From Run Like Blazes:
The best teacher I ever had in Geneva, and of course I never told him so (but I am doing so now), was a thoughtful, humorous, espresso-drinking and chain-smoking Lebanese intellectual named Maurice Achkar, who communicated his love of the French language to me and others—but to me in particular, I always felt—and who admired the works of Samuel Beckett, of whom I had never heard until one day a poster appeared on the wall of M. Achkar’s classroom advertising a play called Oh Les Beaux Jours (Happy Days) then playing at the Odeon theatre in Paris. M. Achkar went to Paris once a month for the theatre and to meet friends over drinks and browse the bookstalls along the Seine, and he went especially to see the works of Beckett.
“Oh, Oh Les Beaux Jours! Cela vaut le voyage, Monsieur Roger,” he told me after he’d seen Happy Days. “A woman who sinks slowly into the sand while reciting the inanities of her everyday life…c’est magnifique. Does anyone understand the tragedy of banality as well as Beckett? This woman, she sounds just like my wife. Mais non, c’est magnifique.”