At the close of this long, impassioned letter of March 9,
1949, Beckett declares himself “no longer capable of writing in any sustained
way about Bram or about anything,” a disclaimer that is almost comical when one
considers the dense pages of forensic disquisition that have gone before, as
Gunn points out. Yet we must fix on the vital word here, for in the next breath
Beckett declares: “I am no longer capable of writing about.” This is far more than—perhaps is not at all—a confession of
critical impotence. Years earlier, at the end of the 1920s, in an essay on Finnegans Wake the young Beckett had
insisted that Joyce’s final masterpiece is not about something, but is
something, a thing-in-itself that is only comprehensible in its own terms. Now,
in the controlled frenzy of the composition of L’Innommable, Beckett is aiming at a similar autonomy of the work,
by seeking to instill in himself as artist that sense he perceived in Cézanne
“of his incommensurability not only with life of such a different order as
landscape but even with life of his own order, even with the life…operative in
himself.”8
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