The literary equivalent to the Caretaker albums can be found in Lispector's Agua Viva, which is like seeing through a glass darkly.

That bastard Rilke said it best. He expressed the strange feeling of inhabiting the earth no longer. It's about giving up customs that one barely had time to learn. It's strange to leave even one's own first name behind, forgetting it as easily as a child abandons a broken toy. It's strange to no longer desire one's desires. And it's strange to see meanings that once clung together, now floating away in every direction.

Lispector's work, like the Caretaker albums, seems to capture this sense of the strange and the ephemeral. It makes us question our own existence and the meaning we attach to things. It's a journey into the unknown, a exploration of the psyche that leaves us both confused and enlightened.

Running reviews—

Molloy presents a descent into madness through the circularity of two narratives. There is the vagabond Molloy and the damaged Moran, the finder. The interiority and stream of consciousness can be a bit overwhelming at times. This is especially true during one of Moran's obsessive, abusive rants. However, there is also some truly lovely writing. When Beckett describes the world, it is quite beautiful. He probably wouldn't have liked this compliment! For example, when Malloy leaves Lousse's. I can't help but wonder what this reads like in the original French as it seems so Irish. Beckett apparently didn't do literal translations but rewrote the novels into English.

Malone Dies is a tale of misery. It delves deep into the mind of Malone as he approaches the end of his life. The story is filled with his musings, his memories, and his sense of hopelessness. It is a powerful and poignant work that explores the human condition in a very raw and honest way.

There’s no sequence of self-referential novels—Sam forbade usage of ‘trilogy’ to both John Calder and Grove—in existence that are better than these THREE NOVELS.

My emphasis is to stress the way the first omnibus edition, seen with this review, was sanctioned for release by Beckett.

There is no better novel—equals, sure—than Molloy, full stop.

These three novels hold a special place in the literary world. The fact that Beckett sanctioned the release of the first omnibus edition gives them an added layer of authenticity and importance.

Molloy, in particular, stands out as a remarkable work. Its unique style, complex characters, and profound themes make it a masterpiece.

While there may be other novels that are equally good in different ways, Molloy has a certain charm and power that is hard to match.

It challenges the reader's perception and forces them to think deeply about the nature of existence, identity, and the human condition.

Overall, these three novels are a must-read for any lover of literature.

The matchless trilogy by Samuel Beckett firmly belongs to the first echelon of the everlasting masterpieces.

Under the guise of the feeblemindedness and senility of the characters, the profoundest wisdom is artfully concealed.

As Beckett so aptly put it in the quote: "When a man in a forest thinks he is going forward in a straight line, in reality he is going in a circle, I did my best to go in a circle, hoping to go in a straight line."

This quote encapsulates the essence of the human condition as presented in his works.

The life of an individual is often an unending treadmill of activity, a constant running on the spot.

No matter where one ventures, it seems that there is no true destination.

Beckett's trilogy challenges our perception of reality and forces us to question the meaning and purpose of our own lives.

It is a profound exploration of the human psyche and the human experience, one that continues to resonate with readers and audiences alike.

Samuel Beckett's writing is like a gathering storm cloud, a powerful force simmering beneath the surface. What begins as playful word usage soon explodes into an attack on language. Just as a storm cloud has an ominous quality, so does his writing. Beckett excels at presenting a nightmare vision of what it means to be alive, with all its mundane consequences. His characters are filled with intense pathos, allowing us to sense the nightmare they are born into. This, rather than a linear plot, is what a reader should seek when reading his "Three Novels."

The human condition is Beckett's main concern. Once again, the stories in this collection do not focus on plots, but what you lose in storylines, you gain in glimpses into the consciousness of these grotesque individuals. The stories are the thought patterns and digressions that make up the lives of these characters as they try to distract themselves from their dark realities. A claustrophobic feeling takes hold, and you feel as if you are actually stepping into a nightmare, yet aware of what is happening around you. This is the flip side of life, the absolute negative. Despite the bleak settings of the stories, the struggle to carry on suggests the author's humanism.

In "Molloy," a degenerate tramp decides to visit his sick mother. Hampered by his handicap, he uses crutches but manages to steal a bicycle. What should be a short trip to his mother's bedside turns into a series of obstacles and misadventures in an uncanny landscape. During this long journey, he accidentally kills a socialite's dog and pays his debt by playing the role of a pet. He escapes, gets into a confrontation with a stranger he may or may not recognize and kills him, and ends up in a room being served papers by an unknown figure. His narrative is interrupted by second-guessing and digression; he is not entirely sure who he is. The second half of the novel follows Moran, a private investigator tasked with tracking down Molloy. His trip is also hindered by similar obstacles; Moran kills a man in a confrontation and decides to turn back in failure. Months later, he arrives home in rags and finds himself in a room, where he is told to write by a figure. We could view this as a dual personality story, with Molloy being the enlightened Moran, as the facade of everyday life has been stripped away and the world seen through Molloy's eyes is a more honest representation.

"Malone Dies" is the story of a bedridden narrator who passes the time writing random tidbits, observations, and stories on a notepad. One story he is unusually determined to finish before his impending death is that of a man named Sapo. Then he abandons that story for a new one featuring Macmann. Macmann goes from leaving his homestead to having several odd mini-adventures and relationships, and finally finds himself confined to a mental institution. Malone reveals that he is responsible for the deaths of several men, perhaps暗示着 his being in a mental institution himself. The strange thing about this story is that the reader may not know where the true story begins or ends; is this the story of Malone or Macmann? At times, the distinction is blurred. We realize that Malone's "release," his death, depends on the completion of Macmann's story. Malone is not a god, but he has given life to Macmann, and now their fates are forever intertwined. He does not live vicariously through Macmann; Macmann lives vicariously through Malone. Without knowing it, Macmann has to rely on Malone to finish his story. By the end, Macmann is taken on a charity trip with other patients set up by a rich patron. An abusive guard at the institution kills two of the patron's bodyguards and gathers the patients onto a boat to return to the institution. He raises his hatchet, but he will not "hit anyone with it again."

“The Unnamable” is undoubtedly the most difficult to understand. Admittedly, it was completely incomprehensible to me at first. What I could gather was an unnamed narrator who seemed to be completely immobilized. He first describes his situation as sitting, hands on his knees, sitting straight up without any idea of where or why. Then he contradicts himself; now he is missing a leg and an arm, and he guesses that he may not actually be sitting. In any case, he is immobile and is forced to witness the trials and tribulations of Molloy, Malone, and several other characters from Beckett's past works. I thought he was an omniscient witness whose purpose was to paint a picture of the quiet hell the characters had to endure. It was only after reading a review that it made sense; he wasn't a witness but a voice, the voice in everyone's head.

Each story peels away a layer of coherence and awareness until we are left with the bare essentials. An onion is a good metaphor because we don't necessarily want to see what is at the core. There is a theme of disintegration and increasing immobility. With each story, the character's freedom of movement is reduced. Molloy/Moran enjoys some freedom as they roam the countryside until the end of their stories. Malone, confined to a bed and struggling between consciousness and semi-consciousness, can still use objects around him to prove to himself that he is alive. By the time of the Unnameable's story, our narrator is completely immobile and a prisoner to himself...he must confront awareness, the very proof of our existence. Sometimes, being left alone with one's thoughts can be a frightening experience. In these stories, the cry for help is rarely heard because these characters don't seem to know any better. While I refrained from giving this book 5 stars because of its elusiveness, I feel that the collage of thoughts and the message it hints at outweigh any standards I might apply. The fault lies with me, not the book.

I once recommended Molloy to a boyfriend, stating that it was one of the funniest books I'd ever read. I gave him my copy of the trilogy, and he managed to get through about thirty pages.

- "I really don't see what's supposed to be funny," he said.

- "Well, I actually underlined the lines that made me laugh," I replied.

- "Is that what that is? I had no idea..."

My ex was an intelligent individual with a vast knowledge of art history and fairly broad taste in books. However, I fear he was hopelessly in love with beauty, health, and youth. He simply couldn't fathom why a book like Molloy should exist.

Beckett's art is often discussed as a formal reaction to Joyce and other modernists. While that's a valid approach, for me, Beckett reads like a fairly straightforward realist. I've worked as a caregiver and companion to the dying, lived with tramps and homeless men, and visited prisons and mental hospitals. Absurdity is not a literary invention. Beckett writes about the shadow side of human existence with noble fidelity. And while death can never be experienced in the first person, the trilogy pushes as far in that direction as possible.

(Perhaps I should add that if you don't think Molloy's funny, it's unlikely the next two books will cheer you up much. Just as Beckett's narrator grows less and less mobile, his language hollows out, shedding the delightful/icky wit of the first volume.)

*

3/22/16

I often see things in the world that make me think of Beckett. The other day, while biking home, I noticed a man walking in circles in the middle of a busy intersection. Cars had to swerve continuously to avoid hitting him. I joined the small crowd of pedestrians that had gathered on the sidewalk. We called out to the man, "Come here! come here!" Sometimes he'd look at us, take a step in our direction, but then jerk erratically back to the street. He was a man in his forties, with glassy eyes and a layer of sweat glistening on his face. After about ten minutes, a cop car arrived. To his credit, the officer did an excellent job controlling the situation. Without using force, the cop was able to get the man to come to him, out of harm's way. And then the man finally spoke, and all he could say was, "I'm scared."

It occurred to me that while other writers might do a fine job describing the scene or even recreating the man's life, no one but Beckett could truly touch the depths contained in that simple "I'm scared."

*

3/27/16 (Easter and, coincidentally, the birthday of my nephew, who's now six months old. While far from grotesque, quite the opposite in fact, at the moment his claim to personhood is somewhat inchoate or liminal, so perhaps it's not such a stretch to see him as a Beckett-like character or maybe the subject of one of Beckett's inimitable philosophical investigations) - this being the third time I've read the trilogy from start to finish. My awe remains undiminished. Beckett's masterpiece is certainly one of the books of my life.

My first encounter was nearly 15 years ago, as a teenager who'd recently stopped believing in god. I could be cocky and defiant in my atheism but was also prone to fits of depression. I'd look to books for solace. Beckett fascinated me. I was always able to appreciate his humor, but he could also be too extreme for my delicate temperament. When I read the trilogy, it often felt like I was being taunted: "Ha, see how ugly and meaningless it all is, this is what it's like to live in a godless world..."

Perhaps I'm stronger now, or else more lucid in my frailty. It's still painful reading at times, particularly the last 50 or so pages of the Unnameable - the most intense, suffocating, feces-smearing scream in literature. I'm glad that doesn't go on for too much longer, but I'm also grateful something so singular exists. Beckett's tone no longer strikes me as at all mocking or superior. There's no denying all the filth and despair on display here, but in the depths, there are also strange moments of tenderness, as between Moran and his son or Moll and Macmann. I now see the trilogy as an act of solidarity with the cowardly, weak, wretched, incontinent, and insane - all of us, in the long run.

Yes, I know they are words, there was a time time I didn't, as I still don't know if they are mine. Their hopes are therefore founded. In their shoes I'd be content with my knowing what I know, I'd demand no more of me than to know that what I hear is not the innocent and necessary sound of dumb things constrained to endure, but the terror-stricken babble of the condemned to silence.

(Dear goodreads, I'm sorry, but I can't resist making a list. Here are my ten favorite novels - the books I've lived with for years and hope to keep re-reading for the rest of my life - in alphabetical order by author's name:

Nightwood by Djuna Barnes

Molloy, Malone Dies, and the Unnameable by Samuel Beckett

The Death Of Virgil by Hermann Broch

Demons by Dostoevky

Our Lady of the Flowers by Jean Genet

Something by Henry James - Wings of the Dove, the Golden Bowl, or Portrait of a Lady

Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry

Suttree by Cormac McCarthy

A Book of Memories by Peter Nadas

Parallel Stories by Nadas

This trilogy is truly the core of Beckett's writing.

Nearly everything he has ever penned is encrypted within these three novels.

One can observe the seeds of all his plays and short prose here.

However, in this instance, it is presented in a more extended narrative.

Here, he takes his time to play and experiment with the concepts of narrative,

tearing those ideas apart as he progresses.

I firmly believe that this is his greatest accomplishment.

Moreover, I am a devoted fan of his plays and other writings.

Beckett's unique style and profound exploration of human nature and existence are truly captivating.

The trilogy offers a deeper understanding of his creative process and the evolution of his ideas.

It is a literary masterpiece that continues to inspire and engage readers to this day.

Each novel within the trilogy has its own distinct charm and contributes to the overall richness of Beckett's body of work.

Whether it is the complex characters, the fragmented narratives, or the thought-provoking themes, Beckett's writing never fails to leave a lasting impression.

“What a long strange trip it’s been.” (Greatful Dead, Truckin)

What a truly weird book I have obtained. Beckett is indeed a strange individual. There are scarcely any distinct characters, and the plot is almost non-existent. It rather resembles a four-hundred-page monologue or perhaps a confession. Reading it requires a great deal of patience. However, there are certain moments when it becomes really enjoyable to peruse! This is definitely a book for adults only. “never stop telling stories,” (pg 405). It's as if Beckett is challenging the traditional norms of literature, pushing the boundaries and making the reader question what a book should truly be. The lack of a conventional structure forces the reader to engage with the text in a different way, to look for meaning in the seemingly random thoughts and musings. While it may not be to everyone's taste, for those who are willing to invest the time and effort, there are hidden gems to be discovered within these pages.

I am in my Goodreads review. I don't know how I got here. Just moments ago, I was on that desolate island. I have been on it always, perhaps even was born on that forsaken land. I don't know how I arrived there either. Maybe it was on a ship, like the one in "Wreck in the Moonlight" painted by Caspar David Friedrich, which was mentioned on page 270. I was certainly brought in a vehicle of some sort. I needed help. I could never have reached there alone.

Here I am on this barren island, yet simultaneously in a kind of review. It is not I who am speaking, pretending to pen this message in a bottle. One evening, long ago, a plump professor of English literature gathered us, his few students – for the seminar was optional – in the middle of the auditorium. He wedged himself between the rows of benches, like a buoy between waves, right in front of us. We were there, crammed like on an academic island, listening to his silent voice. He posed the classical question: what book would we take on an island if we could only choose one. I myself said Beckett's trilogy, of course. But I wasn't entirely certain or sincere. I think I just wanted to please our unnamable buoy. It wasn't my favorite book, I believe. And perhaps it still isn't. I can't tell. I can no longer reach out for other books. And there's no more room for comparisons. But it was, after all, the best book to take on the island, the most fitting one that relentlessly seeks the end from the very beginning, the one book to read unto death. I'm there now, although I'm also, for the time being, here, writing, but not for long, because I can't go on. It doesn't matter. I must go on. Reading (with closed eyes, with open eyes) this book unto silence. It is not I who am speaking or writing, bereft of hands, a message from far away. Being here now from being there then. I believe in progress, I believe in silence. On.

Stream of consciousness series often have a unique charm. They typically feature less of a traditional plot and tend to build up a sense of depression as they approach their conclusion.

I was particularly drawn to this type of literature because, as a younger man, I had a profound appreciation for "Waiting for Godot" by Samuel Beckett. This play, with its minimalist and often absurd dialogue, left a lasting impression on me.

The way Beckett explores themes of waiting, hope, and the meaninglessness of life through the characters' repetitive actions and exchanges was truly captivating. It made me question the nature of our existence and the significance of the things we wait for.

I believe that reading works in the stream of consciousness genre can offer a similar experience, allowing us to delve deep into the inner workings of the human mind and emotions. It can be a challenging but rewarding journey that forces us to confront our own fears, uncertainties, and the complex web of thoughts that constantly swirl within us.

Having recently completed MOLLOY, the initial installment in Beckett's Trilogy of novels [Molloy, Malone Dies, the Unnamable], I find myself almost at a loss for words. I suspect Beckett would be rather pleased with this reaction. And yet, despite the novel's seemingly aimless nature, it is richly filled with profound ideas. It is a difficult and perplexing work.

I'm not entirely certain where to begin explaining this novel. Instead of attempting a comprehensive analysis, I'll simply offer a few comments and observations. I believe one must read and reread MOLLOY independently to truly understand its essence.

PART I
The overarching theme or purpose of Part I appears to be a quest, with Molloy striving to reach his dying [?] mother. However, it seems that he is already in her room, having taken up residence there after her passing, and he is writing down his story from memory, detailing how he came to be in that situation. Although he initially claims not to know, he writes it all out on sheets of paper to be collected each week by some anonymous individual.

"I am in my mother's room. It's I who live there now. I don't know how I got there... What I'd like now is to speak of the things that are left, say my goodbyes, finish dying." [3]
In that opening paragraph, Beckett, I believe, states the crux of his novel: "I don't know how I got there." Philosophically speaking, we can know very little. There are numerous references throughout the text to the inability to know. Molloy frequently follows a sentence of supposed fact with its negation, leaving both him and the reader in a state of uncertainty as to which is true.

"A little dog followed him, a pomeranian I think, but I don't think so. I wasn't sure at the time and I'm still not sure, though I've hardly thought about it." [7]
"For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker." [59]

There are numerous recurring allusions to Dante, the Odyssey, and the Bible. At one point, Molloy finds himself living in a garden - could it be the Garden of Eden? He falls under the spell of a woman named Lousse - is she Molloy's Circe? There is a long sequence where Molloy is lost in the forest - is it the "dark wood" of Dante?

And finally, we come to Rene Descartes, the author of the famous proposition "Cogito ergo sum" (I think therefore I am) in his Discourse on Method and Meditations on First Philosophy [1637, 1641]. Descartes sought to establish philosophy on a firm foundation like that of science, building our knowledge only from propositions we know to be true and starting with a clean slate. Since he realized that our senses often deceive us, he decided to seclude himself in a room for an extended period and dismiss from his mind everything he thought to be true in his life. What he discovered was that, excluding all else of the external world and the senses, he still thought and had a mind. Thus, "Cogito ergo sum." Since he could think, he must exist. From this foundation of the personal existence of the mind - not the body, but the mind alone - he began to construct his ontology. And so also emerged the Mind-Body distinction that has intrigued philosophers ever since.

It is well known that Beckett read Descartes and was influenced by him and other philosophers. Some have suggested that Molloy can be read as an artistic reinterpretation of Descartes' Discourse. However, while Descartes finds hope in constructing a world of knowable things from the foundation of his mind, Beckett discovers nothingness. Through Beckett's method, as seen in Molloy, we arrive at the conclusion that we can know nothing and the world is unintelligible. We will never truly know. What Molloy is doing is writing his story, and through his words, from his mind, he is constructing his world.

"And even my sense of identity was wrapped in a namelessness often hard to penetrate, as we have just seen I think. And so on for all the other things which made merry with my senses. Yes, even then, when already all was fading, waves and particles, there could be no things but nameless things, no names but thingless names. I say that now, but after all what do I know now about then, now when the icy words hail down upon me, the icy meanings, and the world dies too, foully named. All I know is what the words know, and the dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning, a middle and an end as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead." [27]

"And the confines of my room, of my bed, of my body, are as remote from me as were those of my region, in the days of my splendour. And the cycle continues, joltingly, of flight and bivouac, in an Egypt without bounds, without infant, without mother." [60 - 61]

Part II
Part II commences with a new character, Jacques Moran. Apparently, he is some sort of investigator and is given assignments by a mysterious messenger named Gaber (Gabriel?). Gaber's boss is an even more enigmatic figure, Youdi (Yahweh?). This assignment: Find a man named Molloy.

So here, too, we have a quest, and there are countless echoes of Part I scattered throughout. Not the least of which is that Moran increasingly seems like Molloy. Are they the same person? Is this all in Molloy's mind? I'm not sure I can provide a definitive answer.

In Part I, Molloy's body gradually fails, particularly his legs. The same occurs with Moran. And just like Molloy, who is writing his story for a mysterious character, so too is Moran. In fact, Part II is circular, ending where it began. It starts,

"It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. I am calm. Nevertheless I get up and go to my desk.... My report will be long. Perhaps I shall not finish it." [87]

And it concludes with this restatement and a negation of the previous proposition, just like Molloy:

"It told me to write the report. Does this mean I am freer now than I was? I do not know. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining." [170]

Finally
As I stated at the outset, MOLLOY left me speechless. In a Seinfeldian way, I am without speech. And yet, and this is the puzzling aspect, MOLLOY is so full of things to say. I have merely scratched the surface in my comments and observations. There is a wealth of content packed into MOLLOY. For me, it is one of those rare novels that compels me to think about it long after I have finished reading. It demands a few more readings. It has also prompted me to return and reread Descartes, something I haven't done since college.

I eagerly anticipate reading the final two books in this Beckett trilogy, MALONE DIES and THE UNNAMABLE.

Please provide the article that needs to be rewritten and expanded so that I can help you.