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.