Waiting for Godot (1954)

     Tragic.  Sad.  Often funny (though I'm not much for the more physical comedy, and don't find the prostate issue funny at all).  Ultimately unknowable.  That Beckett apparently vehemently denied that Godot – a name North Americans have been mispronouncing for some time – can be understood to be God is perplexing, if only because God is just as vague and inaccessible as any knowledge of being, of why we, especially given that we are destined to not-be shortly thereafter.
     Waiting for Godot (1954) is absurd, but in the abstract.  Its primary characters are never referred to by their listed names (I don't know if that is brilliant or banal, but it is something).  It has no sense of place except that it is one incapable of giving the men what they need while simultaneously evocative of longing and change.
     I wouldn't want a steady diet of this from any playwright, but I finally understand why so many people are drawn to it.