“At times I felt its wooden life invade me, till I myself became a piece of old wood.”
Samuel Beckett’s writing is fundamentally grim and sour, describing the decaying depths of human life, the violence of disease, and the dissolution of death.
It’s a story much too aware of the disquiet and angst it gives rise to, The End is a powerful and intense exploration of the anonymity of isolation, how it penetrates and infects any semblance of a meaningful life; how it haunts not just the waking life of an individual but dreams as well, turning hope into nightmare, expression into horror.
At the heart of Beckett’s descriptions of nature is a kind of helplessness that leads, inevitably, to decay and suffering. Everything Beckett writes about flows in the currents of existentialism, immorality, and deterioration.
He writes in a way that feels matter-of-fact and personal, it’s imaginative and grotesque, rife with rich symbolism and intelligence that grips you unaware. It’s fast-paced, absurd, carnal, and harsh in its nihilism. You can read it as humorous or melancholic, laughable or quixotic, how you look at it depends on how you choose to read it. It will unnerve you nevertheless.
“There was that strange light which follows a day of persistent rain, when the sun comes out and the sky clears too late to be of any use. The earth makes a sound as of sighs and the last drops fall from the emptied cloudless sky.”