Tag Archives: samuel beckett

Domain

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

Samuel Beckett tried to corral silence by making silence the domain of language. To not say anything, to ultimately embrace silence, would have meant an impossible task—setting down the pen, laying to rest the voice—and placing a moratorium on … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged fragments, language, long sonata of the dead, night, pages, pen, samuel beckett, silence, story, voice, void, words | Leave a comment

Moratorium

Posted on September 17, 2025 by John Biscello

I. Beckett spoke about it: the inability to keep quiet. The incapacity to not say stories, not write stories, not place oneself inside stories in which you make and unmake and remake yourself endlessly, an orgy of particles constellating jittery … Continue reading →

Posted in Artwork, Books, Cinema, photography, Poetry, Press, Prose, Theater | Tagged Books, failure art, fiction, literature, long sonata of the dead, modernism, plays, Poetry, Prose, samuel beckett, silence, solipsism, stories, storytelling, texts for nothing, words, writing | Leave a comment

Godot in Vegas

Posted on September 8, 2025 by John Biscello

This just in: No one is waiting for Godot anymore. No one has the time or interest. Plus, no one knows who he, or Samuel Beckett is. The wastelands are even dryer, tubercular in their plot and scrape, and presently … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged 1960s, desert., fragment, las vegas, Poetry, postcard, Prose, samuel beckett, story, waiting for godot, wasteland | Leave a comment

Less Said

Posted on September 7, 2025 by John Biscello

I have no desire to sing tonight. This is the only line Samuel Beckett managed to write for a libretto which he abandoned. The smallest hours hold staggering volumes of silence.

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged libretto, opera, Poetry, Prose, samuel beckett, silence, text | Leave a comment

Sonata of the I

Posted on April 1, 2025 by John Biscello

The hatless pilgrim, roving this way and that, a man embodying the virtues of scat (in every sense of the word), roving through starched cardstock fields in search of an impossible flower and its stingy nettles—proud, pistil-engraved, the flower’s gullet … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged fiction, music, pilgrimage, Poetry, Prose, samuel beckett, self, solipsistic kicks, sonata, story, variations on I, what's in a name | Leave a comment

Pilgrimage of the I

Posted on April 1, 2025 by John Biscello

A hatless pilgrim, roving this way and that, a man embodying the virtues of scat (in every sense of the word), wandering through starched cardstock fields in search of an impossible flower and its stingy nettles— proud, pistil-engraved, the flower’s … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged fiction, ghosts, I, poem, Poetry, road trip, samuel beckett, self, solipsism, vaudeville, wanderer, writing | Leave a comment

Samuel Beckett

Posted on March 31, 2025 by John Biscello

Posted in Audio, Cinema, photography, Poetry, Theater, Video | Tagged lyrics to go, poem, Poetry, samuel beckett, Spoken Word, verses from the abstract | Leave a comment

Beckett’s Sonata

Posted on March 31, 2025 by John Biscello

A hatless pilgrim, roving this way and that, a man embodying scat (in every sense of the word), wandering through starched cardstock fields in search of a stingy flower, proud, pistil-engraved, the flower’s gullet scorched by streaks of sungold (this, … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose, Theater | Tagged fiction, Godot's godchildren, krapp, malone, mercier et camier, molloy, murphy, Poetry, Prose, samuel beckett, travel, writing | Leave a comment

Out of Silence

Posted on November 10, 2024 by John Biscello

Beckett spoke about it: the inability to keep quiet. The inability to not say stories, to not make stories, to not find oneself shaped according to stories fitted to shifting forms. Beckett, with gallows irony, talked plenty about silences. He … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged creation, death, fiction, language, loud within, Masks, samuel beckett, silence, story, voices, words | Leave a comment

Beckett

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

Samuel Beckett plunged his head so far up his ass, daylight became a dream and conundrum. He saw the world through shit-filtered glasses, the bluest of roses manure-caked, anal cavity functioning as the base of inspiration, as the grimy pulpit … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged homage, plays, portrait, Prose, samuel beckett, tribute, writing | Leave a comment