Re: (TV) Waiting for Godot.. er uh... Verlaine

["Joe Thornton" <joe.thornton@gmx.net>]

Russ wrote:
> Sometimes it seems like we are 'waiting for Godot' ( Samuel Beckett 
> reference see: http://samuel-beckett.net/Waiting_for_Godot_Part1.html ) 
> while we wait ever enthusiastic for new recordings ( or old recordings ) 
> by Television and Tom Verlaine et al. I know that some activity is about 
> to take place ,but I sure would like to know more about it from those who 
> could speak with authority. Someone please,throw us a bone ! The waiting 
> is getting to be painful.

Well, I tried to think of TV-Beckett connections (and maybe I will yet)... 
Anyway, I regard both of them as among the greatest artists.

And I have something to offer -- the definitive version of Beckett's 
penultimate work, "Stirrings Still". Because it's wonderful. (Why should 
posts on this list be short?! It's not that long actually; it's a 
medium-length prose poem.)

Totally off topic? Maybe, but I like to think that Tom Verlaine, and Patti 
Smith, and Richard Hell would appreciate this...

Breaching copyright? Hardly, because you can find "Stirrings Still" on many 
websites. The trouble is that they're all flawed; they all have errors. (I 
did a lot of searching and reading.)

You would hope that the definitive version is that published by John Calder, 
London, 1999 (original edition 1988). Beckett entrusted Calder with most of 
his works. However, the Calder version has two major errors. I don't have 
the edition published by a New York publisher, but I suspect that also has 
errors, since all the web versions I've seen have errors. I wrote to both 
publishers and to some literary experts, but no reply.

How can I be so sure about what are errors? It's just a matter of reading it 
carefully. Some of the text is very dense and many readers, and even editors 
obviously, don't take in every part of it.

Beckett was old and ailing when he wrote it, but the command of language, 
the wit, the bloody-mindedness are all there. What's even more remarkable is 
that Beckett wrote it in both English and French, and you can get the French 
version, "Soubresauts", though I couldn't read it myself.

If this is Beckett's penultimate work, what is his last work? It's a poem 
called "What Is The Word", included in the abovementioned Calder edition.

So, here is "Stirrings Still" by Samuel Beckett.

--JoeT

+++++

STIRRINGS STILL


1



One night as he sat at his table head on hands he saw himself rise and go. 
One night or day. For when his own light went out he was not left in the 
dark. Light of a kind came from the one high window. Under it still the 
stool on which till he could or would no more he used to mount to see the 
sky. Why he did not crane out to see what lay beneath was perhaps because 
the window was not made to open or because he could or would not open it. 
Perhaps he knew only too well what lay beneath and did not wish to see it 
again. So he would simply stand there high above the earth and see through 
the clouded pane the cloudless sky. Its faint unchanging light unlike any 
light he could remember from the days and nights when day followed hard on 
night and night on day. This outer light then when his own went out became 
his only light till it in its turn went out and left him in the dark. Till 
it in its turn went out.



One night or day then as he sat at his table head on hands he saw himself 
rise and go. First rise and stand clinging to the table. Then sit again. 
Then rise again and stand clinging to the table again. Then go. Start to go. 
On unseen feet start to go. So slow that only change of place to show he 
went. As when he disappeared only to reappear later at another place again. 
Then disappeared only to reappear later at another place again. So again and 
again disappeared again to reappear again at another place again. Another 
place in the place where he sat at his table head on hands. The same place 
and table as when Darly for example died and left him. As when others too in 
their turn before and since. As when others would too in their turn and 
leave him till he too in his turn. Head on hands half hoping when he 
disappeared again that he would not reappear again and half fearing that he 
would not. Or merely wondering. Or merely waiting. Waiting to see if he 
would or would not. Leave him or not alone again waiting for nothing again.



Seen always from behind whithersoever he went. Same hat and coat as of old 
when he walked the roads. The back roads. Now as one in a strange place 
seeking the way out. In the dark. In a strange place blindly in the dark of 
night or day seeking the way out. A way out. To the roads. The back roads.




A clock afar struck the hours and half-hours. The same as when among others 
Darly once died and left him. Strokes now clear as if carried by a wind now 
faint on the still air. Cries afar now faint now clear. Head on hands half 
hoping when the hour struck that the half-hour would not and half fearing 
that it would not. Similarly when the half-hour struck. Similarly when the 
cries a moment ceased. Or merely wondering. Or merely waiting. Waiting to 
hear.



There had been a time he would sometimes lift his head enough to see his 
hands. What of them was to be seen. One laid on the table and the other on 
the one. At rest after all they did. Lift his past head a moment to see his 
past hands. Then lay it back on them to rest it too. After all it did.



The same place as when left day after day for the roads. The back roads. 
Returned to night after night. Paced from wall to wall in the dark. The then 
fleeting dark of night. Now as if strange to him seen to rise and go. 
Disappear and reappear at another place again. Or the same. Nothing to show 
not the same. No wall toward which or further from. In the same place as 
when paced from wall to wall all places as the same. Or in another. Nothing 
to show not another. Where never. Rise and go in the same place as ever. 
Disappear and reappear in another where never. Nothing to show not another 
where never. Nothing but the strokes. The cries. The same as ever.



Till so many strokes and cries since he was last seen that perhaps he would 
not be seen again. Then so many cries since the strokes were last heard that 
perhaps they would not be heard again. Then such silence since the cries 
were last heard that perhaps even they would not be heard again. Perhaps 
thus the end. Unless no more than a mere lull. Then all as before. The 
strokes and cries as before and he as before now there now gone now there 
again now gone again. Then the lull again. Then all as before again. So 
again and again. And patience till the one true end to time and grief and 
self and second self his own.





2



As one in his right mind when at last out again he knew not how he was not 
long out again when he began to wonder if he was in his right mind. For 
could one not in his right mind be reasonably said to wonder if he was in 
his right mind and bring what is more his remains of reason to bear on this 
perplexity in the way he must be said to do if he is to be said at all? It 
was therefore in the guise of a more or less reasonable being that he 
emerged at last he knew not how into the outer world and had not been there 
for more than six or seven hours by the clock when he could not but begin to 
wonder if he was in his right mind. By the same clock whose strokes were 
heard times without number in his confinement as it struck the hours and 
half-hours and so in a sense at first a source of reassurance till finally 
one of alarm as being no clearer now than when in principle muffled by his 
four walls. Then he sought help in the thought of one hastening westward at 
sundown to obtain a better view of Venus and found it of none. Of the sole 
other sound that of cries enlivener of his solitude as lost to suffering he 
sat at his table head on hands the same was true. Of their whenceabouts that 
is of clock and cries the same was true that is no more to be determined now 
than as was only natural then. Bringing to bear on all this his remains of 
reason he sought help in the thought that his memory of indoors was perhaps 
at fault and found it of none. Further to his disarray his soundless tread 
as when barefoot he trod the floor. So all ears from bad to worse till in 
the end he ceased if not to hear to listen and set out to look about him. 
Result finally he was in a field of grass which went some way if nothing 
else to explain his tread and then a little later as if to make up for this 
some way to increase his trouble. For he could recall no field of grass from 
even the very heart of which no limit of any kind was to be discovered but 
always in some quarter or another some end in sight such as a fence or other 
manner of bourne from which to return. Nor on his looking more closely to 
make matters worse was this the short green grass he seemed to remember 
eaten down by flocks and herds but long and light grey in colour verging 
here and there on white. Then he sought help in the thought that his memory 
of outdoors was perhaps at fault and found it of none. So all eyes from bad 
to worse till in the end he ceased if not to see to look (about him or more 
closely) and set out to take thought. To this end for want of a stone on 
which to sit like Walther and cross his legs the best he could do was stop 
dead and stand stock still which after a moment of hesitation he did and of 
course sink his head as one deep in meditation which after another moment of 
hesitation he did also. But soon weary of vainly delving in those remains he 
moved on through the long hoar grass resigned to not knowing where he was or 
how he got there or where he was going or how we was going to get back to 
whence he knew not how he came. So on unknowing and no end in sight. 
Unknowing and what is more no wish to know nor indeed any wish of any kind 
nor therefore any sorrow save that he would have wished the strokes to cease 
and the cries for good and was sorry that they did not. The strokes now 
faint now clear as if carried by the wind but not a breath and the cries now 
faint now clear.





3



So on till stayed when to his ears from deep within oh how and here a word 
he could not catch it were to end where never till then. Rest then before 
again from not long to so long that perhaps never again and then faint from 
deep within oh how and here that missing word again it were to end where 
never till then. In any case whatever it might be to end and so on was he 
not already as he stood there all bowed down and to his ears faint from deep 
within again and again oh how something and so on was he not so far as he 
could see already there where never till then? For how could even such a one 
as he having once found himself in such a place not shudder to find himself 
in it again which he had not done nor having shuddered seek help in vain in 
the thought so-called that having somehow got out of it then he could 
somehow get out of it again which he had not done either. There then all 
this time where never till then and so far as he could see in every 
direction when he raised his head and opened his eyes no danger or hope as 
the case might be of his ever getting out of it. Was he then now to press on 
regardless now in one direction and now in another or on the other hand stir 
no more as the case might be that is as that missing word might be which if 
to warn such as sad or bad for example then of course in spite of all the 
one and if the reverse then of course the other that is stir no more. Such 
and much more such the hubbub in his mind so-called till nothing left from 
deep within but only ever fainter oh to end. No matter how no matter where. 
Time and grief and self so-called. Oh all to end.








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