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Portrait of the artist as a young fan: Echo’s Bones by Samuel Beckett

A previously unpublished novella shows the playwright struggling to escape the influence of Joyce. 

French connection: Samuel Beckett photographed in Paris, 1960. He met Joyce on his first visit to France in 1928. Photo: Lufti Ozkok/Rex/Sipa

The year 1933 marked a low point in the life of the nascent Irish writer Samuel Beckett. On 3 May, while he was in Dublin undergoing a painful operation to remove a cyst from his neck, news came that his first cousin and first real love, Peggy Sinclair, had died in Germany, of tuberculosis, at the age of 22. Less than two months later, on 22 June, his father, Bill, suffered a heart attack; he died on 26 June, his last words worthy of one of his son’s interminably expiring narrators: “What a morning!”

Peggy had figured in Beckett’s Dream of Fair to middling Women as the character Smeraldina-Rima and would appear again in the short-story collection More Pricks than Kicks. In the former, he had provided a portrait of her at once exuberant, enraptured and eerily prophetic:

So she had been, sad and still, without limbs or paps in a great stillness of body, that summer evening in the green isle when first she heaved his soul from its hinges; as quiet as a tree, column of quiet. Pinus puella quondam fuit. Alas fuit! So he would always have her be, rapt, like the spirit of a troubadour, casting no shade, herself shade.

Peggy had drifted out of his amorous ken – at the time of her death she was engaged to be married to another – but his father, who was only 61 when his heart gave out, had been one of the few rocks against which the increasingly nerve-racked young man could lean for loving support. “I can’t write about him,” he wrote in his bereavement, “I can only walk the fields and climb the ditches after him.” In a poem begun in the shadow of that summer’s catastrophe, “Malacoda”, an early title for which was “The Undertaker’s Man”, Beckett speaks with palpable horror of this frightful figure, “impassible behind his scutal bowler”, coming “to coffin/with assistant ungulata”. From earliest days Beckett was one well acquainted with last things.

In 1933 Beckett was 27 and adrift. After working as a schoolmaster in Belfast – imagine the mixed blessing of having Samuel Beckett as a teacher – he had gone to Paris in 1928 to take up a position as lecteur in English at the exclusive École Normale Supérieure on the rue d’Ulm. During his two years in Paris he was, if not happy, certainly happier than he had been in Dublin. He made friends, learned to drink, consorted with girls and, most momentously, was introduced to James Joyce.

He revered the author of Ulysses and sought to emulate him, going so far as to wear shoes that were too narrow for him and holding his cigarette in the way that Joyce did. He insisted, however, that at the time he did not intend to be a writer: “That only came later when I found out that I was no good at all at teaching.” He performed one significant writing task, however, translating into French the Anna Livia Plurabelle section from what would become Joyce’s Finnegans Wake; significant, but hampering, too, for it would take him a long, hard time to drag himself out from under the master’s influence and arrive at what his character Krapp describes as “that memorable night in March, at the end of the jetty, in the howling wind, never to be forgotten, when suddenly I saw the whole thing” and it became clear to him at last “that the dark I have always struggled to keep under” was in fact for him the way of light that would lead to artistic triumph.

That triumph was still a long way off. In 1930 he had returned from his first stay in Paris and begun work as a lecturer in French at Trinity College, Dublin. Once more he was living at home and caught fast in the grip of his mother’s “savage love”: where Bill had been a rock of support, May Beckett was, if not a millstone, an immovable force at the centre of her son’s life, and he spent the first half of it resisting her influence and the second half mourning her loss. As he later said, he was what that savage love of hers had made him.

At Cooldrinagh, the family home in the leafy suburb of Foxrock, he quickly subsided into a troubled but irresistible indolence: “Today I am sitting by the fire listening to the rain and the trees and feeling ideally stupid.” In college, things were no better: “The eternally invariable formulae of cheap quip and semi-obscene entirely contemptible potin [French: “idle gossip”] in the Common Room Club.” He was turning into Oblomov, the nickname his future lover Peggy Guggenheim conferred on him.

She might more aptly have called him Belacqua, the Florentine lute-maker who in Dante’s Purgatorio sits in affectless dejection in the shade of a boulder, having abandoned all hope of getting to heaven. Beckett gave the name to the protagonist, if that is the word, of the stories in More Pricks than Kicks, which he had begun writing after his failure to find a publisher for his first novel, Dream of Fair to middling Women, “the chest into which I threw my wild thoughts”, as he later described it; many of the stories are sections lifted straight out of that novel, some of them almost verbatim. We encounter Belacqua Shuah at the start of the opening story, “Dante and the Lobster”:

It was morning and Belacqua was stuck in the first of the canti in the moon. He was so bogged that he could move neither backward nor forward. Blissful Beatrice was there, Dante also, and she explained the spots on the moon to him. She shewed him in the first place where he was at fault, then she put up her own explanation. She had it from God, therefore he could rely on its being accurate in every particular.

Among the publishers to whom he had sent the Dream, and who had rejected it, was Chatto & Windus – or “Shatton and Windup”, as Beckett preferred to call it in his more resentful moments – whose senior partner, Charles Prentice, had returned the manuscript more in sorrow than dislike. Indeed, Prentice had written of certain sections of the book, “You’re at your best there, right away from Joyce, and on your own, and the beauty and precision of the language moved me from the feet up.”

In Damned to Fame, his magnificent bio­graphy of Beckett, James Knowlson makes a point of giving Prentice his due, pointing out that he was undoubtedly “the first commercial publisher to ‘discover’ Samuel Beckett”. Prentice, a Scot, was a classical scholar and one of those rare figures to be encountered in the world of publishing – a true enthusiast for books, and even for their authors. Richard Aldington wrote of him: “He was unmarried, and in spite of his amiable qualities rather a lonely man, living in lodgings in Earls Terrace, Kensington, in a chaos of books, boxes of cigars, wines and pictures by Wyndham Lewis.”

This Pickwickian figure, whom Beckett had met and liked, was to prove a friend to the young writer’s early work, publishing his book-length essay of 1930 on Proust and, in 1934, More Pricks than Kicks. He had to let Beckett drop from the Chatto list in the mid-1930s, a matter on which Knowlson is sympathetic, pointing out that it is “difficult for a publisher who is running a commercial firm to persist with an author when few readers are buying his books”. In this context one recalls that rueful passage in Krapp’s Last Tape in which the hapless Krapp, apparently a writer, reflects on his sales figures: “Seventeen copies sold, of which eleven at trade price to free circulating libraries beyond the seas. Getting known. (Pause) One pound six and something, eight I have little doubt.”

In September 1933 Beckett assembled the ten stories he had accumulated so far into a volume, to which he gave the catchy title Draff (dregs, the refuse of malt after brewing), and sent it off to Prentice. On 25 September Prentice wrote to say that Chatto would publish the book. However, he asked for a change of title, and also he felt that at 60,000 words it was a little too short: might it be possible to have another story to bulk it out? At this time Beckett was staying with his lately widowed mother in a small holiday cottage in the pleasant village of Dalkey on the coast south of Dublin – what a fraught ménage that must have been – and at once he set to work on what would become Echo’s Bones, a title he took from Ovid.

Following his father’s death, Beckett’s already precarious health had worsened dramatically. His heart had “started its jigs again”, he was suffering from night sweats and panic attacks (for a time he slept in his brother’s room in an effort to assuage his terrors) and also he had another cyst, this one in his palm, which resisted treatment. In late August he was knocked off his motorbike by a car and injured his right arm and hip. There was worse to come. “I’ll tell you how it was,” Knowlson reports him saying. “I was walking down Dawson Street [in Dublin]. And I felt I couldn’t go on. It was a strange experience I can’t really describe. I found I couldn’t go on moving. So I went into the nearest pub and got a drink just to stay still. And I felt I needed help.”

These were the circumstances, and state of mind, in which he wrote “Echo’s Bones”, a “fagpiece”, as he called it. The story is a highly peculiar phantasmagoria – the editor, Mark Nixon, restrainedly describes it as “enigmatic” – in which Belacqua, whom his creator had already killed off, is resurrected to embark on adventures even more bizarre than those recounted in the preceding stories. The plot (the “plot”) involves a prostitute called Zaborovna Privet, the issueless Lord Gall of Wormwood who urges Belacqua to consort with Lady Gall, in the hope of providing him with an heir (there will be a child, but a girl child, alas), a gardener called Doyle and, briefly, one of Belacqua’s old flames, the Alba.

The story is, Nixon writes, “without doubt, more densely allusive, more Joyce­an, than any of Beckett’s other early writings”. He goes on to say that it is, as its title implies, made up of echoes but quotes the Beckett scholar John Pilling’s observation that there are so many echoes “they seem to multiply to infinity, and yet they are little more than the bare bones of material without any overarching purpose to animate” them. This is certainly true. Yet the fact is, there are no criteria by which to make a definitive critical assessment of the story, because it is entirely sui generis. Most readers will find it tiresome or infuriating or both. In it we see Beckett the late-modernist offering homage to his overweening exemplar James Joyce and at the same time twisting and thrashing as he tries to fly the Joycean nets and become his own man. In the end, it is as a part of the record of this struggle that Echo’s Bones is of interest.

Charles Prentice, when he read the story, was appalled. His letter of rejection is a testament not only to his literary wisdom but also to his kindness. “Echo’s Bones”, he wrote, gave him “the jim-jams”. It would, he was sure, “lose the book a great many readers. People will shudder and be puzzled and confused; and they won’t be keen on analysing the shudder.” Beckett was crestfallen; the rejection of the story, “into which I put all I knew and plenty that I was better still aware of, discouraged me profoundly”. It was, however, another milestone along the hard road to freedom from Joycean omnivorousness and towards that point at which, as Beckett said, he could let the darkness in, and become the master of those deprivations and decrepitudes out of which he would whittle his bleak masterworks.

The story exists as a typescript and a carbon copy, the former held at the Rauner Library at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, the latter in the A J Leventhal Collection of the Harry Ransom Centre at the University of Texas in Austin. The Dartmouth text contains all Beckett’s corrections and additions and is the one used in this first, Faber edition. As is often the case with the late publication of prentice (no pun intended) work by a great writer, the story itself is dwarfed by the critical apparatus surrounding it. However, Nixon’s annotations are a wonder and make up a kind of parallel text that is in its way more fascinating, and certainly more enlightening, than the story the intricacies of which it aims to unravel. This volume is a masterpiece of scholarship.

After Charles Prentice’s rejection of the story Beckett abandoned it, wisely, but not before distilling out of it a wonderful little poem to which he gave the same title, a fragment at once tender, nasty, vulgar and heartbroken, that points unmistakably towards the future:

asylum under my tread all this day.
their muffled revels as the flesh falls
breaking without fear or favour wind
the gantelope of sense and nonsense run
taken by the maggots for what they are

John Banville is a Man Booker Prize-winning novelist. His latest book (written as Benjamin Black) is “The Black-Eyed Blonde” (Mantle, £16.99)

This article first appeared in the 14 April 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Easter Double

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How power shifted dramatically in this week’s Game of Thrones

The best-laid plans of Mothers and men often go awry.

Last week’s Game of Thrones was absolutely full of maps. It had more maps than a Paper Towns/Moonrise Kingdom crossover. More maps than an Ordnance Survey walking tour of a cartographer’s convention. More maps than your average week on CityMetric.

So imagine the cheers of delight when this week’s episode, “Stormborn”, opened with – yes, a map! Enter Daenerys, casting her eyes over her carved table map (Ikea’s Västeross range, I believe), deciding whether to take King’s Landing and the iron throne from Cersei or a different path. After some sassy debates with Varys over loyalty, more members of her court enter to point angrily at different grooves in the table as Dany and Tyrion move their minature armies around the board.

In fact, this whole episode had a sense of model parts slotting pleasingly into place. Melisandre finally moved down the board from Winterfell to Dragonstone to initiate the series’ most inevitable meeting, between The King of the North and the Mother of Dragons. Jon is hot on her heels. Arya crossed paths with old friends Hot Pie and Nymeria, and the right word spoken at the right time saw her readjust her course to at last head home to the North. Tyrion seamlessly anticipated a move from Cersei and changed Dany’s tack accordingly. There was less exposition than last week, but the episode was starting to feel like an elegant opening to a long game of chess.

All this made the episode’s action-filled denouement all the more shocking. As Yara, Theon and Ellaria dutifully took their place in Dany’s carefully mapped out plans, they were ambushed by their mad uncle Euron (a character increasingly resembling Blackbeard-as-played-by-Jared-Leto). We should have known: just minutes before, Yara and Ellaria started to get it on, and as TV law dictates, things can never end well for lesbians. As the Sand Snakes were mown down one by one, Euron captured Yara and dared poor Theon to try to save her. As Theon stared at Yara’s desperate face and tried to build up the courage to save her, we saw the old ghost of Reek quiver across his face, and he threw himself overboard. It’s an interesting decision from a show that has recently so enjoyed showing its most abused characters (particularly women) delight in showy, violent acts of revenge. Theon reminds us that the sad reality of trauma is that it can make people behave in ways that are not brave, or redemptive, or even kind.

So Euron’s surprise attack on the rest of the Greyjoy fleet essentially knocked all the pieces off the board, to remind us that the best-laid plans of Mothers and men often go awry. Even when you’ve laid them on a map.

But now for the real question. Who WAS the baddest bitch of this week’s Game of Thrones?

Bad bitch points are awarded as follows:

  • Varys delivering an extremely sassy speech about serving the people. +19.
  • Missandei correcting Dany’s High Valerian was Extremely Bold, and I, for one, applaud her. +7.
  • The prophecy that hinges on a gender-based misinterpretation of the word “man” or “prince” has been old since Macbeth, but we will give Dany, like, two points for her “I am not a prince” chat purely out of feminist obligation. +2.
  • Cersei having to resort to racist rhetoric to try and persuade her own soldiers to fight for her. This is a weak look, Cersei. -13.
  • Samwell just casually chatting back to his Maester on ancient medicine even though he’s been there for like, a week, and has read a total of one (1) book on greyscale. +5. He seems pretty wrong, but we’re giving points for sheer audacity.
  • Cersei thinking she can destroy Dany’s dragon army with one (1) big crossbow. -15. Harold, they’re dragons.
  • “I’ve known a great many clever men. I’ve outlived them all. You know why? I ignored them.” Olenna is the queen of my LIFE. +71 for this one (1) comment.
  • Grey Worm taking a risk and being (literally) naked around someone he loves. +33. He’s cool with rabid dogs, dizzying heights and tumultuous oceans, but clearly this was really scary for him. It’s important and good to be vulnerable!! All the pats on the back for Grey Worm. He really did that.
  • Sam just fully going for it and chopping off all of Jorah’s skin (even though he literally… just read a book that said dragonglass can cure greyscale??). +14. What is this bold motherfucker doing.
  • Jorah letting him. +11.
  • “You’ve been making pies?” “One or two.” Blatant fan service from psycho killer Arya, but I fully loved it. +25.
  • Jon making Sansa temporary Queen in the North. +7.
  • Sansa – queen of my heart and now Queen in the North!!! +17.
  • Jon choking Littlefinger for perving over Sansa. +19. This would just be weird and patriarchal, but Littlefinger is an unholy cunt and Sansa has been horrifically abused by 60 per cent of the men who have ever touched her.
  • Nymeria staring down the woman who once possessed her in a delicious reversal of fortune. +13. Yes, she’s a wolf but she did not consent to being owned by a strangely aggressive child.
  • Euron had a big win. So, regrettably, +10.

​That means this week’s bad bitch is Olenna Tyrell, because who even comes close? This week’s loser is Cersei. But, as always, with the caveat that when Cersei is really losing – she strikes hard. Plus, Qyburn’s comment about the dragon skeletons under King’s Landing, “Curious that King Robert did not have them destroyed”, coupled with his previous penchant for re-animated dead bodies, makes me nervous, and worry that – in light of Cersei’s lack of heir – we’re moving towards a Cersei-Qyburn-White Walkers alliance. So do watch out.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.