The End of it, the End: A Last Meeting with Beckett

por: Mark Axelrod

We first met in April, 1985. The last in 1988. Over coffee, he said he had nothing else to write about. He said it was over; “All things come to an end,” he said. Depressed and sullen discourse. One fathoms such a line from a dictionary of well-worn phrases perhaps, but not in the context of someone of Beckett’s literary station. I recall I left the café, ambled, turned down aleatory allies until I eventually found myself walking along the Seine, somewhere along the Seine, perhaps not, it didn’t really matter, fewer than two years later he was gone.

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