WHY NOT HANG OURSELVES?
Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett I
Gogo: Why don't we hang ourselves? Didi: With what? Gogo: You haven't got a bit of rope? Didi: No. Gogo: Then we can't.
What are you to do when life’s concernment becomes the postponing of your suicide? When each day consists in you urging yourself: One more day. Just one more. You can do this, Sam. One more, and no more. What then are you to do when you are gnawed by the fear that you will soon get tired of picking your pen and finally instead pull the trigger?
Death is assured, yes. No need indeed to rush it. Behind this veil of gentleness and peace night is charging, and will soon burst upon us. Only, nothing is gentle. Even this peace we bespeak is an illusion, one without which existence would become unbearable. Hear how the angel of death vehemently knocks at the door? He has come for me. I dare not open it, yet see how precariously the frame shakes. It's only a matter of time. Surely in a moment he will be here. Nay, he is already. Is this how I die?
After every suicide, I suppose it's many who ask themselves:
“Am I to blame?” What if you are? “Could I have done something to save him?” But you didn't.
By the time we have learnt our lessons, it's usually too late already. But why be so naive as to try convincing ourselves that this is the last suicide we’ll bear? There will be another of course, and then we'll know we learnt nothing. No one ever does. Aside mom, no one cares whether I live or whether I die? “Sam, please speak no more of it.” Of what? My sorrows? My pains? O yes! You want me to smile even while within I am crushed. Smile then I will. Still I have cried: Help me. Please help me. Please take my arm and help me up. But I suppose in the end I will just have to get up myself. Or not.
Be a man. Life must be endured. Bear your baggage. No whining. Stop blaming your boots for the faults of your foot. Everyone is miserable, why should we pay you attention? O poor Vladimir, what cruel hand fate has dealt us, for even Lucky's hat will not do, our heads must still itch. No becrying destiny— you might as well as have been in my shoes, and I in yours, if chance had willed otherwise. To every man his due.
What do you mean some want more days? Why add even one more to such misery? Even pious Lewis lamented that poor Lazarus was made to bear for a second time the gloom and sorrow of this world.1 Reluctantly he had to heed the Saviour’s peremptory command: Lazarus, come out!2 See how the prophet was irked by Saul's meddling. “Why have you disturbed me by bringing me up?”3
Every day is to be endured, until the last when our flickering light snuffs itself out. Why do you weep so much for me, as though I enjoyed my existence? As though each day I ate butter and chicken. No, this is rest for me. It's a pity I haven't got a bit of rope.
This here and a few more posts that follow, are inspired and helped by Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot. In summary, it's a play focused on two men, Vladimir(Didi) and Estragon(Gogo), waiting for someone (a man?) who never comes. I place this brow before you, take up and read if you will.
Professor C. S. Lewis's letter to the american lady dated 25 June 1963, Letters to an American Lady by C. S. Lewis
John 11:1-44
1 Samuel 28:15