Before the whirligig cranks up there is a prose preface, which shows McBride’s deep reading of Beckett. There are subtle shifts and variations, whereby the tiniest alteration completely changes possible meanings: “If there was no everything only this things and that was all things. If she thought like that. If she thought that. If there was no getting to. If there was only is. If is, is the thing she liked to think except there is no like and there is no think, there is only is. There is no only. There is, is. Is, is all there is?” The effect is of a misogyny which in not intermittent or an exception, but an awful always.
I read this in its entirety several times, increasingly impressed and uncomfortable. Perhaps – big perhaps – if there is a Fringe this year a brave soul will stage it. The audience will have to be braver still.