I'm reading Swann's Way at the moment. This essay by Beckett (written when he was 25) is a brilliant interpretation of what Proust is doing in À la recherche du temps perdu.
The three dialogues towards the end of the book are between Samuel Beckett and Georges Duthuit and discuss the art of Pierre Tal-Coat, André Masson, Bram van Velde. Beckett's take is strikingly familiar if you've read much of him before. Beautiful beautiful stuff of course.
The reading just keeps on getting better; like some kind of tropism towards.. what? Surely it has to stop somewhere...
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