If you write, you know him and you owe him something. If you don’t, you surely know his face. Above photo by Dmitri Kasterine
Beckett reduced language to its bones while charging those bones with an intensity that carves deep lines in the head and heart. Silence. Waiting. This is how we spend most of our lives, but no one had the audacity and wisdom to try an make literature from them. Until Beckett.
His plays are what brought his name to the world.
Two photos above by John Haynes
They gave him the Nobel Prize. He did not refuse the honour, but declined to make a speech and did not attend the medal ceremony. Photographed by Richard Avedon.
Samuel Beckett, born in Dublin, lived and died in Paris. Photo found here.
Along with the gift of his genius for understanding us and putting it into words, there is that unforgettable face–and head. Photo found here
His only rival, we think, as a writer of influence and a face of riveting attraction was this other famous resident of Paris:
Simone de Beauvoir, philosopher, writer, provocateur,and arguably, one of the primary creators of what we call feminism.
Her most influential book, the Second Sex, caused a sensation. The Vatican disapproved harshly, all the more since Mlle De Beauvoir was born into a Catholic family in the French countryside.
Her series of memoirs, especially the first (Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter) are as full of humanity as they are philosophy.
Like Beckett, her life and her writing changed things for us and the influence continues.
When we see these photographs now, we can’t help but recognize the unique, intense intelligence in these faces. It’s there around the eyes and the mouth. How could these heads not produce world-changing thoughts?