Lately I've felt that the best writing -- not necessarily the best reporting, mind you -- is to be found in the Arts section of the New York Times. (Note: This, by default, excludes Victoria Heffernan and Alessandra Stanley.)I have found myself utterly fascinated by Jonathan Kalb's article on Samuel Beckett's legacy. As a Literature concentrator with a focus on modern drama, I was subjected to -- er, I mean, enjoyed -- my share of Beckett. But mostly it's the headline that has sucked me in and kept me coming back to re-read the piece:
You Must Go On After Beckett. I Can't Go On After Beckett. Go On.
If you aren't familiar with Beckett, then I apologize, because that will clearly make absolutely no sense. If you are, then I apologize, just because. But I also laud you, because...well, read the damn article.
Happy 100th birthday, Mr. Beckett. You annoy and frighten the bejesus out of me, but you opened doors that my writing depends on no longer being closed.
Plus David Mamet apparently thinks you were a great kisser. That must count for something, although what, I cannot fathom. Good luck figuring it out.
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