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