Unnamable The

Not many days ago, and an equally uncertain number of nights, I read backward and aloud the last page of Samuel Beckett’s The Unnamable. Standing before our big front window, paced by the commas, I read the words slowly and with feeling. When I reached the top of the page, I wondered if the author might not have done the same thing himself. It’s possible he could even have written it that way. He was certainly capable. He also possessed the requisite humor. I looked up. I looked out. Our little maple tree was almost bare, standing in a pool of color. The sky was a snow sky. Sky snow a was sky the. Color of pool a in standing, bare almost was tree maple little our. Out looked I. Up looked I. Humor requisite the possessed also he, the Unnamable The.

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