Musing about Beckett’s writing
So, I took that one thing and ran away with it…the question I’m asking myself now is why I like/liked that one? Because generally, if I’m honest (and I am now) I don’t like his writing (ficlet-things and now this chapter of his maybe-book). Obviously I like the lyrics but they are more like poems or journal entries? It feels different.
His longer pieces feel artificial. Like he’s trying to hard. (The lyrics feel more honest, more real. Like a spur of the moment thing, scribbled down in a hurry.)
The first chapter is full of tragic and pathos. God, the Christmas Day line was way too much, the overkill. His girlfriend - to be bride - leaving and the death of his sibling, and of course, the main character is not a mentally healthy being (who is, honestly?! I’ve never meet someone normal in my whole life). Tragedies happen on ordinary winter days too, not just around Christmas, what’s wrong with February?
Anyway, back to the ficlet I like: I mean the thing is still filled with details I don’t think anyone needs to know (this attention to too much detail is why Thomas Mann and I never were friends and maybe never will be), but maybe it’s the obsessive, bored, observation character of it all…?
Seriously, I wished I knew why this grabbed me. It’s after all nothing I can relate to. Nothing at all.
His longer pieces feel artificial. Like he’s trying to hard. (The lyrics feel more honest, more real. Like a spur of the moment thing, scribbled down in a hurry.)
The first chapter is full of tragic and pathos. God, the Christmas Day line was way too much, the overkill. His girlfriend - to be bride - leaving and the death of his sibling, and of course, the main character is not a mentally healthy being (who is, honestly?! I’ve never meet someone normal in my whole life). Tragedies happen on ordinary winter days too, not just around Christmas, what’s wrong with February?
Anyway, back to the ficlet I like: I mean the thing is still filled with details I don’t think anyone needs to know (this attention to too much detail is why Thomas Mann and I never were friends and maybe never will be), but maybe it’s the obsessive, bored, observation character of it all…?
Seriously, I wished I knew why this grabbed me. It’s after all nothing I can relate to. Nothing at all.