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the morbid within

April 15, 2009

“For years I was unhappy, consciously & deliberately,” he continues to McGreevy in language notable for its directness (gone are the cryptic jokes and faux Gallicisms of the early letters).

I isolated myself more & more, undertook less & less & lent myself to a crescendo of disparagement of others & myself…. In all that there was nothing that struck me as morbid. The misery & solitude & apathy & the sneers were the elements of an index of superiority…. It was not until that way of living, or rather negation of living, developed such terrifying physical symptoms that it could no longer be pursued, that I became aware of anything morbid in myself.

J.M. Coetzee’s excellent review of Beckett’s Letters

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