WEBVTT

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I want you to picture someone for a second. Just

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imagine a Nobel Prize -winning author, you know,

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the kind of towering literary figure whose very

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name is basically synonymous with stark minimalism,

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the avant -garde, and just the absolute darkest,

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most unfathomable depths of existential dread.

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Right. So you're probably picturing someone very

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serious. Exactly. Someone sitting in a dimly

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lit, sparsely furnished room, agonizing over

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the sheer futility of human existence, maybe

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wearing a black turtleneck. Gaunt features, you

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know, a deeply furrowed brow just staring out

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a window at some bleak landscape. Right, exactly.

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But now I want you to take that exact same guy

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and I want you to imagine him as a first -class,

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highly competitive athlete. Which is just, I

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mean, it's so hard to picture. It really is.

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Imagine him sneaking through the shadows of occupied

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Paris as this daring anti -Nazi espionage agent,

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literally dodging the Gestapo. Perhaps most unbelievably

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of all, imagine him spending his mornings casually

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driving a young Andre the Giant to school in

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a modified pickup truck, just chatting about

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sports. It sounds utterly incompatible with the

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man who, you know, built a literary monument

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out of the concept of the absolute void. It does.

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But welcome to our deep dine into the life, the

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works, and the wonderfully absurd philosophy

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of Samuel Beckett. We are looking at an incredibly

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comprehensive biographical and critical overview

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of his life today. And it is quite a life. It

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really is. So our mission for the two of us and

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for you listening right now, you know, the vital

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third person in this room with us is to take

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a journey. We need to figure out how a man who

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dedicated his entire artistic life to exploring

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concepts of failure. nothingness and ignorance

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somehow managed to become one of the most towering,

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influential figures of the 20th century. Yeah,

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and to understand how he achieved that, we have

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to look closely at the entirely unexpected trajectory

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of his life. Because the man mapping the void

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didn't actually start there. Right, because I

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always assumed a writer like Beckett must have

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emerged fully formed from some tragic, impoverished,

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bohemian background. You know, it feels like

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a prerequisite for writing about misery. Sure.

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But looking at these sources, his early life

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was actually Shockingly comfortable. Highly comfortable,

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actually. I mean, he was born in 1906 in Fox

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Rock, which is this very affluent suburb of Dublin.

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He attended the prestigious Portora Royal School,

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which is actually the same institution Oscar

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Wilde attended. And then he went on to Trinity

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College Dublin. And while he was a brilliant

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student, the thing that truly set him apart in

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those early days was, well, it was his physicality.

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He was a formidable athlete. Wait, so the master

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of existential dread was a jock? A very serious

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one, yeah. He excelled at cricket as a left -handed

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batsman and a left -arm medium -paced bowler.

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He even played two first -class games for Dublin

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University against Northamptonshire. Wow. And

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that level of play actually earns him an incredibly

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niche distinction. Out of all the brilliant minds

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to ever win the Nobel Prize in literature, Samuel

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Beckett remains the only one to be listed in

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the wisdom cricketers' almanac, you know, the

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Bible of the sport. That is wild. I mean, we

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tend to think of these avant -garde writers as

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just floating brains. Completely disconnected

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from the real world. It's a super common misconception,

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but his athleticism is actually crucial to understanding

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him. He was profoundly aware of the body, of

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movement, of physical endurance. Oh, very interesting.

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Yeah. Later in his work, when you see characters

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trapped in urns or buried up to their necks in

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sand, that obsession with physical limitation

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and the decay of the body stems directly from

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someone who once knew what it was to have absolute

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physical control. That makes so much sense. Right.

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But his intellectual life was accelerating just

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as fast. After graduating, he moved to Paris

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in 1928 to work as an Englishman. lecturer and

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that is where the great collision of his life

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happens. He meets James Joyce. Okay let's unpack

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this because meeting James Joyce in Paris in

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the 1920s wasn't just meeting a famous writer.

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Joyce was an absolute titan. Oh he was the center

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of the literary universe at that moment. A close

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friend introduced the young Beckett to Joyce

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and Joyce had this profound almost gravity -like

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pull on him. Right. Beckett basically became

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a sort of assistant helping research the famously

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impenetrable book that would eventually become

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Finnegan's Wake. I want to put this in perspective

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for you, the listener. Imagine being a brilliant

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young software developer. You're ambitious. You

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want to launch your own startup. You want to

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disrupt the industry. And your very first job

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is sitting at a shared desk with Steve Jobs while

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he's inventing the iPhone. That is a great way

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to look at it. Right. It would be overwhelmingly

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inspiring, sure. Right. But how paralyzing would

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that be? Like how on earth do you find your own

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voice or your own lane when you're working directly

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for a genius who is literally redefining the

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boundaries of your entire field? You are describing

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the exact psychological trap Beckett fell into.

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Joyce was the ultimate maximalist. His method

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was to pack all of human history, multiple languages,

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intricate puns, and basically every myth ever

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written into a single dense paragraph. Which

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is just exhausting to even think about. It is,

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and Beckett was desperately trying to write his

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own material during this time. He showed flashes

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of brilliance. I mean, he won a small literary

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prize for a poem called Horoscope, which he wrote

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hastily after reading a biography of Rene Descartes.

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Right. But overall, he was completely suffocated

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by Joyce's shadow. He had to realize he was never

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going to beat James Joyce at his own game. Exactly.

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And the paralysis of living under that literary

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shadow was heavy. But the actual city of Paris

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was about to offer him a much more literal physical

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danger. And this event completely shattered his

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understanding of how the world operates. Yeah,

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we are talking about January 1938. Beckett was

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walking down a street in Paris. A notoriously

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dangerous area. Yes. And he is approached by

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a local pimp who went by the name Prudent. This

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guy solicits him. Beckett refuses. And in response,

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Prudent pulls out a knife and stabs Beckett in

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the chest, nearly killing him. Oh my god. Just

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right there on the street. Just right there.

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The blade narrowly missed his heart. Joyce actually

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had to step in and arrange for Beckett to have

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a private room at the hospital to recover. Wow.

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So Joyce comes to the rescue. He does. And the

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massive publicity from the stabbing also brought

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Beckett back into contact with a woman named

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Suzanne Deschvaux de Menil. She would eventually

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become his lifelong companion and future wife.

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So the violence radically altered his personal

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life, too. The part of the story that blows my

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mind is the trial. So Beckett recovers, he goes

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to court for the preliminary hearing, and he

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finally gets to face his attacker. Right. He

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asked the question that would be burning in anyone's

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mind. Why did you stab me? I would expect a monologue

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about disrespect or a robbery gone wrong or something,

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but Pruden just looks at him and replies, I do

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not know, sir. I apologize. And Beckett just

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drops the charges. He lets the guy go. What's

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fascinating here is how perfectly this bizarre

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real world exchange mirrors the theater of the

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absurd that Beckett would later pioneer. Tell

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me more about that. Well, for anyone unfamiliar

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with the term, the theater of the absurd is a

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theatrical movement that abandons logical plot,

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realistic character motivations and clear dialogue.

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Instead, it uses irrational situations to reflect

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the fundamental meaninglessness of human existence.

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I put yourself in issues. You are nearly murdered

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on the street. Your life almost ends and the

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universe's only explanation is a polite shrug.

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I don't know. My bad. The dark comedy of that

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is just. staggering. The philosophical implication

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is huge. In traditional storytelling, you know,

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the kind of novels that dominated before Beckett,

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every action has a clear logical motive. Cause

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and effect. Right. A character does something

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terrible because of a childhood trauma or greed

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or revenge. But Beckett's lived reality just

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proved to him that violence, suffering, and life

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-altering events occur for absolutely no reason

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at all. Just totally random. Completely. It is

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an entirely incomprehensible universe. Decades

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later, when the author Solomon Rushdie survived

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his own horrific stabbing, he cited this exact

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response from Beckett's attacker to explain why

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he had no desire to interview the man who stabbed

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him. Sometimes looking into the void yields Absolutely

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no answers. Wow. And if a random stabbing in

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1938 taught him that individual violence has

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no inherent meaning, the events of 1939 forced

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him to confront that same meaningless chaos on

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a global industrialized scale. World War II breaks

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out. And being an Irish citizen, Beckett had

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an easy out. Ireland remained neutral during

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the war. He could have safely packed his bags,

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returned to the comfortable suburbs of Dublin,

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and just waited it out. Which a lot of people

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did. Exactly. Instead, he made the deliberate

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choice to stay in Paris, famously stating that

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he preferred France at war to Ireland at peace.

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And when the Germans occupied France in 1940,

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he didn't just hide in his apartment, he actively

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joined the French resistance. Specifically, a

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network called Rizzo Gloria. Right. He worked

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as a courier, which was incredibly dangerous.

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A courier wasn't just dropping off mail. He was

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receiving highly sensitive pieces of information

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like microfilm containing details about German

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troop movements. Geez. Yeah. And he was transloading

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them, then smuggling them to other operatives

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right under the noses of the Gestapo. If he had

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been caught with those translations, it would

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have meant torture and execution. And his network

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was eventually compromised, wasn't it? It was,

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yeah. Betrayed by a double agent in 1942. Dozens

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of his fellow resistance members were arrested

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and sent to concentration camps. Beckett and

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Suzanne were tipped off just in time. They had

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to literally flee their apartment and walk on

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foot, hiding in the woods, heading south until

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they reached the small, unoccupied village of

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Rissalon. And even then, he didn't stop. No.

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Even there, he secretly helped the local Maquis

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resistance fighters store weapons in his garage

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for sabotage operations against the German forces.

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I mean, for all of this immense bravery, the

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French government later awarded him the Croix

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de Guerre and the Resistance Medal. So how does

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this giant of literature describe his harrowing,

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life -risking, anti -Nazi espionage? He dismissed

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the whole thing as Boy Scout stuff. Boy Scout

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stuff. It sounds overly humble, but you have

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to view it through his psychological state at

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the time. Okay, how so? Coming out of the war,

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having witnessed the Holocaust, the devastation

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of Europe, and the atomic bomb. He felt that

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any individual action was terrifyingly small,

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and that sheer scale of destruction directly

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triggered the most important artistic breakthrough

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of his life. It happened in 1945, right after

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the war. He was back in Dublin for a brief visit,

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sitting in his mother's room, and he had what

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he called a revelation. He looked back at his

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old mentor, James Joyce. He did. He realized

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that Joyce's entire method was about adding.

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Joyce assumed a position of total knowledge.

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He controlled the material, he expanded it, he

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layered it with endless complexity. Sure. But

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sitting in that room, Beckett realized that his

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own path had to be the exact opposite. He had

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to embrace impoverishment. He had to embrace

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a lack of knowledge. He decided his art would

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be entirely about subtracting. I love this visual.

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Think of literature as a massive block of marble.

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James Joyce was this artist who was constantly

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adding more and more clay to the top of it, trying

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to build an infinitely complex towering monument

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to human history. Yeah, a great way to picture

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it. And Beckett realized his job was to take

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a chisel to the stone and just keep chipping

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away, stripping off the plot, stripping off the

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omniscient narrator, chipping away until there

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was almost nothing left. Just the barest, thinnest

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sliver of existence. But as an artist, how on

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earth do you sell impoverishment? I mean, people

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buy books or theater tickets because they want

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something. How do you make nothing compelling?

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Well, you do it by being brutally, devastatingly

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honest about the human condition. After the trauma

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of the Second World War, Bickett realized that

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mankind in the modern era is fundamentally A

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non -Knower. A non -Knower. Yes. We do not have

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the answers to why such horrific suffering exists.

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So to write traditional flowery fiction with

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an omniscient narrator who knows exactly how

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the world works felt intellectually dishonest

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to him. I see. To achieve this subtraction, he

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even started writing primarily in French instead

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of his native English. He said writing in French

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made it easier for him to write without style.

00:12:25.399 --> 00:12:28.019
Really? Yeah. He actively wanted to strip away

00:12:28.019 --> 00:12:30.399
the beautiful melodic prose of his mother tongue

00:12:30.399 --> 00:12:33.779
to get to the raw un - nerve of existence. And

00:12:33.779 --> 00:12:37.399
that raw nerve is what birthed his absolute masterpiece.

00:12:37.860 --> 00:12:40.980
Between 1948 and 1949 he writes a play called

00:12:40.980 --> 00:12:43.480
Waiting for Godot. Originally written in French

00:12:43.480 --> 00:12:45.779
as En attendant Godot and we really have to give

00:12:45.779 --> 00:12:48.259
immense credit to Suzanne here. Oh absolutely.

00:12:48.399 --> 00:12:51.080
She essentially acted as his agent fiercely shopping

00:12:51.080 --> 00:12:53.759
this bizarre rule -breaking manuscript around

00:12:53.759 --> 00:12:56.059
the theaters of Paris until she finally found

00:12:56.059 --> 00:12:59.519
a director Roger Plym who understood its unconventional

00:12:59.519 --> 00:13:02.000
vision. because it is entirely unconventional.

00:13:02.399 --> 00:13:04.899
You have two ragged men, Vladimir and Estragon,

00:13:05.320 --> 00:13:07.220
standing by a barren tree on an empty country

00:13:07.220 --> 00:13:09.740
road, waiting for a man named Godot. They talk,

00:13:09.820 --> 00:13:11.500
they argue, they complain about their boots,

00:13:11.779 --> 00:13:14.440
and Godot never shows up. Never. The famous Irish

00:13:14.440 --> 00:13:16.879
critic, Vivian Mercier, reviewed it and gave

00:13:16.879 --> 00:13:18.740
what might be the greatest, most accurate summary

00:13:18.740 --> 00:13:21.259
in the history of theater criticism. He wrote

00:13:21.259 --> 00:13:22.860
that Beckett has written a play in which nothing

00:13:22.860 --> 00:13:25.759
happens twice, because act two is basically just

00:13:25.759 --> 00:13:29.620
a repeat of act one. Exactly. It dismantled every

00:13:29.620 --> 00:13:32.519
foundational rule of dramatic storytelling. There

00:13:32.519 --> 00:13:35.759
is no rising action, no character arcs, no clear

00:13:35.759 --> 00:13:39.740
climax, and no resolution. And yet, defying all

00:13:39.740 --> 00:13:43.059
logic, it became a massive, unprecedented global

00:13:43.059 --> 00:13:46.139
success. It really did. It resonated deeply with

00:13:46.139 --> 00:13:48.639
audiences everywhere, from intellectual circles

00:13:48.639 --> 00:13:51.659
in Paris to prisoners in San Quentin. So what

00:13:51.659 --> 00:13:53.990
does this all mean? Why did millions of people

00:13:53.990 --> 00:13:56.090
fall in love with a play where literally nothing

00:13:56.090 --> 00:13:58.389
happens? I want you to think about a time in

00:13:58.389 --> 00:14:00.870
your life when you were stuck waiting for something

00:14:00.870 --> 00:14:03.370
terrifying. Okay. Maybe you were sitting in a

00:14:03.370 --> 00:14:05.850
sterile room waiting for a life -altering medical

00:14:05.850 --> 00:14:08.289
test result. Oh. You were completely powerless.

00:14:08.730 --> 00:14:10.669
The thing you were waiting for hasn't arrived.

00:14:11.210 --> 00:14:13.169
How did you pass the time with the person next

00:14:13.169 --> 00:14:15.570
to you? You probably made weird jokes. You argued

00:14:15.570 --> 00:14:18.049
about trivial nonsense. You paced the room. You

00:14:18.049 --> 00:14:19.990
did whatever you could to distract yourself from

00:14:19.990 --> 00:14:23.370
the terrifying void of the unknown. That is exactly

00:14:23.370 --> 00:14:25.950
what Vladimir and Estragon are doing. If we connect

00:14:25.950 --> 00:14:28.370
this to the bigger picture, waiting for Godot

00:14:28.370 --> 00:14:31.330
is often falsely labeled as strict existentialism.

00:14:32.230 --> 00:14:34.470
But Beckett hated philosophical labels. He wasn't

00:14:34.470 --> 00:14:36.169
trying to write an academic textbook for the

00:14:36.169 --> 00:14:39.090
stage. The play resonates globally because it

00:14:39.090 --> 00:14:41.690
is actually about the universal human will to

00:14:41.690 --> 00:14:44.669
survive. It's about how we desperately rely on

00:14:44.669 --> 00:14:47.049
each other through mundane habits and shared

00:14:47.049 --> 00:14:49.990
humor to endure the passing of time in the face

00:14:49.990 --> 00:14:53.970
of absolute despair. It is deeply bleak but because

00:14:53.970 --> 00:14:56.429
of those survival mechanisms it is also incredibly

00:14:56.429 --> 00:14:59.450
funny. And speaking of survival mechanisms, his

00:14:59.450 --> 00:15:01.929
global fame from Godot brings us to what might

00:15:01.929 --> 00:15:04.490
be my favorite juxtaposition in literary history.

00:15:04.669 --> 00:15:07.690
By the 1950s, Beckett is this internationally

00:15:07.690 --> 00:15:10.389
renowned intellectual, the definitive voice of

00:15:10.389 --> 00:15:12.649
human isolation. He uses some of his earnings

00:15:12.649 --> 00:15:15.710
to buy land and build a cottage about 60 kilometers

00:15:15.710 --> 00:15:18.330
northeast of Paris. And what does the gaunt master

00:15:18.330 --> 00:15:20.970
of the absurd do in his spare time? He drives

00:15:20.970 --> 00:15:23.879
the local kids to school. He had a modified pickup

00:15:23.879 --> 00:15:26.539
truck to move materials for his cottage, and

00:15:26.539 --> 00:15:29.019
he would routinely offer rides to the neighborhood

00:15:29.019 --> 00:15:32.000
children who had to walk a long way. One of those

00:15:32.000 --> 00:15:35.240
children happened to be a boy named Andre Rusimoff.

00:15:35.399 --> 00:15:37.399
Who the world would later know as the legendary

00:15:37.399 --> 00:15:39.919
professional wrestler Andre the Giant. Yes. Because

00:15:39.919 --> 00:15:42.080
Andre was already too massive to comfortably

00:15:42.080 --> 00:15:45.120
fit on the local school bus, Samuel Beckett Nobel

00:15:45.120 --> 00:15:47.659
Laureate would let the teenager ride in the back

00:15:47.659 --> 00:15:50.669
of his truck, and the two of them bonded. This

00:15:50.669 --> 00:15:53.389
raises an important question about how we perceive

00:15:53.389 --> 00:15:56.029
artists versus who they actually are, because

00:15:56.029 --> 00:15:59.169
what did the pioneer of the void and the future

00:15:59.169 --> 00:16:01.710
heavyweight wrestler talk about on those drives?

00:16:02.470 --> 00:16:04.850
Cricket. Andre later recalled that the two of

00:16:04.850 --> 00:16:06.769
them rarely talked about anything else. They

00:16:06.769 --> 00:16:09.590
just endlessly discussed the intricacies of cricket

00:16:09.590 --> 00:16:12.389
matches. It shows that even a man who dedicates

00:16:12.389 --> 00:16:14.350
his life to exploring the meaninglessness of

00:16:14.350 --> 00:16:17.210
the universe still just wants to enjoy a good

00:16:17.210 --> 00:16:20.009
chat about sports. It perfectly captures the

00:16:20.009 --> 00:16:22.289
tragicomedy of his own plays. But, you know,

00:16:22.309 --> 00:16:25.129
as we move into the 1960s and 70s, what scholars

00:16:25.129 --> 00:16:27.870
refer to as his late works period, that sense

00:16:27.870 --> 00:16:30.129
of subtraction we discussed earlier became radically

00:16:30.129 --> 00:16:33.090
extreme. The chisel was cutting dangerously close

00:16:33.090 --> 00:16:35.970
to the bone. Yeah, in 1969, he writes a play

00:16:35.970 --> 00:16:38.870
called Breath. There are no characters, no actors

00:16:38.870 --> 00:16:42.429
on stage. The audience just sees a stage full

00:16:42.429 --> 00:16:44.730
of rubbish. They hear the sound of a brief recorded

00:16:44.730 --> 00:16:47.730
cry, a slow mechanical breath in, a breath out,

00:16:47.809 --> 00:16:50.549
another cry, and the lights go black. The entire

00:16:50.549 --> 00:16:53.440
play lasts exactly 35 seconds. And then you have

00:16:53.440 --> 00:16:56.779
Not I, written in 1972. The mechanics of this

00:16:56.779 --> 00:16:59.539
play are genuinely unsettling. The stage is plunged

00:16:59.539 --> 00:17:01.980
into pitch blackness. Total darkness. Total darkness.

00:17:02.100 --> 00:17:03.740
The audience cannot see the set. They cannot

00:17:03.740 --> 00:17:05.799
see each other. The only thing illuminator is

00:17:05.799 --> 00:17:08.039
a single human mouth floating about eight feet

00:17:08.039 --> 00:17:10.059
in the air, illuminated by a tight spotlight.

00:17:10.339 --> 00:17:14.000
The mouth speaks at a frantic, terrified, almost

00:17:14.000 --> 00:17:17.599
incomprehensible speed. He worked on this specific

00:17:17.599 --> 00:17:19.799
play with his muse, the brilliant actress, Billy

00:17:19.799 --> 00:17:22.660
Whitelaw, for a quarter of a century. She gave

00:17:22.660 --> 00:17:24.480
a chilling description of her collaboration with

00:17:24.480 --> 00:17:27.680
him. She said, with all of Sam's work, the scream

00:17:27.680 --> 00:17:30.539
was there. My task was to try to get it out.

00:17:30.839 --> 00:17:33.119
Here's where it gets really interesting, because

00:17:33.119 --> 00:17:36.140
it forces us to question the entire social contract

00:17:36.140 --> 00:17:39.140
of art. I mean, if you got a ticket to a show,

00:17:39.579 --> 00:17:41.720
got dressed up, sat down in the theater, and

00:17:41.720 --> 00:17:43.880
all you saw was a floating mouth talking in the

00:17:43.880 --> 00:17:46.900
dark, or a play that literally ended in 35 seconds,

00:17:47.019 --> 00:17:49.000
would you feel cheated? Right. Would you ask

00:17:49.000 --> 00:17:51.549
for your money back? Exactly. Is he just trolling

00:17:51.549 --> 00:17:53.269
his audience at this point, or is there something

00:17:53.269 --> 00:17:55.430
profoundly brave about an artist aggressively

00:17:55.430 --> 00:17:57.549
stripping away the sets, the elaborate costumes,

00:17:57.750 --> 00:18:00.289
the physical movement, and the plot until only

00:18:00.289 --> 00:18:03.369
the raw panic human voices left? Well, he certainly

00:18:03.369 --> 00:18:06.009
wasn't trolling. It was a deliberate psychological

00:18:06.009 --> 00:18:09.390
confrontation. In these late works, Beckett was

00:18:09.390 --> 00:18:11.710
obsessively focused on the entrapment of memory.

00:18:12.309 --> 00:18:14.470
By blacking out the stage and isolating just

00:18:14.470 --> 00:18:17.089
the mouth, he was simulating the experience of

00:18:17.089 --> 00:18:19.710
the self, entirely confined and trapped inside

00:18:19.710 --> 00:18:22.289
the skull. I hear that is intense. Very. He used

00:18:22.289 --> 00:18:24.990
incredibly strict stage directions to control

00:18:24.990 --> 00:18:27.869
every single breath, every blink, and every shadow.

00:18:28.349 --> 00:18:31.750
In fact, his literary estate still fiercely protects

00:18:31.750 --> 00:18:34.269
those directions today, shutting down productions

00:18:34.269 --> 00:18:36.490
that try to alter the lighting or the set. Wow,

00:18:36.490 --> 00:18:39.049
they don't m— No, because he wasn't trying to

00:18:39.049 --> 00:18:41.509
entertain you in the traditional sense. By removing

00:18:41.509 --> 00:18:43.670
all the comforting distractions of a normal play,

00:18:44.049 --> 00:18:47.150
he was forcing you, the audience, to sit in the

00:18:47.150 --> 00:18:50.049
dark and confront the inescapable, looping reality

00:18:50.049 --> 00:18:52.210
of your own mind. You kick away all the noise.

00:18:52.410 --> 00:18:54.990
Which brings a fascinating symmetry to how he

00:18:54.990 --> 00:18:58.289
handled the end of his own life. In October 1969,

00:18:58.450 --> 00:19:01.190
while on holiday in Tunis, Beckett receives the

00:19:01.190 --> 00:19:03.490
news that he has won the Nobel Prize in Literature.

00:19:04.140 --> 00:19:07.140
And his fiercely protective wife, Suzanne, upon

00:19:07.140 --> 00:19:09.339
hearing the news that her intensely private husband

00:19:09.339 --> 00:19:11.920
is now going to be saddled with global fame,

00:19:12.359 --> 00:19:14.980
endless media attention, and public adoration,

00:19:15.299 --> 00:19:18.460
famously calls the award a catastrophe. It is

00:19:18.460 --> 00:19:21.140
the ultimate Beckesian reaction to winning the

00:19:21.140 --> 00:19:24.220
highest possible honor in literature. Total dread.

00:19:24.420 --> 00:19:28.740
Right. Suzanne passed away in July 1989. Beckett,

00:19:28.779 --> 00:19:30.700
who was confined to a nursing home and suffering

00:19:30.700 --> 00:19:32.900
from emphysema, followed her just a few months

00:19:32.900 --> 00:19:36.589
later. dying on December 26, 1989. They were

00:19:36.589 --> 00:19:38.890
buried together in a cemetery in Paris. And even

00:19:38.890 --> 00:19:42.049
in death, he gave a strict minimalist directorial

00:19:42.049 --> 00:19:44.829
note. His gravestone is a simple block of granite

00:19:44.829 --> 00:19:47.490
that follows his exact directive. Any color,

00:19:47.650 --> 00:19:50.769
so long as it's gray. The final permanent subtraction.

00:19:50.990 --> 00:19:52.829
Exactly. It leaves us with the profound final

00:19:52.829 --> 00:19:55.529
thought to chew on today. We talked about Beckett's

00:19:55.529 --> 00:19:58.109
great revelation in 1945 that his own stupidity,

00:19:58.630 --> 00:20:00.329
his ignorance and his lack of knowledge were

00:20:00.329 --> 00:20:03.039
actually his precious ally. We live right now

00:20:03.039 --> 00:20:05.599
in an age of constant overwhelming information

00:20:05.599 --> 00:20:07.940
overload. Oh, without a doubt. We are desperately

00:20:07.940 --> 00:20:11.019
trying to know more, constantly scrolling, researching,

00:20:11.240 --> 00:20:14.079
and adding data to our mental hard drives every

00:20:14.079 --> 00:20:16.240
single second of the day, hoping it will make

00:20:16.240 --> 00:20:19.319
the world make sense. What could you gain in

00:20:19.319 --> 00:20:21.799
your own life if you actively chose to embrace

00:20:21.799 --> 00:20:24.960
not knowing? What would happen if, just for one

00:20:24.960 --> 00:20:27.960
day, you tried Samuel Beckett's method if you

00:20:27.960 --> 00:20:30.160
focused on the art of subtracting the noise?

00:20:30.480 --> 00:20:32.680
It is a terrifying prospect to admit our own

00:20:32.680 --> 00:20:34.680
ignorance, but perhaps it is the only way to

00:20:34.680 --> 00:20:37.099
find any real clarity. Sometimes the most honest

00:20:37.099 --> 00:20:40.339
thing you can do when faced with a chaotic, incomprehensible

00:20:40.339 --> 00:20:43.440
universe is just shrug, admit you don't have

00:20:43.440 --> 00:20:45.779
the answers, and find someone to talk about sports

00:20:45.779 --> 00:20:47.740
with while you wait for whatever comes next.

00:20:48.119 --> 00:20:49.500
Thank you so much for joining us on this deep

00:20:49.500 --> 00:20:50.400
dive. We'll see you next time.
