More Pricks Than Kicks

One of the many reasons I relish reading books by Beckett is the not infrequent recourse the man has to the moon. Loves that nighttime celestial cup of light I do, "the bogus moon of tenderness and magic," as Denis Johnson styles it in his wonderful poem Heat. And with Sam this enchanting lunacy is not just confined to the dramatic writings, Godot obviously and so forth, but whole portions of the prose are suffused with beams of the most poignant moonlight. Watt is vividly memorable in this regard. Check this out from just after Watt's final departure from Mr. Knott's house: "The night was of unusual splendour. The moon, if not full, was not far from full, in a day or two it would be full, and then dwindle, until its appearance, in the heavens, would be that compared, by some writers, to a sickle, or a crescent." Sam surely does not lie when he goes on to write on the very next page the following: "Watt was always lucky with his weather." What continues to this day to completely crack me up however is that bit in Watt where Mr. Spiro, a large gentleman who we are told "had been drinking, but not more than was good for him," verbally accosts the hapless Watt in the train compartment: "I edit Crux, said Mr. Spiro, the popular catholic monthly. We do not pay our contributors, but they benefit in other ways. Our advertisements are extraordinary. We keep our tonsure above water. Our prize competitions are very nice. Times are hard, water in every wine. Of a devout twist, they do more good than harm. For example: Rearrange the fifteen letters of the Holy Family to form a question and answer. Winning entry: Has J. Jurms a po? Yes." I've been out and about under the Autumn moon of late repeatedly asking and answering aloud this question and it hasn't failed yet to send me off sideways into kinks of laughter. Mr. Spiro even goes on to discuss at length a very particular spiritual inquiry sent in by one Martin Ignatius MacKenzie, author of something called The Chartered Accountant's Saturday Night! Yup and yessum, Watt is vividly memorable in any regard. Furthermore, when it comes to articles of daywear, Beckett's bowler hats have always had their special place in my heart--his greatcoats too. I never did get to own a greatcoat but I did try once to purchase a black bowler in London one time in the early Eighties and the Napoleonically pear-shaped huckster in the hattery told me straight up upon enquiry that they didn't carry that particular eh chapeau in my ahem size. Stone me, I vociferated in my fakest English accent. I wouldn't have minded so much I guess but the wretched little bourgeois with his capon belly hadn't even measured my head when he triumphantly blurted out his announcement. The cheek of the chap. The city of London is not at all to be sneezed at although while there just prior to the fracas in the toque shop I lost complete possession of one of my front teeth, false as matter of fact, another story, but a dental mishap nonetheless t

Beckett's More Pricks Than Kicks is a hilarious collection of short stories. Far from being "stark" or "grim," it is a fudge-brownie layer cake of language and thick with dark, rich, black, earthy humor. These stories are a valuable corrective in reading Beckett who can come across as despairing, minimalist death warmed over. In fact, like Yeats and Joyce, he is as stout as Irish beer and as bracing as Irish whiskey.

The short stories about Belacqua are the most beautiful stories Beckett had ever written. They are so picturesque that you can feel the atmosphere with him. The short stories are about love, drinking and poetry. In Dante and the Lobster, Belacqua tries to roast a toast to a specific point. It takes all his energy to make the preparations for this ritual. In Fingal, Belacqua takes his girlfriend Winnie out for a ride to Poltrane. In the end he missed her and rode the way back with a stolen bike. In a wet night he walks in the rain to Alba. On his way to her, he gets controlled by an officer. In the control he pukes all over the shoes of the officer and tries to clean the shoes with a newspaper. In this moment you are all by yourself and laugh out loud. You can't hide your joy of this lyrical depiction. The connection between the ten short stories is the life of Belacqua. He dies in one of the later stories by chance in a hospital. It is so funny because in an earlier story he hasn't got the strength to kill himself and Ruby. As you see, Belacqua needs a lot of girlfriends in the short stories. He fills it with black humour and it is a joy to read.

Though some people may be frustrated by "More Pricks than Kicks'" discontinuity of time and seeming discontinuity of plot, they mistake their own reaction. "MPTK" is a stark but strikingly beautiful collection of short stories unified by the main character's striking personality. That character is Belacqua Shuah, Samuel Beckett's Dubliner anti-hero; he, auto-biographically, has many elements in common with the author, which makes the book read somewhat like a honest and creative confessional.Sometimes humorous, somtimes shockingly pessimistic, the short story format works surprisingly well, often allowing for especially clever closing images or phrases. The short story format also makes reading Beckett, rarely an easy task, a touch more accessable.But through it all, Beckett, the master of the declarative sentence, constantly condemns his main character; Belacqua cannot find it within himself to shed a tear when one of his three wives dies, nor does he buy his new wife a new ring, recycling his old wife's ring (inscripted with her name and all) for his supposed new love. This incorrigible bumbler is intellectual to a fault, and dies friendless and unmourned. So all in all, read about Belacqua, but don't be him.

"Yellow" is worth serious attention as well as "Dante and the Lobster".