Samuel Beckett's "The Image" Analysis
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ScribdTranslationsSamuel Beckett's "The Image" Analysis
Translated by
ScribdTranslationsThe Image, Samuel Beckett
The language is burdened with mud, a single remedy then is to enter it and turn it.
in the mouth the mud to swallow it or reject it a question of knowing if it is
nourishing and perspectives without being obliged to by drinking often I am
take a bite it's one of my resources keep it for a good while
the question of whether swallowed it would nourish me and the perspectives that open up this
There are no bad moments, spending it all is what it's about, the language comes out.
rose in the mud what the hands do in the meantime it is always necessary to see this
What do the hands do? Well, the left one, as we have seen, always holds the bag.
right well the right after a while I see it over there at the end of its
arm extended to the maximum along the axis of the clavicle if that can be said or
rather to make oneself that opens and closes in the mud opens and closes
this is another of my resources this little gesture helps me I don't know why
I have little things like that that are quite helpful even if they are tedious.
walls under the changing sky I must have been smart already she must not be
far away, just a meter away, but I feel her far away, one day she will leave on her own
on his four fingers counting the thumb because one is missing not the thumb
she will leave me I see her throwing her four fingers forward like some
the grapples sink in, pull, and thus she moves away little by little
horizontal establishments, that's what I like to leave like this.
little bits and the legs that make the legs oh the legs and the eyes that
they make with their eyes closed certainly well no since suddenly there under the mud
I see myself I say me as I say I as I would say he because it amuses me
I am giving myself at sixteen years old and for the height of happiness, the weather is perfect.
delicious blue sky of egg and ride of small clouds I turn my back
and the girl too that I hold by the hand the ass that I have to judge by the flowers
which adorn the emerald grass we are in the month of April or May
I don't know and with what joy I hold these stories of flowers and seasons I
yours a point that's all judging by some accessories including one
white barrier and a podium of exquisite red we are on a
racecourse, head thrown back, we look, I imagine straight
in front of us, the immobility of a statue except for the arms with intertwined hands that...
balancing in my free or left hand an undefinable object and by
consequently on her own right the end of a short leash leading to
a good-sized ash-colored terrier sitting awkwardly with its head down
the immobility of these hands and corresponding arms is a question of knowing
why a leash in this vastness of green and gradually birth
of gray and white spots that I soon name
of lambs among their mothers I do not know where I get these stories
I keep animals, that's all. On a good day, I know how to name them.
four or five dogs of totally different breeds I see them let's not try
to understand especially deep in the landscape at a distance of four or five
a thousand at a glance the bluish mass of a long low mountain
elevation our heads surpass the peak like the sound of one and the same
spring or if we want two synchronized ones we let go of each other's hand and
let's turn around me to the right she to the left she transfers the leash to her
left hand and I at the same moment to my right the object now a little
whitish package in the shape of a brick of sandwiches may well be a story
without a doubt to be able to mix our hands again what we do
arms swing the dog hasn't moved I have the absurd impression that we
I look, I put my tongue in, close my mouth and smile, viewed from the front, the girl.
is less ugly, it's not her that interests me, pale-haired in
broad brush, big red face with buttons, overflowing belly, gaping fly
knock-kneed spindly legs spread apart for more sitting flexibility
knees feet open one hundred thirty-five degrees minimum blissful half-smile at
the rear horizon depicts a life that rises green tweed yellow boots
hello or similar to the buttonhole new half-turn inward
nature to bring us fleetingly not by buttocks but face to face at the end of
ninety degrees hand attachment transfers swings
brake immobilization of the dog this butt that I have three two one left right us
there we go, leaving with the wind in our faces, arms swinging, the dog follows with its head down and tail out
the balls nothing to do with us he had the same idea at the same moment of
Malebranche lessens the letters I had then; if he pees, he will do it without.
stop I want to scream slap her there and run to open your veins three hours
slow-paced and here we are at the top, the dog sits awkwardly in
La Bruyère lowers its nose on its black and pink little beast, not strong enough to lick it.
we on the contrary turn back towards the inside transfers attachment of hands
arm balancing tasting in silence of the sea and the islands heads that
pivoting like a single entity towards the city's smoke, silently scouting the surroundings
monuments heads that come back seem to be connected by an axle short fog
and here we are eating the sandwiches in alternating bites, each one.
Sighing and exchanging sweet words, my dear, I bite, she swallows, my darling.
she bites I swallow we are not cooing yet with a full mouth my love
I bite, she swallows my treasure, she bites, I swallow, in short, fog, and here we are again.
we are walking away across the fields hand in hand the
arms swinging, head held high towards the increasingly smaller peaks I do not
I no longer see the dog, I no longer see us, the scene is cleared a bit.
beasts the sheep that look like granite that emerges a horse that I didn't have
not seen standing still spine bent head down the animals know blue and
white of the sky morning of April under the mud it's over it's done it fades the scene
remains empty, a few beasts then goes out, no more blue, I stay here, over there to the right
in the mud the hand opens and closes it helps that it goes away I
realize that I am still smiling, it hasn't been worth it for a long time now
it's no longer worth it the language comes out goes into the mud I stay like this more
thirst the tongue enters the mouth closes it must make a straight line to
Present, it's done, I made the image.