Subject: Re: boring, boring
From: citycabn (citycabn@gateway.net)
Date: Mon Oct 02 2000 - 12:45:39 GMT
Scottie wrote:
>
> From 1937 (?) when I was hauled by my parents round
> St Andrew's in the wake of the British Open (Bobby Jones?
> Could it have been him? Is that the name?) until the death
> of my former head shrinking partner earlier this year, my life
> has been blighted by fine, much loved human beings turning
> into golf balls.
I almost thought you might had seen Old Tom Morris. Paul, I leave it to you
to explain to Scottie why the Old Course is Holy Ground.
> The excruciating obsessionality of it all ... the meticulous
> reliving of each dreary hole ... the agonising over which fucking
> putter to buy ... those endless hymns to the springiness of
> the grass on lovely fresh mornings ... the mechanics & aerodynamics
> of the swing ... the hohoho joviality of those clubhouse jokes
> ... oh, brother.
As an ex-golfer, I loved the above paragraph. But I should have known that
a stinger was still coming.
> Damned nearly - but not, I suppose, quite - as ossifying as
> an evening in the theatre with Sam.
I'm no theatre critic, but I imagine that 'Godot' and 'Endgame' and a few of
the short playlets will still be around in a couple of hundred years. But
for my book-buying money, the great Beckett is to be found in the *prose*.
--Bruce
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