people always talk about Waiting for Godot as this existential waste, which it is, but it's a really charming one, and they don't talk about that part so much. if only we could be so lucky to be trapped in the void with our best friend who's kind of annoying but goddammit we don't know what we'd do without him!
the thing about Beckett, or how i read him, is that there's a difference between an absurdist and a nihilist. if the question is "why do humans keep doing things even though it doesn't matter?", then it is a question asked with affection, the same affection you feel towards a particularly old dog who still tries to run to dinner even though her legs can barely carry her.
even The Unnamable, possibly the most straight-up nightmarish Beckett work, ends with the above phrase. Beckett does not champion the human impulse, but he doesn't really denigrate it either. more so, he thinks it's odd and funny and is curious what exactly is going on there. his work is an investigation of peeling away layers of the person only to find more layers and more words and more perception and, like all good investigation, that requires a genuine interest in the thing you're investigating, not just a desire to prove that it's useless.
Nohow On
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