By DENIS DONOGHUE = New York Times -Published: October 28, 2011
THE LETTERS OF SAMUEL BECKETT - Volume II: 1941-1956
Edited by George Craig, Martha Dow Fehsenfeld, Dan Gunn and Lois More OverbeckTranslations by George Craig
Illustrated. 791 pp. Cambridge University Press. US$50.
Samuel Barclay Beckett was born in Foxrock, south of Dublin, in the spring of 1906 — there’s a dispute about the precise date; he died in Paris on Dec. 22, 1989. Over a period of 60 years, he wrote more than 15,000 letters. The editors of “The Letters of Samuel Beckett” plan to publish, in four volumes, their choice of about 2,500 letters in full, and to cite a further 5,000 in their copious annotations. The letters in French are given in the original, then translated into English. The first volume, the letters of 1929-40, was published in 2009.
The years in Paris after the war were nearly impossible. Beckett and Suzanne were dirt-poor. The money his father left him had dwindled to a pittance by the time it arrived in France. How he wrote anything is a puzzle. He wrote his novel “Watt” during the war, but getting it published was misery; it took years. In March 1949, to escape from the hubbub of Paris, Beckett and Suzanne rented a room for almost nothing in a house in Ussy-sur-Marne, a village about 35 miles from Paris. There he was able to write, and in the afternoons to garden, plant trees and take long walks with Suzanne. On June 1, 1949, he reported to his friend Georges Duthuit:
“One evening as we were on our way back to Ussy, at sunset, we suddenly found ourselves being escorted by ephemerids of a strange kind, ‘mayflies,’ I think. They were all heading in the same direction, literally following the road, at about the same speed as us. It was not a solar tropism, for we were going south. In the end I worked out that they were all going towards the Marne to be eaten by the fish, after making love on the water.”
Rest at New York Times.
“One evening as we were on our way back to Ussy, at sunset, we suddenly found ourselves being escorted by ephemerids of a strange kind, ‘mayflies,’ I think. They were all heading in the same direction, literally following the road, at about the same speed as us. It was not a solar tropism, for we were going south. In the end I worked out that they were all going towards the Marne to be eaten by the fish, after making love on the water.”
Rest at New York Times.
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