The years in Paris after the war were nearly impossible. Beckett and Suzanne were dirt-poor. The money his father left him had dwindled to a pittance by the time it arrived in France. How he wrote anything is a puzzle. He wrote his novel “Watt” during the war, but getting it published was misery; it took years. In March 1949, to escape from the hubbub of Paris, Beckett and Suzanne rented a room for almost nothing in a house in Ussy-sur-Marne, a village about 35 miles from Paris. There he was able to write, and in the afternoons to garden, plant trees and take long walks with Suzanne. On June 1, 1949, he reported to his friend Georges Duthuit:
“One evening as we were on our way back to Ussy, at sunset, we suddenly found ourselves being escorted by ephemerids of a strange kind, ‘mayflies,’ I think. They were all heading in the same direction, literally following the road, at about the same speed as us. It was not a solar tropism, for we were going south. In the end I worked out that they were all going towards the Marne to be eaten by the fish, after making love on the water.”  
Rest at New York Times.