Samuel Beckett at 100

For being a famous person, Samuel Beckett avoided notoriety as best a Nobel laureate can. So, among the vast mass of English-speaking humanity, many get him confused with Thomas a Becket, the former Archbishop of Canterbury who was murdered in 1170. Were he alive on his 100th birthday, which passed last week, Mr. Beckett would have been appalled at the celebrations in his honor. Too bad, Sam.

Among the theatre-mad, there are few who can compare with Mr. Beckett. “Waiting for Godot” is not only a brilliant piece of theatre about nothing, long before “Seinfeld,” it turns out to be a piece of theatre about a great deal as well. Sawarin Suwichakornpong, writing on the BBC website, said of a performance in Thai in Bangkok, “Through translation, the play lost bits of its intricacies but I still recall how it had magnetised the audiences. Only a number of plays written in the west deliver a universal social force as much as Beckett’s.” Actually, very few mine the richness of human experience well enough to make them truly universal.

He had a reputation of being a curmudgeon or a nihilist or a general gloomy Gus, but as with most things Beckett-ian, the truth was much different. The man had a Croix de Guerre from the French government for his wartime resistance efforts. People who are terminally grumpy don’t get involved in things like the resistance to fascism. A certain faith in the decency and dignity of human beings is needed. He once gave a beggar some money despite being pretty sure the recipient was a swindler. When challenged on the point, he said, “I thought he was, but I just couldn’t take the chance.”

There is another tale of Mr. Beckett, though, that does follow the public reputation. While walking along in his beloved Paris, a companion remarked that it was a beautiful day. Mr. Beckett agreed that it was. A moment later, his companion ventured, “Makes you feel glad to be alive, doesn't it.” After a brief pause, Mr. Beckett responded, “I wouldn't go that far.”

The question is, of course, did he mean it? And if he did, what did he mean by it? Or did he even know what he meant by it? And even if he did, did his companion understand what he was driving at? “I can’t go on. But I must. So I will,” he wrote in “Endgame.” There is no better motto for the human race. Happy Birthday, Sam.

© Copyright 2006 by The Kensington Review, Jeff Myhre, PhD, Editor. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent. Produced using Fedora Linux.

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