À procura de Beckett
“We are all born mad. Some remain so.”
Samuel Beckett, in «Waiting for Godot»
Samuel Beckett por Reg Lancaster (1970)
Samuel Beckett morreu a 22 de Dezembro de 1989, em Paris. Vinte anos depois da sua morte, Roger Boylan na Boston Review, relembra Beckett:
The first and last time I saw Samuel Beckett, he was walking down a Paris street, the Rue Rémy Dumoncel. At least, I think it was Beckett. The height was right; the near-skeletal thinness was right; the location was right—near the nursing home where he died not long after. I think he was wearing a hat and coat, but I can’t be sure. It was twenty years ago.
But I never got close enough to be certain. I was across the street, behind a row of parked cars, admiring, if memory serves, a silver Porsche. Unusually for July in Paris, it was a gray, drizzly day, what Parisians call “la grisaille,” and it was a bit misty, as if in November. Despite all that, I could easily have crossed over and asked my suspect if he was, in fact, the One True Sam. But I didn’t. I funked it. He disappeared. Six months later he was dead. And I had wanted to meet him for years.
[…] I approached the man’s work cautiously, as if fearing contagion. The spare stage sets, the suffering solitaries, the painful remembering (Krapp) or equally painful forgetting (Godot): it all seemed somewhat pointless—which, I eventually saw, was the point. And, paradoxically, this seemingly pointless work was crucial to the understanding of modern life. But Beckett was a paradox in more ways than one, a man of mystery despite himself. […]