For Samuel Beckett, hindsight was the mode of true insight. That Time, written in English between June 1974 and August 1975, and first performed at the Royal Court on 20 May 1976, is one of the best dramatisations of his vision of being human. Like all his work, the play is founded, at some distance, in his own life experience, but it is framed, in every sense, in the language of the creative process. This time, unusually, the vision is a happy one, and its representation goes forward with pleasing ease. For Beckett, life was a matter of doing time, while writing was a way of undoing it - a process of transformation by which writer, written, and listeners enter together into a different understanding of not what, but how it is to be human.
Mid-stage, high up, off-centre, is the old white face of the Listener, who is also his own Author, surrounded by a flare of long white hair. His eyes are open, and his breathing is steady and audible. Three voices, all his own, address him in turn, as 'you', coming from both sides and above. He makes no response, except that his eyes close three times, and open three times. His part is to hear and to see, and shape what he sees by the rhythms of his breathing. When the voices finally fall silent, he gives a toothless smile.
The voices speak of and from three different moments in time and space, but their focus on the Listener creates a continuum. The stage directions say that the speech must be continuous, but the switching between voices must be perceptible. In other works, the voices (and the music) of inspiration invoked by the listening author, require his repeated intervention and evaluation to be urged, at last, into a synthesis that he can deem complete.
The emphasis is on the difficulty of the process. In What Where, for instance, Beckett's last play for the stage, the raw material has to be tortured and threatened into communicative form. In That Time, the artwork shapes itself smoothly to a perfect end, through the medium of an attentive Seer and Listener who has grown old in experience and the skills of his craft. Three evolving narratives cross-cut one another in four sequences, each time in a different order, moving chronologically forward. As stage time advances, different narratives take priority, but all three leach into one another; and they are unified by the artist who, looking inwards and outwards as the words flow by, acknowledges the themes, the insights and the patterns out of which he has repeatedly made himself, in a variety of other productions, and who can now smile at the sense of it all coming together, not in closure, but in the evanescent, moving forms which are those of Everyman's short life. Starting in 'that time', this speaking is 'gone in no time'.
Voice A invokes the child shaped by a desolate Ireland, hiding from the authority of the adults with his picture books and his own imaginary conversations, sitting on a stone in the ruins of the old tower beyond the end of the tram line, caught between tradition and modernity. This moment of first escape is doubled by the moment of final escape, when he went back to see it again, and found only the rusty rails left, and the rail station all boarded up and closed down. The old man returning cannot make his way back to the old refuge, but that was in any case only a trap, one of many to come. Now he can relive the scene in his own story, sitting on a doorstep and talking to himself, and finally fleeing Ireland by the ferry, taking with him only the best of that beginning: the old green greatcoat that was his father's legacy.
Voice B speaks for the lover, channelling the memory of a couple sitting on a long stone in the sun, with a little wood behind and a wheat field before them. It's hard to believe, says the voice, that you ever told anyone that you loved them, it was 'just another of those old tales to keep the void from pouring in on top of you the shroud'. There was no bodily closeness. Standing stock still, the couple played over and over the same old scene. In the end, this lover declares he gave up love, because his body was unresponsive, and there were no words left.
Péter Nádas is Hungary’s leading contemporary writer. A scholar not only of literature, but of culture, horticulture, and above all the human body and its communications, Nádas presents a picture of temperament and elegance in the great tradition of the European intellectual. He has often been compared, perhaps syntactically, to the high realists Robert Musil and Marcel Proust. Susan Sontag, one of Nádas’s earliest and most vocal champions, compares his plays to the “encounter-dramas of Pina Bausch” and the “declamatory plays of Thomas Bernhard.” I myself see him, in many ways, as the Thomas Mann of our times.
Born into a fascinating literary culture, isolated from but enveloped by the vast history of Christian Europe, in a denuded country just rebuilding from World War II, the worst catastrophe in its tumultuous thousand-year history, Nádas chronicles the peaceful prison that was (and is) Hungary in a passionate, playful, and eloquent voice. His perspicacity is disconcertingly palpabl…
Anne Brontë started writing her first novel some time between 1840 and 1845 while she was working as a governess for the Robinson family, at Thorp Green near York. I imagine she must have made her excuses in the evenings, and escaped the drawing room, where she had to do the boring bits of her pupils’ sewing, and often felt awkward and humiliated – excluded from the conversation because she was not considered a lady, yet not allowed to sit with the servants either, because governesses had to be something of a lady, or how could they teach their pupils to be ladies?
Anne must have stolen away to her room and pulled out her small, portable writing desk. Leaning on the desk’s writing slope (which was decadently lined in pink velvet), Anne could go on with her novel. She had to write in secret because she was skewering her haughty employers and her peremptory pupils on the page. Although her job was difficult and thankless, she had realised that it was providing her with excellent material…
Charles Lamb once told a story about having Thomas De Quincey to supper. Lamb was Samuel Coleridge’s oldest friend and De Quincey was Coleridge’s greatest fan, so their talk naturally centred on the poet. While De Quincey badgered his host for information about his hero, Lamb, to alleviate his boredom, pretended to mock “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, a poem he in fact greatly admired. (“I was never so affected with any human Tale,” Lamb wrote; on first reading Coleridge’s ballad, he had been “totally possessed with it for many days”. In response to Wordsworth’s complaint that the mariner had no character, Lamb explained to him that the trials undergone by the seafarer both “overwhelm and bury all individuality or memory of what he was”, erasing “all consciousness of personality”, “like the state of a man in a Bad dream”.) On this occasion, however, to wind up De Quincey, Lamb described the sailors who died aboard the mariner’s ship – Coleridge’s “many men, so beautiful” – as noth…