Sunday, March 20, 2005



If you don't know of Samuel Beckett's works, here is moi’s opinion.

Samuel Beckett's plays are filled with a consciousness of vast, valid
cerebral compassion and universally sound brilliance. His directions
miss not a single pertinent fact, no matter how twisted, grotesque,
quotidianly nauseating or microscopically heroic
of our species.

Samuel Beckett took the humdrum hoi polloi, the commonplace
pseudo-civilized masses (be they poor, working, middle or rich class
mass), and reveals them, as a master sculptor,
bringing froth amazingly beautiful, yet shockingly stark, art from
cold thoughtless stone, transforming it into
an intellectually engrossing work of
astounding, compelling and wondrous rapture; Beckett's works are
beyond the ordinarily non-uniqueness that the subjects
themselves squirm within or, on oh-so rarefied occasions, soar above.
His plays are pure genius. Beckett takes the infestation that most of the human race, and DNA in general, is and gently forces it to be
art of the highest possible degree.

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