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The Letters of Samuel Beckett: Volume 1, 1929-1940

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The wait is finally over! Nearly twenty years after Beckett's death, we at last glimpse the first foot of this four-volume beast. And what a remarkable thing _The Letters of Samuel Beckett: 1929-1940_ is. Whether you're a serious student of twentieth-century literature and theater already familiar with the tremendous force of Beckett's novels, short stories, plays, poetry, and translations, have a passing association with the extraordinary worlds Beckett created in such landmark works as _Waiting for Godot_ and _Endgame_, or are a relative newcomer simply curious about one of the most prolific, interesting, talented, and famous writers of the twentieth century, this brilliant collection of Beckett's early letters offers vast resources and captivating treasures for you.

Beyond the sheer number and scope of the letters--written from Paris, Dublin, London, Berlin to friends, family members, publishers, and a plethora of others, and opening a hitherto unseen window onto the private life and thoughts of Beckett--what most impresses is the portrait of the author they draw. Of course, there is his incredible erudition: his facility and playfulness with a number of different languages, his extensive knowledge of literature throughout history and role in the literature of his day, his far-reaching and astonishing discernment about the fine arts. The letters themselves are astoundingly well-written gems, showing Beckett's ability to craft deeply contemplative, mellifluous, and puckish prose all at once. Perhaps even more noteworthy, however, is that the humor and generosity suffusing the letters belie the unfortunately commonplace perception that Beckett's work is predominantly pessimistic, full of despair, etc. The Beckett we meet through the _Letters_ is an intelligent, thoughtful, and kind young man laboring to make his way and his name, attentive to those closest to him and to the rapidly changing world in which he was writing. Indeed, the _Letters_ abound with a playfulness, graciousness, generosity, self-effacing reticence, and quick-wit that leaves the reader subtly smiling with delight and admiration more often than one might expect.

This is not to say that we don't find despair and shadows falling over the exposed corners of hope, as well as bile and a whole host of other bodily fluids, both routine and of sickness. However, through them pushes the relentless twinkle of good humor and facetiousness that ultimately gave us such lines as "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" (the very end of _The Unnamable_) or "The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new" (the very beginning of _Murphy_) or, more contemporary with _The Letters of Samuel Beckett: 1929-1940_, the moment of Belacqua's wonderful epiphany, "splinters of vanquished toast spraying forth at each gnash," that "he had been abusing himself all these years in relating the strength of cheese directly to its greenness" (from "Dante and the Lobster").

The notes are copious and dense with helpful details about the characters in Beckett's life, publication histories, translations, his travels, and the mind-bogglingly vast literary and artistic references made in the letters. A word of advice to the reader not immediately or wholly entrenched in academic research or the labyrinths of twentieth-century literary history: read the letters first and then go back and read the notes--almost as though they were a separate book. In fact, you really get two books in one here: the letters and the notes. The notes are indeed so full of compelling information that only the most disciplined reader can keep his or her eye from constantly wandering away from the letters themselves. Yet, in doing so, one often loses the hypnotizing melody and wonderful resonance of Beckett's phrases. This is, above all, a beautiful book and the beginning of an extraordinary testimony to both the work and the man.

I could go on, but instead a bit of a letter as an amuse-bouche. About his "Sedendo and Quiescendo," Beckett writes to Charles Prentice, alluding to everything from bowel movements to Dante's _Paradiso_:
"When I imagine I have a real `twice round the pan & pointed at both ends' I'll offend you with its spiral on my soilman's shovel. I'm glad to have the thing back again in the dentist's chair. I still believe there's something to be done with it.
"I have just finished what I might describe as a whore's get version of Walking Out, the story I spoke to you of in London, & sent it to Pinker who won't be able to place it but will be annoyed I hope. That old dada is narrowing down at last to an apex and then I hope it will develop seven spectral petals."

The Letters of Samuel Beckett: Volume 1, 1929-1940

This review expresses my profound disappointment with the manufacture of the book.

The letters of Beckett are a joy to read but the publisher has made it as difficult as possible. The book is glued (as most books are today) rather than sewn, which makes it hard to hold open. The paper used is dead white---very hard on the eyes---rather than off-white. The margins, especially the inside margin, are narrow. There are pages and pages of notes (sometimes several consecutive pages) set in not very well printed 8-point type (quite small) with very little space between the lines---very hard to read (and they are essential to read). As to the binding: it is not cloth but colored paper over board, which means that once the jacket disappears, the hinges will quickly bruise.

Time was a Cambridge U.P. would manufacture a decent book, especially with an author as distinguished as this one. Very disappointing. To those who haven't purchased it yet, I would wait for the paperback. It will probably last just as long.

The vast majority of these are to one close friend, Thomas McGreevy, who was responsible for introducing SB to Joyce, as well as later to his favorite painter, Jack B. Yeats. The editors note that "Beckett wrote letters primarily in English (65%), and also in French (30%) and German (5%)." (p. xxiii) The introduction and editorial notes are superbly helpful, immediately following each letter, and where the original letter is not in English, there's a complete translation right next to the French or German. The letters that I read didn't give a view of SB naked, but they capture his linguistic playfulness, his scatological bent, as well as the torments of his youthful search for his voice. The reason these letters don't contain the gossip & sex is explained by the editors, who mention that SB constrained the publication of letters to those "only having bearing on my work."

Beckett is intensely concerned with language throughout these letters, and it is fascinating to see him experiment with words and different languages. He is also a serious student of art and music and in a single letter will riff between a sonata, a poem and a painting. It is fascinating to read his explanations of what he is seeing, what he is trying to do. For example, seldom have I encountered as many obsessive descriptions of how paintings are hung in a gallery. Or venom for careless restorations.

And the efforts to obtain a publisher for his novel Murphy! It is an inventory of UK publishers that turn down the book, including the "private asylum Hogarth." Yet he is a kind correspondent, always concerned with the person to whom he is writing, even if it is his hapless agent.

He spends several months during 1937 visiting museums and galleries in Germany, and he provides an eerie description of museums with large numbers of "degenerate" works removed from the galleries, and often available for private viewings in the basement, or in the private home of a Jewish collector.

But these are asides. The main focus of these letters is the struggle of the young Beckett to find his voice in a world that had little interest in what he had to say, and provided little opportunity of earning a living. The publisher of his first book of poems sends him the annual statement of sales, recording 2 copies sold in the previous year.

But he plows on, writing careful, thoughtful, generous letters to a wide group of friends and others, and in those letters we are given the rare opportunity of seeing a great and original mind find a language and a voice.

I did not think much of the obsessive footnotes. The introduction explained the tortuous history of the letters, and along the way the project accumulated way too many scholars. The footnotes are endless, and completely without a human touch. Name, dates, a few words about the person. Endlessly I turned to the footnotes hoping for some explanation of this person's relationship with Beckett, or just some gossip. But no, nothing human, ever. And I would happily have avoided the footnotes except that a vast number of Beckett letter are included solely in the footnotes.

A masterly job of editing Mr. Beckett's early letters. I found the detailed and scholarly notes essential to deciphering the many obscure references and common foreign language terms strewn through these letters to friends, relatives, and publishing acquaintances. (The translation into English of his many German, French and Italian phrases is essential to the enjoyment of reading these letters by those, such as I, shackled by that one language.)

Being not overly familiar with Samuel Beckett's life, I was surprised at the extraordinary depth of artistic knowledge he possessed beyond literature, into painting, music and foreign languages.

Among the interesting aspects of these letters to me is the scarcity of comment on the political turmoil in 1930s Europe, especially given Mr. Beckett's many travels and stays in Germany and France during that threatening decade... and his fascination with Dr. Samuel Johnson.

I look forward to future volumes.

Outstanding. I only wish they could publish them all. Cannot wait for the other volumes to come out. If you like/love Beckett you should own this.

A young Samuel Beckett has all the tools to be a great writer, a sensitive mind, a vast vocabulary, the right contacts. But, he also can't find his way, lost in the wilderness of directionlessness.