Friday, May 21

This morning we both agreed that we have begun to feel as though we have become trapped in an unpublished play by Samuel Beckett. One of those plays in which a process that one expects to have a beginning, a middle, and an end, gradually reveals itself to have a middle of infinite length.

An end will come eventually but only after an infinite length of time has passed so that, in effect, no end will ever come.

I sit down to work and look across at the pile of library books that I have borrowed. I chuckle at what an odd collection they appear. I can explain why I have them all, but I have found myself reading all of them simultaneously and, oddly, Strange Tide has proved just the right sort of novel to throw into that kind of mix.

I will finally notice that the pile looks the right kind of pile for a character in a Samuel Beckett play to find themselves reading.