Archive for the '39 Years Old' Category

Thirty-Nine Year Old – Krapp



He raises his head, broods, bends over machine, switches on and assumes listening posture, i.e. leaning foreward, elbows on table, hand cupping ear towards machine, face front.


[strong voice, rather pompous, clearly Krapp’s at a much earlier time.] Thirty-nine today, sound as a– [Settling himself more comfortable he knocks one of the boxes off the table, curses, switches off, sweeps boxes and ledger violently to the ground, winds tape back to the beginning, switches on, resumes posture.] Thirty-nine today, sound as a bell, apart from my old weakness, and intellectually I have now every reason to suspect at the . . . [hesitates] . . . crest of the wave– or thereabouts. Celebrated the awful occasion, as in recent years, quietly at the winehouse. Not a soul. Sat before the fire with closed eyes, separation the grain from the husks. jotted down a few notes, on the back on an envelope. Good to be back in my den in my old rags. Have just eaten I regret to say three bananas and only with difficulty restrained a fourth. Fatal things for a man with my condition. [Vehemently.] Cut ’em out! [pause.] The new light above my table is a great improvement. With all this darkness around me I feel less alone. [Pause.] In a way. [Pause.] I love to get up and move about in it, then back here to . . . [hesitates] . . . me. [pause.] Krapp.


The grain, now what I wonder do I mean by that, I mean . . . [hesitates] . . . I suppose I mean those things worth having when all the dust has–when all my dust has settled. I close my eyes and try and imagine them.

[Pause. Krapp closes his eyes briefly.]

Extraordinary silence this evening, I strain my ears and do not hear a sound. Old Miss McGlome always sings at this hour. But not tonight. Songs of her girlhood, she says. Hard to think of her as a girl. Wonderful woman, though. Connaught, I fancy. [Pause.] Shall I sing when I am her age, if I ever am? No. [Pause.] Did I sing as a boy? No. [Pause.] Did I ever sing? No.

Samuel Beckett, Krapp’s Last Tape

Published in: 39 Years Old | on August 15th, 2010 | No Comments »

Thirty-Nine Year Old – Isadora Wing



Damn. She misses the exit, zooms down to Westport thinking how dangerous it is for her, a mother of a three-year-old daughter who is totally dependent on her, to be driving stoned. A hippie at thirty-nine – how embarrassing. Though she looks perhaps thirty-three. Far prettier than she was at thirty-three, everyone tells her. She’s thinner, for one thing, and pregnancy gave her a bloom and cheekbones she never had before. Money also helps: facials at Arden, sixty-dollar haircuts, health spas every winter, and designer clothes never hurt a woman’s looks. She’s a blond and open-eyed as in her teens, though the forehead furrows – her worry lines – keep deepening. It’s Josh who looks thirty-nine – with his balding bean, his laugh lines, his eye-crinkles.

‘Fuck other men, go ahead,’ he said last week with that maddening mock-indifference of his. And she does. She does and enjoys it mightily, too – having come to the age where, unimpeded by any pleasure inhibition, and knowing full well that she was born to die, her orgasms grasp at the emptiness of certain death with unaccustomed ferocity. But sometimes the pain of loss, the loss of family, the loss of cuddly evenings in bed reading aloud from Dickens or watching old movies (they were thus ensconced when labor began three years ago and Mandy burst upon the scene) is too much to bear.

Erica Jong, Parachutes and Kisses

Published in: 39 Years Old | on August 15th, 2010 | No Comments »