Novels of Samuel Barclay Beckett, Irish writer, include Murphy in 1938 and Malone Dies in 1951; a wider audience know his absurdist plays, such as Waiting for Godot in 1952 and Krapp's Last Tape in 1959, and he won the Nobel Prize of 1969 for literature.
Samuel Barclay Beckett, an avant-garde theater director and poet, lived in France for most of his adult life. He used English and French. His work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human nature, often coupled with black gallows humor.
People regard most influence of Samuel Barclay Beckett of the 20th century. James Augustine Aloysius Joyce strongly influenced him, whom people consider as one modernist. People sometimes consider him as an inspiration to many later first postmodernists. He is one of the key in what Martin Esslin called the "theater of the absurd". His later career worked with increasing minimalism.
People awarded Samuel Barclay Beckett "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation".
In 1984, people elected Samuel Barclay Bennett as Saoi of Aosdána.
making it all up on the doorstep as you went along making yourself all up again for the millionth time forgetting it all where you were and what for Foley’s Folly and the lot the child’s ruin you came to look was it still there to hide in again till it was night and time to go till that time came
Rounding out the year with a stream of consciousness instilled with reflections, regret and remembering. One of the great things about Beckett (at least I think that it's fun), is that you discover the more you read. I've now read this play 3-4 times tonight, and each time I discovered something new. The following line is from the first voice 'A' and it stuck with me the most. As a starting point, it very concisely underpins the rest of the play with this ambiguity of looking back, not really knowing what you were looking for, but feeling like something has followed you:
'All gone long ago that time you went back to look was the ruin still there where you hid as a child'
or by the window in the dark harking to the owl not a thought in your head till hard to believe harder and harder to believe you ever told anyone you loved them or anyone you till just one of those things you kept making up to keep the void out just another of those old tales to keep the void from pouring in on top of you the shroud
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making it all up on the doorstep as you went along making yourself all up again for the millionth time forgetting it all where you were and what for Foley's Folly and the lot the child's ruin you came to look was it still there to hide in again till it was night and time to go till that time came