All the literary turns of [Beckett's] work never obscure his vital presence for me—that of an Irishman talking on and on, endlessly imagining forms, his words, pauses, silences mysteriously reinventing our sense of reality and time. No one writing today takes such complete pleasure in language as Beckett. No one is as conscious of the responsibility and delight of passing that pleasure on to his audience. (p. 58)