Perhaps my best years are gone

A couple years back, I sat in a classroom and watched on a television screen this performance of Krapp's Last Tape. Earlier tonight, I sat in a playhouse, not more than a twenty-minute walk from my apartment, and saw the same man, though aged, recover the same staggering performance.

Beckett spent the corpus of his public work trying to dissuade us against the value of sentiment and memory. But the reason that makes this performance so fragile, is that no matter the strength of our fight, memory will always chain us back to our own pasts. To forget ourselves would make us not human. And with that vulnerability, we have to be reminded of the tragedy seeded in our humanity.

As John Hurt made his return for his second curtain call, the woman who sat in front of me shook her head, and with a hint of Irish brogue said, "I'm absolutely done with Beckett." I laughed to myself, because a couple years ago before I took that class I thought the same thing. It is so very funny how we mark time.



Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy