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devontrevarrowflaherty's review against another edition
3.0
Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot: A Tragicomedy in Two Acts, 1952 by Grove Press. The play was first written in French, and translated later by the author himself.
Seems everywhere I turn, “Waiting for Godot” is lauded as the height of theater in the 20th century, if not the best literature of the 20th century. Beckett is also known for the Molloy novel trilogy (also on my to-read list, but not for quite some time) and other writings. He is considered the end of modernism, the beginning of postmodernism, the epitome of absurdist, and also French avant-garde (not to mention a member of the French Resistance in World War II). He hung with James Joyce and the James Joyce circle in Paris, where he lived, although he was first an Irishman studying language in Dublin. A novelist, playwright, director and poet, he was known for black comedy and minimalism, and also for his “open attack on the then-popular realist tradition. Throwing conventional plot lines and restricted time sequences to the wind, his experimental writing style paved the way…” (Huffington Post). I like how “The Modern World” website put it: His is “very human drama pared down to its most necessary gestures: expectation, companionship, abuse, hope.” Or from the Nobel Peace Prize award that he won for “his writing ….–in new forms for the novel and drama–in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation.”
I picked up Waiting for Godot because I had read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and got on a Tom Stoppard kick. Then I heard that if I liked Stoppard, I would like his major influence, Godot. This proved to be an obvious jump, but not a truthful one. I can see the similarities; they are glaring. But I don’t really like Godot nor enjoy it. If asked if I can appreciate it, I would say “Yes.” If asked if I would recommend it, I would say “No, not for most people.”
Honestly, if you read both Godot and some Stoppard theater and were asked if they were by the same author (with no prior knowledge), you would get a resounding “Of course!” So why didn’t I like Godot as much? I don’t really know. Perhaps I didn’t find it as funny as Stoppard. Perhaps I need to see it performed for better appreciation. (I would love to catch the current Broadway production, but I can’t see that happening.) Perhaps I was getting sick of “nothing” entertainment (what, after all that pre-absurdist Ibsen and then Stoppard and Seinfeld).
If nothing else, it’s a short read, so it is easy to explore without the investment of something weightier like War and Peace or even Parade’s End, which I am currently reading. Though, in true weight of material, Godot may outstrip them all. I’m sure, with the proper grouping of academics or friends, one could spend great time and energy sifting through Godot for its gems, learning a lot in the process. In fact, I’m also sure that very thing is happening right now somewhere, for someone. Is Godot God? What is Beckett saying about humanity or about modern man? What did he do to change theater–art–and make it what it is today? Perhaps I will revisit all this when I get to the Molloy trilogy.
“‘Funny, the more you eat the worse it gets.’ / ‘With me it’s just the opposite.’ / ‘In other words?’ / ‘I get used to the muck as I go along’” (p13).
“‘It’s the start that’s difficult.’ ‘You can start from anything.’ / ‘Yes, but you have to decide.’ / ‘True’” (p54).
“‘We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?’” / ‘Yes, yes, we’re magicians. But let us persevere in what we have resolved, before we forget’” (p59).
“‘We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?” (p70).
“‘The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too’” (p77).
“‘One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we’ll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give brth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more’” (p80).
“‘Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave-digger puts on the forceps’” (p81).
REVIEWED FOR THE STARVING ARTIST BLOG.
Seems everywhere I turn, “Waiting for Godot” is lauded as the height of theater in the 20th century, if not the best literature of the 20th century. Beckett is also known for the Molloy novel trilogy (also on my to-read list, but not for quite some time) and other writings. He is considered the end of modernism, the beginning of postmodernism, the epitome of absurdist, and also French avant-garde (not to mention a member of the French Resistance in World War II). He hung with James Joyce and the James Joyce circle in Paris, where he lived, although he was first an Irishman studying language in Dublin. A novelist, playwright, director and poet, he was known for black comedy and minimalism, and also for his “open attack on the then-popular realist tradition. Throwing conventional plot lines and restricted time sequences to the wind, his experimental writing style paved the way…” (Huffington Post). I like how “The Modern World” website put it: His is “very human drama pared down to its most necessary gestures: expectation, companionship, abuse, hope.” Or from the Nobel Peace Prize award that he won for “his writing ….–in new forms for the novel and drama–in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation.”
I picked up Waiting for Godot because I had read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and got on a Tom Stoppard kick. Then I heard that if I liked Stoppard, I would like his major influence, Godot. This proved to be an obvious jump, but not a truthful one. I can see the similarities; they are glaring. But I don’t really like Godot nor enjoy it. If asked if I can appreciate it, I would say “Yes.” If asked if I would recommend it, I would say “No, not for most people.”
Honestly, if you read both Godot and some Stoppard theater and were asked if they were by the same author (with no prior knowledge), you would get a resounding “Of course!” So why didn’t I like Godot as much? I don’t really know. Perhaps I didn’t find it as funny as Stoppard. Perhaps I need to see it performed for better appreciation. (I would love to catch the current Broadway production, but I can’t see that happening.) Perhaps I was getting sick of “nothing” entertainment (what, after all that pre-absurdist Ibsen and then Stoppard and Seinfeld).
If nothing else, it’s a short read, so it is easy to explore without the investment of something weightier like War and Peace or even Parade’s End, which I am currently reading. Though, in true weight of material, Godot may outstrip them all. I’m sure, with the proper grouping of academics or friends, one could spend great time and energy sifting through Godot for its gems, learning a lot in the process. In fact, I’m also sure that very thing is happening right now somewhere, for someone. Is Godot God? What is Beckett saying about humanity or about modern man? What did he do to change theater–art–and make it what it is today? Perhaps I will revisit all this when I get to the Molloy trilogy.
“‘Funny, the more you eat the worse it gets.’ / ‘With me it’s just the opposite.’ / ‘In other words?’ / ‘I get used to the muck as I go along’” (p13).
“‘It’s the start that’s difficult.’ ‘You can start from anything.’ / ‘Yes, but you have to decide.’ / ‘True’” (p54).
“‘We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?’” / ‘Yes, yes, we’re magicians. But let us persevere in what we have resolved, before we forget’” (p59).
“‘We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?” (p70).
“‘The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too’” (p77).
“‘One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we’ll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give brth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more’” (p80).
“‘Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave-digger puts on the forceps’” (p81).
REVIEWED FOR THE STARVING ARTIST BLOG.
carlanovata's review against another edition
4.0
3.75??? la cosa més absurda que he llegit, res ha tingut sentit... però tot ha tingut sentit?? divertit també, l'he de reflexionar i investigar crec jo
cschmi46's review against another edition
3.0
I actually enjoyed this much more than I expected to. There isn't much in the way of plot, but I really enjoyed the way Beckett writes. He constructs his phrases excellently.
j_roth's review against another edition
challenging
funny
reflective
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
4.5
For saying that “nothing happens twice” quite a lot actually happens within this play. Reminded me of catch 22 as many moments within the dialogue consist of circular conversation or nonsensical conversations. Also reminded me a bit of the plays of Chekov due to the general theme of inaction.
Vladimir and Estragon are such a comedy duo, it was excellent - their bickering reminded me of The Chuckle Brothers a little bit. I think this is even clearer with the fact that in one on stage adaptation Vladimir and Estragon were played by British comedy greats Rik Mayall
and Ade Edmondson.
I was not expecting to laugh at this play as much as I did! easily one of my favourite plays ever, up there with Uncle Vanya and The Normal Heart.
Vladimir and Estragon are such a comedy duo, it was excellent - their bickering reminded me of The Chuckle Brothers a little bit. I think this is even clearer with the fact that in one on stage adaptation Vladimir and Estragon were played by British comedy greats Rik Mayall
and Ade Edmondson.
I was not expecting to laugh at this play as much as I did! easily one of my favourite plays ever, up there with Uncle Vanya and The Normal Heart.
emilyconstance's review against another edition
4.0
"Nothing to be done"
The opening line to this two-act tragicomedy that mocks how we search for answers or "meaning" for all aspects of life...How we exhaust ourselves looking for ways to entertain ourselves as we wait for death; or as we wait for "Godot" (perhaps God)...dismissing the autonomy that we have over our own lives now. We question what it's worth to get to know each other, to help each other, to surround ourselves with others...but really, it would be quite terrible to be alone:
"There are times when I wonder if it wouldn't be better for us to part...that would be too bad, really too bad. Wouldn't it, Didi, be really too bad? When you think of the beauty of the way. And the goodness of the wayfarers..."
"Yes, the road seems long when one journeys all alone..."
We need each other to cope, to find "meaning" in life...or at least solace and a bit of peace: "The more people I meet the happier I become. From the meanest creature one departs wiser, richer, more conscious of one's blessings."
No one's life is invaluable...no one's presence is a waste of one's time. We're all just waiting for Godot...so why not be kind? Why not bask in the beauty of the world around us, the journey we're on together, for better or worse?
"Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! Let us do something, while we have the chance! It is not every day that we are needed. Others would meet the case equally well, if not better. To all mankind they were addressed, those cries for help still ringing in our ears! But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate resigned us!...It is true that when with folded arms we weigh the pros and cons we are no less a credit to our species. The tiger bounds to the help of his congeners without the least reflection, or else he slinks away into the depths of the thickets. But that is not the question. What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessing in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come."
The opening line to this two-act tragicomedy that mocks how we search for answers or "meaning" for all aspects of life...How we exhaust ourselves looking for ways to entertain ourselves as we wait for death; or as we wait for "Godot" (perhaps God)...dismissing the autonomy that we have over our own lives now. We question what it's worth to get to know each other, to help each other, to surround ourselves with others...but really, it would be quite terrible to be alone:
"There are times when I wonder if it wouldn't be better for us to part...that would be too bad, really too bad. Wouldn't it, Didi, be really too bad? When you think of the beauty of the way. And the goodness of the wayfarers..."
"Yes, the road seems long when one journeys all alone..."
We need each other to cope, to find "meaning" in life...or at least solace and a bit of peace: "The more people I meet the happier I become. From the meanest creature one departs wiser, richer, more conscious of one's blessings."
No one's life is invaluable...no one's presence is a waste of one's time. We're all just waiting for Godot...so why not be kind? Why not bask in the beauty of the world around us, the journey we're on together, for better or worse?
"Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! Let us do something, while we have the chance! It is not every day that we are needed. Others would meet the case equally well, if not better. To all mankind they were addressed, those cries for help still ringing in our ears! But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate resigned us!...It is true that when with folded arms we weigh the pros and cons we are no less a credit to our species. The tiger bounds to the help of his congeners without the least reflection, or else he slinks away into the depths of the thickets. But that is not the question. What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessing in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come."
lina_bouslimani's review against another edition
4.0
[Enters Me]
Godot. Damnation!
Why you bail on me mate?
(She struts about the stage aimlessly, feigning melodramatic gestures)
Estragon: (scrutinizing) who is that?
Vladimir: (vexed) a literal monstrosity, no doubt.
Estragon: have we seen it before?
Vladimir: it looks familiar.
Me: (takes off bowler hat, peers inside it, shakes it, taps on the crown, puts it back again) you have seen me in eternal recurrence but you have a different memory of me each time.
Vladimir: (halts after taking a step forward) tell us Nietzschean abomination, have you seen Mr.Godot?
Estragon: Is it waiting for Godot as well?
Vladimir: is it tired?
Estragon: it looks weary.
Vladimir: anguished.
Estragon: it emits deathly rays of despair.
(She eyes them suspiciously, looks reflective, steps swiftly bemused with their ignorant spontaneity)
Vladimir: can it think? Ask it.
Estragon: can you think dear alien? (Reconsiders, pauses), (Vehemently) more importantly can you dance!
Me: (quizzical) poorly, for both, and for the first I need to be seated. Ask me to sit.
Vladimir: be seated I beseech you, you can catch pneumonia and die.
Me: (sits solemnly, looks right and left, then at the two men) kind of you good gentlemen. [silence] (the two men watch intentively, Estragon quickly loses attention and goes to grapple with his boots)
Vladimir: (impatiently) well?
Me: well? Ah I say, (satirical) this terrible wait we're in, is fruitless and consuming, you claim that Godot will bring you salvation, but I think not good fellow, the encounters and the brief distractions that will pass by while you are in that toxic monotony of wait, will prove themselves more and more absurd, your wait is absurd; this infinite loop of today and tomorrow that is kept wheeling only because of the grace of forgetfulness, will slowly erode you and that dead tree to ashe. (Estragon half-listening still occupied with his boots, Vladimir's face contorts into a woeful grimace) the meaninglessness of this lingering would erode away the scrawny hope (looks absent-mindedly at the firmament, Vladimir and Estragon ditto), (she continues) the cosmics will continue inflating and the planets revolving around stars, the sky's effervescent colors will dim and yet Godot will not bless us with his coming (she pauses, tilts head down) that's how it is on this bitch of an earth.
Vladimir: one awaits one's time.
Estragon: nothing to lose.
Vladimir: a question of will.
Estragon: of eating carrots.
Vladimir: of waiting for Godot.
Estragon: let's go…(pauses) where to?
Me: I have rope. (Feverishly) let's hang ourselves!
Vladimir: do it, misery!
Estragon: I should like one more last carrot.
Vladimir: or better boots.
Me: don't weaken now, here hold the end still (they hold the end of the rope, she wraps the rope skillfully around the bough, then ties a large hangman's noose ).
Estragon: well who will go first?
Vladimir: I will have an erection.
Me: merry ending indeed.
Vladimir: poetic.
Estragon: tragic.
Me: we all go together the rope is long enough, (they all place their necks around the noose, while standing on the stool, the sun shimmers its earliest rays, the mound is still)
Vladimir: (looking at the firmament) they don't have to beat you this time Gogo.
Estragon: and my boots wouldn't ail me anymore.
Vladimir: this has turned into an excellent idea, much obliged your horridness.
Me: a pleasure. Always.
Vladimir: adieu.
Estragon: adieu.
Me: adieu.
(She pushes the stool with one leg, they follow, the knot tightens, their bodies wriggle, the wriggling stops, Estragon has foams at the vermillion of his mouth, Vladimir gapes with a blue tongue, the alien smiles peacefully.)
[They die]
Curtain.
Godot. Damnation!
Why you bail on me mate?
(She struts about the stage aimlessly, feigning melodramatic gestures)
Estragon: (scrutinizing) who is that?
Vladimir: (vexed) a literal monstrosity, no doubt.
Estragon: have we seen it before?
Vladimir: it looks familiar.
Me: (takes off bowler hat, peers inside it, shakes it, taps on the crown, puts it back again) you have seen me in eternal recurrence but you have a different memory of me each time.
Vladimir: (halts after taking a step forward) tell us Nietzschean abomination, have you seen Mr.Godot?
Estragon: Is it waiting for Godot as well?
Vladimir: is it tired?
Estragon: it looks weary.
Vladimir: anguished.
Estragon: it emits deathly rays of despair.
(She eyes them suspiciously, looks reflective, steps swiftly bemused with their ignorant spontaneity)
Vladimir: can it think? Ask it.
Estragon: can you think dear alien? (Reconsiders, pauses), (Vehemently) more importantly can you dance!
Me: (quizzical) poorly, for both, and for the first I need to be seated. Ask me to sit.
Vladimir: be seated I beseech you, you can catch pneumonia and die.
Me: (sits solemnly, looks right and left, then at the two men) kind of you good gentlemen. [silence] (the two men watch intentively, Estragon quickly loses attention and goes to grapple with his boots)
Vladimir: (impatiently) well?
Me: well? Ah I say, (satirical) this terrible wait we're in, is fruitless and consuming, you claim that Godot will bring you salvation, but I think not good fellow, the encounters and the brief distractions that will pass by while you are in that toxic monotony of wait, will prove themselves more and more absurd, your wait is absurd; this infinite loop of today and tomorrow that is kept wheeling only because of the grace of forgetfulness, will slowly erode you and that dead tree to ashe. (Estragon half-listening still occupied with his boots, Vladimir's face contorts into a woeful grimace) the meaninglessness of this lingering would erode away the scrawny hope (looks absent-mindedly at the firmament, Vladimir and Estragon ditto), (she continues) the cosmics will continue inflating and the planets revolving around stars, the sky's effervescent colors will dim and yet Godot will not bless us with his coming (she pauses, tilts head down) that's how it is on this bitch of an earth.
Vladimir: one awaits one's time.
Estragon: nothing to lose.
Vladimir: a question of will.
Estragon: of eating carrots.
Vladimir: of waiting for Godot.
Estragon: let's go…(pauses) where to?
Me: I have rope. (Feverishly) let's hang ourselves!
Vladimir: do it, misery!
Estragon: I should like one more last carrot.
Vladimir: or better boots.
Me: don't weaken now, here hold the end still (they hold the end of the rope, she wraps the rope skillfully around the bough, then ties a large hangman's noose ).
Estragon: well who will go first?
Vladimir: I will have an erection.
Me: merry ending indeed.
Vladimir: poetic.
Estragon: tragic.
Me: we all go together the rope is long enough, (they all place their necks around the noose, while standing on the stool, the sun shimmers its earliest rays, the mound is still)
Vladimir: (looking at the firmament) they don't have to beat you this time Gogo.
Estragon: and my boots wouldn't ail me anymore.
Vladimir: this has turned into an excellent idea, much obliged your horridness.
Me: a pleasure. Always.
Vladimir: adieu.
Estragon: adieu.
Me: adieu.
(She pushes the stool with one leg, they follow, the knot tightens, their bodies wriggle, the wriggling stops, Estragon has foams at the vermillion of his mouth, Vladimir gapes with a blue tongue, the alien smiles peacefully.)
[They die]
Curtain.
hecticinside's review against another edition
challenging
reflective
fast-paced
4.25
every day im like kms and then i dont kms....
marianatempest's review against another edition
reflective
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5