What follows is my horrible essay on Krapp’s Last Tape by Samuel Beckett. Enjoy, I suppose. It’s short and probably terrible but here it is! In the flesh.
It is blazingly apparent that this voluntary isolation has done Krapp no good. One does not have to rely on what he says (presently or in the past) to come to this conclusion. All it takes is for one to look at him and his environment. Combine him with the room he is in and he becomes absolutely ridiculous. His words recorded or otherwise, are nearly superfluous to understanding that this supposed sacrifice that he took has turned him into a hollow clown of a man that has more in common with a balloon animal than with any real person.