Well, Thursday night was somewhat clichéd. I saw Waiting for Godot in
That sounds pretentious, and it is. The only reason I had to make so precise and highfalutin’ my impressions of the philosophy and put it in such officious terminology is that I met Yuri outside the theater and joined his troika of doctoral students for drinks. One of them, a phil major in undergrad, had spent years in Korea and Thailand embracing Buddhism, and he saw in the overwhelming bleakness of the play not quite a questioning of the human condition, but a message of transcendence and hope. Damn yuppies.
I consider that I may have watched a different play than he. However, he referred to Camus as finding some measure of hope in the existential issue of purposelessness, and marshaled Camus’s arguments to defend his interpretation of Beckett. This was a mistake, as one of the other docs-in-training and I launched in, refusing to see our favorite author subverted for partisan purposes. Actually, he and I spent time asserting the differences between Stranger and Waiting, insisting that the latter held noting but grim fatalism.
It was great fun, and we were out until 2:30, when Yuri and I stumbled into Rosebery.
I also have a tremendous headache.