threnody

Averse as I am to the concept of Resolutions, I did want to consider reading a different strain of literature this year. Acting in accord, my wife asked if I wanted to read dramatic works with her. Given my discomfort towards plays, this sounded to be a reasonable resolution, one suggestive of growth. The first selection for January was Waiting For Godot, which I finished this evening at the riverfront, the the muffled warmth competing witha dour wind, it was deemed appropriate. I tend to think the Beckett would've been life changing had I read it ten years ago; whereas a decade past I only acted as I had read it. It strikes me as a physical play, one where the actions (or dearth thereof) state the implacable, not the jingling dialogue which leads nowhere. I think I will investigate whether Wild and Wooly have a film version.