I’m writing this at 12 noon in a café in
mid-town. It is warm and bright and I wish I
were in Provence. Another fortnight and I shall. I’m as
dull as ditchwater and can hardly hold the pen. Nobody
can read my writing but it’s the best I can
do. I went to Beckett’s Endgame last night. Well played,
but somehow I disliked the play. One day you’ll be
blind like me. You’ll be sitting here, a speck in
the void, in the dark, forever, like me. Pen drying
up, like myself. I’m warming up for my last soliloquy.
Paraphrases from The Letters of Samuel Beckett 1941-1956 and quotes from the play Endgame by Samuel Beckett.