Okay. Not really. In another couple of years I will cross into truly methuselan realms but for now, I'm merely dangling on the razor's edge. I went to get my eyes checked today and all is well with them oculars. Well, at least for a few more years. Then Darth Presbyopia will pay its first of many visits and leave me with reading glasses and wondering where I left'em.
My foray into Beckett stuff continues with 'Dream of fair to middling women'. So the story with this book is that Beckett wrote it in a white-hot streak while a young man and had the devil's time to get it published. Eventually he said "Bugger them! If they really want to read it, they won't get their chance until I'm worm food!" Then he passed in 1989 and this book got published three years later.
I am more than halfway through this book and I have a few thoughts so far. Beckett wanted to emulate James Joyce when he wrote this so some confusion is acceptable. I also get a bit of Sterne while I'm reading this book. Tristram Shandy and his kin would have been a snug fit in Belacqua's world. But the strongest vibe I get hails from poor old Salvatore in Umberto Eco's 'Name of the rose'. Beckett calls upon so many languages it makes the head spin. The polymath Salvatore would have appreciated Belacqua's narration, I suspect.
I will continue to read 'Dream of fair to middling women' and probably end up giving it a fair to middling rating.
Now for some ghostly shenanigans.
In the morning one does dining.