There is a beautiful line in Kafka, which helps to gloss what I mean by Beckett’s prose as a kind of gasping, a kind of breathing (but not an imitation of the rhythm of breathing or of gasping):
I live only here and there in a small word in whose vowel (‘thrust’ above, for instance) I lose my useless head for a moment. The first and last letters are the beginning and end of my fishlike emotion.
The soul lights up and flickers only in language, in the shapes traced on the page, or the voice traced in the silence of the head. Each clause is the catch in breath of this fish-like soul.