If you have read any plays by Samuel Beckett, you know that they present a very bleak world, one singularly devoid of meaning.  But that's Beckett's point:  there is no meaning.  It's a dark, cold world.

     Is this true?  Emotionally, it can certainly seem that way at times.  If there is no reason for this world to exist, if there is no reason why we are here, then however grand our life might be, it ultimately means very little.

     For Beckett, this didn't seem to matter.  In his "Happy Days," Beckett presents only two characters, Winnie and Willie.  Winnie is buried in dirt up to her waist; Willie crawls around on all fours.  As the play proceeds, Winnie talks, talks nearly constantly, to Willie.  She talks of everyday things and how blessed she feels to be alive:  she has Willie.  Willie rarely responds.

     By the end of the play, Winnie is buried in dirt up to her neck.  Willie is still only able to crawl.  Yet she continues to insist that these are happy days.  And we, the reader, are left to wonder why.

     It's simple, really:  in a world absent of point, what else is there to do?

     Without intending to, Beckett therefore makes an even larger admission:  when transcendence is gone, we are, too.