wet overcoat, he is shock-headed like his uncle and surprisingly tall. The assembled journalists now display a terrier-like pro fessionalism and tenacity unsuspected hith erto. They surge towards him as one, aiming microphones into his face. The questions come thick and fast "Did ya know your uncle well?" asks the New York reporter. "We used to meet once a week when we were both living in Paris." "Did ya talk a lot?" "We talked about ordinary everyday things. He was very good to me, protective
of me as I lost my father when I was 11. He was very supportive." "Supportive financially?"
Edward Beckett laughs."Yes. He was very kind. We used to play billiards." "Who was better at billiards?" "He was."
The journalist representing an Indian periodical pipes up, quickly.
"What do you want us to know about your uncle?" "His work, I'd say." "Does he deserve his reputation?"
"Well, what do you think?" replies Edward Beckett. By this time he is backed up into
the doorway, the press corps seeming to encroach closer with every question. "Of course I think he does," replies the Indian journalist. "That's why I'm here. But what do you think?" "Well, I think so too. That's why I'm here. I spend a lot of my time working on the estate. I really must be off now." Quick as a long thin streak of silver, Ed ward Beckett disappears out of the door, his overcoat still wet from when he came in.
ownstalrs i le shopf 1 no setofgree
ards printed Fail again. Fail letter', But no
fridge magnets
A country trying to reclaim one of its
exiled artists is an embarrassing sight. To Dublin's credit, it does no such thing. JM Donoghue, Minister for Arts, Sport and Tourism even introduces the festival with
these words: "Many are not fully at home in this world. Samuel Beckett was less at
home than most," (a quote from Anthony Cronin's biography). Beckett, who lived most of his adult life in France and wrote his masterworks in French, could not have been said to be at home in Ireland ("I didn't like liv ing there," he told The New York Times once,
"Theocracy, censorship, you know the kind of thing") - though he was very Irish. O'Brien, again: "His lamentations, his rhythms, his vituperations and his curses all seem to me to be thoroughly Irish... He does have the fibulations of his country in him, while at the same time doing every thing to disown and ridicule the unctuous, gombeen, crubeen twilightitis mistakenly thought to be Celtic." Perhaps the most touching part of the whole Beckett bandwagon are the exhibi tions by modern artists who are currently being inspired by him. There is a new show called No Colour, No Colour of oil portraits of great Beckettian actors in character by Coin McLoughlin, a young artist and Beckett fanatic. And there is a small, off-beat show in a back room at the Writers' Muse um called Meeting Samuel Beckett, by the artist Brian Breathnach. This consists of many different interpretations of Beckett's head, which is shown as a pixellated blob, as a multicoloured engraving, as a shadow
splattered with imitation bird muck, as an Art Brut biro scribble. These shows, though sidelines in the festival, felt like spontaneous tributes - true indicators of Beckett's continuing reso nance. While officialdom honours him in a great and glorious centenary festival, ordi nary artists honour him all the time. The international press corps is dispers ing off to dinner. "That's the hidden bene fit of Beckett," one is saying to another. "His plays are so short." We all laugh, perhaps too heartily, o www.beckettcentenaryfestival.ie. For tourist information visit www.discoverireland.com or call 0800 039 7000
THE INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY ÂŁ"
16 APRIL 2006 J