on Painstalling (Samuel Beckett)

June 16, 2009

"I sat on the wharf and watched the little steamers dipping their funnels to get under the bridge, and it opening for a big boat to go under. Tres emouvant. That’s all I do now–go out about 2 and find some place to sit till the pubs open and get back here about 7 and cook liver and read the Evening News. I couldn’t stand the British Museum any more. Plato & Artistotle & the Gnostics finished me. I bought the Origin of Species yesterday for 6d and never read such badly written catlap. I only remember thing: *blue eyed cats are always deaf* (correlation of variations). I finished Vanity Fair and Cunt Pointercunt. A very painstalling work…. I bought Moby-Dick today for 6d. That’s more like the real stuff. White whales & natural piety… I haven’t opened my mouth except in bars & groceries since you left this day week: to haughty barpersons and black-souled grocers. About going where I don’t know. I suppose I must go home. I haven’t tried to write. The idea itself of writing seems somehow ludicrous… if I could work up some pretext for writing a poem, a short story, or anything at all, I would be all right. I suppose I am all right. But I get frightened sometimes at the idea that the itch to write is cured."

–Samuel Beckett
from 1932 letter

Tags: cpb, letters, samuel beckett, Writing