Come on, we’ll soon be dead, let’s make the most of it. But what matter whether I was born or not, have lived or not, am dead or merely dying, I shall go on doing as I have always done, not knowing what it is I do, nor who I am, nor where I am, nor if I am.

Beckett, with his unique vision, peered into the dark and mysterious corridors of language. He brought to life characters that were not only wildly unceasing but also bizarre, channeling the impenetrability of language through them. The journey from the opening pages of Molloy all the way down to the final pages of The Unnamable is a steep descent indeed.

As you read this trilogy, you are essentially climbing down this steep slope. It's a different kind of plunge into the depths of a story. The pillars that you used to pass by without a second thought now, due to Beckett's carnal and cathartic writing, force you to stop and recoil at their unpitying and disfigured appearances.

The bareness of existence finds a voice in this story, a voice that is truly unheard of in fiction. Along the way, imagination bleeds, dreams transform into sensations, and memory turns liquid and flows like mud. You may try, if you must, to escape the labyrinthine trap that Beckett purposefully set for you, but it will all be in vain.

This is lucid and magnetic writing like no other. The last 50 pages or so of The Unnamable contain some of the best lines I've ever read. I ended up underlining nothing because I wanted to underline everything.

There aren't many fictions as strange as Beckett's. He is often pegged as "the greatest master of nothing", and it is the insatiable consciousness of his style that makes his novels so transcendental and unforgettable. I wonder how far Beckett's writing takes you when you pair it with the words of William Blake: "As a man is, so he sees."

This is an extremely challenging book to pen a review about.

It is essentially a group of novels that have the potential to transform one's life. They delve deep into the exploration of death, life, hope, absence, failure, and so many other profound themes. These novels are highly recommended to you by someone who is not a devotee of Beckett's plays. (However, I am planning to read more of his fiction!)

You will either adore it or not. And if you don't, well, then you are no longer welcome to my birthday party.

The beauty of these novels lies in their ability to make you question and reflect on the various aspects of human existence. They offer a unique perspective that can open your eyes to new possibilities and understandings.

Whether you are a fan of Beckett or not, these novels are worth giving a chance. They might just surprise you and leave a lasting impression on your heart and mind.

Getting through this loosely-related trilogy of short novels was truly one of the most arduous reading experiences I've ever endured.

I'm not entirely certain if I derived any enjoyment from it, or if I even grasped what Beckett was attempting to convey half the time.

My level of interest fluctuated widely throughout, as vividly illustrated by the graphic below.

Reading this was comparable to grappling with Proust - I had to be completely focused while reading, otherwise, I'd lose the thread of thought and have to reread entire paragraphs.

And when there are literal segments spanning 80+ pages without a single paragraph break, it becomes a Herculean task.

Sometimes, I managed to get into the rhythm (mostly during Molloy and the initial parts of Malone Dies), but at other times, I was simply reading words without comprehending their meaning.

To be honest, I'm not sure I understood much in terms of overall meaning. I can overlook the lack of a conventional plot, well-developed characters, and traditional storytelling devices.

Hey, I have a penchant for the strange and unusual. But I firmly believe that one has to be in a specific mood to be able to fathom this.

On some days, I simply couldn't make it happen.

That's not to say there weren't moments when everything clicked, and I exclaimed, "A-HA! GENIUS!"

And it's also remarkably funny in certain spots. But seriously, what is the essence of all this? What does it truly mean? I haven't the foggiest idea.

Molloy seemed to make the most sense initially. It was a deconstruction of a typical novel, with interesting parallels between characters who might potentially be the same person.

There were humorous elements as well. But as the pages turned, I found myself unable to extract anything meaningful from the text and ceased looking forward to reading it.

At any rate, I feel I failed Beckett on this occasion and perhaps should give it another shot in about 10 years or so, when I hopefully will be a more discerning reader.

If I were ever to say that any book is my favorite, it means that I have forgotten this one and need to re-read it.

This book is, without a doubt, the greatest experiment in written storytelling.

It takes the reader on a journey like no other, with its unique plot, complex characters, and masterful use of language.

The author has managed to create a world that is both believable and enchanting, drawing the reader in from the very first page.

Whether you are a lover of fiction or non-fiction, this book is sure to captivate your imagination and leave you wanting more.

It is a true masterpiece that will stand the test of time and be enjoyed by generations to come.

Ok, to be honest, I dnf'ed the second half of the third book.

It's not that the book was bad. In fact, each book in this series gets more challenging, which is both a good and a bad thing.

The thing is, I just wasn't in the mood to plow through it in the week leading up to my wedding. I had so many other things on my mind and so much to do. It's not you, the book, it's me.

That being said, I have to give credit where credit is due. Molloy was laugh out loud funny at points, and each book had moments of breathtaking writing.

I'm sure that if I had read the third book at a different time, I would have enjoyed it more. But for now, I'll just have to wait and see if I ever pick it up again.

Like getting drunk on words in a vacuum, the experience is truly unique. It's as if one is floating in a sea of language, completely immersed and intoxicated by the power and beauty of words. In this vacuum, there are no distractions, no outside influences to pull one away from the pure joy of playing with words. One can explore the nooks and crannies of language, discover new meanings, and create beautiful expressions that might not have been possible otherwise. It's a state of mind where creativity flourishes and the boundaries of language are pushed to their limits. Like a drunk person stumbling around in a haze of inebriation, one stumbles around in the world of words, making connections and associations that are both unexpected and delightful. It's a journey of self-discovery and exploration, and one that can lead to some truly amazing and unforgettable experiences.

Ho Hum. What on earth should one make of this oddity? Molloy, I found, was by turns amusing, disgusting, and incomprehensible. Certainly, I was glad to learn a new phrase for wiping one’s backside – at least that’s what I think is meant by “absterge the podex.” However, I don’t think I learned much else of value from it.

At its best, the second volume was comic, ribald, and absurd. But it was also frequently disgusting. The obsession with incontinence and bodily functions suggested something childishly weird and disturbing. Moreover, it was mostly boring.

The third volume is mostly unreadable, resembling the mad, drunken ramblings of a terminal bore. There are some amusing lines, such as: “To tell the truth, let us be honest at least, it is some considerable time now since I last knew what I was talking about.” This is quite funny, but it takes a great deal of tedious effort to get there. The introduction talks about “the tone of haughty disdain for the reader and disgust for the task the writer is engaged in.” Beckett is playing games with us. Sterne also played games with the reader, but with him, one felt that we were at least partly in on the joke too. With Beckett, we are not.

Molloy: This book saved me.

Here, time breaks. The human desolation is beautiful. The necessary death. The voice that writes-thinks-imagines, defecates on time and space with cunning and advantage.

Malone Dies: Oh, Samuel... You are a destructive delight. You have the heaviest literary balls of the 20th century. You are chaos. Dying, from your bed, you observe the essence of the human race. You are light, darkness. A group of paralytic maniacs floating towards a deserted island. That's what you are, Malone, fantastic absurdism.

The Unnamable: Ah, Beckett... You are the unnamable who pursues the door of his silence to name himself there. That voice that must not be silent to exist. This is the novel-writer. Here, the darkness of creation is understood. Of the God who looks at his creatures and fears them because they are a mirror. The writer is an ocean of stories.

Each of these works by Beckett presents a unique and profound exploration of the human condition. Molloy takes us into a world where time is distorted and desolation becomes a form of beauty. Malone Dies shows us a dying man's perspective on life and the absurdity that surrounds us. The Unnamable delves into the nature of the self and the power of language. Beckett's writing is both challenging and rewarding, inviting us to question our own existence and the meaning we find in the world.

Stream of consciousness writing really is just not for me.

I find it extremely difficult to follow the random flow of thoughts and put them into a coherent piece of writing.

It seems so chaotic and unstructured, lacking the clear organization and logical progression that I prefer in my writing.

When I try to write in a stream of consciousness style, my mind gets all jumbled up and I struggle to make sense of what I'm trying to say.

I much prefer to have a clear plan and outline before I start writing, so that I can carefully construct my ideas and present them in a more understandable way.

Maybe some people are more suited to this type of writing, but for me, it's just not a good fit.

I'll stick to the writing methods that I'm more comfortable with and continue to improve my skills in those areas.

[Molloy] The first twenty pages seized you back, or to put it sensibly, brought you back altogether in a single moment of wholesomeness. Distractions filtered away, in the upland of the heart where no loss was made. How viscerally the arteries sprung, and how divine was the way the heart sung. It was a simulation of every day's experience, a sum as brief as a puff of wind. All have been known to us, either knowingly or unknowably. In our neurosis, the mind lurked with this self-devised entrapment, a wondrous and terrible mechanism so familiar to us all. Its voice was transcendent, and its gesture a divine commandment that we were all, as a rule, propelled and discharged. It was not Beckett inventing it; it was there all along as his hand gently sunk in and drew it out. His prowess drained little power, or perhaps not even close to any form of energy. I repeat, his prowess drained little 'negation' from the word. It seemed to me but a silent thundering torrent of repressed, high-strung, wrung-out perpetual feral sadness. And I, who was also well disposed with sadness, was conversing. More than anything, this is me humbly conversing, in my agnostic sobriety, with his lucid, divine word-formation. Each word passed his filmic visual and embarked on me relentlessly, intelligibly attentive, a composition of words translucent yet unseen and unknown. Yes, as Beckett's visual acuity abounded, enveloping my senses, was I watching a film or reading a novel? I don't think so, and the more I think, the more I'm sure of it. Let me answer its call. Let us relive, shine momentarily in this fusing, saddening heart of beauty.

[i]There is a little of everything, apparently, in nature, and freaks are common.

(Strangely, it felt less and less that I was reviewing a work of Himself, or perhaps in actualization it was Himself whom I reviewed and found punishingly personable. After all, I've read only a few pages which mean little to none. So, why, why, really, in this sad and beautiful world to whom it may concern)

[Malone Dies]

You are the maggots that eat you.

This is an anti-life antidote, and thus ironically became its advocate. When I thought this could not get any more saddening, it turned itself into maddening, and when I thought it could not get any more maddening, it transformed into beauty. Black and blue perpetuity.

In an unforgiving manner to add. When your remains were but your accursed weariness in which no shelter was permissible, all solaces denied, and you yourself eternally banished. The mind plateaus of Sam scorched and soiled in incessant rain, and Himself swaying terminally from dismal to sardonicism and back as the poison of unreason began taking hold. The sedimentary shadows of his singing, the echo 'what for' reverberated upon Himself his own caricature of withdrawal that was either sad, impassive or sheer bereft of feeling. Otherwise, what the hell in this world could possibly result in Choke, go down, come up, choke, suppose, deny, affirm, drown

Cock up your ears and hearken the endless impending futility, but in actuality its visit will never arrive, no matter how much things come forward at your knees, or your knees drags itself toward the visit. This damp cold catatonia is incorrigible. You can't, and wish not, to feel anymore. Insoluble yes, break off yes.

Don't let this inertia fool you though, the reason being that after the interlude, the gory extravaganzas will eventually set its foot in. Guaranteed, no blood, all gores.

And in blissful fits of unremitting catastrophes, notwithstanding having his ideas and characters, scant before, and now disgustingly shriveled, it seemed that no deformity in this world could defer Himself from honking his from-deranged-to-delirious clamors. So candid that it became too insufferable for our ears as, not so surprisingly, Malone evinced to us a monstrosity which he was. Such terrifying, hellish innocence. Himself should not be taken seriously, provided if some vestiges of sentimentality still pertained in you. Jokes, tiredness, last and last outpouring of gleeful grim, like a train wreck in hysteria you flutter, in vain no more goodness reviving, what left must be silent, otherwise dead. I can see not even the nastiest reprehension could suffice in dislodging this self-indulgent author from his crowning delusional panoramas.

This is ill, unaided and rotting, but make your way through it you should. Even so in retrospect this might dawn on you as Sam's mild admonition to life perhaps, and that its golden rays never came to pass. Himself unrecognizable made it ever so hurtful for Him perhaps, and me for certain, in being a mere observer from afar. As you unfurled your mind's eyes through pages of terse, arid prose, sinking further like a drunken boat into tumults of cryptic decay and sardonic disillusionment you might as well complain, but assuredly ever in my conviction, all of them were out of love, and all Himself yielded to but only this withered and breathing beauty, you know what I mean. I liked him a bit too much I think, yet again, can't be helped.

Then the casts departed blithely, with Lemuel although his attitude remains ambiguous, into the sunset. Unique delirium. Recommend for helplessly romantic faint-hearts, dying intellectuals, shut-ins whose consciousness is on the rise, people with a morbid knack for visualization, around approximately tenfold portion of images and sounds popping up cerebrally with little needs for wordy expense, existential nuts and lost causes of all degrees, that is if you all want to make things even worse. Otherwise, leave Himself alone.

[The Unnamable] I demand a semantic succour for reading this offensive and hurtful little piece of shit: Candidly terrible, and by saying terrible I mean I like it very much this narration of benighted consciousness/perspective. So much for Himself being trapped in his own skull. Most boring, but the best.

[i]\\"at last mad, no longer alone
at last mad, at last redeemed.
at last mad, at last at peace.
at last an internal light.\\"

I guess I'm dense because I don't understand why these works are considered "great".

I have been on a journey since 2006 to read every "great" work since the Egyptian Book of the Dead and Gilgamesh. (I've got time on my hands and hate TV.)

When I reached the so-called Modern era, I've witnessed a decline in competency by the writer which has only increased my frustration.

What is the author trying to say? Does technique trump story-telling? These "great" authors are only great as blowhards. They conspire with incompetent editors and academicians to foist on the public their poor judgments.

That could be why there is such a huge disconnect when it comes to best sellers. It seems that the author is expressing his dissatisfaction and confusion with the so-called "great" works. He has been on a long reading journey but has found that the quality of writing has declined in the Modern era. He questions whether technique is more important than story-telling and believes that some "great" authors are overrated and are only pretending to be great. He also blames incompetent editors and academicians for promoting these poor works. The author's views suggest that there may be a problem with the way we evaluate and promote literature, and that we need to be more critical and discerning when it comes to choosing what to read.

Rereading Malone Dies. Translated by the author from the original French.

It begins with the first-person narrator reflecting on his final creations before death. He is tasked with writing three stories: the first about a man and a woman, the second about an animal, and the third about a stone. Additionally, he must complete an inventory of his possessions. All of this must be precisely timed for the moment he buys the farm.

"When I have completed my inventory, if my death is not ready for me then, I shall write my memoirs. That's funny, I have made a joke. No matter. There is a cupboard I have never looked into. My possessions are in a corner, in a little heap. With my long stick I can rummage in them, draw them to me, send them back. My bed is by the window. I lie turned towards it most of the time. I see roofs and sky, a glimpse of street too, if I crane. I do not see any fields or hills. And yet they are near. But are they near? I don't know. I do not see the sea either, but I hear it when it is high. I can see into a room of the house across the way. Queer things go on there sometimes, people are queer. Perhaps these are abnormal. They must see me too, my big shaggy head up against the window-pane." (p. 209)

The narrator's thoughts are a jumble of tasks, observations, and uncertainties. He seems to be both resigned to his fate and yet still curious about the world around him. The description of his possessions in a corner and his ability to manipulate them with a stick gives a sense of his isolation and dependence. The view from his window provides a limited but still somewhat engaging perspective on the outside world. The mention of the queer things happening in the opposite house adds an element of mystery and perhaps a touch of voyeurism. Overall, this passage sets the stage for a deeper exploration of the narrator's inner and outer worlds as he awaits his final moments.