—I met the strangest Journalist, she just wouldn’t take no for an answer.
The squish of bosom against chestbone.
The filling up of the vision.
As if, in the thump of perfume and blatant arrival,
The change in my life could only be beautiful.
—Was she pretty, is all his Wife ever asks him, as they go all stations to old age together. Was she?
Yea, and the name of that perfume was Poison™.
Also, Beckett has this thing about no symbols where none intended.
Which is a neat enough joke, but rather hideous in its contextual implication.
Others: Antipathetic, when it might have been Moral Darkness,
Or Jinx, Rapacious Nympho, Faire de Rien, Imposed Symbol,
From the medium ones like the gin slings, to the small ones like the obdurate grille, or back up to the gigantic ones like the marsh fever and the instances of fidelity and unnoticed repetition, problematic.
His Wife, ever since he’d known her, had owned the vast jealousy, which was always going to make him stray.
Is he being too harsh on her?
—Are you ever going to leave that woman, that slime-dragging quasi-stalker of a wife you constantly defend?
—It is something I have to stop my whole life for, periodically, and lament.
—Her sceptre barring you from your fun. She makes you bleed from the eyes with her constant petty demands. Be free, that’s the right of every human, isn’t it? You’re a liberal, aren’t you…? You used to say you were.
—I wouldn’t expect you to understand, he says.