These four stories were originally written in French in 1946, to be translated by Beckett and appear in English from 1954 to 1973. Beckett spoke of the teller of these tales as a deadbeat, but the long-suffering man is down on more than his luck, and in his way he triumphs over his privations. At once tragedy and comedy, these masterpieces of economy and of poverty inaugurated a new phase of Becketts genius, while he continued to pursue things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. My bench was still there. It was shaped to fit the curves of the seated body. It stood beside a watering trough, gift of a Mrs. Maxwell to the city horses, according to the inscription. During the short time I rested there several horses took advantage of this monument. The iron shoes approached and the jingle of the harness. Then silence. That was the horse looking at me. Then the noise of pebbles and mud that horses make when drinking. Then the silence again. That was the horse looking at me again. Then the pebbles again. Then the silence again. Till the horse had finished drinking or the driver deemed it had drunk its fill. I didn't feel well, but they told me I was well enough. They didn't say in so many words that I was as well as I would ever be, but that was the implication. I lay inert on the bed and it took three women to put on my trousers. They didn't seem to take much interest in my private parts which to tell the truth were nothing to write home about, I didn't take much interest in them myself. But they might have passed some remark. When they had finished I got up and finished dressing unaided.