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And so he rested for a little time, listening to the little nightsounds in the hedge behind him, in the hedge outside him, hearing them with pleasure, and other distant nightsounds too, such as dogs make, on bright nights, at the ends of their chains, and bats, with their little wings, and the heavy daybirds changing to a more comfortable position, and the leaves that are never still, until they lie rotting in a wintry heap, and the breath that is never quiet... And it was to him lying thus that there came, with great distinctness, from afar, from without, yes, really it seemed from without, the voices indifferent in quality, of a mixed choir.
Samuel Beckett, Watt, Olympia Press, Paris, 1953, p. 33.
TIME: Indeterminate
PLACE: Northern Europe (Ireland?)
CIRCUMSTANCE: Resting on the edge of the path during a journey.
For if someone had opened the back door, from within, or without, would not he Watt have seen a light, or heard a sound? Or had the door been unlocked, from within, in the dark, by some person perfectly familiar with the premises, and wearing carpet slippers, or in his stockinged feet? Or from without, by some person so skilful on his legs, that his footfalls made no sound? Or had a sound been made, a light shown, and Watt not heard the one nor seen the other?
Samuel Beckett, Watt, Olympia Press, Paris, 1953, p. 37.
TIME: Indeterminate
PLACE: Northern Europe (Ireland?)
CIRCUMSTANCE: Watt, trying to figure out why he found "the back door, so lately locked, now open."
And all the sounds meaning nothing. Then at night rest in the quiet house, there are no roads, no streets anymore, you lie down by a window opening on refuge, the little sounds come that demand nothing, ordain nothing, explain nothing, propound nothing, and the short necessary night is soon ended, and the sky blue again over all the secret places where nobody ever comes, the secret places never the same, but always simple and indifferent, always mere places, sites of a stirring beyond coming and going, of a being so light and free that it is as the being of nothing.
Samuel Beckett, Watt, Olympia Press, Paris, 1953, p. 39.
TIME: Indeterminate
PLACE: Northern Europe (Ireland?)
CIRCUMSTANCE: The sounds of the day are there and mean nothing. The sounds of the night come and demand nothing.
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