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About a year ago, a literary salon sprang to life in a run-down town house in the West Village. Dozens of young writers, critics, artists, theatre actors and filmmakers started going there almost nightly to drink, smoke, talk, dance and argue, much like their bohemian predecessors in the days before sky-high rents priced poets out of the neighbourhood.
About a year ago, a literary salon sprang to life in a run-down town house in the West Village. Dozens of young writers, critics, artists, theatre actors and filmmakers started going there almost nightly to drink, smoke, talk, dance and argue, much like their bohemian predecessors in the days before sky-high rents priced poets out of the neighbourhood.
About a year ago, a literary salon sprang to life in a run-down town house in the West Village. Dozens of young writers, critics, artists, theater act
They came. They drank. They staged plays and argued about Shakespeare. For dozens of up-and-coming writers, actors and artists, it was nice while it lasted.
A melody began to play in the distance on the old Steinway baby grand, then the room went quiet. I entered down the pathway Beckett had cleared for me. Two weeks later, on the afternoon of February 14, I sat down with Beckett in his apartment to talk about the impact he’s making on the arts from the underground.