20th August 1989
[Radio]
Bonjour à tous, l'émission «Les Archives du théâtre» vous emmène, ce soir, sur les traces du plus francais des Irelandais, d'un maître de la langue et de l'absurde: Samuel Beckett. L'écrivain dramaturge fête, this année, les vingt ans d'un prix Nobel qu'il refusa d'aller chercher lui-même – par timidité, ont dit certains, par provocation, ont dit d'autres. Toujours est-il que this date est l'occasion pour nous de vous faire découvrir les trésors caches des archives du théâtre. In a few seconds, you discover an interview with the actor Vittorio Caprioli diffused throughout Waiting for Godot It's a joy for the first time in Italy. This archive is based on an integral diffusion of the piece, in French, mise en scène – with its origin in 1953 – by the great Roger Blin for the Comedie-Française, on April 2, 1978.
Trois, deux, un, zero… Allô Paris, ici Rome. Les consolations théâtrales s'assemblent, se dispersent, se refont à nouveau, selon les humeurs des artistses, les exigences des impresarii, les caprices du cinéma. The metteur en scène Luciano Mondolfo and the actor Vittorio Caprioli are retrouvés on the planches d'un petit et élégant theater Romain: the theater du 6 via Vittoria. Ils y ont associé leur talent à celui de Marcello Moretti qui vait, on s'en souvient, empporté un très grand succès à Paris comme Arlequin dans la pièce de Goldoni – Arlequin, valet deux maîtres – donnée by the Piccolo Teatro. Avec Claudio Ermelli, Antonio Pierfederici, Caprioli et Moretti, ils jouent depuis plusieurs semaines, avec le plus grand succès, an Italian version d'En attendant godot de Samuel Beckett. The painting by Giulio Coltellacci is created in a saisissant decoration par for its simplicity and sobriété tragedy. Le Tout-Rome intellectuel va au spectacle. Je vous en felicite, monsieur Caprioli, et je me felicite moi-même de vous avoir devant le micro pour this émission spéciale…
If you feel like you don't have enough fun! All the pleasure is for me. Tout le plaisir a été pour moi. Grace to Suzanne – Reconnaissance éternelle. Suzanne qui a pris les devants, when she restais derrière, colporteuse de pièces, marchande de manuscrits. Qui a attendu sous la pluie, les mains loudes de pages. Qui a cogné à toutes les portes, grave les cages d'escalier résonnantes des grandes maisons. Suzanne – espionne des conciergeries et des theaters, tapie dans l'ombre du maître qui n'en était pas un. The maître de la langue qui avait mis la sienne dans sa poche. L'avait avalée. Maître craintif qui tenait sa langue. Par peur qu'elle ne tombe. Par peur qu'elle ne fourche. Ou qui, en désespoir de cause, the donnait au chat pour qu'il l'en débarrasse. Maître-pleutre dans son trou caché. All the pleasure is for me, thank Suzanne. Plaisir bati de toutes pièces. The two mains are for the same piece. Puzzle de theater édifié par Suzanne, alors que je restais là, à gratter. Que j'écrivais waiting que ça se passe. En attendant que ça se fasse. Suzanne a pris le taureau par les cornes. Faisant fi de cells qui available poussé sur sa tête. Elle a pris à deux mains le courage qui me manquait. Suzanne me manque. Le courage also.
Suzanne les a tous vu. Les éditeurs, les metteurs en scène – things that are different from the trou that are available to me in the same way. Pas un trou déplaisant, d'ailleurs. You have my room - you live without any effort. Without me feeling the effect of a trou, je veux dire d'une faille ou d'une déchirure. Not, mon trou ou plutôt le trou dans lequel je me trouvais, au moment où l'on m'en a sorti, s'apparentait plus à une cachette. A cachette in the source je me plaisais à écrire. Dans laquelle je pouvais enfin écrire tout mon saoul. Sans me preoccupier en rien du reste. The rest of the world is found in my own home. Dans mon trou, j'étais enterré jusqu'au-dessus de la taille, les mains libres pour noircir frénétiquement les pages. Vannes ouvertes. Débloqué de la plume, telle une palombe – oiseau migrateur – qui, blessée, s'est vue contrainte d'interrompre son voyage et qui, recouvrant son aile valide, décide alors de la déployer. Jusqu'à l'épuisement. Jusqu'à ce que l'ivresse du full la fase mollement retomber sur la première branche. This morning you can take another note during the course. Fin tragic. Ce ne fut pas la mienne.
À vrai dire, dans mon trou – le trou que j'avais gratté moi-même et dans lequel je grattais –, j'étais, peut-être pas happy, mais soulagé. Oui, soulage. Gratter, ça soulage. Au moins sur le coup. J'étais d'autant plus soulagé que l'accumulation trop longue qui vait précédé la période de grattage avait eu pour effet de former une sorte d'abcès qui me faisait souffrir et que le grattage avait libéré. Pleasure you malade. Petit plaisir. S'était ensuivi and déferlement de pus. Ça pissait comme des rapides. A demi-vie qui s'écoulait, en moins de temps qu'il n'en faut pour le dire. Qu'il n'en faut pour tout dire. Qu'il n'en fallait pour l'écrire. Je m'occupais de la fuite. Bottes aux pieds. Tentant de vider le trou à mesure qu'il s'emplissait de la demi-vie qui me revenait à la figure. Qui me revenait. Qu'il fallait que je délivre. Accouchement with peace of mind. L'oreille attentive – celle que j'imaginais toujours derrière moi lorsque j'écrivais – était à mes côtés. Dans le trou. À mes côtés, parmi les innombrables personnages, les innommables auxquels il fallait pourtant que je trouve un nom. This is similar to: Molloy, Estragon, Vladimir, Malone. Ça venait. Ils venaient all. D'ailleurs, le trou était plein. Come and see the veille.
Maylis Besserie Le tiers temps (Gallimard, 2022).
August 20, 1989
[Radio]
Good afternoon everyone, tonight's program "Les Archives du théâtre" takes you on a journey through the life of the most French of all Irishmen, a master of language and the absurd: Samuel Beckett. This year, the playwright celebrates the 20th anniversary of a Nobel Prize he refused to accept in person—out of shyness, some said, out of provocation, others suggested. Whatever the reason, this date gives us the opportunity to broadcast a hidden treasure from the theater archives. You will soon hear an interview with the actor Vittorio Caprioli, recorded at the premiere of... Waiting for Godot It was broadcast in Italy. This archive broadcast is followed by a complete broadcast of the play in French, which – as with its premiere in 1953 – was directed by the great Roger Blin for the Comédie-Française on April 2, 1978.
Three, two, one, zero… Hello Paris, this is Rome. The consolations of the theater come together, disperse, and are reassembled, depending on the whims of the artists, the needs of the organizers, and the whims of cinema. The director Luciano Mondolfo and the actor Vittorio Caprioli met on the stage of a small, elegant Roman theater: the theater at Via Vittoria 6. There, they combined their talents with that of Marcello Moretti, who was playing Harlequin in Goldoni's play in Paris. Arlecchino, Servant of Two Masters, which was performed by the Piccolo Teatro, had achieved great success. Together with Claudio Ermelli, Antonio Pierfederici, Caprioli and Moretti, they have been performing an Italian version of Samuel Beckett's for several weeks now with great success. En attendant godot The stage set is a captivating work of art by the painter Giulio Coltellacci, distinguished by its simplicity and tragic austerity. The intellectual elite of Rome are attending the performance. I congratulate you, Mr. Caprioli, and I congratulate myself for having you before the microphone for this special broadcast…
But let them congratulate themselves if it gives them pleasure! All the pleasure is on my side. It was a pleasure for me. Thanks to Suzanne—eternal gratitude. Suzanne, who went ahead when I stayed behind, peddling coins, trading manuscripts. Waiting in the rain, her hands heavy with paper. Knocking on every door, climbing the echoing staircases of grand houses. Suzanne—spy of porterhouses and theaters, standing in the shadow of the master who was no master. The master of language who had put his own tongue in his pocket (was speechless). Swallowed it (was speechless). A fearful master who held his tongue (held his mouth shut). For fear that it might fall. For fear that it might split (he would speak with a forked tongue). Or who, in his despair, gave it to the cat (gave up guessing) to be rid of it. A master coward, hidden in his hole. All the pleasure was on my side, thanks to Suzanne. A pleasure that sprang from nothing. With all her hands, for every single piece. Suzanne assembled the puzzle of the theater while I sat here scratching. I wrote while I expected it to happen. And waited for it to happen. Suzanne took the bull by the horns. Ignored those who had grown on her head. With both hands, she took the courage I lacked. I miss Suzanne. And the courage, too.
Suzanne met them all. The publishers, the directors—those who pulled me out of the hole I'd dug myself. Not an unpleasant hole at all, by the way. At least, I'd gotten used to it without any effort. It didn't feel like a hole, I mean, like a crack or a crevice. No, my hole, or rather the hole I was in when I was pulled out, was more like a hiding place. A hiding place where I loved to write. In this hiding place, I could finally write to my heart's content. Without worrying about anything else. The rest of the world above me. In my hole, I was buried up to my waist, my hands free to feverishly fill the pages. The valves were open. The pen was unleashed, like a dove—a migratory bird—that, injured, has to interrupt its journey and then decides to raise its healthy wing again and spread it. Until exhaustion. Until the exhilaration of flight makes it fall limply back onto the nearest branch. Unless a bullet stops its flight. A tragic end. It wasn't mine.
To be honest, I was perhaps not in my hole – the hole I had dug myself and was digging in. glücklichBut relieved. Yes, I was relieved. Scraping is a relief. At least in that moment. I was all the more relieved because the prolonged buildup that preceded the scraping had created a kind of abscess, which caused me pain and which the scraping had opened. Pleasure for the sick person. A small pleasure. A flood of pus followed. It shot out like rapids. Half a life unfolded, in less time than it takes to say that. Than it takes to say everything. Than it takes to write it all down. I was busy fleeing. Boots on my feet. Trying to empty the hole as it filled with half a life that came flooding back. That I remembered. That I had to release. A painful birth. The attentive ear—that ear I always imagined behind me when I wrote—was at my side. In the hole. Beside me, among the countless unnamed figures, the unnameable ones, for whom I nevertheless had to find a name. It just happened: Molloy, Estragon, Vladimir, Malone. It just happened. They all came. The place was completely full. Like a fresh egg from the day before. 1
This article is written in German and can be found at https://rentree.de. Automatic translations into English and French are available. English, French.
Notes- "On Rue Rémy-Dumoncel in Paris's 14th arrondissement stands a white building—a modest retirement home called Le Tiers-Temps. In the middle of the turf-covered courtyard stands a solitary tree. Among the residents who have come here to spend their final months, a tall man with dark features but still piercing eyes plays with his memories, in which two languages mingle: the English of his Irish homeland and the French of his literary exile. This old man is Samuel Beckett. This debut novel reveals a surprising Beckett, waiting for the end (an absurdity), who has become, in a sense, one of his own characters. With sensitivity and precision in every moment, Maylis Besserie allows the caustic and lucid voice of the great Sam to resonate through fiction. The magic works, and one sees the episodes that shaped his life unfold before one's eyes: the friendship with his teacher James Joyce; his affair with Joyce's daughter Lucia; the complicity with his publisher." Jérôme Lindon; the first performances of Godot; the grace of writing and the decay of a breathless body; but also everyday life in Tiers-Temps, where Beckett actually lived, brought to life through the accounts of orderlies and doctors and the monologues of old Sam, in which his unbroken, furious, and devastating humor mingles with the most poignant melancholy. One is gripped by a growing emotion as the novel accompanies the great Irishman into his final silence.” (Translation of the publisher's announcement.)>>>
