I hate how his enshrinement as a saint of the theater has distanced his work from us. He wrote in Worstward Ho: "Try again. Fail again. Fail better." And yet this poet of failure is treated as infallible, his minor works (not to be confused with lovely miniatures like Not I) murdered by overpraise. At the end of his novel Watt, he made a note: "No symbols where none intended." We have to treat him with the same lightness that he reserved for death, betrayal, emotional impotence and that old favorite, existential despair. Don't go to him on your knees, making him your god; in Beckett's world, gods have a tendency not to show up. Instead, meet him cheerfully on the road with this bit of Buddhist wisdom: Some things are far too serious to be taken seriously.