It might be that every writer has a Samuel Beckett period — an ardent desire for the unadorned, the brutality of life and all that. I certainly did. I remember skipping my studies one dark fall season to stay in bed reading his plays. Later on, his novels (very tiresome). What he gave the community of writers is legion, of course, but for me — the allowance of idiosyncrasy and the personal willingness to say no.
His letters, which I have not read many, are equally stark and singular. A final volume is now available.