‘Krapp’s Last Tape’ by Samuel Beckett

Audio tape-art had a big year in 1958. In Paris, sonic pioneer Pierre Schaeffer’s Groupe de Recherche de Musique Concrète, who made compositions using all kinds of recorded media, changed personnel and became Groupe de Recherches Musicales. In London, the BBC Radiophonic Workshop came into existence, featuring Daphne Oram and Delia Derbyshire. In Paris, Samuel Beckett finished composing something in English for the first time in years, Krapp’s Last Tape.

This short piece takes place on “a late evening in the future”. A 69-year-old man, who has a lifelong habit of recording himself speaking about himself, sits at a desk, “elbows on table, hand cupping ear towards machine” and listens to one of his recordings from thirty years ago. Impatient and brooding, he rewinds and fast-forwards this recording, then makes a new recording of his feelings about the old one, thinking of himself as a “stupid bastard”. At intervals he walks offstage to pop the cork of a fizzy bottle, down its contents, and return, progressively more drunk.

Beckett thought Krapp’s Last Tape was “sentimental” and described his own voice as “a Beaujolais Galouise pantgasp”. There is a great deal of rummaging, in pockets and desk drawers, but also within the recordings themselves. The tape technology is what makes this rummaging possible. Krapp doesn’t like it, but he has never stopped doing it, like a one-man avant-garde research unit.

First published in Evergreen Review, summer 1958, collected in The Complete Dramatic Works, Faber and Faber, 1990

‘Fingal’ by Samuel Beckett

Recently I was at the Samuel Beckett Centre trying to work out whether Samuel Beckett had anything to do with psychogeography in 1950s Rive Gauche Paris. I really like ‘Fingal’ from his earliest throng of short stories More Pricks Than Kicks (1934) (my copy is Grove Press fyi). It’s less formally radical than later collections like Fizzles(1976), but radical nonetheless. All of More Pricks Than Kicks focuses on “Belacqua”, a young fellow named after minor lazy-but-rewarded character woo in Dante’s Divina Comedia (1321). After an initial tale detailing Belacqua’s precisest requirements for constructing a perfect lobster-and-gorgonzola-sandwich, ‘Fingal’ pictures he with “Winnie” who’s “pretty, hot and witty, in that order” (can you believe Samuel Beckett was saying “hot” in this way in the 1930s?!) going outside Dublin on a countryside adventure. Past ruins, burrows, furze, brambles, and slopes to the top of a hill overlooking the county of Fingal, Belacqua feels like a “sad animal” but apparently Winnie’s high-spirited: “‘The Dublin mountains’ she said ‘don’t they look lovely, so dreamy’”. Aah. They talk about “Milan (to rime with villain)” ha ha while they’re up there, “travelled spinster” Belacqua shaming Winnie for her geographical short-comings. “Things were beginning to blow up nasty” between them but then Belacqua and Winnie kiss and “their moods were in accordance” and “things were somehow very pleasant all of a sudden” as they gaze on Portraine Lunatic Aslyum (which Belacqua had thought was a bread factory). They go there and meet Dr. Sholto, with whom Winnie is somehow acquainted, for a drink and chat avoiding a farmer Belacqua worries wants to attack them, then a bike is stolen and then there’s an escape to a pub. It is an Evocative Romp.

From More Pricks Than Kicks, first published by Chatto & Windus 1934, various editions thereafter

‘Stirrings Still’ by Samuel Beckett

Superlatives and Beckett: a dry hole to dig in if ever there was one. I say only that ‘Stirrings Still’, and Beckett’s other short prose leading up to it (from the mid-1950s with ‘Texts for Nothing’ but particularly from the early 1960s onwards), are the height of Beckett’s achievement and the best short prose works written in Europe since the war. I gasp before them, through them. Language gnaws itself to life from its own bones. What else to say about a work that begins:

“One night as he sat at his table head on hands he saw himself rise and go. One night or day. For when his own light went out he was not left in the dark.”

And closes:

“Then such silence since the cries that perhaps they would not be heard again. Perhaps thus the end. Unless no more than a mere lull. Then all as before. The strokes and cries as before and he as before now there now gone now there again now gone again. Then the lull again. Then all as before again. So again and again. And patience till the one true end to time and grief and second self his own.”

In the words of Winnie (who better to help us dig in a dry hole?):

Marvellous gift. Nothing to touch it in my opinion. Always said so.

First published in a limited edition illustrated by Louis le Brocquy, John Calder, 1988. Now available in Company / Ill Seen Ill Said / Worstward Ho / Stirrings Still, Faber, 2009

‘First Love’ by Samuel Beckett

The British Penguin publication of this calls it a novella, because of the English aversion to short fiction, but this is one of the most perfect short stories. I feel like I am in some sort of strange green belly when reading it. “My sandwich, my banana, taste sweeter when I’m sitting on a tomb,” says the narrator. Whenever I feel like I have forgotten how to write a short story I go back to this one.

First published in French in 1970, and in its English translation by the author by Calder and Boyes, 1973. Now available in First Love and Other Novellas, Penguin Modern Classics, 2000, and The Expelled / The Calmative / The End / First Love, Faber, 2009

‘Horn Came Always’ by Samuel Beckett

The achievement of Beckett’s plays and novels means that his short prose — which stands at an angle to the French prose poem tradition — tends to get overlooked. But here you can find his wicked sense of humour in very pure doses. This is one of his “Fizzles”, written in French and self-translated into English, and it reads like a miniaturised version of the already-brief monodrama, Krapp’s Last Tape. The opening sentence — “Horn came always at night” — establishes the deadpan double entendre of this monologue by a bed-bound speaker who, for some reason, is visited in the middle of night by a man (Horn) who tells him about a remembered woman from a notebook illuminated by a torch. That’s about all you need to know: the rest is the exquisitely tragi-comic unfolding of physical misery (“What ruined me at bottom was athletics”). The last sentence has stuck in my head ever since I first read it. It is a melancholy flourish, made funny and sad by the absurd return of phallic symbolism and the sudden vivid timbre of Irish colloquialism: “My fortieth year had come and gone and I still throwing the javelin”.

First published in English in For To End Yet Again, John Calder, 1976, subsequently collected in The Complete Short Prose 1929–1989, Grove Press, 1995

‘Ping’ by Samuel Beckett

In a letter written about ‘Ping’ from Ussy in August 1966, Beckett explained that “months of misguided work have boiled down to 1,000 words.’” And that he’d written “something suitably brief and outrageous all whiteness and silence and finishedness.” Its outrageousness? No personal pronouns, very few conjunctions, definite articles, prepositions. Punctuation is winnowed down to a series of full stops. But in spite of the text’s brevity – its “whiteness and silence” – some sense of a “scene” emerges. A body (I imagine a man) lies in a white(ish) room of indeterminate size. The body’s parts – legs, heels, toes – seem to be “joined like sewn” or, in the case of the face, “nose ears white holes mouth white seam like sewn invisible over.” Only the eyes – “a pale blue”, a rare intrusion of colour – are perhaps operational and unfixed. They track momentary changes in the “grey almost white” surroundings: “blur”, “light”, “traces.” The terse descriptions (nouns placed side by side, the occasional adjective) are initially rooted in immediate sensory experience: dim, fleeting, impressionistic. An interior life, beyond the momentary and the physical, feels remote. Then comes line 21 (my copy numbers the sentences, separating them out on the page): “Murmur only just almost never one second perhaps not alone.” The brilliance of ‘Ping’ – aside from its formal audacity, Beckett’s smashing up of all the rules – lies in these tiny, vivid eruptions of feeling and memory, the flickering presence of some long-buried self, still somehow just about present, even as the body gets ready to let go.

First published in French as ‘Bing’, Editions de Minuit, 1966, and collected in First Love and Other Shorts, Grove Weidenfeld, 1974; also in That Glimpse of Truth: 100 of the Finest Short Stories, ed. David Miller, Head of Zeus, 2014

‘Proust’ by Samuel Beckett

The only writer to appear in my list twice. Beckett wrote this essay in Paris during the summer of 1930, at the age of twenty-five. James Knowlson describes him working “feverishly in the Ecole Normale library or in his room, sometimes until dawn.” And Knowlson goes on to detail the rash (the “barber’s itch”) which surfaced onto his face – and about which Beckett felt acutely self-conscious – when he handed in the manuscript to Chatto and Prentice in London. What follows – an eighty-page response to In Search of Lost Time (he’d just read Proust’s megalith twice!) – bears some of the unruly flashiness of youth: it’s abstruse and trickily allusive but it’s also a sweeping and unguarded work. The preoccupations which Beckett would loop back to for the next sixty years are all here: his dissatisfaction with “literary conventions” and “geometry”; his distrust of neatly packaged intellectual systems (the “primacy of instinctive perception”, “the free play of every faculty”) alongside expansive – florid, excitable and ireful too – commentaries on what would become the taut through-lines of his later plays and prose: selfhood, memory, and “the poisonous ingenuity of Time”.

First published by Chatto & Windus, 1931, and by John Calder, 1999

‘All Strange Away’ by Samuel Beckett

Late Beckett is the pinnacle, for me. The materials at his disposal diminish with age, through choice or disposition, as told here:
from

‘Out of the door and down the road in the old hat and coat like after the war, no, not that again’.

‘Five foot square, six high, no way in, none out, try for him there’.

What he discloses of the human predicament, ‘talking to himself in the last person’, extends in inverse proportion to the narrative constraints he places upon himself. Extraordinary consolation.

First published in English in 1964; collected in The Complete Short Prose 1929 – 1989, Grove Press, 1995

‘Stirrings Still’ by Samuel Beckett

Eudora Welty says that short stories often problematize their own best interests and that this is what makes them interesting.

Which brings us to Beckett. I don’t go in much for heroes: Joe Strummer, maybe, Samuel Beckett. Beckett spent six decades writing stories that, in Smith/Welty’s words, increasingly problematized their own best interests – if you think it’s in the interest of a story to be a story, or even to be read. But when you can’t go on, and can’t not go on, either, what else can you do?

So where to start? I’ve plumped, perversely perhaps, for the end. Not The End, written forty years earlier, but Stirrings Still, the last completed prose he wrote. In it a man, unnamed but recognizable to Beckett readers from long before The Unnameable (1953), sits alone in a bare room and contemplates his own death. A barrel of laughs? Not exactly. Beckett is at heart a comic writer and fabulously funny (the two don’t always go together) but his humour, always bleak, was struck from harder and harder rock as time went on. However, there is a moment of clarity here, perhaps even of grace, that had eluded him in much of the later prose. He recalls an old friend (who had died and left him, naturally) and a favourite poem; there are hints of Beckett’s own literary hero, Dante, and in the end, a glimmer of a hint of an idea that he might, after all, have managed to fail better:Such and more such the hubbub in his mind so-called till nothing left from deep within but only ever fainter oh to end. No matter how no matter where. Time and grief and self so-called. Oh all to end. And you can’t say fairer than that.

First published in a signed limited edition, and in The Guardian, 3 March 1989; later republished in the posthumous edition As the Story Was Told (1990). Available in Company / Ill Seen Ill Said / Worstward Ho / Stirrings Still, Faber & Faber, 2009: and in The Complete Short Prose, 1929-1989, Grove Press, 1995

‘The End’ by Samuel Beckett, translated by Richard Seaver and Samuel Beckett

Beckett’s handful of short stories are all masterpieces. ‘The End’ inhabits a universe like that of Malone Dies, which is to say it is futile and decrepit but also shot through with moments of flaring lyricism and colours that briefly bloom in grey. It is about a narrator discharged from an indeterminate institution of the psychiatric type, and his efforts to find his way through an uncanny psychogeographic landscape of rejection, exile, and nebulous memory. He’s forever looking for lodgings, forever moving from one place to the next, until he finds himself literally at sea. It is very sad, but there are some great jokes. There is a type of joke that Beckett excels at, where he builds an elaborate and often profound bait and destroys it with a brutal and obscene punchline, timed to perfection. I think the finest example of the form is in this story. It cracks me up. It goes as follows:.

The earth makes a sound as of sighs and the last drops fall from the emptied cloudless sky. A small boy, stretching out his hands and looking up at the blue sky, asked his mother how such a thing was possible. Fuck off, she said.

First published, in part, as ‘Suite’, in Temps Modernes, July 1946. First published in English in Merlin 3, 1954. Collected in Stories and Texts for Nothing, Grove Press, 1955. Currently available in various collections from Faber & Faber and Penguin, including as a £1 Penguin Modern, 2018

‘A Wet Night’ by Samuel Beckett

This story is important to me because it is one of my first experiences of intractable, strategic difficulty. Beckett is an influential writer for so many people that I won’t go into it here, but his early work (this was published in 1934) is somewhat under-read. I’ve made some notes to assist readers here. I restrained myself to one story from Beckett, but The Lost Ones (1970) and Imagination Dead Imagine (1965), which is described on first publication by Calder and Boyars as “Mr. Beckett’s first essay into a new kind of science fiction,” are also extremely important short works.

In More Pricks than Kicks, First published by Chatto in 1934. Now available from Faber, 2010