That Livid Dublin Evening Light On The Shallows

Samuel Beckett to Tom McGreevy, 25 January 1931,

"Today I am alone until 1 or 2 tomorrow morning, phrase-hunting in St. Augustine and ekeing out the last of my coal, assoupi (meaning 'drowsy')."

Phrase-hunting in St. Augustine? What could that possibly mean? In the same letter we find him reading Malraux, and also saying, "You know I can't write at all. The simplest sentence is a torture. I wish we could meet & talk - before I become inarticulate or eloquently suave." How is it, I wonder, that style alone has become so dissatisfying to him? At some point every artist has to let go of the fear of inadequacy to recognize we're no gods, especially aided by the kind of acclaim publishing or a gallery show would bring, which at least Beckett appears to recognize as being no boon unto itself.