This absurd diary

‘I am always depressed and left with [a] sense of worthlessness at the beautifully applied energy of these people [his German friends], the exactness of documentation, completeness of equipment ... and authenticity of vocation. In comparison I am utterly alone (no group even of my own kind) and without purpose alone and pathologically indolent and limp and opinionless and consternated. The little trouble I give myself, this absurd diary with its lists of pictures, serves no purpose, is only the act of an obsessional neurotic. Counting pennies would do as well.’ This is Samuel Beckett, literary giant of the 20th century, who died 30 years ago today. The extract comes from a diary he kept while on a six month sojourn in Germany. But, clearly, he wasn’t much enamoured with the idea of keeping a diary, and, as far is known, he would never do so again.

Beckett was born in Dublin in 1906. His father was a quantity surveyor, and he had one older brother; the family was Anglo-Irish protestant. He went to Earlsfort House School in Dublin, then to Portora Royal School in Enniskillen, before studying languages at Trinity College, Dublin, from 1923. He excelled at cricket and even played games at county level. He was elected a Scholar (the most prestigious undergraduate award) in 1926. After teaching briefly at Campbell College in Belfast, he moved abroad to teach English at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris, from late 1928 to 1930. Notably, while there, he was introduced to the renowned Irish author James Joyce, and is said to have assisted in his research for what became Finnegan’s Wake. Beckett’s first published work was a critical essay on Joyce, yet the two are said to have fallen out when Beckett rejected the advances of Joyce’s daughter.

Beckett returned to Ireland in 1930 to take up a post as lecturer in French at Trinity College, but resigned a year or so later, wanting to travel. For several years, he moved around between London, France, Germany and Italy, before eventually deciding in 1937 to settle in Paris. Soon after, he embarked on an affair with Suzanne Dechevaux-Dumesnil, to whom he would eventually get married, in 1961. This period saw him publish More Pricks Than Kicks (1934) a collection of stories, and the novel Belacqua Shuah (1938).

As a citizen of a country that was neutral in World War II, he was able to remain in Paris even after the occupation by the Germans. He joined an underground resistance group in 1941, but when, the following year, members of the group were arrested, he and Suzanne went into hiding, he working as an agricultural labourer. The end of the war found him volunteering for the Irish Red Cross in France, and being assigned as an interpreter in a military hospital, before returning to Paris in 1945. He was awarded the Croix de Guerre for his resistance work. During the next few years, he continuted to write more intensively, producing several stories and novels that, thanks to Suzanne’s efforts, found a publisher - from 1951 onward. But it was the success of his play, Waiting for Godot, first produced at a small Paris theatre in 1953, that brought Beckett international fame.

Beckett continued to be domiciled in Paris, but spent much of his time writing at a small house not far from Paris in the countryside. He shunned all publicity, and refused interviews. When, in 1969, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature, he declined to travel to Stockholm for the ceremony. He continued writing and publishing up to his death on 22 December 1989 (some six months after his wife’s). Wikipedia gives this assessment: ‘Of all the English-language modernists, Beckett’s work represents the most sustained attack on the realist tradition. He opened up the possibility of theatre and fiction that dispense with conventional plot and the unities of time and place in order to focus on essential components of the human condition. Václav Havel, John Banville, Aidan Higgins, Tom Stoppard, Harold Pinter and Jon Fosse have publicly stated their indebtedness to Beckett’s example. He has had a wider influence on experimental writing since the 1950s, from the Beat generation to the happenings of the 1960s and after.’ Further information is also available from Encyclopaedia Britannica, The Samuel Beckett Society or The Poetry Foundation.

Beckett has never been known as a diarist, and yet, in the mid-1930s, he did keep diary notebooks during an extended visit to Germany. These were not known to exist until Edward Beckett found them in a trunk after his uncle’s death. He made them available to James Knowlson for his 1996 biography Damned to Fame - The Life of Samuel Beckett (Bloomsbury). In Chapter 10 - Germany: The Unknown Diaries 1936-7 - Knowlson uses the diaries as a source book, yet fails to offer any analysis of them, or the idea of Beckett as diarist. Subsequently, Mark Nixon, who was Knowlson’s successor as Director of the Beckett International Foundation (University of Reading) where the diaries are held, published a book-length analysis of the diaries (based on his PhD thesis): Samuel Beckett’s German Diaries 1936-1937 (Bloomsbury, 2005). Both this and the biography can be previewed at Googlebooks. However, to this day the diaries themselves remain unpublished. The following extracts from Beckett’s diary are all as found in Knowlson’s biography (stripped, though, of Knowlson’s commentary and context).

18 October 1936
‘Even to listen is an effort, and to speak ausgeschlossen [impossible]. Anyway the chatter is a solid block, not a chink, interruption proof. Curse this everlasting limpness and melancholy. How absurd, the struggle to learn to be silent in another language! I am altogether absurd and inconsequential. The struggle to be master of another silence! Like a deaf man investing his substance in Schallplatten [gramophone records], or a blind man with a Leica.’

26 November 1936
‘Transparent figures before landscapes, street, town reproduced in Sauerlandt not there. Wonderful red Frauenkopf, skull earth sea and sky, I think of Monadologie [of Leibniz] and my Vulture. Would not occur to me to call this painting abstract. A metaphysical concrete. Nor Nature convention, but its source, fountain of Erscheinung [Appearance]. Fully a posteriori painting. Object not exploited to illustrate an idea, as in say Leger or Baumeister, but primary. The communication exhausted by the optical experience that is its motive and content. Anything further is by the way. Thus Leibniz, monadologie, Vulture, are by the way. Extraordinary stillness. His concern with Renaissance tradition.’

9 December 1936
‘in fear and trembling, lest I should break a leg, be attacked by vermin, lose the key, [toiling up] a succession of crazy ladders in the gloom, 365 steps to the gallery (for which I have 2nd key) 70 m. above ground. Tiny platform; 1½ from base of wall to railing. I cower against former, and scarcely dare look at view. Force myself to make the circle round with quick sickening glances at the ground.’ 

12 January 1937
‘Bright and cold. First view of terraces faced with glass frames for vines disconcerting, but soon accepted. Trimmed yews very effective. Terrace perhaps too steep and heavy for the palace, which disappears at the foot of every flight. Palace exquisite, and big summer house, faultlessly proportioned, the shallow green cupola resting like a flower on the yellow front, and the caryatids laughing under the lightness of their load. Not in the least Versailles or Watteauesque, but truly an architecture without care.’

15 January 1937
‘I am not interested in a ‘unification’ of the historical chaos any more than I am in the ‘clarification’ of the individual chaos, and still less in the anthropomorphisation of the inhuman necessities that provoke the chaos. What I want is the straws, flotsam, etc., names, dates, births and deaths, because that is all I can know. Meier says the background is more important than the foreground, the causes than the effects, the causes than their representatives and opponents. I say the background and the causes are an inhuman and incomprehensible machinery and venture to wonder what kind of appetite it is that can be appeased by the modern animism that consists in rationalising them. Rationalism is the last form of animism. Whereas the pure incoherence of times and men and places is at least amusing.’

2 February 1937
‘[Willi Grohmann s]ays it is more interesting to stay than to go, even if it were possible to go. They can’t control thoughts. Length of regime impossible to estimate, depends mostly on economic outshot. If it breaks down it is fitting for him and his kind to be on the spot, to go under or become active again. Already a fraternity of intellectuals, where freedom to grumble is less than the labourer’s, because the labourer’s grumble is not dangerous.’

2 February 1937 [Knowlson calls this extract a remarkable mixture of fierce self-criticism and intense self-pity’.]
‘I am always depressed and left with [a] sense of worthlessness at the beautifully applied energy of these people [his German friends], the exactness of documentation, completeness of equipment ... and authenticity of vocation. In comparison I am utterly alone (no group even of my own kind) and without purpose alone and pathologically indolent and limp and opinionless and consternated. The little trouble I give myself, this absurd diary with its lists of pictures, serves no purpose, is only the act of an obsessional neurotic. Counting pennies would do as well. An ‘open-mindedness’ that is mindlessness, the sphincter of the mind limply for ever open, the mind past the power of closing itself to everything but its own content, or rather its own treatment of a content.

I have never thought for myself. I have switched off the incipient thought in terror for so long that I couldn’t think now for half-a-minute if my life (!) depended on it.’

2 March 1937
‘Full of excuses and explanations. Mixture of insufferably hideous and pitiable. Every second phrase a lie, every third a try on and every sixth a grovel and all ? !! Good. Only has coat with him. Says no need to try on the trousers, though of course they are ready! The stuff came only this morning. Suddenly occurs to me that the stuff never came at all, perhaps never was ordered, and that what he has used is inferior. Telepathically he starts to praise the stuff, woof, weight, etc. His next own suit will be of no other. He had meant to bring the sample so that I could compare, but etc ... It is so flagrant as to be diverting. It is diverting to be thought to be done. One is done but not in the eye. The difference between being done and done in the eye is in first case one knows and in second not. He thinks he is doing me in the eye, whereas he is only doing me. That is the diverting position, that I would not spoil with the least show of discernment.’