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Samuel Beckett is like the John Cage of literature; their work can be looked at as either absurdly intricate or blatantly daft, which as a result, causes a lot of contentions for the ostentatious critics and breezy consumers alike. I'm personally very much on the fence when it comes to minimalism in general; there's a point where I have to draw the line and say this is too much. Fortunately for Beckett, he falls comfortably on the side of brilliance for this work alone and deserves his leather armchair in Irish heaven amongst the likes of Joyce and Yeats. ( )
Three persons are awaiting the arrival of a fourth. He doesn't show up. Various theological and philosophic questions are aired. The audience is left to make what sense of it that they can. ( )
I'm not quite sure what to think of Waiting for Godot. Did I enjoy it? More or less. Did I understand it? I think that's hard to say. The banality and futility are interesting to explore, but I can't help but feel like there's more here that I'm not accessing, at least not on a first read, and without having seen it performed. ( )
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen VidenRedigér teksten, så den bliver dansk.
Estragon, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot. He pulls at it with both hands, panting. He gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again. As before. Enter Vladimir ESTRAGON: (giving up again) Nothing to be done.
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Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen VidenRedigér teksten, så den bliver dansk.
"Don't talk to me. Don't speak to me. Stay with me."
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