I know that I should be wishing some of you happy Passover, others happy Easter, others the goodliest of Fridays. But more importantly, more important than sweet Haroseth and pastel eggs and chocolate covered matzoh shaped as salty rabbits, let us not forget today’s holiday, the one hundredth anniversary of Samuel Beckett’s birth, which is deserving of thrice-leavened gilded eggshells. The obvious question: “why I’m not podcasting Beckett today, if it’s so damned important to you?”
The equally obvious answer: well, I’d rather not get sued during holy week. Not for this, anyhow. And besides, this allows me to thrust two writers on you at once, and chances are you know who Beckett is, but could use a little familiarity with Weidman, whose first name is a Saint and last is suitably Jewish to satisfy all of our celebratory needs for the coming days. So: listen to Weidman now, then go read Beckett.
Trivia for you: when Beckett was born, a hundred years ago today, it was Good Friday and Friday the Thirteenth.
And sincerely, to those in celebratory ways, my wishes for happiest of Passover, Easter, Beckett’s Birthday, etc.