A. Alvarez
In the trilogy, Beckett is creating his own death in prose, quarrying right down to that subterranean country of his heart....What remains is a terminal vision, a terminal style, and, from the point of view of possible development, a work at least as aesthetically terminal as Finnegan's Wake.
Richard Ellmann
Samuel Beckett is sui generis...he has given a voice to the decrepit and maimed and inarticulate, men and women at the end of their tether, past prose or pretense, past claim of meaningful existence. He seems to say that only there and then, as metabolism lowers, amidt God's paucity, not his plenty, can the core of the human condition be approached...yet his musical cadences, his wrought and precise sentences, cannot help but stave off the void...like salamadars, we survive in his fires.
