I keep thinking of the picture I saw of his childhood home.
Some people can have it too good, that is the point.
I always thought Beckett looked like he had just finshed eating a sour apple. I think his plays, for all their purported non-conformity and absurdity really aspire to Shakespeare. But the sour apple gets in the way. It never ends because it is nothing and nothing cannot end. I think it is a lie.