Breithlá Sona, Sam

Vladimir: Well, shall we go?

Estragon: Yes, let's go.

They do not move.

Today is the 100th birthday of Samuel Beckett, one of my favorite playwrights of all time. From the Wikipedia entry:

Beckett's work is stark, fundamentally minimalist, and, according to some interpretations, deeply pessimistic about the human condition. The perceived pessimism is mitigated both by a great and often wicked sense of humour, and by the sense, for some readers, that Beckett's portrayal of life's obstacles serves to demonstrate that the journey, while difficult, is ultimately worth the effort. His later work explores his themes in an increasingly cryptic and attenuated style.

So you can see where he's still relevant. If you haven't seen a Beckett play in performance, put it on your to-do list, pronto. At the very least, throw back a pint of Guinness in the man's honor. As Harold Pinter said, "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."