Many of the plays in this collection move me greatly-the vision lost in "Krapp's Last Tape", the past's deafening roar(or, dying flame) in "Embers", examinations of self-awareness,memory, and one's ability to express these in "Not I", "That Time" & "A Piece of Monologue", the sadly charming lost Ireland of "All That Fall", the image of a reader literally staring an image of himself in the face while reading a memoir-like first person narative in "Ohio Impromtu". This book contains Beckett's works for theatre, radio, television, film, mimes, which may explain it's seeming unstageability to other readers. Beckett viewed his dramatic works as his break from the serious writing of his prose early in his career("Waiting for Godot" was written as a break between Molloy & Malone Dies), but as he moved on toward silence, Beckett's theatre became the medium in which he achiveed his greatest acclaim & fame. The late dramas of "That Time" & "A Piece of Monologue" anticipate the self-searching confessional style & subject of the Nohow On 'novels', and present investigations of memory, responsibility, self-identity, and expressionability that are moving and profound, as well as being intimate portraits of the individual alone. All of the plays in this collection are powerful documents of intimate moments that question not only what we call theatre but also question how we understand, experience, question & represent our "self"s, our pasts...our "moments". I can think of no other writer who portrays true moments of aloneness, moments of unself-representing(even as these are represented as farcical) so honestly. Depressing? No, these plays are life affirming, in all its breathes and cries, its cycles of memorializing and willful forgetting, its fabrications and its confessional, the blinding light and frightening countenance of the other's gaze, the silence of another's absence. Intimate moments are diverse, and they are represented here without a flinch in all their breadth. No symbols where none intended, Beckett said elsewhere, but are there not other means for expressive art than symbols? "There was a time when I asked myself, What is it./There were times I answered, It's the outing./ Two outings./ Then the return./ Where?/ To the village./ To the inn./ Two outings, then at last the return, to the village, to the inn, by the only road that leads there./ An image, like any other./ But I don't answer any more./ I open"(Cascando). Herein, the opening that constitutes a search for other roads to there.