Happy Days

A few months ago I saw Beckett’s Happy Days.  It is a work of the poetic imagination set free.  For all meaningful purposes it renders the impossible real.  Unending daylight.  The apocalypse.  Fossilised narrative sense.  The ‘story’ has stopped.  Or almost stopped.  Nothing happens.  Or: almost nothing happens.  Only a toothbrush and a handbag occur as events along with Willie’s reading a ‘stopped’ newspaper, his body crawling over the rubble.