I had no
sooner been swallowed than I met Beckett, the great poet, in the foul-smelling
want to talk about modern art," Beckett's voice said just after I landed
with a splash. "From what I can tell, far too many people are going out to
check their mail far too often." Then we sat, blind, swallowed up once
again, this time by silence and darkness.
Then, as I
felt the tickle and sizzle of digestive acids, the famous man laughed suddenly.
"How did you get here?" he asked. Again I saw the lawn, the fire in
each blade of grass, the murmur of the worms just below my left shoe, foot still
in it, beside my house key and my hat.
expecting a letter," I said, I could still see the dew sparkling like tiny
spoons in the grass.
here. I was in Frankfurt once," he said. "The narrow trains, the dark,
oily river..." I could hear air coursing through his nose. The light
augered down into the church, right down into the deep smell of the oak. "We
went to a shop and I said 'ma, when I grow up I want to see light from the
inside.' 'Put that back,' ma said. I had picked up a small wooden lorry. Its
wheels were held on by tiny metal discs in which I could see my own face. She
swatted me across the back of my head. 'Put it back,' she said."