In 2013 I read Ill Seen Ill Said by Samuel Beckett.
Don't get me wrong, I love Beckett. But he is rarely a pleasure to read. And yet I keep coming back to him over and over again. Why? I don't know. Maybe I'm a masochist. Perhaps I feel compelled by the praise that critics shower down on his work. But more truthfully, I think it's because of works like this and Play. Works were it's not all evident at first, but where, as you think about it for days after - which you inevitably will - you realize that there was some deep seated truth within yourself that's been elucidated because of Beckett.
So here, in this scene of endless revisiting and death and endings, I found myself rereading over and over again. Then just sitting back and letting the realization of his meaning (for meaning is more important than words for Beckett) wash over me.
"Absence supreme good and yet. Illumination then go again and on return no more trace. On earth's face. Of what was never. And if by mishap some left then go again. For good again. So on. Till no more trace." p.58
Yeah...I'm probably a masochist.