What words can I use to describe the indescribable?

This is a question that often plagues us when we encounter something truly extraordinary or beyond our normal understanding.

The indescribable could be a feeling of profound joy, a moment of absolute tranquility, or a sight that takes our breath away.

It might be the beauty of a sunset over a vast ocean, the wonder of a newborn baby, or the mystery of the universe.

Sometimes, we try to use words like "amazing," "incredible," or "astonishing," but these still seem to fall short of capturing the essence of the indescribable.

Other times, we might resort to using more abstract terms like "transcendent," "divine," or "ethereal."

However, even these words may not fully convey the depth and complexity of what we are trying to describe.

In the end, perhaps the best way to describe the indescribable is to simply experience it and let it speak for itself.

All of the greatest elements of Beckett's tales from this period, such as first love and stories & texts for nothing, are present here, which is widely celebrated. However, the additions not only explain why people say this is a "trilogy" but also why Beckett was insistent it was not. This new element is a regarding, where one character sees or invents another. Just as Molloy is both Maron's enemy, self, fantasy, and creation, so is Sapo-MacMann for Malone and the thousand Ms for the Unnameable. Indeed, the hyperdevelopment and reduction of this "social" recognition is the progress that creates the trilogy. Yet, for Beckett, it is only three attempts at what he views as the only possible novel. Murphy is the same (and, being often referenced, is accordingly a perfect prequel in this schema), and I believe Watt too (also mentioned) will prove to be. My dumb ass can only speculate the way Beckett thought of Finnegans Wake as prefiguring this (perhaps, as Percy Lewis said of Ulysses, as the all-inclusive graveyard of the past [non-sic]). Of course, it's unthinkable that anyone would or should ever read them out of order.

I read this particular piece during a long train journey from Chicago to Salt Lake City and then back again several years ago. The reading experience was truly excruciating. It was difficult and felt like a real grind. By the time I finally finished it, I was convinced that I had just read a masterpiece of literature (and indeed I had!). However, the process had been so painful that I could only bring myself to give it four stars.

Now, after skimming through it once more, the vivid images and the overall experience have come flooding back. But this time, there is only a modicum of the pain that I had felt before. It's an incredible and exhilarating feeling, with just a very slight pinch of discomfort. What an amazing piece of art this is!

It's high time that I filled in that fifth star and seriously consider re-reading it. Despite all the pain that it initially caused, it was truly worth it. This work has left an indelible mark on me, and I look forward to exploring it again in the future.

In one of the acclamations, Al Alvarez describes the Three Novels (Beckett disliked ‘trilogy’) as ‘at least as aesthetically terminal as Finnegans Wake’.

Aesthetic terminality is indeed a rather wild concept and far too interesting to attempt a truly in-depth discussion. However, it is particularly interesting when considering Beckett.

This is the man who authored ‘Endgame’ and a short story entitled ‘The End’ after this trio. So, what do we really know about terminality?

To be quite frank, this is difficult fiction. Molloy is the most lucid of the three texts, yet even then one can struggle. Wonderfully so, for those who are feeling a bit literarily masochistic.

I mentioned with Murphy that Beckett can handle words in a way that only someone like Joyce can. There is simply nothing else that comes to mind that is written quite like these three novels.

I have a particular fondness for The Unnamable [sic?]. I suppose we would conventionally call it the most abstract of the three. There is not really a narrative of any kind, only a monologue that at times appears to be a Penelopean stream of consciousness.

This is a wonderfully metatextual piece of writing, referring not only to the novels one has just read but also to Murphy and Watt. There is a curious dialogue here with Beckett’s later minor play Not I, which I highly recommend reading. The Unnamable beautifully explores the literary philosophy of silence.

We often forget, in our poetic enthusiasm, that reading is primarily a silent act.

The craziest book that I have ever read.

It was impossible for me to recognize a storyline in it for more than one sentence.

I also didn't understand what it was about at the end, although it did make me feel and think a lot.

Sometimes it was pure rhythm, sometimes pure chaos, and most of the time it was very disorienting.

It is an endless source of inspiration.

I must definitely read it again.

I'm curious if I will be able to get a handle on it then.

A book divided into two parts with two different protagonists/anti-heroes.

There is no plot, there is no action.

The anti-heroes loiter. They think, they chatter and they contradict. They wander and loiter: one is an old and now weak man who wants to return to his mother (there is ambiguity in the details) and the other is a detective who takes on the next job and wanders and loiters (again there is ambiguity in the details).

Finally, perhaps the details don't interest us?

Excerpt 1: "No, all these aren't worth sitting and getting hurt for, and yet you sit and get hurt, because you have lost every sense of worth. And with those things that are worth it, you don't sit and get hurt for them, you leave them, for the same reason, knowing that all this hypothesis of worth and worthlessness isn't for you, you who no longer know what you're doing, nor why, and who must continue not to know, otherwise you're at risk, from what, I would like to know from what you're at risk, yes, I would like to know."

Excerpt 2: "If there is a question that I tremble at, to which I could never give a satisfactory answer, it is the question of what I do."

This book, which consists of only 400 pages, gives the impression that it holds an infinite ocean of words within it.

I consider myself to be a rather fast reader, yet this particular book truly put my reading skills to the test.

I have a deep affection for books that require me to exert some effort.

This one, without a doubt, will be a book that I will return to frequently.

It has that certain charm and depth that keeps pulling me back, eager to explore its contents further and uncover the hidden gems of knowledge and inspiration that it surely holds.

Each page seems to offer a new adventure, a new perspective, or a new idea that captivates my mind and makes me think.

Despite its relatively short length, it has managed to leave a lasting impression on me, and I look forward to many more reading sessions with this wonderful book.

In Samuel Beckett's Trilogy - namely, "Molloy," "Malone Dies," and "The Unnamable" - a powerful torrent of consciousness rages on without any sign of abatement. It leads readers on an arduous journey through the convoluted and often perplexing depths of the human mind.

Beckett's unique stream of consciousness style is a remarkable feat. It meanders through the hidden recesses of thought with a precision that can be both disorienting and captivating. His prose is a vivid reflection of the ceaseless flow of inner dialogue that constantly ebbs and flows within us. In this literary exploration, the boundaries between memory and perception become so blurred that they merge into a seamless continuum. Through these works, we are forced to confront the harsh and unvarnished truths of human existence. We see the fragility of our memories, which can fade and distort over time. We also face the inevitability of decay, both physical and mental. However, despite these bleak realities, Beckett's Trilogy stands as a powerful testament to the remarkable resilience of the human spirit in the face of the absurdity that pervades our lives.

This book? It may seem worthless to some, but in truth, it is meant for everybody. It has the potential to touch the hearts and minds of readers from all walks of life, offering them a profound and thought-provoking exploration of the human condition.

The work was truly brilliant, funny, and mesmerising. My friend and I were so enamored with it that we took an extraordinary step. We started a short-lived magazine called 'Malone Lives'. In those days, before computers were widely accessible to everyone, we typed up the content and photocopied it. Then, we distributed it among our friends. This was all happening when we were in our early twenties.

I still remember a couple of quotes that I jotted down in my 1982 diary. One was 'dish and pot, dish and pot these are the poles’ (Malone dies). The other was 'How much longer are we to hang about waiting for the antichrist?' (Molloy). These quotes had a certain charm and mystery that stuck with me all these years. They added to the allure of the work and made it even more memorable.

Looking back, starting that magazine was a fun and exciting adventure. It was a way for us to express our love for the work and share it with others. Although it was short-lived, it left a lasting impression on us and those who read it.

Molloy (★★)

This work presents a certain level of complexity and uniqueness. It delves into the inner world of the character Molloy, exploring his experiences and emotions in a rather profound way. However, compared to some of the other works, it may not have the same level of depth and impact.

Malone Dies (★★★)

This is an improvement over Molloy. The story of Malone's dying days is told with more nuance and detail. The author manages to create a sense of pathos and inevitability as Malone faces his mortality. The writing is more engaging, drawing the reader into Malone's final moments and making them care about his fate.

The Unnamable (★★★★★)

This is truly a masterpiece. The Unnamable takes the reader on a journey into the unknown, exploring the very nature of identity and existence. The language is rich and evocative, painting a vivid picture of a world that is both familiar and strange. The story is complex and multilayered, challenging the reader to think deeply about the meaning of life and the human condition. It is a work that will stay with you long after you have finished reading it.

This has to be some of the most frustrating novels I've read in years.

The first one, Molloy, was at least interesting. It had unexpected poetic phrases that added a touch of charm. Moreover, there was a semblance of a journey, which gave the story a bit of direction.

However, the second novel, Malone Dies, takes place in a room in an asylum, probably. The character never leaves the bed, which makes the setting extremely confined.

The third novel, The Unnamable, exists in some kind of limbo location. The character is never really sure if he exists or how he exists. This lack of clarity makes it difficult for the reader to engage with the story.

If you are into stream-of-consciousness writing and absolutely no plot, you may enjoy this trilogy. However, one problem is that the character constantly contradicts himself throughout every book, one line after another. All these characters do is focus on their thoughts, their behaviors, and their vague and unclear predicament. It makes for some really frustrating reading.

Molloy was the most enjoyable of the three, but as the series progresses, the characters start to get too engrossed in their own being to be very interesting. By the time I got to the last page of The Unnamable, I was more than ready to shelf it and move on to something else.

On Molloy

Wow, what a whirlwind the past two weeks have been! The last thing I recall was two Sundays ago, thinking to myself, "Huh, the next few days will be quite busy—" and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in a ditch by the metaphorical tracks, with a bullet train composed of book signings, broken computers, early-morning and late-evening meetings, social calls, and looming deadlines racing past my throbbing head. In the far distance, constantly receding, I could just make out the tiny shapes of overlooked blogging commitments that I had passed along the way.

Take my commitment to re-read Beckett's could-be-called-a-Trilogy with blogging friend Anthony, for example. By this late date, he has already posted his thoughts on both the first and second books. I can barely distinguish this commitment, which was way back last Wednesday, waving forlornly to me from a distant platform. I knew, however, that I wanted to take my time with this post, even if it meant delaying, because Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable are among those books in my personal canon—the ones that sustain me, that arrived in my life at a key moment and changed my ideas about what's possible in literature and even in life. The ones whose lines and rhythms and bizarrely beautiful narrative voices reverberate in my brain as I go about my days.

This re-read of Molloy, though hurried and fragmented, lived up to all my memories. It's a two-part, cyclical work with the most plot of any of these three books, which incidentally isn't very much. We get two sections, both narrated in the first-person by two different (but not all that different) men: the ancient Molloy, who has difficulty recalling his own name, and Moran, who believes he is an agent sent to track down Molloy. Both men embark on torturous, convoluted journeys—in many ways the same journey, since Moran attempts to follow in Molloy's footsteps—in which they persevere despite mental vagueness and rapid, inexplicable physical deterioration. Both men become obsessed with seemingly irrelevant details along the way, such as the best way to suck sixteen stones in succession without sucking the same stone twice. In the end, both men somehow return to what we assume is their starting point, although much has changed and this change exceeds their understanding.

This is the classic Beckettian "pointless journey," much like Mercier and Camier and Waiting for Godot. These are journeys in which a character seeks fiercely yet intermittently after something that never appears; something that the traveler often loses sight of or forgets, which the reader suspects may not exist in the first place, and which the traveler would probably not reach even if it did.

I must admit that I find this construct oddly comforting. The idea that the objects of our obsessions are irrelevant to our overall experience—or, if not irrelevant, they are related in ways not immediately obvious, especially as they often go unexamined for long periods of time and our minds and bodies do not cooperate with our stated aims. Molloy knows, although he sometimes forgets, that he is trying to visit his mother: an ostensibly simple task. But he is unable to remember why he wants to visit her; he can barely remember his own name and doesn't recall if hers is the same; he can't determine whether the town he finds himself in is the one where he (and she) lives, and he is prone to getting distracted for months or possibly years at a time, being taken in by batty old ladies, or washing up on the seashore for months, perplexed by the stone-sucking dilemma. Likewise, private detective Moran believes he's pursuing Molloy: a straightforward tail job. However, he's not even sure if his target's name is Molloy or Mollose; most of his "facts" on the case originate in his own imagination; he devotes most of his energy to bullying his son and housekeeper rather than formulating a plan; and in the end, none of it matters anyway, as his legs inexplicably become stiffer and stiffer until he can barely move at all, and he abandons the search for Molloy in favor of sending his son for a used bicycle. Nothing is accomplished and nothing is known. And yet, in the midst of the despair and laughter at this futility, there are glimpses of an abiding attachment to human life.

All this is rife with the hilarity and horror of being a human, a rickety contraption who must glean an understanding of the world through flawed sense perceptions, and whose reality is moreover divorced from standard assumptions about cause, effect, and continuity, but who must nevertheless shape experience into some kind of coherent narrative, or else cease to speak at all. Beckett's work is often called "absurdist," but in my experience, it's actually less absurd than most of us might like to believe. Instead, it seems to me an accurate picture of life without the mental filtering mechanisms we use to stay sane. The systems of habit and filtration we use to make sense of our world are so delicate and complex, and can go off the rails with surprising ease—yet we take them for granted out of necessity, because otherwise even the simplest task would be impossible. We pretend, for example, that we are the same person from moment to moment, when our reality may be more fragmented and unpredictable. Or that we perceive the world and then narrate based on what we perceive, rather than creating or half-creating the world via our acts of perception and narration. In the absence of these trusty shorthands, the task of communication, even with oneself, becomes daunting.

Yet there is something in us that spurs us onward, so that we continue attempting until the very end, despite our inevitable failures and detours along the way. Despite the lack of externally-imposed meaning, and the gaping holes in any system we create to understand the world around us, we are compelled to continue trying, to continue shaping our narratives however we can, incorporating the contradictions and random-seeming obstacles that rise before and within us.

Notes on Disgust

(For more information on the disgust project, see here.)

The subject of disgust in this novel would require another long post on its own, and I have to admit that I often found myself carried away by the beauty and hilarity of Beckett's language to such an extent that I forgot to examine the sections that deal with disgust. They are there, though, and in plenty. On my first read, I remember being struck by the repugnance of Moran's character, his cruelty to his son, and in particular the scene in which he gives his son an enema. There's also Molloy's allusions to the fact that he may have had sex with his ancient crone of a mother. On top of this is the obvious disintegration of both men's bodies throughout the course of their journeys; Molloy is elderly and Moran appears simply to be inexplicably disabled, but both are falling apart, and sexually and otherwise intertwined with other human bodies that are also falling apart, such as the old whore who may or may not have been Molloy's one experience of "love" (whatever he means by that). At the time she approaches him,

If I were to hazard a hypothesis based on not very careful analysis, it might be that disgust here is something unavoidable that must be accepted, no more or less "meaningful" than anything else in life (unless we make it so) and something that we are all bound to both feel and to cause in others. Molloy depicts an undifferentiated world, where questions and observations that we normally filter out of our stories and our thoughts (such as why a person is not a landmark; whether we truly recognize our home towns) instead get dwelled upon compulsively and become ordering principles, substitutes for meaning. As such, the disgusting, which normally resides in that undifferentiated mass outside normal boundaries, can be found wherever you look and is neither a sign of any particular quality nor a deterrent to finding meaning there.