Throughout The 1960s And 1970s Devoted Beckett

Where I Went, No One Could Follow. Yet Someone Managed To Hold My Hand.

These Days I Must Take The World In Small And Carefully Measured Doses. It Is A Sort Of Homeopathic Cure I Am Undergoing, Though I Am Not Certain What This Cure Is Meant To Mend. Perhaps I Am Learning To Live Amongst The Living Again. Practising, I Mean. But No, That Is Not It. Being Here Is Just A Way Of Not Being Anywhere.

Yes, This Is What I Thought Adulthood Would Be, A Kind Of Long Indian Summer, A State Of Tranquility, Of Calm Incuriousness, With Nothing Left Of The Barely Bearable Raw Immediacy Of Childhood, All The Things Solved That Had Puzzled Me When I Was Small, All Mysteries Settled, All Questions Answered, And The Moments Dripping Away, Unnoticed Almost, Drip By Golden Drip, Toward The Final, Almost Unnoticed, Quietus.

The Novel Is Resilient, And So Are Novelists.

For Memory, We Use Our Imagination. We Take A Few Strands Of Real Time And Carry Them With Us, Then Like An Oyster We Create A Pearl Around Them.