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.
"Now, whether it were by peculiar grace. A leading from above, a something given..."
- Wordsworth. Resolution and Independence.
My father wanted to be a writer. I can't remember a time when he didn't want this. There were few mornings when he didn't go to his desk early, at about six o'clock in one of his-many suits and coloured shirts, the cuffs pinned by bejewelled links, before he left for work carrying his briefcase, longside the other commuters. Writing was; I suppose, an obsession, and as with most obsessions, fulfillment remained out of reach. The obsession kept him incomplete but it kept him going. He had a dull, enervating civil service job, and writing provided him with something to look forward to. It gave him meaning and 'direction,' as he liked to put it. It gave him direction home too, since he wrote often about India, the country he left in his early '20s and to which he never returned.
In 1935, Diego Rivera masterfully created ‘The Flower Carrier’ (known in its original language as ‘Cargador de Flores’). Like many of Rivera’s paintings, ‘The Flower Carrier’ imparts simplicity, yet exudes much symbolism and meaning. The vibrant colors are rubbed into the masonite, a most common method for painting on hard surfaces.
The colourful painting displays a peasant man in white clothing with a yellow sombrero, struggling on all fours with a dramatically oversized basket of flowers that is strapped to his back with a yellow sling. A woman, most likely the peasant’s wife, stands behind him trying to help with the support of the basket as he attempts to rise to his feet. While the flowers in the basket are strikingly beautiful to the viewer, the man does not see their beauty, but only their value as he carries them to the market for sale or exchange. The geometric shapes offer bold and intense contrasts, with each figure, item, and foliage illustrated to reflect individualism. …
The poems of Emily Dickinson began as marks made in ink or pencil on paper, usually the standard stationery that came into her family’s household. Most were composed in Dickinson’s large, airy bedroom, with two big windows facing south and two facing west, at a small table that her niece described as “18-inches square, with a drawer deep enough to take in her ink bottle, paper and pen.” It looked out over the family’s property on Main Street, in Amherst, Massachusetts, toward the Evergreens, her brother’s grand Italianate mansion, nestled among the pines a few hundred yards away. Dickinson had a Franklin stove fitted to a bricked-up fireplace to keep her warm, which meant that she could write by candlelight, with the door closed, for as long as she wanted. In much of the rest of the house, the winter temperature would have been around fifty degrees. Though she usually composed at night, Dickinson sometimes jotted down lines during the day, while gardening or doing chores, wearing a si…