(Jan 31/06)
Who are Molloy and Murphy, Mercier and Camier, Watt and Crapp, Vladimir and Estragon? Where are they, how come ‘are they’? The eight, the literary eight, are Heideggerian characters, non-characters, phantoms and ghostbodies, names without names, the nameless. M.M.M.C.W.C.V and E are in the world, yet not in the world, they a worldless, always on the edge of a world, a character, a name. Beckett’s characters are no-body’s, specters, fragmentation’s of a splintered self, or ego-self, an ego-barrenness, a non-ego, an ego yet to be. Had Bion had more time and Beckett less genius, M.M.M.C.W.C.V and E would cease to exist, have existed, been characterless, non-characters, Heideggerian no-men. The eight are never quite ‘in the world’, but on the outskirts, pushing into the trope of the world, the moment, the characters they are suppose to be, but will never become, be. Beckett’s characters are Heideggerian no-men, characters yet to throw themselves into the word, the moment, the character. As such, they are characterless, mere ghostbodies, apparitions, shades without umbrellas. Beckett’s characters have yet to see, or recognize themselves in, the Lacanian mirror; they stare at the silver backing of the mirror, not into the mirror itself. They have no reference, no identity other than a blank, silver impression, a no-man.
Who are Molloy and Murphy, Mercier and Camier, Watt and Crapp, Vladimir and Estragon? Where are they, how come ‘are they’? The eight, the literary eight, are Heideggerian characters, non-characters, phantoms and ghostbodies, names without names, the nameless. M.M.M.C.W.C.V and E are in the world, yet not in the world, they a worldless, always on the edge of a world, a character, a name. Beckett’s characters are no-body’s, specters, fragmentation’s of a splintered self, or ego-self, an ego-barrenness, a non-ego, an ego yet to be. Had Bion had more time and Beckett less genius, M.M.M.C.W.C.V and E would cease to exist, have existed, been characterless, non-characters, Heideggerian no-men. The eight are never quite ‘in the world’, but on the outskirts, pushing into the trope of the world, the moment, the characters they are suppose to be, but will never become, be. Beckett’s characters are Heideggerian no-men, characters yet to throw themselves into the word, the moment, the character. As such, they are characterless, mere ghostbodies, apparitions, shades without umbrellas. Beckett’s characters have yet to see, or recognize themselves in, the Lacanian mirror; they stare at the silver backing of the mirror, not into the mirror itself. They have no reference, no identity other than a blank, silver impression, a no-man.
Act one ends:
Estragon: Well, shall we go?
Estragon: Well, shall we go?
Vladimir: Yes, let's go.
(They do not move.)
Act two ends:
Vladimir: Well? Shall we go?
Estragon: Yes, let's go.
(They do not move.)
E: Let's go.
V: We can't.
E: Why not?
V: We're waiting for Godot
V: Moron!
E: Vermin!
V: Abortion!
E: Morpion!
V: Sewer-rat!
E: Curate!
V: Cretin!
E: (with finality) Crritic!
V: Oh!
E: Let's go.
V: We can't.
E: Why not?
V: We're waiting for Godot
V: Moron!
E: Vermin!
V: Abortion!
E: Morpion!
V: Sewer-rat!
E: Curate!
V: Cretin!
E: (with finality) Crritic!
V: Oh!
(He wilts, vanquished, and turns away.)
Vladimir and Estragon are never quite in-the-world, but on the periphery, the edge, the outside (in) of the world. In and out at the same time, simultaneously, yet neither one nor the other, a no-men’s land, a blank Lacanian slate, the Heideggerian ontological misstep. The Heideggerain circle has neither a beginning nor an end (Derrida showed us that) but an infinite number, or juncture, of jumping-in point(s): ontological hopscotch. A being-there, a being-amidst, a being-with, a being-in, a being-in-the-world, a coping-in-being-in-the-world, Being-out, never in. Moron! Vermin! Abortion! Morpion! Sewer-rat! Curate! Cretin! Critic! Oh!
1 comment:
...sort of like characters in the sitcom Seinfeld.
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