Two days back, I read a Samuel Beckett short story, For to End Yet Again. The term ‘short story’ may not actually apply readily to it; and whatever it is is incomprehensible on a first read. It turned my post-dinner casual reading (foolish of me, perhaps, to think that four pages of Beckett could actually be casual reading) into a full-on excavation, one that extended well into the second hour after midnight as I read the story four times successively, each new perusal slower than the previous one. For those who’re thinking this is hyperbole, here are the first three sentences of the story:
I like the style, I liked reading it. Had to come back multiple times to reread. Missed punctuations - like a friend does - realised how much commas and full stops help me think and reflect.
Brought back memories of my stay in Naggar soon after 2nd covid wave, with a local family and a bunch of bombay kids, wfh types, renovating and running the nightingale cafe you must have seen on the right while climbing to the castle. it was our family escape from noida, covid recovery, living and cooking around laden apple trees and going on weekend drives to Lahaul.
I like the style, I liked reading it. Had to come back multiple times to reread. Missed punctuations - like a friend does - realised how much commas and full stops help me think and reflect.
Brought back memories of my stay in Naggar soon after 2nd covid wave, with a local family and a bunch of bombay kids, wfh types, renovating and running the nightingale cafe you must have seen on the right while climbing to the castle. it was our family escape from noida, covid recovery, living and cooking around laden apple trees and going on weekend drives to Lahaul.
Oh yes, the Nightingale Cafe :)