I can’t go on, I’ll go on

by Richard W. Seaver

  some reflections none the less while waiting for things to improve on the fragility of euphoria among the different orders of the animal kingdom beginning with the sponges when suddenly I can’t stay a second longer this episode is therefore lost

  the dejections no they are me but I love them the old half-emptied tins let limply fall no something else the mud engulfs all me alone it carries my four stone five stone it yields a little under that then no more I don’t flee I am banished

  stay for ever in the same place never had any other ambition with my little dead weight in the warm mire scoop my wallow and stir from it no more that old dream back again I live it now at this creeping hour know what it’s worth was worth

  a great gulp of black air and have done at last with my travelling days before Pim part one how it was before the others the sedentary with Pim after Pim how it was how it is vast tracts of time when I see nothing more hear his voice then this other come from afar on the thirty-two winds from the zenith and depths then in me when the panting stops bits and scraps I murmur them

  done with these fidgets that will not brook one second longer here at my ease too weak to raise the little finger and were it the signal for the mud to open under me and then close again

  question old question if yes or no this upheaval daily if daily ah to have to hear that word to have to murmur it this upheaval yes or no if daily it so heaves me up and out of my swill

  and the day so near its end at last if it is not compact of a thousand days good old question terrible always for the head and universally apropos which is a great beauty

  to have Pim’s timepiece something wrong there and nothing to time I don’t eat any more then no I don’t drink any more and I don’t eat any more don’t move any more and don’t sleep any more don’t see anything any more and don’t do anything any more it will come back perhaps all come back or a part I hear yes then no

  the voice time the voice it is not mine the silence time the silence that might help me I’ll see do something something good God

  curse God no sound make mental note of the hour and wait midday midnight curse God or bless him and wait watch in hand but the dark but the days that word again what about them with no memory tear a shred from the sack make knots or the cord too weak

  but first have done with my travelling days part one before Pim unspeakable flurry in the mud it’s me I say it as I hear it rummaging in the sack taking out the cord tying the neck of the sack tying it to my neck turning over on my face taking leave and away

  ten yards fifteen yards semi-side left right leg right arm push pull flat on face imprecations no sound semi-side right left leg left arm push pull flat on face imprecations no sound not an iota to be changed in this description

  here confused reckonings to the effect I can’t have deviated more than a second or so from the direction imparted to me one day one night at the inconceivable outset by chance by necessity by a little of each it’s one of the three from west strong feeling from west to east

  and so in the mud the dark on the belly in a straight line as near as no matter four hundred miles in other words in eight thousand years if I had not stopped the girdle of the earth meaning the equivalent

  it’s not said where on earth I can have received my education acquired my notions of mathematics astronomy and even physics they have marked me that’s the main thing

  intent on these horizons I do not feel my fatigue it is manifest none the less passage more laborious from one side to the other one semi-side prolongation of intermediate pro-cumbency multiplication of mute imprecations

  sudden quasi-certitude that another inch and I fall headlong into a ravine or dash myself against a wall though nothing I know only too well to be hoped for in that quarter this tears me from my reverie I’ve arrived

  the people above whining about not living strange at such a time such a bubble in the head all dead now others for whom it is not a life and what follows very strange namely that I understand them

  always understood everything except for example history and geography understood everything and forgave nothing never could never disapproved anything really not even cruelty to animals never loved anything

  such a bubble at such a time it bursts the day can’t do much more to me

  you mustn’t too weak agreed if you want weaker no you must as weak as possible then weaker still I say it as I hear it every word always

  my day my day my life so they come back the old words always no not much more only reacclimatize myself then last till sleep not fall asleep mad no sense in that

  mad or worse transformed à la Haeckel born in Potsdam where Klopstock too among others lived a space and laboured though buried in Altona the shadow he casts

  at evening with his face to the huge sun or his back I forget it’s not said the great shadow he casts towards his native east the humanities I had my God and with that flashes of geography

  not much more but in the tail the venom I’ve lost my latin one must be vigilant so a good moment in a daze on my belly then begin I can’t believe it to listen

  to listen as though having set out the previous evening from Nova Zembla I had just come back to my senses in a sub-trophical subprefecture that’s how I was had become or always was it’s one or the other the geography I had

  question if always good old question if always like that since the world world for me from the murmurs of my mother shat into the incredible tohu-bohu

  like that unable to take a step particularly at night without stopping dead on one leg eyes closed breath caught ears cocked for pursuers and rescuers

  I close my eyes the same old two and see me head up rick in the neck hands tense in the mud something wrong there breath caught it lasts I last like that a moment until the quiver of the lower face signifying I am saying have succeeded in saying something to myself

  what can one say to oneself possibly say at such a time a little pearl of forlorn solace so much the better so much the worse that style only not so cold cheers alas that style only not so warm joy and sorrow those two their sum divided by two and luke like in outer hell

  it’s soon said once found soon said the lips stiffen and all the adjacent flesh the hands open the head drops I sink a little further then no further it’s the same kingdom as before a moment before the same it always was I have never left it it is boundless

  I’m often happy God knows but never more than at this instant never so oh I know happiness unhappiness I know I know but there’s no harm mentioning it

  above if I were above the stars already and from the bel-freys the brief hour there’s not much more left to endure I’d gladly stay as I am for ever but that won’t do

  uncord sack and neck I do it I must do it it’s the way one is regulated my fingers do it I feel them

  in the mud the dark the face in the mud the hands anyhow something wrong there the cord in my hand the whole body anyhow and soon it is as if there at that place and no other I had lived yes lived always

  God sometimes somewhere at this moment but I have chanced on a good day I would gladly eat something but I won’t eat anything die mouth opens the tongue doesn’t come out the mouth soon closes again

  it’s on the left the sack attends me I turn on my right side and take it so light in my arms the knees draw up the back bends the head comes to rest on the sack we must have had these movements before would they were the last

  now yes or no a fold of the sack between the lips that can happen not in the mouth between the lips in the vestibule

  in spite of the life I’ve been given I’ve kept my plump lips two big scarlet blubbers to the feel made for kisses I imagine they pout out a little more part and fasten on a ruck of the sack very horsy

  yes or no it’s not said I can’t see other possibilities pray my prayer to sleep again wait for it to descend open under me calm water at last and in peril more than ever since all parries spent that hangs together still

  find more words and they all spent
more brief movements of the lower face he would need good eyes the witness if there were a witness good eyes a good lamp he would have them the witness the good eyes the good lamp

  to the scribe sitting aloof he’d announce midnight no two in the morning three in the morning Ballast Office brief movements of the lower face no sound it’s my words cause them it’s they cause my words it’s one or the other I’ll fall a sleep within humanity again just barely

  the dust there was then the mingled lime and granite stones piled up to make a wall further on the thorn in flower green and white quickset mingled privet and thorn

  the depth of dust there was then the little feet big for their age bare in the dust

  the satchel under the arse the back against the wall raise the eyes to the blue wake up in a sweat the white there was then the little clouds you could see the blue through the hot stones through the jersey striped horizontally blue and white

  raise the eyes look for faces in the sky animals in the sky fall asleep and there a beautiful youth meet a beautiful youth with golden goatee clad in an alb wake up in a sweat and have met Jesus in a dream

  that kind an image not for the eyes made of words not for the ears the day is ended I’m safe till tomorrow the mud opens I depart till tomorrow the head in the sack the arms round it the rest anyhow

  brief black long black no knowing and there I am again on my way again something missing here only two or three yards more and then the precipice only two or three last scraps and then the end end of part one leaving only part two leaving only part three and last something missing here things one knows already or will never know it’s one or the other

  I arrive and fall as the slug falls take the sack in my arms it weighs nothing any more nothing any more to pillow my head I press a rag I shall not say to my heart

  no emotion all is lost the bottom burst the wet the dragging the rubbing the hugging the ages old coal-sack five stone six stone that hangs together all gone the tins the opener an opener and no tins I’m spared that this time tins and no opener I won’t have had that in my life this time

  so many other things too so often imagined never named never could useful necessary beautiful to the feel all I was given present formulation such ancient things all gone but the cord a burst sack a cord I say it as I hear it murmur it to the mud old sack old cord you remain

  a little more to last a little more untwine the rope make two ropes tie the bottom of the sack fill it with mud tie the top it will make a good pillow it will be soft in my arms brief movements of the lower face would they were the last

  when the last meal the last journey what have I done where been that kind mute screams abandon hope gleam of hope frantic departure the cord round my neck the sack in my mouth a dog

  abandoned here effect of hope that hangs together still the eternal straight line effect of the pious wish not to die before my time in the dark the mud not to mention other causes

  only one thing to do go back or at least only other thrash round where I lie and I go on zigzag give me my due conformably to my complexion present formulation seeking that which I have lost there where I have never been

  dear figures when all fails a few figures to wind up with part one before Pim the golden age the good moments the losses of the species I was young I clung on to the species we’re talking of the species the human saying to myself brief movements no sound two and two twice two and so on

  sudden swerve therefore left it’s preferable forty-five degrees and two yards straight line such is the force of habit then right right angle and straight ahead four yards dear figures then left right angle and beeline four yards then right right angle so on till Pim

  thus north and south of the abandoned arrow effect of hope series of sawteeth or chevrons sides two yards base three a little less this the base we’re talking of the base in the old line of march which I thus revisit an instant between two vertices one yard and a half a little less dear figures golden age so it ends part one before Pim my travelling days vast stretch of time I was young all that all those words chevrons golden vertices every word always as I hear it in me that was without quaqua on all sides and murmur to the mud when the panting stops barely audible bits and scraps

  semi-side left right leg right arm push pull flat on face curse God bless him beseech him no sound with feet and hands scrabble in the mud what do I hope a tin lost where I have never been a tin half-emptied thrown away ahead that’s all I hope

  where I have never been but others perhaps long before not long before it’s one or the other or it’s both a procession what comfort in adversity others what comfort

  those dragging on in front those dragging on behind whose lot has been whose lot will be what your lot is endless cortège of sacks burst in the interests of all

  or a celestial tin miraculous sardines sent down by God at the news of my mishap wherewith to spew him out another week

  semi-side right left leg left arm push pull flat on the face mute imprecations scrabble in the mud every half-yard eight times per chevron or three yards of headway clear a little less the hand dips clawing for the take instead of the familiar slime an arse two cries one mute end of part one before Pim that’s how it was before Pim

  Imagination Dead Imagine

  The ten-year hiatus between the two major prose works The Unnamable and How It Is suggests the difficulty Beckett was doubtless having in pursuing his experiments further. From 1960 onward—the date of How It Is—the problem grew ever more acute. I know, from having been in constant touch with him during these years, that he was always at work, but all that resulted—or rather survived—were short pieces, either fragments of longer works abandoned or brief entities whose denseness and concision made them seem far longer than they really were.

  In the two-year period 1965-66 Beckett wrote three short prose works, all in French, in the following order: Imagination Dead Imagine, Enough, and Ping.* Of the three, Enough, though second in order of composition, relates in style and subject more to the earlier stories than to Imagination Dead Imagine or Ping. Although A. Alvarez dismisses it as “another of those pointless pilgrimages,” in reality its eight pages encompass a lifetime, and the narrator evokes a long, essentially idyllic relationship, one of mentor to pupil.

  The other two, however, are closely related both in subject and style, though in Imagination Dead Imagine sentence structure is essentially intact. “No trace anywhere of life,” it begins, as the nameless narrator surveys the scene. Then, from the white void, barely visible, appears a white rotunda in which two white bodies, “each in a semicircle,” are lying. If life is color and movement, then eternity, one suspects, is white and motionless. The creatures of this extraordinary piece, like the rotunda in which they lie, still breathing, though barely (“Hold a mirror to their lips, it mists”), are far closer to the latter than to the former.

  No trace anywhere of life, you say, pah, no difficulty there, imagination not dead yet, yes, dead, good, imagination dead imagine. Islands, waters, azure, verdure, one glimpse and vanished, endlessly, omit. Till all white in the whiteness the rotunda. No way in, go in, measure. Diameter three feet, three feet from ground to summit of the vault. Two diameters at right angles AB CD divide the white ground into two semicircles ACB BDA. Lying on the ground two white bodies, each in its semicircle. White too the vault and the round wall eighteen inches high from which it springs. Go back out, a plain rotunda, all white in the whiteness, go back in, rap, solid throughout, a ring as in the imagination the ring of bone. The light that makes all so white no visible source, all shines with the same white shine, ground, wall, vault, bodies, no shadow. Strong heat, surfaces hot but not burning to the touch, bodies sweating. Go back out, move back, the little fabric vanishes, ascend, it vanishes, all white in the whiteness, descend, go back in. Emptiness, silence, heat, whiteness, wait, the light goes down, all grows dark together, ground, wall, vault, bodies, say twenty seconds, all the greys, the light goes out, all vanishes. At the same time the t
emperature goes down, to reach its minimum, say freezing-point, at the same instant that the black is reached, which may seem strange. Wait, more or less long, light and heat come back, all grows white and hot together, ground, wall, vault, bodies, say twenty seconds, all the greys, till the initial level is reached whence the fall began. More or less long, for there may intervene, experience shows, between end of fall and beginning of rise, pauses of varying length, from the fraction of the second to what would have seemed, in other times, other places, an eternity. Same remark for the other pause, between end of rise and beginning of fall. The extremes, as long as they last, are perfectly stable, which in the case of the temperature may seem strange, in the beginning. It is possible too, experience shows, for rise and fall to stop short at any point and mark a pause, more or less long, before resuming, or reversing, the rise now fall, the fall rise, these in their turn to be completed, or to stop short and mark a pause, more or less long, before resuming, or again reversing, and so on, till finally one or the other extreme is reached. Such variations of rise and fall, combining in countless rhythms, commonly attend the passage from white and heat to black and cold, and vice versa. The extremes alone are stable as is stressed by the vibration to be observed when a pause occurs at some intermediate stage, no matter what its level and duration. Then all vibrates, ground, wall, vault, bodies, ashen or leaden or between the two, as may be. But on the whole, experience shows, such uncertain passage is not common. And most often, when the light begins to fail, and along with it the heat, the movement continues unbroken until, in the space of some twenty seconds, pitch black is reached and at the same instant say freezing-point. Same remark for the reverse movement, towards heat and whiteness. Next most frequent is the fall or rise with pauses of varying length in these feverish greys, without at any moment reversal of the movement. But whatever its uncertainties the return sooner or later to a temporary calm seems assured, for the moment, in the black dark or the great whiteness, with attendant temperature, world still proof against enduring tumult. Rediscovered miraculously after what absence in perfect voids it is no longer quite the same, from this point of view, but there is no other. Externally all is as before and the sighting of the little fabric quite as much a matter of chance, its whiteness merging in the surrounding whiteness. But go in and now briefer lulls and never twice the same storm. Light and heat remain linked as though supplied by the same source of which still no trace. Still on the ground, bent in three, the head against the wall at B, the arse against the wall at A, the knees against the wall between B and C, the feet against the wall between C and A, that is to say inscribed in the semicircle ACB, merging in the white ground were it not for the long hair of strangely imperfect whiteness, the white body of a woman finally. Similarly inscribed in the other semicircle, against the wall his head at A, his arse at B, his knees between A and D, his feet between D and B, the partner. On their right sides therefore both and back to back head to arse. Hold a mirror to their lips, it mists. With their left hands they hold their left legs a little below the knee, with their right hands their left arms a little above the elbow. In this agitated light, its great white calm now so rare and brief, inspection is not easy. Sweat and mirror notwithstanding they might well pass for inanimate but for the left eyes which at incalculable intervals suddenly open wide and gaze in unblinking exposure long beyond what is humanly possible. Piercing pale blue the effect is striking, in the beginning. Never the two gazes together except once, when the beginning of one overlapped the end of the other, for about ten seconds. Neither fat nor thin, big nor small, the bodies seem whole and in fairly good condition, to judge by the surfaces exposed to view. The faces too, assuming the two sides of a piece, seem to want nothing essential. Between their absolute stillness and the convulsive light the contrast is striking, in the beginning, for one who still remembers having been struck by the contrary. It is clear however, from a thousand little signs too long to imagine, that they are not sleeping. Only murmur ah, no more, in this silence, and at the same instant for the eye of prey the infinitesimal shudder instantaneously suppressed. Leave them there, sweating and icy, there is better elsewhere. No, life ends and no, there is nothing elsewhere, and no question now of ever finding again that white speck lost in whiteness, to see if they still lie still in the stress of that storm, or of a worse storm, or in the black dark for good, or the great whiteness unchanging, and if not what they are doing.