This month marks the birthday of the American playwright Samuel Beckett.  Known for his bleak portrayals of human existence, Beckett wrote some plays intended to cause us to question why we are even here, plays that present worlds singularly devoid of meaning.  But that's Beckett's point:  there is no meaning.  It's a dark, cold, and impersonal 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 audience, are left to wonder why.

     Similarly, in his far more well known "Waiting for Godot," Beckett presents two men sitting on a bench at a bus stop waiting for someone they know only as Godot. As the play moves on, the men continue to talk.  But Godot never comes.  As they take leave of each other, they suppose that perhaps Godot will come tomorrow.  But will it really matter?  They're probably waiting, they finally admit, for something that will never happen.  But that's life:  living for something that never comes.

     Besides, in a world absent of point, what else is there to do?

     Herein is Beckett's central admission:  when transcendence is gone, we are, too.

    Indeed.  Apart from the resurrection, Beckett's point is all too true.  Life is here, life is nowhere.  Then it's gone.