When Writers Go Weird: That time Samuel Beckett wanted to sue over...well...God knows what.

Are writers ever normal? No, otherwise they'd be productive members of society. 'When Writers Go Weird' is when we remember writers acting strange, odd, off, or--yeah--just plain weird. Also known as Tuesday to them.


Today:  That time Samuel Beckett wanted to sue over some water, Phillip Glass, and black people.


Samuel Beckett always had the resting grouch face of a moody human being. But unlike some innocent people with such an issue, Beckett actually followed through with such petulant behavior.

Everyone loves a good ego stroke. Hollywood, Wall Street, and Washington wouldn't exist if ego stroking wasn't a critical part to the process. But before the tender sensibilities of a real Donald Trump or a fake Gordon Gecko, there was the infallibility of pride in the form of Nobel Prize winners such as Samuel Beckett.

That's the face of unabashed enthusiasm right there.

Lawsuits (or the threat of one) from Beckett almost became a midweek pastime, a hobby with the frequency and randomness he doled them out. Not for some egregious action, like plagiarism, profit, or libel regarding him or his work--but threats simply because Beckett didn't like the way something in a play of his was going to be interpreted.

Most notable of all cases occurred in 1984, when Boston's American Repertory Theatre (ART) decided to put on a version of Beckett's 'Endgame.' The play, directed by award winning JoAnne Akalaitis, kept the play's dialogue verbatim, but simply tweaked other areas, like the set and music. Beckett's original play had a plain room with two windows as the setting--nothing else. Akalaitis moved the play into a derelict, abandoned subway tunnel. She added some water (Why? It's a Beckett play--everything's a why?), and had an orchestral movement by famed composer Philip Glass included before the play started.

And Beckett was not happy.

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"Beckett believes the version..."totally distorts" his play by...casting black actors."

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"He doesn't like it. He's disgusted by it," said Beckett's attorney, Martin Garbus, at the time. "But he doesn't have funds to take on [...] all the other people at the American Repertory Theatre. He feels he doesn't have any choice."

The Associated Press added, "Beckett believes the version by the highly acclaimed theater company "totally distorts" his play by changing the locale, adding music and casting black actors in key roles, Garbus said."

That's right. The scourge of skin pigment. Samuel Beckett lost perspective enough to think that a play where characters sit in trash cans (seriously--if you haven't read/watched his work--two characters channel their inner Oscar the Grouch and live entirely in a trash can) couldn't have someone other than a white actor participate.

"I have never heard him so angry," said another acquaintance of Beckett's to the AP.

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"Anybody who cares for the work couldn't fail to be disgusted by this."

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Beckett initially attempted legal action against ART, yet stopped at some point. Whether it was common sense that he'd lose in a court of law or ART's desire to sweep the matter under the rug, one wonders. Both sides agreed to a disclaimer being added to the play's program, and both agreed to allow Beckett a direct response to the attendee:

"Any production of Endgame which ignores my stage directions is completely unacceptable to me. My play requires an empty room and two small windows. The American Repertory Theater production which dismisses my directions is a complete parody of the play as conceived by me. Anybody who cares for the work couldn't fail to be disgusted by this."

Perspective in life requires a sort of intellectual nuance, something Beckett clearly struggled to gather. Once you've lost your two windows, you might have lost your two cents. Beckett never mentioned the water or black actors matter again, for reasons unknown. The brouhaha over Beckett versus the ART in Boston was such a sensation at the time it led The New York Times theater critic Mel Gussow to review the play in 1984. Aside from the aforementioned music and scenery, Gussow said "the alterations are minimal."

"The director has not only respected the meaning of the dialogue," wrote Gussow, but "she has been attentive to the author's pauses, silences and intonations." Moreover, he said, "[T]his is a valid representation of the spirit of the original work."

Was it really a matter of two windows? The mellifluous music of Philip Glass? Black actors being used? In the end, no one quite understood Beckett's fuss, but it was quite clear no one had a reason to be disgusted. That is, perhaps, except Beckett in himself.

Would you want to have a drink with these famous Irish writers?

It's Saint Patrick's Day, which means many old and young alike find a reason to imbibe to obscene levels, all in the name of Ireland and something something something--hey, I love you--look! A beer!

Ireland has been the home to dozens of famous writers over the centuries, but that doesn't mean they're the type you'd want to hang around with to have a drink.

So, with today being the holiday and this being a blog that involves books, here the twain shall meet.

It's time to judge whether you'd want have a drink with the Irish writer...


Samuel Beckett:

The weathered face suggests a man who doesn't mind life's finer pleasures.

That's also the weathered face of a man who's judging. You never want to drink with a judger.

Verdict: God, no.


James Joyce:

The next photo you ever find of James Joyce smiling will be the first photo you ever find of James Joyce smiling.

James Joyce is depressing enough. You don't want to drink with a depressive.

Verdict: If you have to ask, you deserve what you get.



Seamus Heaney:

I'm pretty certain he's already had a few by the time this picture was taken. Who falls asleep upright in a photo?

Verdict: He might doze off, but that never hurt. Yes!



Jonathan Swift:

You don't develop that supple chin action and ruddy complexion unless you know about tippling back a few.

Meet Swift at the wig parlor room for a whiskey.

Verdict: Duh.



C.S. Lewis:

He might try to convert you to the Church of Ireland over a few, but at least you'll know he'll have a few.

Added bonus, he might make you a character in his next book. Sure, you might end up being a lion or a donkey or something, but something is something.

Verdict: All the religion talk will quiet down after awhile. Yes.



William Butler Yeats:

No.



Frank McCourt:

He looks like your grandpa. And all grandpas drink, at least a little. Unless they're an alcoholic, and then you never know. They might always sip on a ginger ale while quietly wishing it was a beer.

So, it might be better to never ask.

Verdict: I'm sorry, grandpa. I didn't mean anything by asking. I, just, oh, I...



Maeve Binchy:

It's almost impossible to find a photo of this woman and not see her smiling. If she didn't drink, I just so badly wish she did.

Verdict: Please?



George Bernard Shaw:

This is like Samuel Beckett if Samuel Beckett could at least seem pleasant after downing some scotch.

Shaw was cantankerous--but, damnit, you just know with a face like that after a night at a pub he'd lighten up.

Verdict: C'mon, pops.



Oscar Wilde:

Oscar Wilde famously drank champagne and took opium up until the day he died.

Or, as he once said, "I drink to separate my body from my soul."

Verdict: Anyone have a Dom Pérignon on hand?

Famous Writer or Indie Band Artist: Samuel Beckett

This is a segment where we look at famous writers and decide whether they missed their calling as the lead singer for an indie band from Austin, TX.

Because a little facial hair, unkempt clothing, and a stern expression goes a long, long way to being a rock star.


Today's budding indie star:  Samuel Beckett

Any man with a shock of windswept hair with a skunk's tail streak is channeling his inner indie guitarist vibe straight out of Athens, GA. The peacoat? Seals the deal.

Sure, you see the face of a man incapable of showing any human emotion besides subtle disdain. But you don't get the facial equivalent of a cinnamon bun without smoking three packs-a-day while stressing about absurdist ideas that can be sung without harmony.

Open-mic nights in Cambridge, MA, love music you can't hum.

Where Dead Writers Reside, Part Six: Samuel Beckett, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Anne Sexton, Albert Camus

It's October, and that requires obligatory Halloween-inspired posts. And nothing is more obligatorily macabre than looking at the tombstones of those who have died.

Every year we do this. Now through Halloween we'll occasionally post collections of tombstones to see where famous writers are hanging out today.

Today:  Samuel Beckett, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Anne Sexton, Albert Camus


Samuel Beckett:

The Irish Beckett loved living in France, famously saying he preferred "France at war to Ireland at peace." Beckett must have really loved France, because in 1938 he was stabbed in the chest by a pimp--yes, a pimp, who went by the name Prudent--after Beckett refused the pimp's solicitations. Maybe Prudent was living up to his name and just being cautious, who knows? Beckett was scary looking after all.

He would later drop the charges against Prudent, partly because he said he liked the pimp's personality. Because if you can't like a mentally unstable pimp, who can you like?

In the 1950s, Beckett bought some rural land in France, and locals helped him build a cottage. One such local was a Bulgarian-born farmer who had an abnormally large son. Beckett volunteered to drive the large boy to school in his truck, as the huge child didn't fit on the bus. The boy? He would grow up--really grow up--and be better known as WWF wrestling superstar Andre the Giant. That's right. A Nobel Prize winner was a taxi service to a future WWF wrestler. Bet you didn't see that one coming.

Winning the Nobel Prize in 1969, Beckett donated all of his prize winnings to charity. He lived for another twenty years, eventually finding himself stuck in a nursing home, slowly dying of emphysema and potentially Parkinson's disease. Since 1989, he has been residing with his wife at the Cimetière du Montparnasse in Paris under a simple gravestone.

Tombstone Notes:
Beckett had a basic request for his gravestone. It could be "any color, so long as it's gray." As opposed to all those neon orange gravestones you typically see.



Ralph Waldo Emerson:


Besides his writing, Emerson was known for his speeches. But by 1872, at 69 years of age, he started having memory problems and began showing signs of aphasia (an affliction that affects speech). Not the best of combinations for someone who gives speeches.

1872 was not a good year for Emerson, as his house in Concord, MA, caught fire. Flames can be hypnotizing apparently, and no one worked to extinguish the flames except a one-armed local named Ephraim Bull, Jr., who eventually put the fire out, although the house was lost. Ephraim Bull, Jr. was the son of Ephraim Wales Bull, who was the creator of the Concord grape. The Bulls lived next door to the Alcotts. Yes, of Louisa May Alcott fame. It might not be the magnitude of living near Andre the Giant, but it's not shabby.

By 1879, Emerson's lack of memory was embarrassing to him, and he ceased all public speaking and appearances. Three years later, in 1882, he was found to have pneumonia, and died in April of that year. He was buried in a white robe given to him by David Chester French, better known as the sculptor who designed the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.

Sing it with me: "It's a small world after all...It's a small world after all..."

Tombstone Notes:
Emerson is buried at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, MA, on a hillside referred to as "Author's Ridge," beneath a gigantic boulder. The epitaph reads, "The passive master lent his hand / to the vast soul that o'er him planned." A little dry for an epitaph, but this is Emerson we're talking about. Not a live wire of excitement.



Anne Sexton:

You know those deaths that are happily casual, where the person lived a generally pleasant and long life and dies in their sleep? (I'm looking at you, Nadine Gordimer!) Anne Sexton didn't have that sort of life or death.

If you're looking for some light beach reading, you probably want to avoid Sexton. She was known for her confessional poetry, which focused heavily on suicide, mania, and depression--a what's what of sadness--yet her skill as a poet was never doubted. It led to her winning a Pulitzer Prize in 1967 for her book of poetry titled Live or Die. The collection details struggles with her mother and daughters, and includes one of her more famous poems, "Wanting to Die." Picking up on a theme yet?

Sexton was admitted to psychiatric wards routinely. Her therapist had originally encouraged her to take up poetry as an outlet for her mental illness. That led her to eventually studying under poet Robert Lowell at Boston University, where another famous female poet also studied alongside her: Sylvia Plath. Between Sexton, Plath, and Lowell, Boston University was pumping out some of the saddest poetry in the 1950s and '60s. It's a wonder the city of Boston wasn't collectively depressed at that point.

Strangely enough, Sexton would go down the same path as her classmate Plath and commit suicide. After a lunch with an editor friend, Sexton went home, drank a glass of vodka, put on her mother's fur coat, removed any jewelry on her hands, locked herself in the garage, started the car, and killed herself via carbon monoxide poisoning.

I warned you it wasn't a pleasant life or death.

Tombstone Notes:
Sexton is buried at Boston's Forest Hills Cemetery beneath a small, inconspicuous gravestone with two other relatives. It's in the same vein of humble headstones like John Steinbeck's and Charles Chesnutt's.



Albert Camus:

The Nobel-winning writer known for his Absurdist writings died under absurd claims...or were they?

On January 4, 1960, Camus was going to head back to Paris after vacationing with his wife and children south of the city. He bought a train ticket--but at the last minute changed his mind and decided to hitch a ride with his publisher and friend, Michel Gallimard. Sometimes we make bad choices in life. For Camus, this was the ultimate one.

The official story is that Gallimard drove over some ice, lost control, and wrapped the car around a tree--killing Camus instantly. (Gallimard would die a few days later.)

The unofficial story that has conspiracy theorists salivating? You might want to grab a drink and a pen and paper to keep track.

The theory was instigated by Italian poet Giovanni Catelli, who says that he read a passage from the diary of a Czech poet named Jan Zábrana--I assume because he's nosy. Zábrana allegedly wrote in his diary that he overheard a very well-informed (nameless) man with upper-level sources that Soviet KGB operatives rigged a tire on Gallimard's car to rupture at higher speeds. This was done in anticipation of causing an accident that the KGB hoped would kill Camus.

Why kill Camus? Because the Frenchman supported Boris Pasternak, writer of Doctor Zhivago, a book which Joseph Stalin had banned. The book still managed to be smuggled out of the country and find itself published regardless. Pasternak won his own Nobel prize a year later, which infuriated the Soviets.

Camus also insulted the Soviet foreign minister, Dmitri Trofimovic, over Moscow's decision to enter Hungary to stop an uprising.

For both these reasons, Zábrana allegedly wrote--and Catelli asserts--the KGB took a very roundabout way to kill Camus. Because poison is too quick and simple?

Tombstone Notes:
Camus is buried in the cemetery of the small French village of Lourmarin, a plot adorned with an absurd level of various flora.

Do you really want to cover the burial plot with Mother Nature when a tree took him out?

Famous Writers with Cats: Samuel Beckett

Writers need inspiration somewhere in life, and for many that inspiration comes from their pet cats.

This is a running series where we post pictures of famous writers with their feline companions--the cute, the cuddly, the creepy. And that's just the writers.

Today:  Samuel Beckett

Case in point why Chihuahuas are kind of pathetic, let's be honest. The cat is even looking at you for approval of its superiority.

Surprisingly, this is the first time something involving Samuel Beckett made a lick of sense.

The Nobel Prize banquet menu seems fancy.

Every year, the Nobel Prize folks hold a banquet for those bestowed with an award for that given year--and tonight is that night for 2012. Here's where the Nobel Prize winner in physics-meets-the-winner-in-literature-meets-the-winner-in-chemistry-meets-the-winner-in-medicine-etc.-etc.-etc., while the Swedish royal family kills everyone's mellow by inviting 1,300 of their closest friends and acquaintances.

Because the Swedes are a bunch of foodies, an entire listing of menus for each annual banquet is posted online. Everyone in attendance receives the same meal--this isn't someone's wedding where you choose between the chicken or the fish--but there's usually a variety of wines available to keep everyone feeling quite nice as the evening unwinds.

Some of the menu items from decades past are obscure and/or Swedish-y. Nonetheless, here's a look at some select menus on years where various literary types won their own Nobel Prize (translated at points):

Someone looks disappointed.

1907 Winner:
Rudyard Kipling

Menu:
Nothing. The banquet was cancelled because of King Oscar II's death a few days earlier.

Bummer.





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Has eaten worse things than turtle soup.

1925 Winner:
George Bernard Shaw

Menu:
Turtle Soup

Supreme Perch Mornay

Nice Turkey    (Ed.: Better than Okay Turkey.)
Artichoke Princess

Parfait Nelusko
Petits Fours

Fruits

Dessert

Various wines


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Damn well wants to know what Ice in the Oven is before he eats it.

1936 Winner:
Eugene O'Neill

Menu:
Turtle Soup

Sole Fillets

Supreme Grouse à la Florida

Waldorf Salad

Ice in the Oven   (Ed.: Eh?)

Assorted Fruits

Treats

Various wines




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Concerned he just ate Prancer.

1946 Winner:
Herman Hesse:

Menu:
Shellfish Consommé

Roasted Fillet of Reindeer with Lingon Berry Sauce

Parisian Apples

Fonds de Celery

Poached Pear with Ice Cream

Treats

Various wines



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Can't pronounce anything on his menu.

1948 Winner:
T.S. Eliot

Menu:
Consommé Chesterfield

Helstekt oxfilé Polignac
(a beef tenderloin dish, in case you're wondering)

Glace päron Belle Hélène
(a fancy pear ice dessert)

Various wines






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Is seriously peeved there's only two kinds of booze.

1949 Winner:
William Faulkner

Menu:
Crème d´Argenteuil
(cream soup from a region in France)

Gosling with Swedish Red Cabbage
Horseradish sauce

Napoleon Cake

Only two kinds of wine





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Doesn't go for "Princess" anything.

1954 Winner:
Ernest Hemingway

Menu:
Smoked Brown Trout
Spinach Cream

Beef Tenderloin Roast
Artichoke Princess
Fresh Mushrooms in Porto

Parisian Apples

Pears Roberta

Various wines and after dinner liqueurs


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Disappointed he got french fries.

1962 Winner:
John Steinbeck

Menu:
Smoked River Trout à la Parisienne

Chicken Roasted Foie Gras with Madeira Sauce
Fried Potatoes
Seasonal Salad

Peach with Grand Marnier
Whipping Cream

Various wines and after dinner liqueurs




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Not sure avocados should ever be stuffed with salmon

1969 Winner:
Samuel Beckett

Menu:
Salmon Stuffed Avocados
Moscow gourmet sauce

Beef tenderloin Roast Périgourdine

Orange sorbet  (Ed.: The low point on Nobel desserts.)

Various wines and after dinner liqueurs





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Really ecstatic over the salad.

1971 Winner:
Pablo Neruda

Menu:
Cold Foam Stuffed Turbot
(Ed.: A kind of flatfish)
Champagne à l´Edlund

Roast chicken Christineberg
Salad

Grand Marnier Soufflé Ice à la Solliden
(Ed.: Solliden being the summer residence of the Swedish royal family.)

Various wines and after dinner liqueurs 


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There should be photos with the rest of these, but Blogger/Google is acting wonky today. It's changing fonts for no apparent reason, too. In short, formatting isn't just a nightmare...it's impossible today.

Thanks, Google!


1982 Winner:
Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Menu:
Marinated Reindeer Fillet
Dijon Sauce

Char braised in cream dill
Rice

Nobel Perfect Ice
Petit Fours

Various wines, liquor, and coffee

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1993 Winner:
Toni Morrison

Menu:
Marinated Char on a Bed of Radish Salmon Eggs
Honey Vinaigrette à la Raineri
Nobel Croissant

Sirloin with Chanterelle Reindeer Forests         (Ed. O---kay?)
Butter Cabbage Terrine of Fresh Blackberries
Foam Potatoes and Sliced ​​Salsify

Nobel Ice Sailing
Sorbet Strawberries and Vanilla Parfait

Various wines, liquor, and coffee

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2001 Winner:
V.S. Naipul

Menu:
Lobster on Mashed Cauliflower
Frozen prawns
Samphire Salad

Quail Stuffed with Foie Gras and Pan of Mushrooms and Dried Tomatoes
Asparagus and Mashed Chervil

Duo of Vanilla Ice Cream and Blackcurrant Perfect Meringue

Various wines, liquor, and coffee

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2009 Winner:
Herta Müller

Menu:

Lobster Consommé with Shellfish Tartare
Lobster and Kalix Bleak Roe

Truffle-stuffed Quail with Parsley Root
Brussels Sprouts and Port Wine Gravy

Lemon and Fresh Cheese Mousse with Sea-Buckthorn Sorbet

Various wines, liquor, and coffee

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2012 Winner:
Mo Yan

Menu:

Marinated Arctic Char with Cauliflower Terrine
Kalix Bleak Roe and Dill Mayonnaise

Pheasant with Chanterelle Mushrooms
Poached Pear, Winter Vegetables
Almond Potato Purée and Red Wine Gravy

Trilogy of Cherries with Pistachio-Covered Mascarpone Cheese and Black Cherry Sorbet

Various wines, liquor, and coffee