¡Beckett! imprescindible.

\\"Ben neyim, neredeyim, sözcüklerin arasında sözcüklerden mi oluşuyorum, yoksa sessizliğin içinde sessizlik miyim?\\" This profound question makes us stop and think. We often take our existence for granted, but when we truly reflect, we realize how complex and mysterious it is.

\\"Belki de ben buyum, dünyayı bir yandan dışarısı, bir yandan da içerisi diye ikiye bölen şeyim.\\" Maybe we are the ones who divide the world into its exterior and interior. Our perception and understanding shape the way we see and experience everything around us.

\\"Rezalet bu, kendime bir yaşam dilenmekten vazgeçmeyecek miyim hiç?\\" It is a disgrace to give up on desiring a life for ourselves. We all have dreams and aspirations, and it is important to hold onto them and strive for them.

...

The point of abstraction is the furthest point where a person can only think about their own existence but is not even sure of that. It is a place of uncertainty and mystery, where our thoughts and feelings merge and we are left with more questions than answers.

I have no excuses for coming to Samuel Beckett so late. I’ve been aware of him and his work since I was about 16. At that time, in English class, we first read and then watched a performance (on VHS) of Waiting for Godot, and I really enjoyed it. But for some reason, I never followed up. Other things distracted me, other authors found their way to me, I got lost in different interests, and life just happened.

At the time of this writing, I’m months away from turning 33. A few months ago, while idly looking through the mass-market paperbacks at the local used bookstore and not finding much, I noticed a lone volume by Samuel Beckett. It was this old Black Cat omnibus of Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable. The price was $3, and I bought it.

Having now read these books one after another, I have to say I’m very annoyed with myself for postponing this exploration of Beckett’s novels for so long. I feel like I’ve been waiting for him and his unique voice my whole life. He’s very funny, with a focus on the interior voice. He manages to be both maximal and minimal at the same time. He’s an endless paragraph man, a stylistic device I happen to be very, very fond of, although it’s hard for me to explain why. And he digresses all over the place, which I also like. So little actually happens in his stories, and yet so much is conveyed. And to say the least, it’s obvious that he’s spent a lot of time thinking about death.

(My kind of guy, in essence.)

I feel bad about playing favorites, but if forced, I’ll say The Unnamable without much hesitation. Page after page of relentless interior voice; at first, short, staccato sentences that gradually give way to long, torrential labyrinths that run on for pages at a time. It’s the ultimate in loneliness — the consciousness alone with itself. It’s hilarious, horrifying, claustrophobic, and incredible.

(An aside: I’m not exaggerating when I say that throughout my life I’ve had nightmares similar to this novel, where I’m alone in the dark silence, staring off in one direction, unable to move, alone with my interior voice forever. It’s one of my worst nightmares. Needless to say, coming across something like it in novel form was quite revealing and a lot funnier in a dark, gallows sort of way than I ever would have imagined.)

None of my love for The Unnamable should be seen as a slight to Molloy or Malone Dies. Both are excellent texts in their own right, entertaining and beautiful. And the three work beautifully together in a single volume. When I reread them, and I definitely will, I won’t read them separately but all three as a single unit. I can’t imagine separating them. They feel too aesthetically unified for that. That being said, I suppose you could read them on their own or out of order. I just wouldn’t necessarily want to because of the many ways they seem to interact with each other.

Anyway, I have little else to add except to say that reading Beckett’s trilogy was an invigorating and overwhelmingly great experience from start to finish, and I highly recommend it.

(Much more Beckett in my future, you can be sure.)

These novels stand apart from Beckett's shorts, which I, for one, favored more. In none of them is there an old-fashioned plot. Strangely enough, this very aspect granted Beckett recognition. What we encounter here are the accounts of long interior monologues of three extremely miserable and unreliable characters. Additionally, the narrator in all three is physically challenged for different reasons (injury, old age, and deformity) and perhaps also mentally challenged.

There are scarcely any links between the three novels, save that the narrator of the third claimed the creation of the first two, yet he also claimed the creation of another novel - Murphy (which I haven't read). The novels rely entirely on Beckett's unusual narrative style - completely absurd, often self-contradictory, meticulously explaining the most obvious activities, and featuring a very sad, pessimistic, and dark humor - some of these elements are common to most of Beckett's works that I have read.

I have also reviewed them separately, but here are some examples of the prose one can expect:

Self-contradictory:

"A little dog followed him, a pomeranian I think, but I don't think so."
"I found my bicycle (I didn't know I had one) in the same place I must have left it."

Dark humor:

"I don’t wash, but I don’t get dirty. If I get dirty somewhere I rub the part with my finger wet with spittle. What matters is to eat and excrete. Dish and pot, dish and pot, these are the poles."
"...but of her who brought me into the world. through the hole in her arse if my memory is correct. First taste of the shit."

And finally, my favorite...

"What was God doing with himself before the creation?"

Call me lazy, but I just don't have the patience for modernist stream-of-consciousness books anymore. I yearn for structure, something as fundamental as chapters and paragraphs. I truly have an affinity for well-constructed sentences. And it would be a great help if the author could at least present me with the semblance of a narrative and an interesting character. However, when it comes to Beckett, what we get is a lunatic who spends several pages laboriously trying to figure out the best method for rotating his sucking stones. Wow. I do understand the attempt to do something unique with language, to be inventive and to stretch the boundaries of the novel. But, please, give me something that can keep me engaged! I long for a story that can draw me in, characters that I can care about, and a narrative that unfolds in a way that holds my attention. Without these elements, reading becomes a chore rather than a pleasure.

I have no clue about how to pen a brief description for these three books (Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnamable). I can't offer any remarks on the plots of the three since there are scarcely any. I can't really comment on the characters either, as they often morph into the same person in some form or another. And, upon reflection, I can't comment on anything regarding the stories as novels at all, because, to be honest, I truly don't know what I read on the page. So, what were my thoughts on these books? Brilliant.

And that word doesn't even begin to do them justice. They have transformed my perception of what writing stories can entail, expanding the meaning of what stories are capable of. I am absolutely convinced that neither I nor anyone else will ever write in the style of Samuel Beckett, and yet I can't rid myself of the feeling that I will be a better writer (and perhaps a better overall individual) knowing that there was a Samuel Beckett in the world and that he had the courage to write the way he did.

A bit overly dramatic? Perhaps. I must admit that I developed a bit of an obsession with Mr. Beckett midway through Molloy. I unearthed filmed versions of two of his plays on the old Youtube (Waiting for Godot and Endgame) along with the only short film shot from a screenplay of his (it was called, of course, Film). In all of these works, I emerged with the same sentiment: I didn't quite know what I had experienced, but I knew I liked it somehow, I think. It was a disconcerting sensation, not having any idea why I liked these works so much. One thing about Mr. Beckett: he makes you work. Reading his books or watching his plays can evoke emotions that range at times from tedious to downright frustrating (try figuring out who Mahood or Worm is in The Unnamable, for example), but the rewards are there: surprising, unexpected, tiny, human miracles.

I know I won't remember anything from these books in the way I usually remember when I read a book that I love, such as a great story, a complex character, or even great lines - the things that I particularly love when reading stories. Instead, what will remain in my mind for what will be a very long time is the residue of images. I will remember Molloy ruminating on true love and how the women in his life (who might've been men, he can't recall) remind him of his mother.

I will remember Jacques Moran walking for days towards home, using his umbrella as a walking stick. When it rains, he has the option to walk in the rain and get wet, or stop, open his umbrella, and stand still while the rain pours down for hours. After this momentous decision Moran has to make (he ultimately chooses to stand still, umbrella open), we discover that his umbrella is in tatters, so he gets wet anyway.

I will remember Malone, lying in his bed, waiting to die, having to halt the writing of the final story of his life for 48 hours because he lost his pencil in the sheets.

I will remember that Molloy's mother calls him Dan, even though his name is Molloy, that Malone sounds suspiciously like Molloy, that Basil is actually Mahood and Worm might be Mahood, except that they are different, that Saposcat turns into Macmann because it's a better name and that the narrator of The Unnamable is, in fact, unnamable and might, at any time, be any of these people or none of them at all. And I'm pretty certain everyone has a bum leg or two.

I will remember that there isn't a great deal of remembering in these books, that one of the most frequently used phrases is "I forget," followed by "I don't know," and rounded out with, "It doesn't matter." I will remember how monumental the tedium is in Mr. Beckett's world, how choosing your sucking stones, or taking inventory of the few things you own could be some of the biggest and most significant decisions you'll ever make.

I will remember that you will probably fail at them too.

And speaking of failure, I will remember that I probably failed to fully grasp Mr. Beckett's work, that I didn't "get it," that someone has done a better job of understanding and comprehending what the heck Mr. Beckett was attempting to achieve with his trilogy. It's okay. To borrow one of Mr. Beckett's phrases, it doesn't matter. This stuff is lodged in my brain and I'm positive that it will stay there until I decide to revisit it again (who knows when that will be?) and find out that, when it comes to Mr. Beckett's work, I won't know less as much as I don't know now.

Well, I read it.

It was a long journey with two flights and a lot of time spent at the airport in between, which only made the reading experience seem even longer.

I really wanted to like this book. The blurbs on the copy sounded so promising. I have actually enjoyed the author's plays in the past.

I was even ready to do without the usual trappings of fiction, you know, like a proper plot, well-developed characters, and a distinct setting. I usually like those kind of weird and unconventional books.

Maybe I'm just not ready to discover the humor that is said to be hidden within the long, long, long, and seemingly pointless nature of these books. I only managed to get one laugh, and that was after the character discarded the chewing stones.

This just wasn't enough for me to truly enjoy the book. I tried my best to like it, but since then I've learned to be more cautious when interpreting blurbs. After all, their main purpose is to get you to buy the book.

Maybe this book is more suitable for studying, especially after you obtain your secret agent decoder ring. It's not really a book in the traditional sense, but rather just a means to pass some time, anywhere, at any time. It might involve you for a few hours and perhaps even be enjoyable in a strange way.

The bleakness, emptiness, and meaninglessness of it all... That's exactly why I read, to escape such conditions. I read for fun. I'm not getting paid to read this book. I don't write blurbs. I don't teach this kind of literature. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. After all, I don't much like Joyce either.

These novels progress rapidly downhill.

Molloy is by a wide margin the best among them, and I would indeed recommend it. It is constantly humorous and entertainingly strange.

Malone Dies, on the other hand, becomes tiresome, yet still retains some degree of wit.

The Unnamable (I'm aware this is by now a rather old pun) is nearly unreadable. It drones on and on, repeating the same thoughts in almost the same words for such a long time that you start to think about dropping whatever class you're reading it for (if it's not for a class, you won't get very far before you stop reading it).

The commonly held view about these novels seems to be that in them, Beckett is systematically removing, one by one, the traditional elements that novels are supposed to possess. Already in Molloy, a coherent plot and relatable characters are lacking. We don't have to question everything our unreliable narrator tells us because he questions it immediately after he says it! To the extent that this becomes annoying and you wish he could just lump all those statements into one broad disclaimer at the end (for example, "I don't know whether any of what I have said is true"), and save us all a great deal of time.

Next, in Malone Dies, any kind of plot has vanished. We are presented with a single, long monologue of a character who claims he is dying and doesn't seem to know much else about himself. We learn all about his room (he is bedridden), and he tells us several stories as we wait for death (either his or our own, whichever comes first). The stories aren't as good as those in Molloy.

Finally, in The Unnamable, character, plot, setting, and any reason to read the book other than to say you've read it, are all absent. At this point, if not earlier, it has become clear that at least some of the traditional elements of a novel are there for a good reason and shouldn't have been discarded. If you are a being constituted similarly to myself, you may start reading this book out of curiosity, but it will require compulsion to make you finish it.

inb4 "Dude, you were supposed to hate it, that's the whole point!"

Reading Beckett is an arduous task. On the surface, his works seem to deal with that which is rationally non-existent, perhaps residing only in the subconscious of a mind set on self-exploration. This exploration is not just about finding a place or balance in the world but understanding why nothing makes sense or why “nothing” makes “perfect sense”. The question then arises: Can one maintain a rational mind while living with this perception of nothingness and senselessness, or is one in danger of being swept away by unrestrained thoughts? Beckett doesn't provide a clear answer.

Suffering from acute depression throughout much of his adult life, Sam's writing is a manifestation of his deep melancholy. As a reader, we bear witness to his extreme despair. If we're not careful and have ever been plagued by hopelessness, we may find ourselves drawn towards a state where nothingness prevails. This could be seen as a warning. One must be cautious when reading him, especially this trilogy. It shakes us to the core, forcing us to grapple with the undeniable notion of ultimate reality and face it head-on.

The trilogy begins with Molloy, followed by Malone Dies, and concludes with The Unnameable. It appears to be a sequence, although there's no explicit reason to believe so. In Molloy, there seems to be a plot as Molloy, despite his physical impairment, is constantly on the move in search of his mother. He encounters various characters along the way. In Malone Dies, Malone is bedridden and awaits his death, passing the time by telling himself stories. It's in The Unnameable that everything seems to converge. We don't know who is speaking to us; it could be any of the previous characters or someone unknown. This voice witnesses the passing of Molloy and Malone and seems to have always been there.
Beckett's writing style is complex and difficult, with no definite start or end. It's more like the babbling of a disturbed mind than a rational approach. However, this is intentional as his writing focuses on illustrating the idea of absurdism. The prose is a transport of complete resignation, arising from deep despair. It reminds us of Camus' “Myth of Sisyphus” and the famous quote: “The Struggle itself is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” The difficult prose is necessary to convey the intended despair and have the same profound impact on the reader.
I wonder if Beckett wrote these books one at a time or simultaneously. Molloy and Malone pass, unaware of the other presence that witnesses their passing. This consciousness, turned into a voice, may be waiting for its own birth. I also question whether Beckett incorporated the concept of rebirth from Hindu philosophy, where the soul is consciousness and goes through a cycle of birth and death. There are several quotes that seem to support this idea. Additionally, Beckett employs humor to express his disdain for God, suggesting that even God is bound by some compulsion and not to be blamed.
The end of the work is overwhelming, leaving the reader dazzled. The writing culminates in the assertion that one must go on, as there is nothing else to do or understand. The voice, which may or may not belong to a man, and the consciousness, which may exist anywhere, are subjected to the unfathomable. In the face of the inability to control birth or death, one must move on, as Camus said, by opening oneself to the benign indifference of the Universe. “You must go on. I can't go on. I'll go on.”

Well slap me and call me Susan. Or was it Sarah? Edgar? I don’t know. No matter.

I could simply leave this as my review and summary of Beckett’s trilogy of nothingness, but in the spirit of Beckett himself, “I’ll go on.” Wow. Just…. yeah, wow. I’ve never read anything like this. Parts of The Unnamable at the end drift into what I call “literature of the black speech.” It's like Leautreamont and Kafka, ending up like some evil incantation where reading is reciting. There’s no meaning because the lines themselves embody the meaning, which here is nothingness or an attempt to achieve nothingness. Needless to say, the attempt is a failure. YOU WON’T BE TAKING THIS ONE TO THE BEACH, KIDDIES.

What are we to do with Beckett? I read Murphy earlier this year and enjoyed it immensely. It’s Pynchon before Pynch and better. Witty, intellectual, interestingly described. But all of those attributes are under totalitarian siege in the trilogy. From Molloy until the end of The Unnamable, we see a gradual wearing down of thought until it is almost (but never quite) at its most primal level.

Beckett’s favorite authors were Proust and Joyce. Both of them wrote extremely long books filled with words. In an essay, Beckett said Joyce had done all there is to do in transcending the word by use of words. I bet he looked at Proust and thought he’d done the same with the ability to craft fictive scenarios full of characters, setting, furniture, and all the rest. Beckett chided Rilke for thinking his “case of the fidgets” had led him to find God when they were really just the fidgets. So we have an anti-transcendentalist who is still a transcendentalist at heart, lacking traditional narrative ambition and seeking anti-transcendentalism in the absolute breakdown of the narrative psyche. For anyone like me who believes an author’s works are a map of the author’s mind, the treatise of Beckett’s trilogy will be a specter that continues to haunt. The Muse herself is revealed as Nothing (with a capital N, which is something in itself…#paradox). By the end of the trilogy, Molloy seems not only beautifully written but also rich in plot. That’s an insane achievement in itself, worthy of the Nobel Prize. I agree with Leo Bersani when he says in his essay “Beckett and the End of Literature.”

The open-ended novel, ready to receive a rich variety of unpredictable extensions both from the author and his public, tends, as we have seen, to be narrowed into the predictable, excessively determined structures of pathological compulsions in Robbe-Grillet’s work. Beckett’s struggle toward unrelieved monotony and total inexpressiveness, on the other hand, has taken on a kind of bizarre heroism given his fantastic talent for stylistic and dramatic diversity.

Insert anyone you like for Robbe-Grillet, be it Pynchon or R.R. Martin, or whoever. Beckett mastered these guys in his first book. It truly is heroic, albeit in a brutal way, to choose and continuously attempt the antithesis of what most writers only dream of achieving.

While most people are familiar with "Waiting for Godot," the play that made him famous, few have braved Beckett's prose writing. His prose is dense and dreamlike, which only scratches the surface. Having been influenced heavily by Joyce and Proust, Beckett sets out to destroy every convention and form of thought available to language. As a result, we are left with stories that lack plot, setting, and even characters. However, these stories still manage to explore the despair and consciousness of what it means to be alive. Beckett's prose is not for the casual reader, or even most experienced ones. It requires a great deal of concentration and effort to understand. But for those who are willing to take on the challenge, it can be a deeply rewarding experience. It forces us to question our assumptions about language, literature, and the human condition. Beckett's prose is a unique and powerful form of art that continues to inspire and challenge readers today.

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