In this performance, Ivan Dobchev makes a compilation of the one-act play Krapp's Last Tape, from 1958, and the dramatic monologue Not I, written in 1972. The two titles have in common the black and the ray of light that no one really notices. The man is Krapp, the woman is Not I. Both are punished by God, in their own way. Both carry with them the perverse pleasure of suffering and pain. Both are a voice in the silence of (non)existent ghosts born out of nowhere.

Daniel Dimitrov: Малиновата долина на Добчев [Dobchev's Raspberry Valley], btvnovinite.bg
 

The hero returns to his diaries from his youth, which he meticulously kept, recording the (un)experienced on tape. They are a real chronicle of unlived life, of nothing-happening, of energy that has flowed into the sewer of days, of spared communication. Krapp (translated from English – garbage, waste) reproaches his youth as "stupid", the paradox is that his old age does not look any different: the same complaints, the same staring at physiology, loneliness and universal despondency.

Irina Gigova: Малин Кръстев прослушва записите на Крап в "Сфумато" [Malin Krastev Listens to Krapp's Recordings in Sfumato], segabg.com

Nothing is more grotesque than unhappiness.
Nothing is more real than your own You.
Nothing is more essential than the inessential.
WE ARE NOT IN EXILE, WE ARE ON A MISSION!

Through the WORDS he had gone to the edge of something straining towards Nothingness. Well, it finally reached that limit. To put the WORDS into Death or Death into WORDS – He already knows how it is. ONLY HE... It all begins in the first lines of Molloy when a stalker, probably Molloy himself, narrating in the first person, hidden on a height behind a rock, observes two people who meet on the way out of town. An unforgettable image. Coming from nowhere, going nowhere with their clownish gait, the two Beckett walkers feel watched, like Vladimir, like Winnie and Krapp, and that mad Mouth in Not I, and everyone else. There is something to be seen and said, ill seen, ill spoken. TO SEE THE SEEING, EYES INTO EYES. TO SAY WHAT IS SAID, WORDS WITHIN WORDS; on the day when the writer realizes that he must advance steadily in the direction – WORSE SEEN, EVEN WORSE SAID – our Proust, our Joyce, our Céline of the second half of the century was born. But also our Dante, our Pascal, our Shakespeare.

Alfred Simon: Beckett

I want to dedicate this encroachment of mine on Beckett to the memory of two of my dear friends – Krikor Azarian and Naum Shopov, who in the sunset of the so-called "mature socialist realism" had dared to stage The Last Tape. An unforgettable show! I have no words to describe the effect it had on all our theatrical thinking at the time. I very much wish that our play would produce this effect on our present state of theatre.