1937Beckett gotstabbed bypliant spearof a stranger,one Paris night.Just missedthe lungs. He,lean warrior,spent twoweeks in hospital,descended upon byall the Joyces(James, Nora, Lucia)and some Becketts(mother, brother)and Suzanne,the girlfriend nobodyknew about yet(not even Sam),whom he would marryfifty years hencewith a flicker of shynessstill in his eyes—no,I made that up. Butwhat he does say,of the twoancient (Endgame) enemies:“that’s Suzanne and me!”Now don’t you wonderwhat remarks passedfrom Suzanne to Luciaor mother to Clovleaning over the bedin that battle-bright room?Well, it isn’t bright(battle) andno one isalive who remembers.Everything I can tell youabout that room orthose lavish soulsis just my ownfear of death blowing around on the floorboards.Blowing sand around.You know,in the old days,I, a poet,would lean backin my saddle,recite a poemof sublime sense,fill you with ferocity,then togetherwe’d ride offover the black sand,past moonlit ruins,to our destination,with…