Beckett's short story "The Expelled" has much in common with "First Love", discussed in an earlier entry. Oh, sure, it isn't about love, real or imagined, like "First Love" is, but the similarities of images and events are striking.
Like "First Love", "The Expelled" is a first person narrative. The narrator in both stories is a homeless man. In the case of "First Love" the narrator has been homeless for a long time. In the case of "The Expelled" the narrator is recently homeless, though not for the first time. Both narrators focus on minute details that most people would consider insignificant – smells, the date of his father's death, the proper way to count steps on a staircase.
Both narrators suggest that they should have had some kind of inheritance from their fathers, and both suggest that the fact that they don't is the result of chicanery on the part of others. In "First Love", the narrator arguably should have had his father's house, but was evicted by some undefined others. In "The Expelled", the narrator hints that he should have received money from his father's estate, but didn't for some uncertain reason. The only money he has is from a woman whose name he has forgotten and whose connection he cannot explain. As I read this, I thought that perhaps Beckett is writing about Esau – who was either cheated out of his inheritance by his younger brother or sold it to him for a meal.
Likewise, both stories have similar "return to the womb" images. In both, the narrator ends up in a plain room (the room emptied of furniture in "First Love", the stable in "The Expelled"). He enters a smaller container within the room (the sofa against the wall; the cab). Some other nearby (the child crying; the horse staring) disturbs the narrator and he leaves abruptly by a constricted passage (the furniture-clogged hallway; the stable window). In "The Expelled", the birth image is even more explicit because the narrator leaves head first.
And let us not forget one other detail. Both narrators are jobless, not because they cannot work, but because they choose not to work. Both narrators talk about how they wish to stay in a room, isolated from the world, and have their food brought to them. In "First Love", the narrator achieves this state, to some extent, until the child drives him out. In "The Expelled", the narrator simply describes his ideal state and bemoans his poverty which "compels [him] to bestir [him]self." In neither case do either try to better their financial situation so they might, one day, achieve that blissful state of isolation they so desire.
This hunger for isolation reminds me of the phenomenon called "hikikomori" in Japan, a form of extreme social withdrawal. While the phenomenon isn't isolated to Japan, it seems to be concentrated there, with estimates ranging as high as a million people, or about 1% of the population, isolating themselves from society. Often, they are young and live with their parents. They shut themselves in their room and come out rarely if at all. Their parents may not see them for months or years at a time, leaving food at their door and collecting the empty plates later. (NYT Article, Wikipedia Article)
Western psychologists and psychiatrists suggest the behavior is just another form of extreme social withdrawal due to severe depression. Japanese researchers suggest the hikikmoroi cannot cope with the intense pressures for conformity within Japanese culture and so withdraw. These aren't the kids who hang out in Shibuya on the weekends in goth or loli-goth attire, primping and posing for the cameras – or any of the other zoku. They aren't integrated into the various otaku subcultures that have their own support groups in Akihabara and on Internet sites like Futaba (aka 2-chan). They're the people whose difference isn't so trendy or well defined or controllable. They feel truly isolated and carry that to a physical level. Some are bullied in school. Some withdraw due to poor grades. Some just can't deal with some aspect of life in general.
Beckett's narrators seem to be a hybrid of the two theories of hikikomori and neither. Both have some limited social interaction with others. They live or move outside of a room. They do not have the luxury of living the hikikomori lifestyle.
But they long to live it. They exhibit signs of depression or are in situations that typically lead to depression. They see themselves as different and isolated from others. They have little or no desire to socialize with other people, each displaying some degree of misanthropy, which is not part of the hikikomori makeup. They have some of the signs, but not the full manifestation.
So why does Beckett focus on these kinds of characters – at least in these first two short stories? I'll think on that as the semester progresses, though I'm not fond of them so far. That deserves a brief note. I am intensely drawn to damaged characters, but to damaged characters that are trying to mend their damage, not who want to revel in it.
Beckett's characters are damaged and revel in their damage, want it to be worse, or want to be dead. I prefer damaged characters who want to live, to fight, to change. I suspect Beckett didn't believe that healing is possible, or at least that it isn't worthwhile. And, I'm sure a deconstructionist critic would turn my whole preference upside down and say Beckett's characters aren't "damaged" for wanting to be more so, I am for wanting to be less so, and the only sane people are those in the asylum.
09 September 2008
05 September 2008
LIT4934 - Workbook Entry 02 - Waiting for Godot
Our first Beckett play is Waiting for Godot. The subtitle on the edition we have is "A Tragicomedy in Two Acts", which is a reasonably effective description of the play. I found it both humorous and sad. Funny because there are some very good lines, especially Estragon's. Sad because it is a play about meaninglessness and hopelessness, and it is sad to think how many people end up in that state. Often, critics describe it as a play about nothing in which nothing happens, though that conclusion is ultimately incorrect.
In the first act, Estragon often plays the voice of existentialism. He opens the play with the line, "Nothing to be done," as he struggles to remove his boots. This effectively summarizes the position Estragon and Vladimir share, having suspended their lives as they wait for Godot's promised arrival, They wait for the order to move on to the next thing. Meanwhile, they are bored, killing time and squandering their lives. (Time is the stuff of which life is made, to paraphrase Ben Franklin.)
Estragon's second line, in response to Vladimir's "So there you are again," is "Am I?" This could be (likely is) a succinct statement of the existential dilemma. Is he there? Is he there again? (Has he ever been there before?) Existentialism says that he can never be certain. Another reading might see this as him asking if this is really a repetition. Since every moment is new, the past is gone, uncertain, malleable and tainted by limited perception, is it really again? Is he the same person who was there before? All these questions are embedded in these two words.
Estragon's third line wraps up his opening philosophical foray. Vladimir says, "I'm glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever." Estragon says, "Me too." So, "me too" which? Is he glad to be back? (Is this again?) Is he as glad to see Vladimir as Vladimir claims to be to see him? Or had he thought (hoped?) he was gone forever? I suspect it was the latter. His next line begins a section bemoaning the beating he suffers nightly from "them", the agony of his sore feet, the general misery of his life. Four pages later he has convinced Vladimir that the best thing they could do would be to hang themselves, if only they could be certain the flimsy tree limb wouldn't break and leave one of them alive and alone.
The depth of Estragon's misery and hopelessness is truly sad and is even more evident in the second act where his behavior sometimes borders on senile dementia. For example, at the beginning of the second act as he shouts for Vladimir to leave him alone and then bemoans the fact that he thought Vladimir had abandoned him. Later in the play, Vladimir sings him a lullaby and talks to him as a parent might a child afraid of the dark, or an adult child might an elderly parent suffering from dementia, Alzheimer's or some similar condition. Later still, debating what to do about the fallen Pozzo, Estragon tells Vladimir, "We should ask him for the bone first. Then if he refuses we'll leave him there." Selfish. Childish.
Even so Estragon does not abandon his philosopher role. Beset by intermittent mental decline he still manages the hit Vladimir with complexities like, "You see, you feel worse when I'm with you. I fell better alone too," driving home the sense of discomfort arising from the existentialist uncertainty of existence. After Vladimir wakes him from one of several naps, he complains, "Why will you never let me sleep? … I was dreaming I was happy," longing to return to a state not just of non-consciousness, but non-awareness of the meaninglessness and hopelessness of his existence.
Many critics, play-watchers and readers say Waiting for Godot is a play about nothing in which nothing happens. I beg to differ. Many things happen in the play. There are arguments and debates, witty exchanges, scenes of sadness and joy, fear and courage. The problem is not that nothing is happening in the play, but that the audience arrives with a (mistaken) notion of what is going to happen, what should happen, based on the title. Why should one expect a play called Waiting for Godot to include Godot's arrival? Would we expect Shakespeare's Waiting for the Tempest to overlap Shakespeare's The Tempest? If Waiting for Tam Lin detailed Tam Lin's arrival and what happened after, wouldn't it be better called Tam Lin (as, in fact, Pamela Dean called it, though she introduces him by a more modern version of his name first). Apparently some people do and feel cheated because the play never delivers on the "promise" the play's title never signed. The play is about waiting for Godot. A lot of waiting happens in the play. Estragon and Vladimir do constantly, burning massive amounts of energy and time while accomplishing nothing but waiting.
Finally, let's consider how the title is incorrect. Vladimir and Estragon are not actually waiting for someone named Godot. Instead, they are waiting for lightning. They stare at a fixed point searching for a blinding flash of lightning, stand in a single spot listening for a deafening peal of thunder to announce, "It's time for a change. Quit resting. Go, do 't and be fulfilled."
That shout never comes. Certainly not in the play, rarely for people in general.
Instead, announcement comes as a whisper. "Are you miserable? Are you alone? Are you hurting? Are you lost?" Estragon and Vladimir have misery, loneliness, pain and bewilderment four-of-a-kind in spades, each in different ways. To these sad, lonely seekers, the whisper beckons, "Come home. Be part of the family. Be healed. Be found." But, in the end, beset by a angelic boy who continually questions their memory of the past and their very existence and who devilishly eggs them on with promises of a great, loud, wonderful, unmissable sign that will never be delivered, they are unwilling to abandon their quest for the roaring wind, the shaking earth and the searing fire.
Thus, Vladimir and Estragon miss the quiet whisper that says everything they need to hear. "It's time for a change. Quit doing. Come, rest and be fulfilled."
In the first act, Estragon often plays the voice of existentialism. He opens the play with the line, "Nothing to be done," as he struggles to remove his boots. This effectively summarizes the position Estragon and Vladimir share, having suspended their lives as they wait for Godot's promised arrival, They wait for the order to move on to the next thing. Meanwhile, they are bored, killing time and squandering their lives. (Time is the stuff of which life is made, to paraphrase Ben Franklin.)
Estragon's second line, in response to Vladimir's "So there you are again," is "Am I?" This could be (likely is) a succinct statement of the existential dilemma. Is he there? Is he there again? (Has he ever been there before?) Existentialism says that he can never be certain. Another reading might see this as him asking if this is really a repetition. Since every moment is new, the past is gone, uncertain, malleable and tainted by limited perception, is it really again? Is he the same person who was there before? All these questions are embedded in these two words.
Estragon's third line wraps up his opening philosophical foray. Vladimir says, "I'm glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever." Estragon says, "Me too." So, "me too" which? Is he glad to be back? (Is this again?) Is he as glad to see Vladimir as Vladimir claims to be to see him? Or had he thought (hoped?) he was gone forever? I suspect it was the latter. His next line begins a section bemoaning the beating he suffers nightly from "them", the agony of his sore feet, the general misery of his life. Four pages later he has convinced Vladimir that the best thing they could do would be to hang themselves, if only they could be certain the flimsy tree limb wouldn't break and leave one of them alive and alone.
The depth of Estragon's misery and hopelessness is truly sad and is even more evident in the second act where his behavior sometimes borders on senile dementia. For example, at the beginning of the second act as he shouts for Vladimir to leave him alone and then bemoans the fact that he thought Vladimir had abandoned him. Later in the play, Vladimir sings him a lullaby and talks to him as a parent might a child afraid of the dark, or an adult child might an elderly parent suffering from dementia, Alzheimer's or some similar condition. Later still, debating what to do about the fallen Pozzo, Estragon tells Vladimir, "We should ask him for the bone first. Then if he refuses we'll leave him there." Selfish. Childish.
Even so Estragon does not abandon his philosopher role. Beset by intermittent mental decline he still manages the hit Vladimir with complexities like, "You see, you feel worse when I'm with you. I fell better alone too," driving home the sense of discomfort arising from the existentialist uncertainty of existence. After Vladimir wakes him from one of several naps, he complains, "Why will you never let me sleep? … I was dreaming I was happy," longing to return to a state not just of non-consciousness, but non-awareness of the meaninglessness and hopelessness of his existence.
Many critics, play-watchers and readers say Waiting for Godot is a play about nothing in which nothing happens. I beg to differ. Many things happen in the play. There are arguments and debates, witty exchanges, scenes of sadness and joy, fear and courage. The problem is not that nothing is happening in the play, but that the audience arrives with a (mistaken) notion of what is going to happen, what should happen, based on the title. Why should one expect a play called Waiting for Godot to include Godot's arrival? Would we expect Shakespeare's Waiting for the Tempest to overlap Shakespeare's The Tempest? If Waiting for Tam Lin detailed Tam Lin's arrival and what happened after, wouldn't it be better called Tam Lin (as, in fact, Pamela Dean called it, though she introduces him by a more modern version of his name first). Apparently some people do and feel cheated because the play never delivers on the "promise" the play's title never signed. The play is about waiting for Godot. A lot of waiting happens in the play. Estragon and Vladimir do constantly, burning massive amounts of energy and time while accomplishing nothing but waiting.
Finally, let's consider how the title is incorrect. Vladimir and Estragon are not actually waiting for someone named Godot. Instead, they are waiting for lightning. They stare at a fixed point searching for a blinding flash of lightning, stand in a single spot listening for a deafening peal of thunder to announce, "It's time for a change. Quit resting. Go, do 't and be fulfilled."
That shout never comes. Certainly not in the play, rarely for people in general.
Instead, announcement comes as a whisper. "Are you miserable? Are you alone? Are you hurting? Are you lost?" Estragon and Vladimir have misery, loneliness, pain and bewilderment four-of-a-kind in spades, each in different ways. To these sad, lonely seekers, the whisper beckons, "Come home. Be part of the family. Be healed. Be found." But, in the end, beset by a angelic boy who continually questions their memory of the past and their very existence and who devilishly eggs them on with promises of a great, loud, wonderful, unmissable sign that will never be delivered, they are unwilling to abandon their quest for the roaring wind, the shaking earth and the searing fire.
Thus, Vladimir and Estragon miss the quiet whisper that says everything they need to hear. "It's time for a change. Quit doing. Come, rest and be fulfilled."
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