In April 1933 he [Samuel Beckett] wrote to a friend: “Lovely walk this morning with Father, who grows old with a very graceful philosophy … I’ll never have anyone like him.” And then, two months later, when his father died, he wrote: “He was in his sixty-first year, but how much younger he seemed and was. Joking and swearing at the doctors as long as he had breath … I can’t write about him, I can only walk the fields and climb the ditches after him.
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From Colm Toibin’s essay on the guardian “How I killed my mother”. Writers killing the influence of their relatives by being successful at the arts. I have to favour Beckett’s approach.
No, there is nothing in my eye right now.
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