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Endings | Jul 10 2002

Samuel Beckett’s trilogy of post-World War II novels, the first book of which, Molloy, I have always loved, ends with these seven words—a distillation, in a sense, of all he wrote: “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” (Similarly, the bible, I’ve heard said, can be reduced in a pinch to a single verse: “Jesus wept.”)

Recently I’ve taken to adding various contemporary expressions to the end of Beckett’s ending, as a kind of joke. This is how I entertain myself.

A few favorites, then, with commentary:

I can’t go on. I’ll go on. Whatever.
Self-knowledge is uncertain, contingent, elusive. We persist despite our avowed inability to do so. Why is this? Why do we say one thing, believe one thing, and yet do another?

Who fucking knows, and more importantly, who fucking cares.

I can’t go on. I’ll go on. What’s up with that?
What indeed. I just remembered that my father was fond of addressing philosophical questions thusly (no lie!):

Me: Dad, why do fools fall in love?
Him: That’s really two questions, son. The first is “Why?” This is a question that philosophers have debated for thousands of years. The second is “Do fools fall in love?” Yes.

I believe my father stole this bit from est. It only worked with “why” questions.

Also, for the record, it was my sister, not me, who ever asked him things.

I can’t go on. I’ll go on. Deal with it.
My notes here read, “Confronting the external critic,” but rather than expound about that, I’ll share some Beckett trivia.

What sport did Beckett love to watch on television? Rugby.

What did Beckett say on his deathbed when asked what he had found valuable in life? “Precious little.”