Volume 2 of Samuel Beckett's Collected Letters is out, and only reinforces the admiration I have for the man's integrity. His character was genuine, forged in life's vicissitudes, and his indifference to glory and self-promotion was real. He lived through long lean years, writing original works everyone rejected, or ignored. “They go out into the usual void and I hear little more about them,” he said. But then came Godot. It made him famous in his 50s. Still, he was too old and experienced by then to yield to the temptations of puffery. “Beckett will not hear of being interviewed, whether orally or in writing," said his wife, Suzanne. "I fear that on this he is not to be budged. He gives his work, his role stops there. He cannot talk about it. That is his attitude. . . . One must take him as he is.” And we did; we do. But it was a lucky chance that Suzanne did what he wouldn't do, or we'd probably never have heard of him. She was the one with the ambition and the Left Bank literary connections, and she was the one who parlayed a small production in an insignificant theatre into the classic Waiting for Godot. Beckett cared only about the work itself, and would tolerate no meddling. I, with my pathetic adherence to the social networks, and desperate hope for remuneration for my long years of labor, must derive consolation from the hard-earned wisdom of Samuel Beckett, who had the greatest admiration for that other Samuel, Dr. Johnson, who said, "Human life is everywhere a state in which much is to be endured, and little to be enjoyed." Both Sams concur, more often than not. And teach the rest of us--if not how to live, how to endure.