//Beckett (comments on Beckett)

To tackle, or to attempt to tackle, or to think about what it would take to tackle, a book, a book of books, if one could say there is a book in this book, if there are any books in any books, or what books were like, when books were books, written by Samuel Beckett, it is hard to imagine, if imagination comes to mind, an approach of considering the depth, and emptiness, the vastness, and the scarcity. Even worse, when there are three, books, or novels, within one, outside of each other, but all in one connexion, all speaking to each other, if books can speak, the certainly don´t have mouths, or any other apparatus to deliver speech, but nonetheless, the phrasing seems to stick. But since this area is supposed to be a diary of thought, or at least it´s proposed to do as such, the attempt at the tackle will be delivered just the same. But before I get to that story, i should first examine the contents of my blog, for which, without those items, the substantiation of my story would be meaningless. There are two items of that are held within my blog, although I´m not entirely sure how they got there, but there they rest still the same, waiting for appraisal, or recognition, for although i see them, I am not sure whether others do or not, since i have yet to recieve any comments on this matter, i assume that they are perhaps only for my eyes, but then why would they be here, and whom brought them down to me? But then how did it occur that I was the one that had wrote them? The language is mine, and i recognize bits of it, all though in entirety they are not completely clear to me, but when i wrote them I am uncertain, or I was once, but now can remember when that was. But they are there nonetheless, or at least I´ve convinced myself otherwise, for if they weren´t there, then i would have to make much more rash statements about the general status of the internets that currently surround me. But perhaps that´s where my story was going, or where my story starts, or how the tackle begins, or ends. But in this nonsense, there are bits of substance, and perhaps that is what I wanted to say, or was it Samuel that said that. No, i couldn´t of been him, he doesn´t speak, or at least I´ve never heard him, which makes me think that he might never, or if he did, he would never do so in front of me. But that reminds me of my story, because the story is formulated from two quotes, two phrases from three books, books put into one book, and discussed amongst each other, or at least just one to the others. The quotes, for me, are like book ends, book ends to a books, keeping the books together, but also apart, or near each other at least, like neighbors, but maybe more like siblings, or descendants, or ancestors, or cousins, yes, like cousins, sharing common blood, but not very closely related, or maybe one of them is like an uncle. The first quote :: ¨The shadow in the end is no better than the substance.¨ in Molloy, outside of the police station, riding his bike, almost taunting the patrolman. ¨... ah yes, I nearly forgot, speak of time, without flinching, andwhat is more, it just occurs to me, by a natural association of ideas, treat of space with the same easy grace, as if it were not bunged up on all sides, a few inches away, after all thatś something, a few inches to be thankful for, it gives me one air, room for the tongue to loll, to have lolled, to loll on,¨ is the second quote, the last that I will give here, the only two that I think are appropriate for right now, or for the time being, or perhaps for all time, or the time that I will see through, which sits near the end of The Unnamable. Perhaps these quotes, this exercise of quoting and speaking of books without tongues, or stories without a stroy, is my tackle, not to create a dog pile, but rather instead to fish.