Foxrock, 1906

“Where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.”

— Samuel Beckett

I once had a dream that I was sitting across the table from Beckett in a crowded pub — although, at the time that I had the dream, I’d never been in a pub — and he asked wryly “Do you want to know what the secret is?”

I nodded, leaning forward to listen and, as I did so, my face broke through the surface of the dream like I was submerged in dark water and I woke.

That was over ten years ago.

I still sometimes wonder what he was going to tell me, even now.

At any rate, Beckett wrote. I read. Now I write.

And today is his birthday. It was a good trick, being born on Good Friday and Friday the Thirteenth all at once.