Godot biblio notes in Directing directory
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A Reader's Guide to Samuel Beckett
[ In 1935 he worked on his novel Murphy. In May of that year Beckett wrote to MacGreevy that he had been reading about film and wished to go to Moscow to study with Eisenstein; in the Summer of 1936 he wrote to Sergei Eisenstein and Vsevolod Pudovkin, offering to become their apprentices. Nothing came of this. ] biblio [questia.com] A Reader's Guide to Samuel Beckett
The Critical Response to Samuel Beckett by Cathleen Culotta Andonian; Greenwood Press, 1998 Beckett's Dying Words: The Clarendon Lectures, 1990 by Christopher Ricks; Oxford University Press, 1995 * Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot by Harold Bloom; Chelsea House, 1987 - Modern Critical Interpretations - Waiting for Godot - Contents - Editor's Note - Introduction - Bailing out the Silence - The Search for the Self - Waiting - Waiting for Godot - The Waiting Since - The Language of Myth - Beckett and the Problem of Modern Culture - Beckett's Modernity and Medieval Affinities - Chronology Waiting for Godot in Sarajevo: Theological Reflections on Nihilism, Tragedy, and Apocalypse Westview Press, 1998 The Death of God and the Meaning of Life by Julian Young; Routledge, 2003 Beckett at 80/Beckett in Context by Enoch Brater; Oxford University Press, 1986 Samuel Beckett by John Pilling; Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1976 Samuel Beckett and the End of Modernity by Richard Begam; Stanford University Press, 1996 All That Fall by Samuel Beckett; Grove Press, 1957 Happy Days: A Play in Two Acts by Samuel Beckett; Grove Press, 1961 ** [ 2007 dramlit ] Frescoes of the Skull: The Later Prose and Drama of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson, John Pilling; John Calder, 1979 The Long Sonata of the Dead: A Study of Samuel Beckett by Michael Robinson; Grove Press, 1969 Samuel Beckett: The Language of Self by Frederick J. Hoffman; Southern Illinois University Press, 1962 Samuel Beckett, a Critical Study by Hugh Kenner; Grove Press, 1961 Early Beckett: Art and Allusion in More Pricks Than Kicks and Murphy by Anthony Farrow; Whitston Publishing Company, 1991 Re--Joyce'n Beckett by Phyllis Carey, Ed Jewinski; Fordham University Press, 1992 Images of Beckett by John Haynes, James Knowlson; Cambridge University Press, 2003 Proust, Beckett and Narration by James H. Reid; Cambridge University Press, 2003 Murphy by Samuel Beckett; Grove Press, 1957 Watt by Samuel Beckett; Grove Press, 1959 Malone Dies by Samuel Beckett; Grove Press, 1956 The Drama in the Text: Beckett's Late Fiction by Enoch Brater; Oxford University Press, 1994 Theatre on Trial: Samuel Beckett's Later Drama by Anna Mcmullan; Routledge, 1993 Directing Beckett 0-472-08436-4
Palgrave Advances in Samuel Beckett Studies 1403903530 a web guide to Samuel Beckett from literaryhistory.com The Cambridge Companion to Beckett List of contributors; Preface; Chronology of Beckett’s life; List of abbreviations; A note on titles; 1. An endgame in aesthetics: Beckett as essayist Rupert Wood; 2. Beckett’s English fiction John Pilling; 3. Three novels and four nouvelles Paul Davies; 4. Waiting for Godot and Endgame: theatre as text Michael Worton; 5. Stages of identity: from Krapp to Play Paul Lawley; 6. Beginning again: the post-narrative art of Texts for Nothing and How It Is H. Porter Abbott; 7. The mediated Quixote: the radio and television plays and film Jonathan Kalb; 8. Dead heads: damnation-narration in the ‘dramaticules’ Keir Elam; 9. Disabled figures: from the Residua to Stirrings Still Andrew Renton; 10. Beckett’s poems and verse translations Roger Little; 11. Beckett as director: the art of mastering failure Anna McMullan; 12. Beckett’s bilingualism Ann Beer; 13. Beckett and the philosophers P. J. Murphy; Further reading; Index. Godot won't be worth waiting for Beckett Papers *** Samuel Beckett's NY Times Obituary December 27, 1989 - Wednesday - Late Edition By Mel Gussow Samuel Beckett, a towering figure in drama and fiction who altered the course of contemporary theater, died in Paris on Friday at the age of 83. He died of respiratory problems in a Paris hospital, where he had been moved from a nursing home. He was buried yesterday at the Montparnasse cemetery after a private funeral. Explaining the secrecy surrounding his illness, hospitalization and death, Irene Lindon, representing the author's Paris publisher, Editions de Minuit, said it was ''what he would have wanted.'' Beckett's plays became the cornerstone of 20th-century theater beginning with ''Waiting for Godot,'' which was first produced in 1953. As the play's two tramps wait for a salvation that never comes, they exchange vaudeville routines and metaphysical musings - and comedy rises to tragedy. An Alternative to Naturalism Before Beckett there was a naturalistic tradition. After him, scores of playwrights were encouraged to experiment with the underlying meaning of their work as well as with an absurdist style. As the Beckett scholar Ruby Cohn wrote: ''After 'Godot,' plots could be minimal; exposition, expendable; characters, contradictory; settings, unlocalized, and dialogue, unpredictable. Blatant farce could jostle tragedy.'' At the same time, his novels, in particular his trilogy, ''Molloy,'' ''Malone Dies'' and ''The Unnamable,'' inspired by James Joyce, move subliminally into the minds of the characters. The novels are among the most experimental and most profound in Western literature. For his accomplishments in both drama and fiction, the Irish author, who wrote first in English and later in French, received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1969. At the root of his art was a philosophy of the deepest yet most courageous pessimism, exploring man's relationship with his God. With Beckett, one searched for hope amid despair and continued living with a kind of stoicism, as illustrated by the final words of his novel, ''The Unnamable'': ''You must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.'' Or as he wrote in ''Worstward Ho,'' one of his later works of fiction: ''Try again. Fail again. Fail better.'' He wrote six novels, four long plays and dozens of shorter ones, volumes of stories and narrative fragments, some of which were short novels. He wrote poetry and essays on the arts, including an essay about Marcel Proust (one of his particular favorites), radio and television plays, and prose pieces he called residua and disjecta. Despite his artistic reputation, his ascension was slow and for many years discouraging. He labored in his own darkness and disillusionment, the equivalent of one of the isolated metaphorical worlds inhabited by his characters. When his work began to be published and produced, he was plagued by philistinism, especially with ''Waiting for Godot,'' which puzzled and outraged many theatergoers and critics, some of whom regarded it as a travesty if not a hoax. In no way could he ever be considered an optimist. In an often repeated story, on a glorious sunny day he walked jauntily through a London park with an old friend and exuded a feeling of joy. The friend said it was the kind of day that made one glad to be alive. Beckett responded, ''I wouldn't go that far.'' In Paris, he met James Joyce and other members of the literary and artistic set. He was not, as is commonly thought, Joyce's secretary, but he became a close friend and aide, reading to him when Joyce's eyes began to fail. Beckett's first published work was an essay on Joyce that appeared in the collection ''Our Exagmination Round His Factification for Incamination of Work in Progress,'' the work in progress being Joyce's ''Finnegans Wake.'' His first poem, ''Whoroscope,'' was printed in 1930. On his 80th birthday in 1986, Beckett was celebrated in several cities. In Paris there was a citywide festival of plays and symposiums and in New York there was a week of panels and lectures analyzing his art. As usual, he kept his silence, as in the characteristic note he sent to those who approached him about writing his biography. He said that his life was ''devoid of interest.'' His last work to be printed in his lifetime was ''Stirrings Still,'' a short prose piece published in a limited edition on his 83d birthday. In it, a character who resembles the author sits alone in a cell-like room until he sees his double appear - and then disappear. Accompanied by ''time and grief and self so-called,'' he finds himself ''stirring still'' to the end. ... [ Stoppard, Tom, son of Sam ]
|
A late evening in the future.
Krapp's den.
Front centre a small table, the two drawers of which open towards audience.
Sitting at the table, facing front, i.e. across from the drawers, a wearish old man: Krapp
Rusty black narrow trousers too short for him. Rust black sleevless waistcoat, four capaciou pockets. Heavy silver watch and chain. Grimy white shirt open at neck, no collar. Surprising pair of dirty white boots, size ten at least, very narrow and pointed.
White face. Purple nose. Disordered grey hair. Unshaven.
very near-sighted (but unspectacled). Hard of hearing.
Cracked voice. Distinctive intonation.
Laborious walk.
On the table a tape-recorder with microphone and a number of cardboard boxes containing reels of recorded tapes.
table and immediately adjacent area in strong white light. Rest of stage in darkness.
Krapp remains a moment motionless, heaves a great sigh, looks at his watch, fumbles in his pockets, takes out an evelope, puts it back, fumbles, takes out a small bunch of keys, raises it to his eyes, chooses a key, gets up and moves to front of table. He stoops, unlocks first drawer, peers into it, feels about inside it, takes out a reel of tape, peers at it, puts it back, locks drawer, unlocks second drawer peers into it, feels about inside it, takes out a large banana, peers at it, locks drawer, puts keys back in his pocket. He turns, advances to edge of stage, halts, strokes banana, peels it, drops skin at his feet, puts end of banana in his mouth and remains motionless, staring vacuously before him. Finally he bites off the end, turns aside and begins pacing to and fro at edge of stage, in the light, i.e. not more than four or five paces either way, meditatively eating banana. He treads on skin, slips, nearly falls, recovers himself, stoops and peers at skin and finally pushes it, still stooping, with his foot over the edge of the stage into pit. He resumes his pacing, finishes banana, returns to table, sits down, remains a moment motionless, heaves a great sigh, takes keys from his pockets, raises them to his eyes, chooses key, gets up and moves to front of table, unlocks second drawer, takes out a second large banana, peers at it, locks drawer, puts back his keys in his pocket, turns, advances to the edge of stage, halts, strokes banana, peels it, tosses skin into pit, puts an end of banana in his mouth and remains motionless, staring vacuously before him. Finally he has an idea, puts banana in his waistcoat pocket, the end emerging, and goes with all the speed he can muster backstage into darkness. Ten seconds. Loud pop of cork. Fifteen seconds. He comes back into light carrying an old ledger and sits down at table. He lays ledger on table, wipes his mouth, wipes his hands on the front of his waistcoat, brings them smartly together and rubs them.
KRAPP
(briskly). Ah! (He bends over ledger, turns the pages, finds the entry he wants, reads.) Box . . . thrree . . . spool . . . five. (he raises his head and stares front. With relish.) Spool! (pause.) Spooool! (happy smile. Pause. He bends over table, starts peering and poking at the boxes.) Box . . . thrree . . . three . . . four . . . two . . . (with surprise) nine! good God! . . . seven . . . ah! the little rascal! (He takes up the box, peers at it.) Box thrree. (He lays it on table, opens it and peers at spools inside.) Spool . . . (he peers at the ledger) . . . five . . . (he peers at spools) . . . five . . . five . . . ah! the little scoundrel! (He takes out a spool, peers at it.) Spool five. (He lays it on table, closes box three, puts it back with the others, takes up the spool.) Box three, spool five. (He bends over the machine, looks up. With relish.) Spooool! (happy smile. He bends, loads spool on machine, rubs his hands.) Ah! (He peers at ledger, reads entry at foot of page.) Mother at rest at last . . . Hm . . . The black ball . . . (He raises his head, stares blankly front. Puzzled.) Black ball? . . . (He peers again at ledger, reads.) The dark nurse . . . (He raises his head, broods, peers again at ledger, reads.) Slight improvement in bowel condition . . . Hm . . . Memorable . . . what? (He peers closer.) Equinox, memorable equinox. (He raises his head, stares blankly front. Puzzled.) Memorable equinox? . . . (Pause. He shrugs his head shoulders, peers again at ledger, reads.) Farewell to--(he turns the page)--love.
He raises his head, broods, bends over machine, switches on and assumes listening posture, i.e. leaning foreward, elbows on table, hand cupping ear towards machine, face front.
TAPE
(strong voice, rather pompous, clearly Krapp's at a much earlier time.) Thirty-nine today, sound as a--(Settling himself more comfortable he knocks one of the boxes off the table, curses, switches off, sweeps boxes and ledger violently to the ground, winds tape back to the beginning, switches on, resumes posture.) Thirty-nine today, sound as a bell, apart from my old weakness, and intellectually I have niw every reason to suspect at the . . . (hesitates) . . . crest of the wave--or thereabouts. Celebrated the awful occasion, as in recent years, quietly at the winehouse. Not a soul. Sat before the fire with closed eyes, separation the grain from the husks. jotted down a few notes, on the back on an envelope. Good to be back in my den in my old rags. Have just eaten I regret to say three bananas and only with difficulty restrained a fourth. Fatal things for a man with my condition. (Vehemently.) Cut 'em out! (pause.) The new light above my table is a great improvement. With all this darkness around me I feel less alone. (Pause.) In a way. (Pause.) I love to get up and move about in it, then back here to . . . (hesitates) . . . me. (pause.) Krapp.
Pause.
The grain, now what I wonder do I mean by that, I mean . . . (hesitates) . . . I suppose I mean those things worth having when all the dust has--when all my dust has settled. I close my eyes and try and imagine them.
Pause. Jrapp closes his eyes briefly.
Extraordinary silence this evening, I strain my ears and do not hear a sound. Old Miss McGlome always sings at this hour. But not tonight. Songs of her girlhood, she says. Hard to think of her as a girl. Wonderful woman, though. Connaught, I fancy. (Pause.) Shall I sing when I am her age, if I ever am? No. (Pause.) Did I sing as a boy? No. (Pause.) Did I ever sing? No.
Pause.
Just been listening to an old year, passaages at random. I did not check in the book, but it must be at least tne or twelve years ago. At that time I think I was still living on and off with Bianca in Kedar Street. Well out of that, Jesus yes! Hopeless business. (Pause.) Not much about her, apart from a tribute to her eyes. Very warm. I suddenly was them again. (Pause.) Incomparable! (Pause.) Ah well . . . (Pause.) These old P.M.s are gruesome, but I often find them--(Krapp switches off, broods, switches on)--a help before embarking on a new . . . (hestitates) . . . retrospect. Hard to believe I was ever that young whelp. The voice! Jesus! And the aspirations! (Brief laugh in which Krapp joins.) And the resolutions! (Brief laugh in which Krapp joins.) To drink less, in particular. (Brief laugh of Krapp alone.) Statistics. Seventeen hundred hours, out of the preceding eight thousand odd, consumed on licensed premises alone. More than 20%, say 40% of his waking life. (Pause.) Plans for a less . . . (hesitates) . . . engrossing sexual life. Last illness of his father. Flagging pursuit of happiness. Unattainable laxation. Sneers at what he calls his youth and thanks to God that it's over. (Pause.) False ring there. (Pause.) Shadows of the opus . . . magnum. Closing with a --(brief laugh)--yelp to Providence. (Prolonged laugh in which Krapp joins.) What remains of all that misery? A girl in a shabby green coat, on a railway-station platform? No?
Pause.
When I look--
Krapp switches off, broods, looks at his watch, gets up, goes backstage into darkness. Ten seconds. pop of cork. Ten seconds. Second cork. Ten seconds. Third cork. Ten seconds. Brief burst of quavering song.
KRAPP
(sings).
Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh-igh,
Shadows--
Fit of coughing. He comes back into light, sits down, wipes his mouth, switches on, resumes his listening posture.
TAPE
--Back on the year that is gone, with what I hope is perhaps a glint of the old eye to come, there is of course the house on the canal where mother lay a-dying, in the late autumn, after her long viduity (Krapp gives a start), and the--(Krapp switches off, winds back tape a little, bends his ear closer to the machine, switches on)--a-dying, after her long viduity, and the--
Krapp switches off, raises his head, stares blankly before him. His lips move in the syllables of "viduity." No sound. He gets up, goes back stage into darkness, comes back with an enormous dictionary, lays it on table, sits down and looks up the word.
KRAPP
(reading from dictionary). State--or condition of being--or remaining--a widow--or widower. (Looks up. Puzzled.) Being--or remaining? . . . (Pause. He peers again at dictionary. Reading.) "Deep weeds of viduity" . . . Also of an animal, especially a bird . . . the vidua or weaver bird . . . Black plumage of male . . . (He looks up. With relish.) The vidua0bird!
Pause. He closes dictionary, switches on, reusmes listening posture.
TAPE
--bench by the weir from where I could see her window. There I sat, in the biting wind, wishing she were gone. (Pause.) Hardly a soul, just a few regulars, nursemaids, infants, old men, dogs. I got to know them quite well--oh by appearance of course I mean! One dark young beauty I recall particularly, all white and starch, incomparable bosom, with a big black hooded perambulator, most funereal thing. Whenever I looked in her direction she had her eyes on me. And yet when I was bold enough to speak to her--not having been introduced--she threatened to call a policeman. As if I had designs on her virtue! (Laugh. Pause.) The face she had! The eyes! Like . . . (hesitates) . . . chrysolite! (Pause.) Ah well . . . (Pause.) I was there when--(Krapp switches off, broods, switches on again)--the blind went down, one of those dirty brown roller affairs, throwing a ball for a little white dog, as chance would have it. I happened to look up and there it was. All over and done with, at last. I sat on for a few moments with the ball in my hand and the dog yelping and pawing at me. (Pause.) Moments. Her moments, my moments. (Pause.) The dog's moments. (Pause.) In the end I held it out to him and he took it in his mouth, gently, gently. A small, old, black, hard, solid rubber ball. (Pause.) I shall feel it, in my hand, until my dying day. (Pause.) I might have kept it. (Pause.) But I gave it to the dog.
Pause.
Ah well . . .
Pause.
Spiritually a year of profound gloom and indulgence until that memorable night in March at the end of the jetty, in the howling wind, never to be forgotten, when suddenly I saw the whole thing. The vision, at last. This fancy is what I have cheifly to record this evening, againt the day when my work will be done and perhaps no place left in my memory, warm or cold, for the miracle that . . . (hesitates) . . . for the fire that set it alight. What I suddenly saw then was this, that the beleif I had been going on all my life, namely--(Krapp switches off impatiently, winds tape foreward, switches on again)--great granite rocks the foam flying up in the light of the lighhouse and thw wind-gauge spinning like a propellor, clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality--(Krapp curses, switches off, winds tape foreward, switches on again)--unshatterable association until my dissolution of storm and night with the light of the understanding and the fire--(Krapp curses loader, switches off, winds tape foreward, switches on again)--my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.
Pause.
Past midnight. Never knew such silence. The earth might be uninhabited.
Pause.
Here I end--
Krapp switches off, winds tabe back, switches on again.
--upper lake, with the punt, bathed off the bank, then pushed out into the stream and drifted. She lay streched out on the floorboards with her hands under her head and her eyes closed. Sun blazing down, bit of a breeze, water nice and lively. I noticed a scratch on her thigh and asked her how she came by it. Picking gooseberries, she said. I said again I thought it was hopeless and no good going on, and she agreed, without opening her eyes. (Pause.) I asked her to look at me and after a few moments--(pause)--after a few moments she did, but the eyes just slits, because of the glare. I bent over her to get them in the shadow and they opened. (Pause. Low.) Let me in. (Pause.) We drifted in among the flags and stuck. The way they went down, sighing, before the stem! (Pause.) I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.
Pause.
Past midnight. Never knew--
Krapp switches off, broods. Finally he fumbles in his pockets, encounters the banana, takes it out, peers at it, puts it back, fumbles, brings out the envelope, fumbles, puts back envelope, looks at his watch, gets up and goes backstage into darkness. Ten seconds. Sound of bottle against glass, then brief siphon. Ten seconds. Bottle against glass alone. Ten seconds. He comes back a little unsteadily into light, goes to the front of table, takes out keys, raises them to his eyes, chooses key, unlocks first drawer, peers into it, feels about inside it, takes out reel, peers at it, locks drawer, puts keys back in his pocket, goes and sits down, takes reel off machine, lays it on dictionary, loads virgin reel on machine, takes envelope from his pocket, consults back of it, lays it on table, switches on, clears his throat and begins to record.
KRAPP
Just been listening to that stupid bastard I took myself for thirty years ago, hard to beleive I was ever as bad as that. Thank God that's all done with anyway. (Pause.) The eyes she had! (Broods, realizes he is recording silence, switches off, broods. Finally.) Everything there, everything, all the--(Realizing this is not being recorded, switches on.) Everything there, everything on this old muckball, all the light and dark and famine and feasting of . . . (hesitates) . . . the ages! (In a shout.) Yes! (Pause.) Let that go! Jesus! Take his mind off his homework! Jesus (Pause. Weary.) Ah well, maybe he was right. (Broods. Realizes. Switches off. Consults envelope.) Pah! (Crumples it and throws it away. Broods. Switches on.) Nothing to say, not a squeak. What's a year now? The sour cud and the iron stool. (Pause.) Revelled in the word spool. (With relish.) Spooool! Happiest moment of the past half million. (Pause.) Seventeen copies sold, of which eleven at trade price to free circulating libraries beyond the seas. Getting known. (Pause.) One pound six and something, eight I have little doubt. (Pause.) Crawled out once or twice, before the summer was cold. Sat shivering in the park, drowned in dreams and burning to be gone. Not a soul. (Pause.) Last fancies. (Vehemently.) Keep 'em under! (Pause.) Scalded the eyes out of me reading Effir again, a page a day, with tears again. Effie . . . (Pause.) Could have been happy with her, up there on the Baltic, and the pines, and the dunes. (Pause.) Could I? (Pause.) And she? (Pause.) Pah! (Pause.) Fanny came in a couple of times. Bony old ghost of a whore. Couldn't do much, but I suppose better than a kick in the crutch. The last time wasn't so bad. How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life. (Pause.) Went to Vespers once, like when I as in short trousers. (Pause. Sings.))
Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh-igh,
Shadows--(coughing, then almost inaudible)--of the evening
Steal across the sky.
(Gasping.) Went to sleep and fell off the pew. (Pause.) Sometimes wondered in the night if a last effort mightn't--(Pause.) Ah finish yout booze now and get to your bed. Go on with this drivel in the morning. Or leave it at that. (Pause.) Leave it at that. (Pause.) Lie propped up in the dark--and wander. Be again in the dingle on a Christmas Eve, gathering holly, the red-berried. (Pause.) Be again on Croghan on a Sunday morning, in the haze, with the bitch, stop and listen to the bells. (Pause.) And so on. (Pause.) Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you. (Pause.) Lie down across her.
Long pause. He suddenly bends over machine, switches off, wrenches off tape, throws it away, puts on the other, winds it foreward to the passage he wants, switches on, listens staring front.
TAPE
--gooseberries, she said. I said again I thought it was hopeless and no good going on, and she agreed, without opening her eyes. (Pause.) I asked her to look at me and after a few moments--(pause)--after a few moments she did, but the eyes just slits, because of the glare. I bent over her to get them in the shadow and they opened. (Pause. Low.) Let me in. (Pause.) We drifted in among the flags and stuck. The way they went down, sighing, before the stem! (Pause.) I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.
Pause. Krapp's lips move. No sound.
Past midnight. Never knew such silence. The earth might be uninhabited.
Pause.
Here I end this reel. Box--(pause)--three, spool--(pause)--five. (Pause. Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.
Krapp motionless staring before him. The tape runs on in silence.
CURTAIN
Come and Go
A dramaticule
For John Calder
Written in English early in 1965. First published in French by Editions de Minuit, Paris, in 1966. First published in English by Calder and Boyars, London, in 1967. First produced as Kommen und Gehen, translated by Elmar Tophoven, at the Schiller-Theater Werkstatt, Berlin, on 14 January 1966. First performed in English at the Peacock Theatre, Dublin, on 28 February 1968 and subsequently at the Royal Festival Hall, London, on 9 December 1968.
CHARACTERS :
FLO
VI
RU
(Age undeterminable)
Sitting centre side by side stage right to left
FLO, VI and RU. Very erect, facing
front, hands clasped in laps.
Silence.
VI : When did we three last meet?
RU : Let us not speak.
[Silence.
Exit VI right.
Silence.]
FLO : Ru.
RU : Yes.
FLO : What do you think of Vi?
RU : I see little change. [FLO moves
to centre seat, whispers in
RU's ear. Appalled.] Oh! [They look at each other.
FLO
puts
her finger to her lips,] Does she not realize?
FLO : God grant not.
[Enter VI. FLO and RU turn back front, resume
pose. VI
sits right.
Silence.]
Just sit together as we used to, in the playground at
Miss
Wade's.
RU : On the log.
[Silence.
Exit FLO left.
Silence.]
Vi.
VI : Yes.
RU: How do you find FLO?
VI : She seems much the same. [RU moves
to centre seat,
whispers in VI's ear. Appalled.] Oh! [They look at each
other. RU puts her finger to
her lips.] Has she not been
told?
RU : God forbid.
[Enter FLO. RU and VI turn back front, resume
pose. FLO
sits
left.]
Holding hands . . . that way.
FLO : Dreaming of . . . love.
[Silence.
Exit RU right.
Silence.]
VI : Flo.
FLO : Yes.
VI : How do you think Ru is looking?
FLO : One sees little in this light. [VI moves centre seat,
whispers in FLO's ear. Appalled.] Oh! [They look at
each other. VI puts her finger to
her lips.] Does she not
know?
VI : Please God not.
[Enter RU. VI and FLO turn back front, resume pose. RU
sits
right.
Silence.]
May we not speak of the old days? [Silence.] Of what
came after? [Silence.] Shall we hold hands in the old
way?
[After
a moment they join hands as follows : VI's right
hand with
RU's right hand.
VI's left hand with
FLO's left
hand, FLO's right hand with
RU's
left hand, VI's
arms
being above
RU's left arm and
FLO's right arm.
The three
pairs of clasped hands rest on the three laps.
Silence.]
FLO: I can feel the rings.
[Silence.]
CURTAIN
NOTES
Successive positions |
|
|
|
1 |
FLO |
VI |
RU |
2 |
FLO |
|
RU |
|
|
FLO |
RU |
3 |
VI |
FLO |
RU |
4 |
VI |
|
RU |
|
VI |
RU |
|
5 |
VI |
RU |
FLO |
6 |
VI |
|
FLO |
|
|
VI |
VLO |
7 |
RU |
VI |
FLO |
Hands |
|
|
|
|
RU |
VI |
FLO |
|
RU VI FLO |
||
|
Lighting
Soft, from above only and concentrated on playing area.
Rest of stage as dark as possible.
Costume
Full-length coats, buttoned high, dull violet (RU), dull red (Vi),
dull yellow (Flo). Drab nondescript hats with enough brim to
shade faces. Apart from colour differentiation three figures as
alike as possible. Light shoes with rubber soles. Hands made up
to be as visible as possible. No rings apparent.
Seat
Narrow benchlike seat, without back, just long enough to
accommodate three figures almost touching. As little visible as
possible. It should not be clear what they are sitting on.
Exits
The figures are not seen to go off stage. They should disappear a
few steps from lit area. If dark not sufficient to allow this,
recourse should be had to screens or drapes as little visible
as possible. Exits and entrances slow, without sound of feet.
Obs
Three very different sounds.
Voices
As low as compatible with audibility. Colourless except for
three 'ohs' and two lines following.
No trace anywhere of life, you say, pah, no difficulty there, imagination not dead yet, yes, dead, good, imagination dead imagine. Islands, waters, azure, verdure, one glimpse and vanished, endlessly, omit. Till all white in the whiteness the rotunda. No way in, go in, measure. Diameter three feet, three feet from ground to summit of the vault. Two diameters at right angles AB CD divide the white ground into two semicircles ACB BDA. Lying on the ground two white bodies, each in its semicircle. White too the vault and the round wall eighteen inches high from which it springs. Go back out, a plain rotunda, all white in the whiteness, go back in, rap, solid throughout, a ring as in the imagination the ring of bone. The light that makes all so white no visible source, all shines with the same white shine, ground, wall, vault, bodies, no shadow. Strong heat, surfaces hot but not burning to the touch, bodies sweating. Go back out, move back, the little fabric vanishes, ascend, it vanishes, all white in the whiteness, descend, go back in. Emptiness, silence, heat, whiteness, wait, the light goes down, all grows dark together, ground, wall, vault, bodies, say twenty seconds, all the greys, the light goes out, all vanishes. At the same time the temperature goes down, to reach its minimum, say freezing-point, at the same instant that the black is reached, which may seem strange. Wait, more or less long, light and heat come back, all grows white and hot together, ground, wall ,vault, bodies, say twenty seconds, all the greys, till the initial level is reached when the fall began. More or less long, for there may intervene, experience shows, between end of fall and beginning of rise, pauses of varying length, from the fraction of the second to what would have seemed, in other times, other places, an eternity. Same remark for the other pause, between end of rise and beginning of fall. The extremes, as long as they last, are perfectly stable, which in the case of the temperature may seem strange, in the beginning. It is possible too, experience, shows, for rise and fall to stop short at any point and mark a pause, more or less long, before resuming, or reversing, the rise now fall, the fall rise, these in their turn to be completed, or to stop short and mark a pause, more or less long, before resuming, or again reversing, and so on , till finally one or the other extreme is reached. Such variations of rise and fall, combining in countless rhythms, commonly attend the passage from white and heat to black and cold, and vice versa. The extremes alone are stable as is stressed by the vibration to be observed when a pause occurs at some intermediate stage, no matter what its level and duration. Then all vibrates, ground, wall, vault, bodies, ashen or leaden or between the two, as may be. But on the whole, experience shows, such as uncertain passage is not common. And most often, when the light begins to fail, and along with it the heat, the movement continues until unbroken until, in the space of some twenty seconds, pitch black is reached and at the same instant say freezing-point. Same remark for the reverse movement, towards heat and whiteness. Next most frequent is the fall or rise with pauses of varying length in these feverish greys, without at any moment reversal of the movement. But whatever its uncertainties the return sooner or later to a temporary calm seems assured, for the moment, in the black dark or the great whiteness, with attendant temperature, world still proof against enduring tumult. Rediscovered miraculously after what absence in perfect voids it is no longer quite the same, from this point of view, but there in no other. Externally all is as before the sighting of the little fabric quite as much a matter of chance, its whiteness merging in the surrounding whiteness. But go in and now briefer lulls and never twice the same storm. Light and heat remain linked as through supplied by the same source of which still no trace. Still on the ground, bent in three, the head against the wall at B, the arse against the wall at A, the knees against the wall between B and C, the feet against the wall between C and A, that is to say inscribed in the semicircle ACB, merging in the white ground were it not for the long hair of strangely imperfect whiteness, the white body of a woman finally. Similarly inscribed in the other semicircle, against the wall his head at A, his arse at B, his knees between A and D, his feet between D and B, the partner. On their right sides therefore both and back to back head to arse. Hold a mirror to their lips, it mists. With their left hands they hold their left legs a little below the knee, with their right hands their left arms a little above the elbow. In this agitated light, its great white calm now so rare and brief, inspection is not easy. Sweat but mirror notwithstanding they might well pass for inanimate but for the left eyes which at incalculable intervals suddenly open wide and gaze in unblinking exposure long beyond what is humanly possible. Piercing pale blue the effect is striking, in the beginning. Never the two gazes together except once, when the beginning of one overlapped the end of the other, for about ten seconds. Neither fat nor thin, big nor small, the bodies seem whole and in fairly good condition, to judge by the surfaces exposed to view. The faces too, assuming the two sides of a piece, seem to want nothing essential. Between their absolute stillness and the convulsive light the contrast in striking, in the beginning for one who still remembers having been struck by the contrary. It is clear however, from a thousand little signs too long to imagine, that they re not sleeping. Only murmur ah, no more, in this silence, and at the same instant for the eye or prey the infinitesimal shudder instantaneously suppressed. Leave them there, sweating and icy, there is better elsewhere. No, life ends and no, there is nothing elsewhere, and no question now of ever finding again that white speck lost in whiteness, to see of they still lie still in the stress of that storm, or of a worse storm, or in the black dark for good, or the great whiteness unchanging, and if not what they are doing.http://web.archive.org/web/20010519181750/http://www.baylor.edu/~Sara_Price/imagine.htm
Film-North * Anatoly Antohin
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