Friday, May 21

YEAR:  2021 | Tags:  | |

Work room, 12:02


This morning we both agreed that we have begun to feel as though we have become trapped in an unpublished play by Samuel Beckett. One of those plays in which a process that one expects to have a beginning, a middle, and an end, gradually reveals itself to have a middle of infinite length.

An end will come eventually but only after an infinite length of time has passed so that, in effect, no end will ever come.

I sit down to work and look across at the pile of library books that I have borrowed. I chuckle at what an odd collection they appear. I can explain why I have them all, but I have found myself reading all of them simultaneously and, oddly, Strange Tide has proved just the right sort of novel to throw into that kind of mix.

I will finally notice that the pile looks the right kind of pile for a character in a Samuel Beckett play to find themselves reading.