Voice as disembodied entity, manifest sporadically, often of its own volition, in fragments, perceived piecemeal, echo of being, identity, self or others (even if falsely so), emanating from above or below, from within or without, is the heuristic that drives Samuel Beckett's supreme fictions, then manifests itself powerfully, if obliquely, slantingly, in the theatre that follows, beginning, perhaps, or at least overtly manifest, in 1957 with All That Fall for radio. Its sources are indeterminate, evasive, ghostly, receding, counterfeited, echoed, ventriloquised. It may be, finally – beyond the Belacquas, the Watts and Murphys, beyond the Didis and Gogos, Hamms and Clovs, Winnies and Willies, even beyond the Maddies and Dans – Beckett's most profound literary creation. He inherited a version of it from the early twentieth-century Modernists – most directly from James Joyce, the surrealists, and the Verticalists orbiting Eugene Jolas's transition magazine in Paris – in the form of the interior monologue, which he then stretched, extended and finally disbursed, scattered beyond cohesion, beyond recognition, beyond identity, even self-identity, as the self in conversation with itself is often not self-presence but counterfeit.