Endgame

by

Samuel Beckett

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Endgame Summary & Analysis

Summary
Analysis
Clov, a man with a rigid walk, enters a sparsely furnished room, which has two high windows on opposing walls, a wheeled armchair at the center, and two trashcans covered in a sheet. Standing near the door, Clov stares at Hamm, who sits in the armchair and is, like the trashcans, covered in a sheet. After a moment, Clov walks to one wall and looks up at the window. He looks at the window on the other wall, exits the room, and returns with a ladder that puts it under one of the windows climbs up. Peering out the window, Clov lets out a short laugh. He then descends the ladder, walks to the other wall, looks up at the window, walks back to the ladder and folds it up. He brings the ladder to the other wall, climbs it, peers out, and laughs again before cutting to silence.
The opening moments of any play are often difficult to track, since audience members must not only acquaint themselves with the setting, but also interpret the actions or words of characters they don’t yet know. This confusion normally subsides as the play progresses, though, since viewers quickly gain a sense of understanding. This is not necessarily the case in Endgame. In fact, Clov’s seemingly nonsensical patterns of repetition foreground the play’s lack of meaning, representing just how difficult it is to piece together why, exactly, the characters do what they do or say what they say. The only thing that Clov’s actions point toward in this moment is the fact that Beckett is interested in ceaseless repetition, though it’s not yet clear why this is the case.
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Dismounting the ladder, Clov goes to the trashcans and takes the sheet off of them. He opens each lid, looks inside, laughs, and closes them again. Finally, he takes the sheet off of Hamm, who is sitting in an apparent state of sleep with a bloodied handkerchief draped over his face. Hamm wears a dressing-gown, a hat, and a whistle that hangs from his neck. Rugs are spread over his body. Looking at him, Clov laughs once more before moving toward the door, at which point he stops and emotionlessly says, “Finished, it’s finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished.” After a short pause, he adds, “Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there’s a heap, a little heap, the impossible heap.” 
Clov and Hamm’s relationship is still unclear, as is the broader context or setting of the play. However, when Clov says that “it’s nearly finished,” he calls attention to the play’s examination of time and progress—although audience members don’t know what he’s referring to in this moment, there emerges a sense that the most important events pertaining to these characters have perhaps already taken place, thereby making the rest of their actions seem rather pointless. Furthermore, when Clov talks about grain piling up, he gives an interesting account of the way time passes. Of course, one hardly registers the accumulation of small amounts of grain, but when a pile forms, one “suddenly” sees that time has elapsed. This, perhaps, is a good way to look at the way Endgame progresses: nothing in the way of plot will unfold, and then it will “suddenly” be over.
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Still speaking to himself, Clov declares that he won’t stand for more punishment, deciding to retreat into his kitchen, where he’ll wait for Hamm to summon him with the whistle. Upon exiting, though, he rushes back to collect the ladder, which he carries away. As soon as Clov is gone, Hamm yawns and takes the handkerchief off his face, affectionately calling it “old stancher” and using it to wipe his black glasses. When he finishes, he wonders aloud if misery greater than his could possibly exist. Considering this, he thinks about his father, mother, and dog, wanting to know if their suffering is as intense as his own. After a moment, he concludes that they all must suffer “as much as such creatures can suffer,” meaning that their misery is equal to his. 
Hamm’s thoughts in this moment are worth noting, since they call attention to Beckett’s interest in misery and suffering. That Hamm wants to know if others suffer as intensely as he does suggests that he’s inclined to think of his own misery as particularly pronounced. However, he ultimately decides that every single being most likely suffers as much as is possible, thereby suggesting not only that all living things are capable of suffering, but that they are suffering. This, in turn, implies that it’s impossible to exist without experiencing agony, which is a fundamental part of life.
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Hamm continues to speak in stops and starts, saying nothing in particular that gives the scene any sense of context. At one point, he says that it’s “time it ended,” though he doesn’t specify what he’s referring to, instead going on to point out that, although he himself wants to “end,” he hesitates to do so. Yawning once more, he decides that he’d like to go to bed, so he summons Clov, but Clov refuses to put Hamm to bed because he has just roused him from sleep. This frustrates Hamm, but Clov insists that he can’t spend all his time getting Hamm up just to put him to bed again, claiming that he’s quite busy.
When Hamm talks about something ending without specifying what he’s referring to, audience members naturally reach for some kind of meaning—meaning that hasn’t been made available to them. Because almost nothing has been established except for the fact that Hamm and Clov are simply there (wherever there is), it’s impossible to extract definite meaning from what Hamm says. He could be referring to his own life ending, but he could also be metafictionally referring to the play itself, hoping that it will soon be over. When he says that he himself hesitates to end, it sounds as if he’s talking about committing suicide, but he might also be suggesting that he has the power to end the play. On another note, the relational dynamics between Clov and Hamm remain mostly unclear, though it becomes obvious here that Clov is Hamm’s caretaker. 
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Dropping the idea of going to bed, Hamm—who is blind—asks if Clov has ever looked at his eyes while he’s sleeping. When Clov assures him that he hasn’t, Hamm says that his eyes have apparently become completely white. Switching tracks yet again, he asks Clov what time it is, and Clov says, “The same as usual.” Hearing this, Hamm asks if Clov has looked out the window recently. Clov says that he has, so Hamm asks what he saw. “Zero,” Clov says.
The lack of meaning in Endgame is interesting because it forces audience members to pay close attention to what happens in order to gain some kind of analytical understanding. And yet, Beckett toys with this very impulse, infusing the play with an utter lack of logic. This is the case when Hamm tells Clov that his eyes appear to have gone completely white, since this isn’t something he—as a blind man unable to look at anything, let alone his own eyes—would know. Similarly, Clov says that it is the same time “as usual,” thereby rendering the entire concept of time irrelevant and once more plunging the play into ambiguity. When he says that everything outside was “zero” when he last looked, he implies that nothing exists beyond the confines of this building, making it even harder to parse out the broader context of the play.
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Hamm and Clov’s disjointed conversation continues, and Hamm asks if he’s had enough. At first, Clov insists that he has, indeed, had enough, but then he asks what, exactly, Hamm is referring to. Hamm responds that he’s referring to “this thing,” and Clov declares that he has always had enough of it. In response, Hamm dejectedly guesses that, if Clov has always had enough of this thing, then it probably won’t ever change, though Clov suggests that it might end at some point.
Again, it remains unclear what Hamm and Clov are talking about when they discuss whether or not “this thing” will end. In turn, the audience members are left to grasp for meaning, wondering if the characters are talking about life ending, the play ending, or something else that hasn’t yet been introduced into the narrative—and yet, there is no narrative. Or, if there is a narrative, it is nothing but this very conversation.
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Abruptly, Hamm instructs Clov to get him “ready” and to put the sheet back on him, but Clov does nothing, so Hamm threatens to stop giving him food. In that case, Clov points out, they’ll both die. Considering this, Hamm decides to give Clov one biscuit per day, thereby ensuring that he won’t die but keeping him in a perpetual state of hunger. Unbothered, Clov casually remarks that neither of them will die if Hamm does this. He then says that he’ll go fetch the sheet (which is now in the kitchen), but Hamm tells him not to do this, at which point he asks Clov why he stays with him. In turn, Clov asks why Hamm keeps him around, to which Hamm replies, “There’s no one else.” Agreeing with this sentiment, Clov adds, “There’s nowhere else.”
Although nothing about the circumstances surrounding Hamm and Clov’s relationship has become clear, it is now at least evident that Hamm depends upon Clov. After all, if he starves Clov, he himself will die, since Clov is his caretaker. In this way, they are linked to each other, especially because there is apparently “no one else,” though whether this means nobody else exists in the entire world is still unknown. In addition, it seems as if there might not even be anywhere else for other people to exist in the first place. All in all, then, Beckett has managed to slightly illuminate Hamm and Clov’s relational dynamic without clarifying the context in which that dynamic exists.
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Despite the fact that nobody else exists and there’s nowhere else to go, Hamm notes that Clov is going to leave him, and Clov admits that he is indeed “trying” to do this. This prompts Hamm to remark that Clov doesn’t love him, and when Clov confirms this, Hamm says that there was once a time when he did. He wonders if he has forced Clov to suffer too much, thinking that perhaps this is the reason that Clov no longer loves him. However, Clov dispels this idea, saying that this isn’t the reason he doesn’t love him. Momentarily appalled, Hamm asks if he truly hasn’t made Clov suffer, and Clov assures him that he has, instantly setting Hamm at ease, since Hamm was beginning to worry that he hadn’t made Clov suffer enough.
If there is any discernable plot in Endgame, it has to do with whether or not Clov will leave Hamm. This is the only tangible sense of conflict in the entire play, though even this isn’t quite as simple as it seems. After all, Clov says that he’s “trying” to leave Hamm, thereby implying that something is keeping him from doing so. In addition, viewers witness the strange dynamics at play in Hamm and Clov’s relationship, as they both seem to yearn for separation without actually knowing how to embrace it. And yet, their failure to divest themselves from each other isn’t necessarily because they feel compassion for each other, as evidenced by the fact that Hamm actively wants Clov to suffer (though, in the bizarre world of this play, this actually might be a twisted form of compassion since it would mean that at least Clov would feel something). Instead, they remain together because they seem to depend upon each other, though it’s unclear what exactly Clov gets from his relationship with Hamm.
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Clov asks Hamm if he has bled, and Hamm says that he has only bled a little bit. Hamm then asks if it’s time for him to take his painkiller, but Clov says no. Going on, Hamm wonders why Clov doesn’t kill him, and Clov tells him it’s because he doesn’t know the combination to get into a certain cupboard, the contents of which remain unknown. Addressing this, Hamm suggests that Clov could get two bicycle wheels to kill him, but Clov tells him that there are no more bicycles. Hearing this, Hamm asks what Clov has done with his bicycle, but Clov insists that he’s never had one. “When there were still bicycles I wept to have one,” Clov says, reminding Hamm that he refused to give Clov one. “Now there are none,” Clov adds.
It's interesting that Hamm wants Clov to give him a painkiller, since he has just implied that all humans must suffer and that it would be a bad thing if Clov hadn’t suffered while in his service. Now, though, Hamm seems to want to dull his own suffering by taking medication. However, Clov doesn’t let him, telling him that it isn’t yet time for him to have the painkiller, thereby forcing him to wait in the same way that he’s waiting for something—whatever it is—to end. There is, it seems, no escape from pain and misery—at least not yet. On another note, Hamm’s odd suggestion that Clov could kill him with two bicycle wheels illustrates Beckett’s penchant for nonsense, which only adds to the play’s overall lack of tangible meaning.
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The lack (or nonexistence) of bicycles confuses Hamm, who is surprised to hear that Clov never had one. He asks how Clov got around when he used to do “rounds” to inspect Hamm’s “paupers,” and Clov tells Hamm that he either walked or rode a horse.
When Hamm alludes to a time in which Clov used to do “rounds” to check in on Hamm’s “paupers,” he gives a very small amount of background information about their relationship, suggesting that Clov hasn’t always been just his caretaker, but his employee, too. This reference also intimates that Hamm possibly used to be some kind of wealthy landlord. What’s funny about this development, though, is that it does almost nothing to add meaning to the play. Simply put, it is useless information.
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As Hamm and Clov talk, the lid of one of the trashcans opens and Nagg, a very old man wearing a nightcap, pops his head out of the bin, yawning and listening, though the other two pay no attention to him. Instead, Clov says he has things to do in his kitchen, to which Hamm says, “Outside of here it’s death.” As soon as Clov leaves, Nagg yells out, saying that he wants his “pap” (a mushy food given to infants or elderly people). “Accursed progenitor!” Hamm shouts at him, but this does nothing to deter Nagg from begging for his food. Clov reenters, and Hamm says he thought he was leaving, but Clov tells him that he isn’t going just yet. He then informs Nagg that there is no more pap.
It’s worth recalling that Hamm recently said that there is no one else other than him and Clov. Now, though, Nagg pops up out of trashcan, proving this to be untrue. Given Hamm’s unreliability, then, it’s difficult to know what to do with his newest assertion, which is that “it” (whatever that may be) is “death” outside of this room. In and of itself, this is already a fairly vague idea, but it’s especially hard to interpret with the knowledge that Hamm isn’t a reliable source of information. Once again, then, the audience is forced to simply focus on what’s most tangible: the relational dynamics between the characters. Accordingly, viewers note Hamm’s scorn for Nagg, as well as the fact that he angrily calls him a “progenitor,” as if Nagg should be ashamed because he is somebody from whom other people have (or could) descend. Once again, it’s unclear what to make of this, meaning that even the most tangible element of the play (the relational dynamics) is capable of completely evading interpretation.
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Hamm gloats over Nagg, shouting that he’ll never have pap again. However, he tells Clov to fetch Nagg a biscuit, turning to the old man and calling him an “accursed fornicator” before asking him how his “stumps” are doing—a question Nagg declines to answer. When Clov gives Nagg his biscuit, the old man asks what it is, and Clov says, “Spratt’s medium.” Trying to bite it, Nagg complains that it’s too hard for him to eat, but Hamm orders Clov to shut the old man back into his trashcan by closing the lid. When Clov obeys, Hamm tells him to sit on the lid, but Clov reminds him that he’s incapable of sitting. “True,” Hamm says. “And I can’t stand.”
Once more, it’s not readily apparent why Hamm is so upset by the idea that Nagg can—like any human—“fornicate” or produce offspring. The only explanation is seemingly that Hamm likes the idea that there are very few people left in the world. All the same, though, he allows Nagg to eat, but Clov feeds him “Spratt’s medium,” which is a kind of dog biscuit. What’s more, the audience receives another strange piece of information when Clov admits that he’s incapable of sitting. Since Hamm can’t stand, the two men serve as counterpoints to one another—something that might make it seem as if they are even more dependent upon each other, though a reason why Clov needs Hamm has yet to emerge. Hamm, on the other hand, has come to depend upon the mobile Clov to help him through life.
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Hamm suggests that nature has forgotten about him and Clov, but Clov says there is no more nature—a statement that Hamm thinks is an exaggeration. After all, he points out, they are both constantly changing, losing their hair, teeth, and ideals. This, Clov agrees, is evidence that nature hasn’t forgotten them after all. Hamm then asks once more if it’s time for him to take his painkiller, and Clov says no before announcing that he has things to do in his kitchen. When Hamm asks what he does in there, he says that he stares at the wall, upon which he sees his own “light” dying away. Finding this ridiculous, Hamm says that Clov might as well watch his light die in this room instead of the kitchen.
As the play progresses, it begins to seem as if something has happened to the outside world. After all, there’s no other reason Clov would suggest that nature no longer exists. Unsurprisingly, though, Beckett doesn’t give the audience much information about this, instead merely using it as a strange backdrop as Hamm and Clov go about their lives together. Once more, Hamm asks for his painkiller, implying that he wants to escape his own suffering. Clov, on the other hand, is focused on his own form of misery, which is, it seems, purely existential, as he feels as if his “light”—a possible representation of his soul or capacity to feel happiness—is dying.
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Nagg pops up once more from his trashcan, this time with the biscuit in his mouth. He listens as Hamm says, “This is not much fun.” After a short pause, Hamm adds that it’s never fun at the end of a day. He then asks Clov if it is, in fact, the end of the day—“like any other day”—and Clov says that it seems to be. In an agonized voice, Hamm suddenly asks what’s happening, and Clov calmly assures him that something is “taking its course.” This seems to satisfy Hamm, who tells Clov to go.
Again, there’s no way to know what Hamm and Clov are talking about when they say things like, “This is not much fun.” Because there is so little for audience members to grasp, it’s reasonable to say that statements like these could be applied to the play itself, which is—aside from Hamm and Clov’s relationship—the only tangible thing that viewers could possibly analyze. In turn, Hamm might be commenting on the fact that Endgame isn’t very fun to watch, or that it isn’t fun to be in the play. At the same time, though, he relates this statement to his ideas about progression and finality, implying that all endings are miserable. More importantly, he asks Clov what’s happening, which suggests that he is just as confused as the audience members.
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When Clov retreats to the kitchen, Nagg knocks on the lid of the second trashcan, and Nell’s head emerges. She asks if it’s “time for love,” but when they try to kiss, they can’t reach each other from their trashcans. Giving up, Nell asks, “Why this farce, day after day?” Failing to answer, Nagg informs her that he lost his tooth, though he had it yesterday—a statement that has a strong effect on Nell, who wistfully says, “Ah yesterday!” Making conversation, Nagg asks if Nell remembers when they lost their legs in a tandem bike accident—a memory that throws them both into a fit of laughter. When they stop laughing, Nagg senses that Nell is cold and wants to shut herself back in the trashcan. He tells her to do so, but she doesn’t move, so Nagg offers her half of the biscuit, which he’s saved for her.
It’s worth noting that Nagg and Nell are insurmountably separated from one another even though their trashcans sit side by side. This is a perfect representation of the odd way that companionship functions in Endgame, a play in which no two characters ever become fully sentimental or compassionate with one another. In addition, Nell’s strange reaction to the word “yesterday” makes it seem as if she can hardly remember a time before this specific moment. In this way, all sense of time is completely destabilized and uncertain except for the present—a principle that applies to seemingly every interaction that takes place in the play.
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Nell declines the biscuit, so Nagg asks if she’s feeling unwell. Interrupting, Hamm tells them both to speak quietly because they’re keeping him awake, interrupting his dreams of making love and running in the woods. After waxing poetic about this for a moment, Hamm says that something is dripping inside of his head, identifying it as a heart. This makes Nagg laugh, but Nell tells him to stop, saying that he shouldn’t laugh at such things. However, she goes on to admit that unhappiness is the funniest thing of all. Nevertheless, she says, this doesn’t mean that one needs to actually laugh at misery, since it is like an old joke—it’s still funny, but people don’t need to laugh every time they hear it repeated.
What Nell has to say about unhappiness is worth keeping in mind as the play progresses, since it not only frames sorrow as an inherent part of being alive, but also suggests that people should view such misery in good humor. At the same time, though, she also believes that accepting misery as part of the human condition and viewing it as funny doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t take it seriously. Rather, she upholds that people should strike a balance between seriousness and lightheartedness—a balance that perhaps none of the characters in Endgame have managed to find. 
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Nell says she’s going to leave Nagg, but she doesn’t move. Before Nell goes, Nagg asks her to scratch his back, but she tells him to use the rim of the trashcan. However, Nagg says he wants Nell to scratch lower than that, in the “hollow.” Nell refuses, even after he reminds her that she scratched him there yesterday. “Ah yesterday!” she says. Nagg then announces he’s going to tell a story about a tailor to cheer Nell up, but she doesn’t want to listen, claiming it isn’t funny. Still, Nagg says the story always used to make her laugh, and together they remember the first time he told it to her, when they were rowing on a lake the day after their wedding engagement. Nell laughed so hard, Nagg reminds her, that he thought she’d die. This, she says, was because she was happy, not because of the story.
When Nell says she’s going to leave Nagg, the audience sees that Clov and Hamm aren’t the only ones in the play who are obsessed with whether or not they will remain together. Indeed, whether a person stays or leaves is the central drama of Endgame, as the characters frequently threaten to abandon one another. Furthermore, when Nagg claims that his story used to make Nell laugh so hard he thought she’d die, viewers will recall Nell’s recent assertion that nothing is funnier than unhappiness. This, perhaps, is why she doesn’t want to hear the story—it used to make her so unhappy that she nearly laughed herself to death. And yet, she says that she laughed because she was happy, effectively ruining this analytic interpretation and once more ensuring that the audience members will have virtually no chance of deriving meaning from the play.
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Nagg tells his story, in which a British man takes his pants to a tailor, who tells him to come back in four days. When he returns, though, the tailor tells him to come back in a week because he’s made a mistake. After a week, the man returns, but the tailor asks him to come back in 10 days because he’s made a new mistake. Ten days later, the man once more visits the tailor, who tells him to come back in two weeks. This time, though, the customer refuses, saying that the tailor has only six more days to complete the job, reminding him that God made the entire world in the same amount of time. In response, the tailor haughtily implies that the world is wretched in comparison to how lovely the pants will be when he finishes with them.
Despite what Nagg claims, this story is not particularly funny. The only vaguely humorous thing about it is the tailor’s suggestion that the entire world is uglier and more awful than a botched pair of pants. All the same, this story touches upon the play’s interest in time and repetition, as the man comes to the tailor four times and is ultimately forced to continue waiting. In this way, then, the story relates to Hamm and Clov’s ceaseless waiting—the main difference, it seems, is that the story about the tailor actually makes sense, whereas viewers still don’t know what, exactly, Clov and Hamm are waiting for.
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Nagg laughs heartily at his own story, though Nell remains quiet. From his chair, Hamm yells at him to be quiet, going on to ask why he isn’t finished yet. “Will you never finish?” he asks. “Will this never finish?” He then calls Clov and tells him to shove Nagg back into his bin. As Clov does this, Nell speaks nonsensically about the desert. Before he pushes her back into her trashcan, he takes her wrist and feels her pulse. After pushing Nell down, he returns to Hamm’s side and says that Nell has no heartbeat. This doesn’t bother Hamm, who simply tells Clov to fasten the lids on the trashcans. Then, without waiting for Clov to follow his instructions, Hamm asks for his painkiller, but Clov doesn’t give it to him.
Once more, Hamm waits for the end of something without clarifying what that thing is. Nothing, it seems, will change as the play progresses, since even the strangest and most alarming things (like Nell having no heartbeat) hardly attract any attention at all. Instead of looking into why Nell has no pulse, Hamm focuses on the way time passes (or fails to pass), too caught up in this preoccupation to think about anything else.
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Hamm asks Clov if a man he refers to only as “that old doctor” is dead, and Clov says, “Naturally.” Hamm then orders Clov to push his chair around the room, telling him to keep close to the walls. As Clov obeys, Hamm tells him to stop so he can feel the wall, saying there’s another hell on the other side of it. He then instructs Clov to bring him back to the center, and though he says that he doesn’t have to be exactly in the middle, he immediately asks if Clov has placed him in the exact center of the room. When Clov says that he’ll fetch some measuring tape to make sure, Hamm once again says that he only needs to be “more or less in the center.” This back and forth continues until Clov says that he would die happy if he could only kill Hamm.
Hamm’s question about “that old doctor” suggests that he’s not entirely sure whether or not other people still exist. This contrasts with his previous assertion that “there is no one else,” once again destabilizing even the smallest sense of certainty that might have crept into the otherwise abstract landscape of the play. Furthermore, when Hamm says that there is another hell on the other side of the wall, he implies that the inside of the room is hell, too, or at least some version of it. And yet, he has already proven his unreliability when it comes to making such declarations. Indeed, viewers most likely understand by this point that trying to attach meaning to Hamm’s assertions about the surrounding environment or context is quite futile, though this doesn’t mean that Beckett doesn’t want the audience to continue trying to grasp this kind of meaning. Lastly, what Clov says about killing Hamm is worth noting, since it suggests that their companionship is void of true compassion for each other. However, his statement also implies that he’s incapable of killing Hamm, perhaps because Clov depends upon Hamm, too (though it’s not apparent why this would be the case).
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Unbothered by Clov’s desire to kill him, Hamm asks what the weather is like, and Clov says that it’s how it always is. Still, Hamm tells him to get a telescope to look out the window, though when Clov goes to get the telescope, Hamm says there’s no need for it. Again, they go back and forth, this time talking about whether or not Clov needs the telescope. Finally, Clov gets the ladder and the telescope, climbs up to the window, but then drops the telescope. When he retrieves it, he picks it up and points it at the audience, saying, “I see…a multitude…in transports…of joy.” Then, after a pause, Clov adds, “That’s what I call a magnifier.” He then mounts the ladder and uses the telescope to peer outside, saying that he sees “zero.” Clov also says that everything is “corpsed.”
Although Endgame is a fairly inscrutable play, Beckett includes a number of jokes to keep the audience engaged. For example, when Clov looks at the audience with a telescope and says that he sees many people experiencing “joy,” he pauses and says that the telescope must be magnifying this image—effectively implying that any “joy” the audience is experiencing must be quite undetectable or perhaps nonexistent. This is a tongue-in-cheek way of acknowledging just how arduous it is to watch a play that purposefully evades meaning. And yet, this joke is evidence of the fact that there truly are moments of joy in Endgame, despite its bleakness. After all, according to Nell, there is nothing funnier than unhappiness, which is on prominent display seemingly at all times throughout the play.
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Clov tells Hamm that the light outside has diminished. In fact, he tells him that it’s completely gone. Everything outside, Clov says, is grey and black. “Why this farce, day after day?” Clov asks after looking outside for a while. Hamm answers by saying, “Routine. One never knows.” Then, once more, Hamm asks what’s happening, and Clov says that something is “taking its course.” Suddenly, Hamm asks if he and Clov are beginning to “mean something,” but Clov dismisses this, laughing at what he sees as a preposterous idea. Still, Hamm continues by imagining what would happen if a “rational being came back to earth” and observed them. This being, Hamm posits, might start to think he understood them based on their behavior. This momentarily causes Hamm to reflect upon what it would be like if everything wasn’t all for nothing. 
When Clov asks, “Why this farce, day after day?” he speaks the same exact words that Nell said after she and Nagg tried and failed to kiss. This suggests that the characters share a sense of futility and fatigue, as if they are excruciatingly aware that they are characters trapped in a play and, therefore, forced to carry out the same mindless routines time after time. However, perhaps because this kind of metanarrative approach might lead audience members to think they finally understand Endgame in an analytical sense, Hamm disdainfully comments on how odd it would be for a “rational being” to observe him and Clov and superimpose meaning onto their actions—a sentiment that implies that assigning meaning to what takes place in this play is a fruitless effort. Interestingly enough, though, this very comment reinforces the value of approaching Endgame as a metanarrative work, since the audience members themselves are “rational beings” who have come to observe Hamm and Clov and interpret their behavior.
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Paying no heed to Hamm, Clov yells out that he’s found a flea on himself. This startles Hamm, who’s surprised to hear that fleas still exist and worries that humankind might somehow begin again from this single flea. With this in mind, Clov fetches some insecticide and pours the powder down his pants, killing the flea. 
Although Hamm’s worry that humanity will start all over again because of the existence of this single flea makes no sense and is left unexplained, it once more suggests that something has happened to humanity—something, it seems, akin to extinction. Rather than wanting to regenerate humankind, Hamm wants to ensure that this doesn’t happen. This aligns with the scorn he has for “fornicators” and “progenitors,” perhaps because he sees life as full of suffering and, therefore, has disdain for anyone who forces it upon others by reproducing (though it’s still baffling why he would think this flea could possibly restart humanity).
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Briefly, Hamm considers leaving this place on a raft with Clov, though he worries that sharks—if they still exist—will cause them trouble. He then decides to go on his own, ordering Clov to make him a raft. Moving on, Hamm says that Clov will one day be like him—Clov will, he says, decide to sit down for a rest and will never get up, at which point he’ll go to sleep and be surrounded by a vast emptiness when he wakes up. The only thing that will make Clov different from Hamm himself, Hamm says, is that Clov won’t have anyone with him. Undisturbed, Clov remarks that this could well happen, though he reminds Hamm that he can’t sit down. All the same, Hamm says that this will all still happen, but Clov will be on his feet the whole time.
Yet again, Hamm and Clov discuss leaving, and though at first they consider departing together, Hamm quickly decides that he’ll go on his own. Hamm then seems to take a certain amount of delight in the idea that Clov will one day become unable to move like him—a notion which underlines the impossibility of Hamm’s plan to set out on his own, since it reminds viewers that he’s incapable of moving without Clov’s help. In this way, it becomes clear once more that he depends upon Clov.
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After listening to what Hamm has to say, Clov says that he’ll leave, but Hamm says that Clov can’t. In that case, Clov says, he won’t. After a pause, Hamm asks why Clov doesn’t “finish” them all, agreeing to give him the combination to the cupboard as long as Clov promises to finish him. However, Clov admits that he couldn’t possibly do this. Trying to return to his kitchen once more, Clov stops when Hamm asks if he remembers when he first came here. In response, Clov says he was too young to remember. Hearing this, Hamm asks if he remembers his father, and Clov repeats his answer, pointing out that Hamm has asked him these questions many times. This, Hamm says, is because he loves “the old questions.” He also notes that he has acted as a father to Clov, and Clov agrees.
It's not evident why Clov can’t leave Hamm, nor is apparent why he couldn’t bring himself to “finish” Hamm. Even though he has spoken about wanting to kill Hamm, he now says that he could never do such a thing, implying that he feels something like compassion toward Hamm. This aligns with the idea that Hamm has acted as Clov’s father figure. Indeed, the strange bond between these two men takes on a tenderness in this moment, as it emerges that Clov is connected to Hamm, who, in turn, depends upon him.
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Hamm asks Clov if his dog his ready, and Clov tells him it’s missing a leg. Nonetheless, Hamm asks for the dog, so Clov fetches a stuffed black dog with three legs. When Hamm guesses that the dog is white, Clov says, “Nearly.” This annoys Hamm, who tells him to be specific, so Clov admits that the dog isn’t white. Hamm then asks if the dog can stand, ordering Clov to try to set him up before Hamm. When Clov puts the dog on the floor, the stuffed animal falls, but Clov says he’s standing. Clov also assures Hamm (when the old man asks) that the dog is looking at him as if he wants Hamm to take him for a walk. Finally, Hamm tells Clov to leave the dog like this, liking the idea of the animal wanting something from him.
It’s very hard to know what to make of this bizarre interlude with the stuffed dog, except to conclude that Hamm likes the idea of another being depending upon him. Because he relies so heavily upon Clov, it pleases him to think that this dog—whom he doesn’t seem to understand isn’t real—needs him. This is why Hamm wants Clov to position the dog as if he is beseeching Hamm to take him for a walk.
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Changing the subject, Hamm asks Clov about a woman named Mother Pegg, wondering if her light is on. This question baffles Clov, who asks how anyone’s light could be on. He then makes it clear that Mother Pegg herself has “extinguished,” though he admits that he hasn’t buried her. This perturbs Hamm, who asks if Clov will bury him. Clov says he will not, but Hamm is too busy thinking about Mother Pegg again to notice, remembering how youthful she used to be. This, Clov notes, isn’t all that remarkable, since everybody is youthful at some point in their lives.
It’s worth remembering that Clov has already suggested that his own “light” is dying. Given that Mother Pegg’s light is no longer on, it’s reasonable to assume that light in general is tied to life and existence in Endgame, though it remains unclear why or how, exactly, Clov’s is dying. And yet, Clov’s comment about the natural process of aging serves as a possible explanation for why his light is fading, ultimately implying that there’s nothing people can do to stop time. This, he intimates, is the incontrovertible fact of life—it goes on no matter what, and people waste away regardless of what they do.
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Hamm orders Clov to bring him his “gaff,” a hooked spear used by fishermen. As he does this, Clov wonders aloud why he never refuses Hamm’s orders, and Hamm says that it’s because he’s unable to disobey him. When Hamm has his gaff, he tries and fails to use it to move his chair. Frustrated, he throws the gaff and tells Clov to oil the chair’s wheels, but Clov protests by saying that he did this yesterday. “Yesterday!” Hamm erupts. “What does that mean?” Clov then complains that he’s only using the words Hamm taught him, saying that Hamm should teach him new words or let him be silent if these words no longer mean anything.
Hamm’s role as Clov’s master or superior is especially pronounced in this moment, since Clov proves himself incapable of going against the old man’s wishes. Also, Hamm finds it hard to conceptualize the meaning of the word “yesterday,” once more indicating that the characters in this play have a tenuous, strange relationship with the passage of time. Instead of trying to clear this matter up, though, Clov answers by complaining that Hamm was the one to teach him the word “yesterday” in the first place, again emphasizing the extent to which Hamm has control over him, this time suggesting that the old man has shaped his entire worldview.
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Paying no attention to Clov, Hamm remembers a “madman” he used to know. When Hamm would visit him, the man would insist that the world was ending, so Hamm would take him to the window and show him all of the life teeming outside, but the “madman” was unable to see it. All he would see, Hamm asserts, was destruction. Now, he says, he feels as if the man’s state of mind wasn’t all that uncommon. 
At first, Hamm’s story about this “madman” might seem like evidence that the surrounding world hasn’t always been the wasteland that it is now. However, Hamm then implies that he has come to understand why the “madman” felt the way he felt, indicating that he—not the “madman”—might have been the one who was failing to recognize reality. Again, this does little to help clarify the surrounding circumstances of the play, though it at least proves that Hamm hasn’t always been the way he is now.
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Hamm asks how he’ll know if Clov ever leaves him, and Clov tells him that he’ll simply know—after all, Clov won’t come running to him when he blows his whistle. However, Hamm points out that Clov might die in his kitchen, rendering it impossible for Hamm to know if he’s gone or dead. Thinking this over, Clov says that his body would begin to smell if he died, but Hamm notes that he already smells. In fact, he says, the entire place smells like corpses. “The whole universe,” Clov adds.
It's reasonable to wonder if Hamm and Clov are dead. Indeed, their strange surroundings could be part of the afterlife, perhaps someplace like purgatory. In some ways, this would align with the notion that everything smells like corpses, as death exists all around them. However, it’s unlikely that purgatory—or any other place in the afterlife—would actually smell like dead people, since the scent of rotting bodies is a very corporeal, earthly thing, something that would most likely only exist in the world of the living. Consequently, it’s impossible to conclude that Hamm and Clov are dead, though it remains an interesting possibility.
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Clov begins to pace the room, trying to think about a way to ensure that Hamm will know if he has left or died. As he does so, he complains about a pain in his legs, prompting Hamm to worry that he won’t be able to leave. Soon enough, Clov comes up with an idea: he will set an alarm clock if he chooses to leave. That way, if Clov disappears and the alarm clock rings, Hamm will know he has departed. If, on the other hand, Clov disappears and the alarm clock doesn’t ring, Hamm will know he has died. The two men then test the alarm clock, with Clov holding it up to Hamm’s ear as it rings. 
Again, whether or not Clov will leave Hamm emerges as the play’s primary source of conflict. In this moment, though, Hamm briefly worries that Clov won’t be able to leave, as if he wants the young man to depart. Setting these strange relational dynamics aside, though, their decision to use an alarm clock to announce whether Clov has left or died connects their bizarre companionship to their approach to time—in this way, they both tensely wait for the day (or moment) that the clock will finally toll out and announce the end of their connection to each other.
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Clov declares that the end is “terrific,” but Hamm says he likes the middle better. He then asks for his painkiller, but Clov says it’s not yet time for him to take it. Switching subjects, Hamm announces that it’s time for him to tell a story, instructing Clov to wake up his father, Nagg, so that he can listen. When Nagg rises, he demands a sugar plum in exchange for listening, and Hamm agrees to the terms of this deal. He then calls Nagg a “scoundrel” and asks him why he “engender[ed]” Hamm. In response, Nagg says that he didn’t know. When Hamm asks what, exactly, Nagg didn’t know, his father says, “That it’d be you.”
It isn’t until this exchange between Nagg and Hamm that viewers learn that Nagg and Nell are Hamm’s parents. This, perhaps, is why Hamm has continued to curse Nagg for being a “progenitor” and a “fornicator.” Knowing that existence is nothing but suffering, he resents his parents for giving him life in the first place. On another note, Hamm’s desire to tell a story indicates that he—like the audience members—yearns for some kind of narrative in the midst of this otherwise abstract play.
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Hamm notes that he’s had something dripping in his head ever since he had “fontanelles” (the areas of an infant’s skull where the bone hasn’t yet fully fused). Going on, he says that a man crawled toward him one day, looking at him with a very white face. As Hamm tells his story, he frequently interrupts himself to comment on his narrative style. Overall, though, he says that a man came to him on a very cold, bright, windy, Christmas Eve and told Hamm that he and his son lived in a far-off hole and needed help. The young boy, apparently, was sick, and the man had left him in order to seek help. For this reason, he asked Hamm to give them some food. Hamm listened to this and then told the man, “Use your head, can’t you, use your head, you’re on earth, there’s no cure for that!”
Hamm’s story is the most straightforward thing in the entire play, since he tells an actual tale, though his narrative style is still rather confusing. All the same, he relates a story about a man asking him for help, thereby giving the audience members something to latch onto as they try to follow along. Indeed, this is perhaps the only moment throughout the entire play that something like a tangible narrative emerges, even if it is only a brief interlude in an otherwise inscrutable progression of events.
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Hamm tells Nagg that, despite his outburst, he agreed to employ the man, who asked him to take in his ailing son. This, Hamm says, was the moment he’d been waiting for. Before he finishes the story, though, he comments that it will soon be over—that is, unless he introduces new characters, though he doesn’t know where he would find such characters in the first place. He then abruptly whistles for Clov and suggests that they should all pray. Clov, for his part, announces that he found a rat in the kitchen, and Hamm is surprised to learn that rats still exist. Clov says that the rat is half dead and waiting in the kitchen, but Hamm tells him to kill it later. He, Nagg, and Clov then try to pray, but they give up almost immediately, and Hamm angrily says that God doesn’t exist. “Not yet,” replies Clov.
As quickly as it began, Hamm’s moment of clarity all but vanishes. However, viewers might find themselves capable of piecing together one important narrative detail, which is that it’s quite possible that Clov is the young boy whose father asked Hamm to take him in. After all, Clov has already revealed that he came to Hamm when he was quite young and that he no longer remembers his real father. Even with this potential background information, though, audience members are left to grasp for meaning once more when Hamm abruptly stops his story and focuses on praying. When Clov says that God doesn’t exist “yet,” he further complicates the idea that he and the other characters are alive in the aftermath of the world’s end and human extinction, since he implies in this moment that they might actually exist before the creation of humanity. Once more, then, Beckett makes it impossible to formulate definitive analytical claims about Hamm and Clov’s surrounding circumstances.
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Nagg demands his sugar plum, but Hamm says there are none. Nagg then launches into a monologue about his role as Hamm’s father, saying that Hamm used to call out for him in the night when he was a frightened child. Because of this, Nagg and Nell moved farther away so they could sleep unbothered by his screams. Nagg then says that he hopes he’ll live long enough to witness the day when Hamm calls out his name like he did when he was a little boy, wanting badly to hear his son’s frightened voice once more. After saying this, Nagg knocks on Nell’s trashcan, but she doesn’t stir. Discouraged, he lowers himself back into his own bin and closes the lid.
At first, what Nagg says here might seem endearing, since he wants to return to the innocent relationship he used to have with Hamm. However, what he’s really saying is that he wants to witness his son return to the frightened and helpless agony of childhood—a sentiment that isn’t very kind. Rather than hoping to recapture the beauty of their relationship, Nagg wants to feel a sense of power over Hamm. Unfortunately for Nagg, though, he’s the one who has to call out for his son, relying upon him for food and sustenance.
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Clov tries to tidy up, saying he likes order, but Hamm forces him to stop. On Clov’s way toward his kitchen, he wonders aloud what’s keeping him here, and Hamm suggests that it’s the conversation. Hamm then talks about the story he was telling before, saying he hasn’t gotten very far in it, though he posits that what he’s said so far is better than nothing. “Better than nothing!” Clov gasps. “Is it possible?” Ignoring him, Hamm continues his story, saying that he gave the man who came crawling to him a job as a gardener. Clov starts laughing, and Hamm agrees that the entire thing is rather comedic. Going on, he reiterates that the man asked him to take in his son, but then he stops once more. Clov speculates that the story must almost be over, though he says that Hamm will soon come up with another one.
When Hamm returns to his story, he once more gives the audience a chance to cling to something that actually makes sense. However, he fails once again to actually finish the tale—a failure that is emblematic of the entire play, since Hamm and Clov have seemingly been waiting in vain for Endgame to finish ever since it began.
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Hamm says that he’s tired from the “creative effort” of telling his story. He then tells Clov to check to see if Nell is dead. Clov obliges and then announces that she has, indeed, died. After checking on Nagg, Clov reports that he’s weeping. This, Hamm points out, means Nagg is alive. There follows a short pause, after which Hamm asks if Clov has ever experienced a moment of happiness, and Clov says that, to the best of his knowledge, he has not.
When Hamm says that he’s fatigued from the “creative effort,” viewers get the sense that the play itself is exhausting him—an idea that once again suggests that Endgame is, in many ways, a play about itself. Moving on, though, Hamm spares no emotion upon hearing that his mother has died, thereby demonstrating how little the characters of this play care about one another, though this isn’t always the case (considering the fact that Hamm and Clov can’t bring themselves to separate from each other). Furthermore, Hamm’s statement that Nagg must be alive because he’s weeping is an obvious one, but it also underlines his belief that suffering is an integral part of existence. Any evidence of this suffering, then, is evidence that a person is alive.
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Hamm makes Clov push him beneath the window, saying that he wants to feel the light on his face. As he does this, Hamm nostalgically recalls the fun times he and Clov used to have, when Clov would hold Hamm’s chair high in the air and walk around. Hamm then sadly makes it clear that those days are over. Momentarily, he thinks he feels the sun on his face, but Clov assures him that this is impossible, since everything is grey outside. Saying that he wants to listen to the ocean, Hamm makes Clov open the window, but no sound comes through, so Clov closes it and returns Hamm to the center of the room.
While nothing happens here that clarifies the context of the play, Hamm’s nostalgic thoughts about his history with Clov suggests that—despite their frequent scorn for each other—they are quite close. The question is, of course, whether or not this connection will stop Clov from eventually leaving Hamm.
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After calling out to Nagg, Hamm tells Clov to check on his father. Clov then reports that Nagg is no longer weeping, but sucking on his biscuit. This prompts Hamm to note that the dead fade away quickly and life goes on. Suddenly, then, he asks Clov to kiss him, but Clov refuses, saying he won’t touch Hamm in any way. Instead, Clov says again that he’s going to leave, walking toward the kitchen.
As someone interested in the passage of time, Hamm notes that Nagg quickly gets over the sorrow of losing Nell. It is perhaps because this emphasizes how little everyone cares about each other in Endgame that Hamm then asks Clov to kiss him. But because Clov is uninfluenced by this kind of sentimentality, he refuses, instead vowing to leave Hamm once and for all.
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When Clov exits, Hamm refolds his handkerchief, saying that things are progressing toward an end. Putting the handkerchief in his pocket, he briefly thinks about all of the people he could have “helped” or “saved,” though his voice becomes angry and he repeats the notion that there’s no cure for existing on earth. Speaking to nobody in particular, Hamm says, “Get out of here and love one another!” He also says, “The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.” Briefly, Hamm considers trying to fling himself out of his chair, thinking that perhaps this would precipitate his end, especially if Clov truly did leave. However, he ultimately dismisses these ideas as fantasies.
Unsurprisingly, it’s unclear who Hamm could have “helped” or “saved,” or how he would have done this—or, for that matter, why it would have been necessary. Still, that he says this indicates that he has turned people away many times before, ultimately proving how little he cares about showing others compassion. It’s possible that this makes Hamm feel guilty, which might be why he shouts out to “get out of here and love one another,” a sentiment that he himself has apparently never embraced. On another note, his assertion that “the end is in the beginning and yet you go on” aligns with the idea that everything of importance has already happened at the outset of the play, meaning that the entire production is full of nothing but waiting (or waiting for nothing).
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Hamm summons Clov with his whistle, and Clov enters holding the alarm clock. Hamm remarks that Clov would be dead if he left him, and Clov responds by saying that the opposite is also true. Hamm then asks if it’s time for his painkiller, and Clov finally says that it is, but he also says that there is no more painkiller. Upon saying this, he takes the only picture on the wall down and hangs the alarm clock on it. 
When Hamm says that Clov would die without him, viewers see that Clov is just as dependent upon Hamm as Hamm is upon him. There is, however, no clear reason why this is the case, since Clov should ostensibly be able to take care of himself, since he’s able to take care of Hamm. Nonetheless, it becomes clear in this moment that these two characters are mutually bound to each other. In addition, Clov finally tells Hamm that he can have the long-awaited painkiller, but then immediately informs him that there aren’t any painkillers left. Consequently, Hamm must continue to experience his own misery and suffering without any relief—the natural state of existence, according to Hamm himself.
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Hamm asks Clov to look out the window again. While the younger man looks out, Hamm asks if he knows what has happened, but Clov asks why it matters. In turn, Hamm says he doesn’t know. After a moment, Clov asks Hamm if he knew what was happening when he told Mother Pegg to go to hell after she came to him asking for oil for her lamp. When Hamm doesn’t respond, Clov reminds him that Mother Pegg died “of darkness,” at which point Hamm claims that he didn’t have any oil at the time—a fact that Clov disputes. Changing the subject, Hamm tells Clov to get the telescope, and Clov wonders why he always follows Hamm’s orders. Maybe, Hamm suggests, Clov does it out of “compassion.”
Yet again, Hamm and Clov talk about light as if it is a source of sustenance. In keeping with this, Clov reveals that Mother Pegg died “of darkness”—an important piece of information, since Clov claims that he has recently been watching his own light die. In fact, Hamm might have something to do with this, since he’s the one who denied Mother Pegg extra oil for her lamp, thereby ensuring her demise. What’s interesting, of course, is that analyzing this in this way almost makes it seem as if these notions actually make sense. When one stops to truly think about it, though, it’s evident that the screwy logic of Endgame has taken over, leading to nowhere even as audience members desperately follow along and search for meaning.
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Forgetting about the telescope, Hamm asks for his dog, so Clov picks it up and hits him in the head with it, saying that Hamm is driving him crazy. In response, Hamm tells Clov to hit him with an axe or with the gaff if he’s going to hit him. He wants, he says, for Clov to put him in his coffin, though Clov informs him that there are no coffins anymore. This frustrates Hamm, who asks if anyone has ever felt pity for him. When Clov asks if Hamm is talking to him, Hamm angrily says that his comment was meant as an “aside.” He then informs Clov that he’s preparing to deliver his “last soliloquy.”
The metanarrative aspect of Endgame comes to the forefront of the play in this moment, as Hamm criticizes Clov for not understanding that he was making an “aside,” which is a term in the theater for when a character makes a remark that is intended to be heard by the audience but not by the other characters. In this sense, Hamm acknowledges that he exists in a play, while Clov actively defies the conventional rules of the theater. Nonetheless, Hamm insists upon focusing on his role as a character in the theater, saying that he is warming up for his “last soliloquy.” In turn, viewers get the sense that Endgame really is a play about a play, though it’s worth remembering that there are other moments in which this interpretation fails to explain what’s happening onstage.  
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Clov focuses on looking out the window like Hamm instructed him to do. At first he sees nothing, but then something catches his attention. Hamm, for his part, hopes that Clov hasn’t spotted an “underplot,” but Clov pays no attention, saying that he thinks he sees a boy. This surprises Hamm, but he tells Clov not to go outside, saying that if the boy actually exists, he’ll either die or come to them.
When Hamm hopes that Clov hasn’t seen an “underplot” approaching them from outside, he doubles down on his metanarrative approach to what’s happening. This time, he worries that some new element will emerge that will ultimately delay the end of the play, for which he has been waiting since the very beginning. Clov, for his part, focuses on the fact that he has spied a small boy on the horizon—a vision that contradicts Hamm’s previous assertion that there is nobody else left in the world. What’s funny about this development, of course, is that if the boy is real, then he actually will be an “underplot,” since introducing him to the play will change the circumstances and possibly clarify what it’s like beyond the confines of Hamm and Clov’s immediate environment.
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Clov says he’s going to leave Hamm, who asks Clov to say something before he departs. Although Clov claims there’s nothing for him to say, Hamm implores him to leave him with something to “ponder.” After some initial hesitation, Clov launches into a strange address, in which he talks about love and friendship without actually defining either of these things or saying what they mean to him. He also says that he sometimes tells himself that he should learn how to suffer, or else nobody will ever tire of punishing him. Going on, he talks about his constant inability to leave, though now he says that he will finally strike out. Just before he exits, Hamm thanks him for his “services,” and Clov, in turn, thanks Hamm. 
It’s noteworthy that neither Hamm nor Clov say anything else about the boy Clov spotted out the window. As a result, Beckett once more dismisses a possible way of interpreting the play, letting go of the idea that Endgame is a play about a play and that the boy is an “underplot.” Instead of following this thread, Beckett embraces an utter lack of meaning, which Clov exemplifies when he delivers his strange speech, the details of which barely cohere even though he touches upon the play’s central concerns—compassion, suffering, and the possibility of departure or separation from Hamm.
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Hamm asks Clov to cover him with the sheet, but Clov has already gone into his kitchen. Speaking to himself, then, Hamm says that it’s better this way, and he tries to move his chair, though he quickly gives up. Unbeknownst to him, Clov reenters, this time wearing a hat and carrying a bag. From the door, he silently watches Hamm, who goes through a routine of taking off his hat, putting it on again, taking off his glasses, wiping them with his handkerchief, and putting them on again. He then tosses his dog (which he has been holding since Clov last gave it to him) onto the floor. He also calls out for Nagg and is pleased when the old man doesn’t respond. “Clov!” he shouts, then says, “No? Good,” when there comes no response. Picking up his handkerchief, Hamm drapes it over his face and stops moving.
The ending of Endgame provides nothing in the way of conclusion, except for the fact that it mirrors the beginning. When Hamm wipes his glasses, puts them on again, and then puts the handkerchief over his face, he reverses the same routine he went through when he first woke up. And though it might seem like things are about to change because Clov has dressed himself to leave, he hasn’t set the alarm clock, thereby indicating that he’s not actually about to strike out on his own. Consequently, almost nothing (except Nell’s death, which hardly affects Hamm and Clov) has really changed throughout the course of the entire play, making it hard to know what Beckett hopes viewers will take away from the experience of watching it unfold. Above all, then, this is a play about the absence of meaning, which ultimately forces audience members to simply experience the play as it is, accepting the meaninglessness in the same way that people must accept the fact that the meaning of life itself is inscrutable.
Themes
Meaning, Narrative, and Engagement Theme Icon
Time, Progress, and Stasis Theme Icon
Companionship, Dependency, and Compassion Theme Icon
Quotes