Harold Pinter performs Samuel Beckett's "Krapp's Last Tape."
I am a huge fan of both, having come into contact with there plays back in college. They were the one that taught me the power of silence. Heck, when I think of the 'twang of the void,' I think of the "pauses" in their scripts. How nothing can mean as much or more than words. And the thought of Pinter, whose health has been poor in the last few years, being on stage speaking those words.
(Gasping.) Went to sleep and fell off the pew. (Pause.) Sometimes wondered in the night if a last effort mightn't--(Pause.) Ah finish your booze now and get to your bed. Go on with this drivel in the morning. Or leave it at that. (Pause.) Leave it at that. (Pause.) Lie propped up in the dark--and wander. Be again in the dingle on a Christmas Eve, gathering holly, the red-berried. (Pause.) Be again on Croghan on a Sunday morning, in the haze, with the bitch, stop and listen to the bells. (Pause.) And so on. (Pause.) Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you. (Pause.) Lie down across her.
Sigh.
