For Samuel Beckett, "Stirrings Still" (1988) was a return to form near the end of his life. His short fiction had run the gamut, from masterpieces like "The End" to jarring, impenetrable sludge like "All Strange Away" (which lends credence to the theory, outlined in Richard J. Stephenson's The Insanity of Samuel Beckett's Art, that Beckett was clinically mad); most recently, his short prose had consisted of unsatisfying fragments. But here we have a story that, stylistically and spiritually, is recognizable as one of Beckett's. The grotesque humor had long since petered out, of course, but the cynical, exhausted narrative voice is unmistakable.

"Oh all to end," reads the last line of the story. The peace that Beckett (and his parade of wearily trudging characters) had sought for so many years was finally, mercifully within reach. ( )