ow’s as good a time as any to acknowledge our collective debt to Samuel Beckett. WILLIAM: I haven’t been there. SCOTT: He’s not a place. Beckett was in fact the greatest writer of the twentieth century. WILLIAM: You say was. Do you mean he’s dead? SCOTT: Not really. I made that up, by the way, what you just said. WILLIAM: SCOTT: Dirk? DIRK: I’ll be there in a minute, I’ve just got two more pages. . . . [Pause. Laughter] ÜBERDIRK: I have to agree with Scott above. Without a doubt. The greatest of this century (and I tempt this hubris acknowledging my total inability to compare Beckett’s work to the work of writers who use a language other than English). That is, if Beckett is not the greatest writer of this century, then he still should be. Always judgment gives way to love. Or again, it should. In the face of Beckett’s accomplishment there can only be one response it seems to me. Silence. A solemn silence. Punctuated by those joys still allowed by the flesh’s continued ignorance of its own superfluousness. SCOTT: What the fuck was that? Anyway, Beckett’s good, really, really good. Read books by Samuel Beckett. Like at least the Trilogy and Godot and Endgame and Krapp’s Last Tape, and then some of the shorter plays.

Unnamable Read 4/20/99 at Illinois State University 1:14 142K RealAudio Clip

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