Is it the long wet dream with the hat and bags? cried Mr Nolan.
Mr Nolan looked at Mr Case, Mr Case at Mr Nolan, Mr Gorman at Mr Case, Mr Gorman at Mr Nolan, Mr Nolan at Mr Gorman, Mr Case at Mr Gorman, Mr Gorman again at Mr Case, again at Mr Nolan, and then straight before him, at nothing in particular. And so they stayed a little while, Mr Case and Mr Nolan looking at Mr Gorman, and Mr Gorman looking straight before him, at nothing in particular, though the sky falling to the hills, and the hills falling to the plain, made as pretty a picture, in the early morning light, as a man could hope to meet with, in a day’s march.
ADDENDA1
her married life one long drawsheet
— — —
Art Conn O’Connery, called Black Velvet O’Connery, product of the great Chinnery-Slattery tradition.
— — —
the Master of the Leopardstown Halflengths
— — —
who may tell the tale
of the old man?
weigh absence in a scale?
mete want with a span?
the sum assess
of the world’s woes?
nothingness
in words enclose?
— — —
judicious Hooker’s heat-pimples
— — —
limits to part’s equality with whole
— — —
dead calm, then a murmur, a name, a murmured name, in doubt, in fear, in love, in fear, in doubt, wind of winter in the black boughs, cold calm sea whitening whispering to the shore, stealing, hastening, swelling, passing, dying, from naught come, to naught gone
— — —
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish and wish the soul away,
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone.
— — —
Watt learned to accept etc. Use to explain poverty of Part III. Watt cannot speak of what happened on first floor, because for the greater part of the time nothing happened, without his protesting.
— — —
Note that Arsene’s declaration gradually came back to Watt.
— — —
One night Watt goes on roof.
— — —
Watt snites.
— — —
Meals. Every day Mr Knott’s bowl at a different place. Watt marks with chalk.
— — —
the maddened prizeman
— — —
the sheet of dark water, the widening fret of ripples, the deadening banks, the stillness
— — —
never been properly born
— — —
the foetal soul is full grown (Cangiamila’s Sacred Embryology and Pope Benedict XIV’s De Synodo Diocesana, Bk. 7, Chap. 4, Sect. 6.)
— — —
sempiternal penumbra
— — —
for all the good that frequent departures out of Ireland had done him, he might just as well have stayed there
— — —
a round wooden table, of generous diameter, resting on a single massive conical frustum, filled the middle space.
— — —
zitto! zitto! dass nur das Publikum nichts merke!
— — —
on the waste, beneath the sky, distinguished by Watt as being, the one above, the other beneath, Watt. That before him, behind him, on all sides of him, there was something else, neither sky nor waste, was not felt by Watt. And it was always their long dark flowing away together towards the mirage of union that lay before him, whichever way he turned. The sky was of a dark colour, from which it may be inferred that the usual luminaries were absent. They were. The waste also, needless to say, was of a dark colour. Indeed the sky and the waste were of the same dark colour, which is hardly to be wondered at. Watt also was very naturally of the same dark colour. This dark colour was so dark that the colour could not be identified with certainty. Sometimes it seemed a dark absence of colour, a dark mixture of all colours, a dark white. But Watt did not like the words dark white, so he continued to call his darkness a dark colour plain and simple, which strictly speaking it was not, seeing that the colour was so dark as to defy identification as such.
The source of the feeble light diffused over this scene is unknown.
Further peculiarities of this soul-landscape were:
The temperature was warm.
Beneath Watt the waste rose and fell.
All was silent.
Above Watt the sky fell and rose.
Watt was rooted to the spot.
— — —
Watt will not
abate one jot
but of what
of the coming to
of the being at
of the going from
Knott’s habitat
of the long way
of the short stay
of the going back home
the way he had come
of the empty heart
of the empty hands
of the dim mind wayfaring
through barren lands
of a flame with dark winds
hedged about
going out
gone out
of the empty heart
of the empty hands
of the dark mind stumbling
through barren lands
that is of what
Watt will not
abate one tot
— — —
die Merde hat mich wieder
— — —
pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerunt
— — —
Second picture in Erskine’s room, representing gentleman seated at piano, full length, receding profile right, naked save for stave-paper resting on lap. With his right hand he sustains a chord which Watt has no difficulty in identifying as that of C major in its second inversion, while with other he prolongs pavilion of left ear. His right foot, assisted from above by its fellow, depresses with force the sustaining pedal. On muscles of brawny neck, arm, torso, abdomen, loin, thigh and calf, standing out like cords in stress of effort, Mr O’Connery had lavished all the resources of Jesuit tactility. Beads of sweat, realized with a finish that would have done credit to Heem, were plentifully distributed over pectoral, subaxillary and hypogastrial surfaces. The right nipple, from which sprang a long red solitary hair, was in a state of manifest tumescence, a charming touch. The bust was bowed over the keyboard and the face, turned slightly towards the spectator, wore expression of man about to be delivered, after many days, of particularly hard stool, that is to say the brow was furrowed, the eyes tight closed, the nostrils dilated, the lips parted and the jaw fallen, as pretty a synthesis as one could wish of anguish, concentration, strain, transport and self-abandon, illustrating extraordinary effect produced on musical nature by faint cacophony of remote harmonics stealing over dying accord. Mr O’Connery’s love of significant detail appeared further in treatment of toenails, of remarkable luxuriance and caked with what seemed to be dirt. Feet also could have done with a wash, legs not what you could call fresh and sweet, buttocks and belly cried out for hipbath at least, chest in disgusting condition, neck positively filthy, and seeds might have been scattered in ears with every prospect of early germination.
That however a damp cloth had been rapidly passed at a recent date over more prominent portions of facies (Latin word, meaning face) seemed not improbable.
(Latin quote)
Moustache, pale red save where discoloured by tobacco, advancing years, nervous chewing, family worries, nasal slaver and buccal froth, tumbled over ripe red lips, and forth from out ripe red jaw, and forth in same way from out ripe red dewlap, sprouted, palely red, doomed beginnings of bushy pale red beard.
— — —
like a thicket flower unrecorded
— — —
Watt’s Davus complex (morbid dread of sphinges)
— — —
One night Arthur came to Watt’s room. He was agitated. He thought he had been taken for Mr Knott. He did not know if he felt honoured or not.
Walking in the garden he said, Now I am walking in the garden, not with any great pleasure it is true, but nevertheless, up and down, I am walking in the garden.
He watched his legs as under him they moved, in and out.
I stand first on one leg, he said, then on the other, so, and in that way I move forward.
Notice how without thinking you avoid the daisies, he said. What sensibility.
Halting, he contemplated the grass, at his feet.
This dewy sward is not yours, he said. He clasped his hands to his breast. He lifted them towards the maker, and giver, of all things, of him, of the daisies, of the grass. Thanks Boss, he said. He stood easy. He moved on.
This is said to be good for the health, he said.
Not many moments had elapsed since this aphorism when Arthur began to laugh, so heartily that he was obliged to lean for support against a passing shrub, or bush, which joined heartily in the joke.
When he had recovered his calm, he turned to examine the bush, or shrub. All he could say was, that it was not a rush.
Now he saw, advancing towards him over the grass, an indistinct mass. A moment later it was an old man, clothed in rags.
Who can this be, I wonder, said Arthur.
A penny for a poor old man, said the old man.
Arthur gave a penny.
God bless your honour, said the old man.
Amen, said Arthur. Good-day.
I remember you when you was a boy, said the old man. I was a boy meself.
Then we was boys together, said Arthur.
You was a fine lovely boy, said the old man, and I was another.
Look at us now, said Arthur.
You was always wetting yer trousers, said the old man.
I wets them still, said Arthur.
I cleaned the boots, said the old man.
If it hadn’t been you, it would have been another, said Arthur.
Yer father was very good to me.
Like father like son, said Arthur. Good-day.
I helped to lay out this darling place, said the old man.
In that case, said Arthur, perhaps you can tell me the name of this extraordinary growth.
That’s what we calls a hardy laurel, said the old man.
Arthur went back into the house and wrote, in his journal: Took a turn in the garden. Thanked God for a small mercy. Made merry with the hardy laurel. Bestowed alms on an old man formerly employed by Knott family.
But this was not enough. So he came running to Watt.
This was the first time Watt had heard the words Knott family.
There had been a time when they would have pleased him, and the thought they tendered, that Mr Knott too was serial, in a vermicular series. But not now. For Watt was an old rose now, and indifferent to the gardener.
— — —
Watt looking as though nearing end of course of injections of sterile pus
— — —
das fruchtbare Bathos der Erfahrung
— — —
fœde hunc mundum intravi, anxius vixi, perturbatus egredior, causa causarum miserere mei
— — —
change all the names
— — —
descant heard by Watt on way to station (IV):
Threne heard by Watt in ditch on way from station. The soprano sang:
— — —
no symbols where none intended
— — —
Paris, 1945.
1 The following precious and illuminating material should be carefully studied. Only fatigue and disgust prevented its incorporation.
About the Author
Samuel Beckett was born in Dublin in 1906. He was educated at Portora Royal School and Trinity College, Dublin, where he graduated in 1927. His made his poetry debut in 1930 with Whoroscope and followed it with essays and two novels before World War Two. He wrote one of his most famous plays, Waiting for Godot, in 1949 but it wasn’t published in English until 1954. Waiting for Godot brought Beckett international fame and firmly established him as a leading figure in the Theatre of the Absurd. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1961. Beckett continued to write prolifically for radio, TV and the theatre until his death in 1989.
About the Editor
Chris Ackerley teaches at the University of Otago (Dunedin), New Zealand. He is co-author of The Faber Companion to Samuel Beckett: A Reader’s Guide to His Works, Life, and Thought (2006) and author of Demented Particulars: The Annotated Murphy (Journal of Beckett Studies Books, 1998 and 2004) and Obscure Locks, Simple Keys: The Annotated Watt (Journal of Beckett Studies Books, 2005).
Titles in the Samuel Beckett series
ENDGAME
Preface by Rónán McDonald
COMPANY/ILL SEEN ILL SAID/WORSTWARD HO/STIRRINGS STILL
Edited by Dirk Van Hulle
KRAPP’S LAST TAPE AND OTHER SHORTER PLAYS
Preface by S. E. Gontarski
MURPHY
Edited by J. C. C. Mays
WATT
Edited by C. J. Ackerley
Forthcoming titles
MORE PRICKS THAN KICKS
Edited by Cassandra Nelson
ALL THAT FALL AND OTHER PLAYS FOR RADIO AND SCREEN
Preface by Everett Frost
MOLLOY
Edited by Shane Weller
MALONE DIES
Edited by Peter Boxall
THE UNNAMABLE
Edited by Steven Connor
HOW IT IS
Edited by Magessa O’Reilly
HAPPY DAYS
Preface by James Knowlson
THE EXPELLED/THE CALMATIVE/THE END/FIRST LOVE
Edited by Christopher Ricks
WAITING FOR GODOT
Preface by Mary Bryden
TEXTS FOR NOTHING/RESIDUA/FIZZLES: SHORTER FICTION 1950–1981
Edited by Mark Nixon
MERCIER AND CAMIER
Edited by Sean Kennedy
SELECTED POEMS 1930–1988
Edited by David Wheatley
Copyright
First published by Olympia Press, Paris, 1953
First published in Great Britain as a Calder Jupiter Book in 1963 by John Calder Publishers
This edition first published in 2009
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2012
All rights reserved
© The Estate of Samuel Beckett, 2009
Preface © C. J. Ackerley, 2009
The right of Samuel Beckett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
The right of C. J. Ackerley to be identified as editor of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–26694–4
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