It’s the birthday of two Irish authors who both won the Nobel Prize in Literature, playwright and critic Samuel Beckett (1906-1989) and poet Seamus Heaney (1939-2013). One of them, Beckett, moved to Paris in 1928 and spent much of his life there, even joining the French resistance in 1941. Heaney, while eventually teaching a great deal at Harvard and Oxford, continued living mostly in Ireland and died in Dublin. (NB: Few names in literature are cooler than “Seamus.” Say it with me: Shay-muss. One of those names, however, is “Umberto.” I digress.)

Beckett was born into a Protestant Anglo-Irish family in a suburb of Dublin. He got his bachelor’s in Romance Languages at Trinity College there; when he moved to Paris shortly thereafter, he hung out with James Joyce, another Irish expat. In 1931, he started traveling around Europe and writing poems and stories, settling back in Paris in 1937, where he met Suzanne Dechevaux-Dumesnuil. They eventually married and were together for life. Beckett’s productive years occurred just after WWII, when among other things he wrote the play for which he is best known, Waiting for Godot (first produced in 1953). The play is about two characters talking and hanging out while they wait for Godot to show up; he never does. Absolutely nothing happens! Yet critics have said that this play, beautifully and subtly written, resonates strongly during times of social and political uncertainty and angst. (So, now.) Beckett was awarded the Nobel in 1969 and accepted the award but did not go to Stockholm: he lived mainly in seclusion and avoided all personal appearances.

Heaney was born into a Roman Catholic family on a farm, Mossbawn, in County Derry, west of Belfast. He was the oldest of nine, and his rural beginnings informed and enriched his literary work his entire life, even as he grappled with The Troubles and issues of British dominion. He studied English at Queen’s University of Belfast and wrote poetry as a student. His style is grounded in the traditional, considered to be lyrical and “finely wrought yet notably straightforward” (Margalit Fox, “Seamus Heaney, Irish Poet of Soil and Strife, Dies at 74,” New York Times, August 30, 2013), and he became incredibly popular worldwide even while remaining a quintessentially Irish poet—a rock star in his own country. He received his Nobel in 1995. His well-known poem, “Digging,” from his debut collection, Death of a Naturalist (1966), begins: “Between my finger and my thumb / The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. / Under my window, a clean rasping sound / When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: / My father, digging: I look down…” (Read the entire thing here.)

Happy birthday also to Thomas Jefferson, Nella Larsen, Eudora Welty…please, people: spread yourselves out! You’re all clumped up on one day.

Have a splendid Friday (no pressure, though) and stay scrupulously honest to the data.