A quick one today, on the anniversary of the death of Irish novelist, poet, and playwright Samuel Beckett—a letter he wrote in 1963 to dear friend Alan Schneider, who at the time was grieving the death of his father. A letter I’ve read many times. So delicately written. Not a word wasted.

I think this is the final newsletter before Christmas, but it’s becoming clear that I can’t be trusted. Regardless: wishing you all the best x

Paris

November 19th, 1963

My very dear Alan,

I know your sorrow and I know that for the likes of us there is no ease for the heart to be had from words or reason and that in the very assurance of sorrow’s fading there is more sorrow. So I offer you only my deeply affectionate and compassionate thoughts and wish for you only that the strange thing may never fail you, whatever it is, that gives us the strength to live on and on with our wounds.

Ever,

Sam

Taken from The Letters of Samuel Beckett (1957-1965). Highly recommended, as are all the volumes of his correspondence.