jusqu’au bout

On Sunday, we were here. Two Sundays before, we were here. And two Sundays before that, we had been here. In between those Sundays, we went here too. I said dumb things like, I wish I was an artist and Perhaps I should have been an artist. I said I feel more at home here than anywhere else and I wish I could live in an art gallery. I think I could put up with the people I don’t know wandering past my bathroom as I showered, gazing into my kitchen as I boiled coffee or took the washing out of the machine. It would be closed before bedtime anyway, so we could still go to sleep alone, quietly, surrounded by vast red paintings and towers of loo-roll spine and sponges painted black. Waking up and drinking tea in bed gazing at An ornamental hermit would definitely assist.

Samuel Beckett took his writing right up to the edge, abstracted the subject as far as he could go, yet his really raw material is his least known, and least liked. His fiction, his novels: they were works of true art, creative in the most complete way possible. Are there writers out there, today, pushing the line as far as he did? Or further? Are there some factual and fiction writers who are going as far as they can, to hell with what the publishers want? Or are they all only poets? Published writing seems to follow such a very limited form and structure. Only poetry breaks boundaries. Novels and biographies, essays and short stories… they all tend to follow a very solid path to a lesser or greater degree. Why isn’t there a greater divergence away from the mainstream, when it comes to the written word? Why don’t writers play play play a bit more, take their writing over the edge a bit more, push their way with words as far as it will go? Where are the writers who are taking risks with their work? Who are taking risks as big as the painters are? Are there any at all? Or have they all died?