Skip to content
Reflections of a working writer and reader
- On Writing
- My Bookshop
- Main Menu
- Previous Posts
to RSS feed
with Death Reviews
Samuel Beckett. The farther he goes the more good it does me. I don't want philosophies, tracts, dogmas, creeds, ways out, truths, answers, nothing from the bargain basement. He is the most courageous, remorseless writer going and the more he grinds my nose in the shit the more I am grateful to him.
He's not fucking me about, he's not leading me up any garden path, he's not slipping me a wink, he's not flogging me a remedy or a path or a revelation or a basinful of breadcrumbs, he's not selling me anything I don't want to buy - he doesn't give a bollock whether I buy or not - he hasn't got his hand over his heart. Well, I'll buy his goods, hook, line and sinker, because he leaves no stone unturned and no maggot lonely. He brings forth a body of beauty.
His work is beautiful.
Our Great Great Grandfather was not a Vegetarian
Anthony Bourdain in the Mercado del Puerto in Montevideo