Twenty days after the Centenary of Baha’u’llah’s release(15/12/52) from oppressive imprisonment in the Siyah-Chal, Tihran, synchronizing with the termination of the epoch-making, two month period associated with the Birth of His Revelation, unsurpassed, with the sole exception of the Declaration of His mission, by any episode in the world’s spiritual history—Waiting For Godot, Samuel Beckett’s tragi-comedy in two-acts, opened in Paris. Three months later, in April-May 1953, the Mother Temple of the West was dedicated and a World Spiritual Crusade was launched. The world premier of Waiitng For Godot was timely, prophetic.-Ron Price with appreciation to Shoghi Effendi, Messages to the Baha’i World, Wilmette, 1958, p.46.
You’d1 been writing for the entire
Formative Age with your war on
words and the silence behind them,
the last of those second-generation
modernists who arrived in the 20s
and 30s, turning toward a dark, acrid
and mocking world with its forelorn
hope, bitter regret, emptiness, need
unresolved and everywhere obscurity,
inexorable decline--with your desolate
monologues---realizing how little one
could really understand or explain,
on the edge of that last whimper
with your portrait of boredom, sorrow,
nothingness and futility—the jig was up
with solitude resonating all around you.
We’ve been waiting: He came and went
and a great festival was taking place
in the Realm above.2 The Day of great
rejoicing had arrived to deliver them all
from the fire of remoteness, but so few
knew and fewer understood that the verses
had been sent down and the hour had come.
1 Samuel Beckett
2Baha’u’llah, The Perspicuous Verses
-Ron Price March 8th 2006
You’d1 been writing for the entire
Formative Age with your war on
words and the silence behind them,
the last of those second-generation
modernists who arrived in the 20s
and 30s, turning toward a dark, acrid
and mocking world with its forelorn
hope, bitter regret, emptiness, need
unresolved and everywhere obscurity,
inexorable decline--with your desolate
monologues---realizing how little one
could really understand or explain,
on the edge of that last whimper
with your portrait of boredom, sorrow,
nothingness and futility—the jig was up
with solitude resonating all around you.
We’ve been waiting: He came and went
and a great festival was taking place
in the Realm above.2 The Day of great
rejoicing had arrived to deliver them all
from the fire of remoteness, but so few
knew and fewer understood that the verses
had been sent down and the hour had come.
1 Samuel Beckett
2Baha’u’llah, The Perspicuous Verses
-Ron Price March 8th 2006