Three Novels: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable (1951)

These three novels examine death and do so in a sparse examining style. I will read these again (in a few years). ( )

[The Beckett Trilogy: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable] - Samuel Beckett

It was a long time ago. How long ago I can't really say. Perhaps I was bamboozled it would appear from the evidence, but what evidence from the book lying on my desk, the book that I am not going to read. Charity begins at home, but in this case it was a shop selling charity, who was selling this charity and was I in the mood for buying? I was gazing upwards and I couldn't quite see, somebody was in the way, my neck was hurting a fortiori. Movement was impossible, crammed in nowhere to go, if only I could reach up, it is tantalisingly close, rows and rows wherever I looked, but I could not see too much because my head had become stuck, stuck looking upwards, but I could see those dirty dusty jackets and if I could move my arm above my head then surely I would get some relief, I could enclose my fingers around a spine and a sharp tug might do the trick. There I did it, but horror of horrors a sound like cardboard fluttering on wood, I jerked forward trapping a paper object against my chest, still could not move my head, how long did I stay in this position, perhaps not very long, because a shove from the right unlocked my potential, just enough, just enough, the smell of damp overcoats cold winter dampness, chilling I got my right hand under the object, the thought of trying to bend down to pick something off the floor made me press tighter, tighter, but this prevented me moving my hand any further, a short cough, not my cough I don't think, but difficult to place, but now I was getting hot under my collar, pressure from behind, more movement a grunted apology an arm appearing above my head, but not my arm, my arm was trapped, but I could now move my head, fresh air, fresh cold air, a space had been made to my left. I was holding my breath, I could hold my breath underwater for 52 seconds, not moving, concentrating, trying not to panic, but thinking what it would feel like to drown, bubbles, choking, thrashing of arms, light disappearing. I escaped I was holding a book, I looked inside: Lindsey 1980 it said, was that a girl or a boy a woman or a man, evidence that somebody had possessed this object, which had certainly taken on the look of something unpleasant, or was that just the dust jacket with its mouldy mottled brown yellow design, it somehow looked forbidding, not welcoming. I dare you to open me with intent, intent to what, intent to get through the first paragraph. The first paragraph finished at page 84, but the count started at page 11. I could not hold my breath for that long, but I felt I might need to. I needed a distraction, something to stop my eyes slipping down the page, slipping into a temporary unconsciousness: a temporary death, from which waking up would be a guilt ridden experience. I know this. Molloy, Moran, Malone, Mahood would all slip by in an unnamable abyss. What did Lindsey think, that pretty college girl in glasses, I am quite sure that Lindsey is what I have said she was or is, but perhaps no longer; college girls grow up, but probably not growing up thinking of Molloy, Moran Malone or Mahood. She might have never forgiven the author for changing Sapos name to Macmann, but closer reading would have revealed that Sapo was just a shortening of his Mothers name; Mrs Saposcat. He became Macmann because he needed the lineage of Molloy, Moran, Malone. Mahood. Lindsey probably thought that a novel written in the genre of the Absurd and with the technique of a stream of consciousness becomes absurd stream of consciousness. How much of the absurd stream of consciousness could she take, she might not have had a choice because she had written her name on the flyleaf, part of a college curriculum. How long before her eyes glazed over how long before her mind wandered to the girl next door. The phone rings, she must get up to answer: it is 1980. Sapo is no more, forgotten never to be revisited, but the book has not read itself. Lindsey gets back into position and she ploughs on through the Unnamable: the head in the glass jar, the voices, the craving for silence, will it never end? It did end, but forty pages from the finishing line; Malone and Moran although going round in circles appeared to be getting somewhere, nowhere good, but somewhere. Malone got to be dead which was his ambition from the start, but the Unnamable, oh the unnamable just got stuck and her neck started to ache. I can't go on. I go on.
3.5 stars. ( )

The manifesto of the true dissident. ( )

“To know you can do better next time, unrecognizably better, and that there is no next time, and that it is a blessing there is not, there is a thought to be going on with.”

—Malone Dies by Samuel Beckett

It’s probably been fifteen years since I’d read “Malloy”, the first part to Beckett’s non-self-acknowledged “Trilogy”, and I cannot deny the impact that the first part had on my own novel of OCD, body dysmorphic disorder, delusion and addiction: “Fluid Babies”. The impact that this second installment will have on my future writing will have to be intercepted by radar, sifting the raw dataflow for Beckettian echoes. I certainly won’t wait another fifteen years to complete this master’s experiment on the deconstructed novel. Fortunately, pioneers such as Beckett can only truly be appreciated by those brave readers, critics and writers who skirt the steady diet of comfort food and sugar buzzes by preferring to indulge in the exotic and bizarre fare from unfamiliar countries. Whole food. Ingested and digested. Over time to understand and then implement its uniqueness in personal, favorite dishes. I’d imagine chutneys developed this way. Over time. Restless experimentation. Punctuating the familiar with flamboyance from alien shores, alien planets, alien hands shaking over the distances and leaving an otherworldly scent.

This. This is how I feel about Samuel Beckett. He doesn’t just write. He shows you how easy it is to not give a fuck about the particulars while showing how important those particulars actually are. Knowing the difference makes all the difference in the world. And if you don’t get it, well, then you probably weren’t open to a new way of looking at the world anyway. Chutneys aren’t for everyone. ( )

La narrativa non si è mai spinta più in là. Più in alto, forse, ma non più in là.
Trama? Se ne può fare a meno. Spazio? Basta la mente del protagonista. Tempo? Basta la mente del protagonista. Logica? Non è importante che sia lineare.
Beckett lancia una sfida. A coglierla ci vuole un po' di coraggio. Ma la soddisfazione non tarda ad arrivare. Lascia il segno. Tutto quanto tu abbia letto prima o leggerai dopo è convenzionale... ( )