Monday, February 13, 2006
Not to dwell on that whole unanswerable question regarding fate and all, but if something say pops into your life a few times in a week, should you pursue it?
Am I getting little nódanna (I love the Irish for 'hint' - kind of like a nod in the right direction) from some otherworldly source? Or am I just superstitious.
And this coincidence is so minor, so miniscule, it shows how empty my life must be for me to notice it.
Yet as it is to do with someone of intellectual standing, such as Samuel Beckett, I have to admit, I am determined to pursue it. Generally my coincidences involve purchasing Jellybeans or watching the same episode of Hollyoaks twice.
Mr Beckett, a man who I know zilch about, has been suggested to me by several people who's opinions I respect as a man of great wit and intelligence. It has even been brought to my attention that his finest works reside within this very room in which I write.
I do imagine he's terribly clever, yet, despite fulsome recommendations - the latest of which was in Cara magazine (hello, I'm taking the advice of an inflight magazine? Pass the valium Hilda) - growing up with Sean Hughes doing the Beckett thing and terribly serious documentaries about him, I just can't see how he could be funny. It took me a lengthy search to find a photo were he was smiling. I imagine he had searched for his glasses and was grinning self-depreciatingly as someone pointed out they were on his forehead.
I'm lazy, and can't help thinking it is irritating that I'm going to have to read him to find out if he's funny. And our books aren't stacked in alphabetical order, so I'll have to bypass the Copeland, Weir and countless Crime Fiction books (gore, I adore) to find this book. I can almost hear my muttered grumbles as I eventually sit down to read this piece of literary caviar.
Beckett, this better be good.