody of Godot at
the Young Vic." He even refused Ingmar Bergman permission to film
Godot because he didn't want the play "Bergmanized," thus leaving
us with a gigantic hole in theater history.
My own company also got in hot water with Beckett when the director
JoAnne Akalaitis, literalizing a postnuclear metaphor, set the ART
production of Endgame in an abandoned subway station (a fallout
shelter) and commissioned a brief overture for it from Philip Glass.
Although he never saw the production, Beckett protested that his play had
been "musicalized," objected to the casting of two black actors as Hamm
and Nagg, and, citing his set descriptions, wrote a program note that
said, "Any production of Endgame which ignores my stage directions
is completely unacceptable to me." The furor unleashed by this
controversial event, and the unsuccessful efforts of Beckett and his
agents to shut it down, eventually encouraged him to put a codicil in his
will controlling future productions beyond the grave by proscribing any
deviation from his text or stage directions. In fact, a theater in
Washington, D.C., was threatened with court action by the Beckett estate
after reports that a company that included black cast members had
introduced hip-hop interpolations into a production of Godot.
In this case, after Beckett's nephew Edward interceded, the production
was permitted to open. And in the more-recent instance of a partly female
Godot that the estate tried to halt, the courts interceded on
behalf of the defendants. It may be that after his death the law is
beginning to allow something that the playwright vigorously resisted
during his lifetime — namely, the right of theatrical collaborators,
within reason, to make some contribution to the theatrical occasion.
Beckett's territorial attitude toward his work is hardly unusual among
modern playwrights. Arthur Miller fought a Wooster Group production
involving The Crucible. Edward Albee fought all-male productions of
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Sam Shepard banned an all-female
version of True West. But this tight control of literary property
rights is unexpected in a writer of such becoming modesty and
self-effacement, especially one who foresaw a ravaged future largely
devoid of any objects worth saving.
Nonetheless, it suggests that however apocalyptic Beckett may have been
about the old age of the world and the impotence of human beings, however
dejected he was about the looming apocalyptic millennium, he continued to
believe in the power of the written word and the immortality of works of
art. For Beckett, life was damnation, but language was redemption. The
human race can't go on. It will go on.
Robert Brustein is a playwright, director, critic, founding director
of the Yale Repertory and American Repertory Theatres, and a professor
emeritus of English at Harvard University. His books include Letters
to a Young Actor: A Universal Guide to Performance (Basic Books, 2005)
and the forthcoming Millennial Stages (Yale University Press,
2006). His most recent plays are Spring Forward, Fall Back and
The English Channel.
http://chronicle.com
Section: The Chronicle Review
Volume 52, Issue
48, Page B12