I keep giving Beckett a chance.

I firmly believe that there must be some kind of hidden greatness within him that I haven't been able to perceive yet.

I really don't know, man. Maybe it's just my personal perception, but to me, he appears to be a somewhat talented writer who falls short of achieving the level of Joyce.

Even his later works don't seem to truly move beyond the influence of Joyce or Stein.

It seems that critics take him too seriously. However, perhaps in another few years, my perspective might change.

I'm still open to the possibility that I might discover something truly remarkable in his works that I've overlooked so far.

Only time will tell if my initial assessment of Beckett was inaccurate or if he will continue to remain in the shadow of his predecessors.

Beckett is truly an anti-writer. After reading all these proses, this is the profound feeling that emerged within me. Even though there are sentences that possess a certain poetic and beautiful quality, it seems that this is unintentional, like an unnatural excess. He has managed to transcend the limitations of words, for words are his greatest enemies. Yet, despite this, there are words that are filled with desperate meanings. At times, words appear stark naked under the watchful eyes of the reader. And what about all this talk of silence and stirrings? Because there is no end to these words. Nothing truly begins, and nothing truly ends. It just exists there! Even when we cease to speak, our bodies produce invisible sounds through our gestures. These are symbolic gestures, soundless, yet they are like a kind of white noise. The entire world is blocked out. There is no division between the inward and the outward—nothing exists, no bifurcation. Instead, there is a continuous happening of vibrations. Sometimes Beckett would even write about how we make our bodily gestures, and he would go on to repeat one gesture after another. Is this some kind of prank? Perhaps. But is it even possible to write the impossible? Is it possible to write and convey something exact about Beckett? (As Derrida has pondered this.) What can we do when we talk about Beckett? We can write endlessly. We can experiment. We can even create emptiness out of the glow of words.

Writing a review of The Complete Short Prose of Samuel Beckett is truly a conundrum. Reviews are meant to describe and assess what the author endeavored to achieve... and what was actually accomplished. They should also note any aesthetic resonances, if present, with the works of other writers. Along the way, they should hint to the review reader whether he or she might be intrigued by reading the work in question.

With Beckett's short stories, this is no easy feat. Consider the first sentences of the first five pieces in this volume: "He could have shouted and could not." "Down you get now and step around." "Come come and cull me bonny bony doublebed cony swiftly my springal and my thin Kerry twingle-twangler comfort my days of roses and beauty week of redness with mad shame to my lips of shame to my shameful..." (This piece, titled "Text," continues in this vein until the end.) "Surgeon Bor operated with the utmost success on a boy called Bray who had been brought to him suffering from tubercular glands in the neck, since when the boy showed an unfathomable tendency to sink, and did in fact begin to sink." "I associate, rightly or wrongly, my marriage with the death of my father, in time."

There is a certain music and mystery in these sentences that lead nowhere but to more of the same. Usually, it is an account in the apparent first person of a life that is like an Irish bonsai, tiny, twisted, and heading in contradictory directions. Beckett was striving to write as minimally as possible, relying on the lilting humor and oddness of oppressed perception to encapsulate what it is like to live as if one had never been born, or had never awakened, or was determined to articulate the subconscious stuttering and muttering that everyone likely experiences in the course of a life that has both an outside and an inside simultaneously... and this is the inside.
If you are familiar with his play, Waiting for Godot, these comments may make more sense to you than if you are not. Beckett's subject was the incompleteness of identity. His subject was the lack of a body, a name, a whereabouts, a direction, and any means of survival except through gnarled being. Samuel Beckett was a writer from the start. He came to Paris and became a sort of assistant to James Joyce, which is high praise in itself. He did not write as obscurely as Joyce in Finnegans Wake or as diligently as in Ulysses or as conventionally as in Dubliners. Instead, he perfected this middle ground. He reminds one of Gerard Manley Hopkins and Franz Kafka, but in the end, he was and remains uniquely himself, content with word upon word, cast out of the world, longing for a view, sometimes buried, sometimes aloft, wondering where he'd left his coat. On balance, I would hazard a guess that very few readers would take these tales to heart because they are not tales in the traditional sense; they are monologues from the unknown.

It is as if Beckett is delving deep into the recesses of the human psyche, exploring the ineffable and the unutterable. His works are not for the faint of heart or the casual reader. They require patience, concentration, and a willingness to embrace the ambiguity and the discomfort.

However, for those who are willing to embark on this journey, the rewards can be profound. Beckett's writing has the power to make us question our assumptions about life, identity, and the meaning of existence. It can force us to look beyond the surface and see the hidden depths that lie beneath.

In conclusion, while The Complete Short Prose of Samuel Beckett may not be a book for everyone, it is a work of great significance and value. It is a testament to the power of language and the human imagination, and it continues to inspire and challenge readers to this day.

There is something truly transcendental, in the Kantian sense, when one delves into the works of Beckett, at least for me.

To be honest, I believe his work can be examined from both realist and idealist viewpoints, especially regarding the perception of reality. However, when I assert that his work is transcendental, I mean that while reading his short stories, one can only decipher what is happening by applying one's own experiences, which are then enhanced by what one reads in Beckett and re-applied as new experiences as one continues to read. Does that make any sense? Perhaps not, but that's precisely how I experienced these short stories. They made perfect sense to me while simultaneously leaving me grappling with what on earth was going on.

Beckett bombards you with physical descriptions of landscapes that seem almost otherworldly, while at the same time writing in-depth about physical bodies. His prose is both as melodic and lulling as it is complex. As a result, I discovered that with the later stories in the collection, his prose induces one to read and daydream simultaneously. He would describe something outlandish or perplexing but use language and symbols that were so universal that they would evoke memories in my mind. I would find that his prose would unlock a memory of something else while I was still reading. It was trance-like, and I found it difficult to read when there were distractions, such as my dogs rustling around, in the room.

But let's move on to the stories themselves. The first half of the collection is far more accessible in that they had plots (in a sense), and I could tell you what they were about if asked. "The Expelled" and "First Love" were quite humorous, and I thoroughly enjoyed them. I also really liked "The Calmative" and "The End".

Throughout the collection, there were numerous repeated symbols and themes, such as coats, hats, fathers, skulls, loners, alienation, being trapped, being lost, and feces, which often made it hard to distinguish one story from another. I'm not sure whether it's better to hunker down and read them all in one go or piece by piece, as I did over the course of a week.

Moving on to the harder-to-grasp stories, "Texts for Nothing 9", "Fizzle 8", and "Heard in the Dark 1" were my favorites; I simply devoured them. "The Lost Ones", although I can't call it a favorite, sticks in my mind more than others because I'm still trying to figure out if it's an allegory and, if so, of what.

I've only read one other work by Beckett, which was "Krapp's Last Tape" in university. I'm so glad I have so many other novels and plays to read; I can't wait. But now, after reading "Ulysses" and this in succession, I need to read something simplistic with lots of action before my brain explodes.

"And the yeses and the noes mean nothing in this mouth, no more than sighs it sighs in its toil, or answers to a question not understood, a question unspoken, in the eyes of a mute, an idiot, who doesn't understand, never understood, who stares at himself in a glass, stares before him in the desert, sighing yes, sighing no, on and off."

I have an extensive collection of Beckett editions. The following are my thoughts specifically on the stories within this particular collection that are not available in the other standard Grove editions. I am reading these as part of my project to re-read the complete works of Samuel Beckett in chronological order.

I have just about completed Dream of Fair to Middling Women. I read the "Assumption" story within it, as well as the two pieces taken from Dream.... I'm sorry to say that they seem like adolescent drivel. However, I did enjoy "A Case in a Thousand," although it can hardly be considered typically Beckett-ian. If he had taken a different approach, he might have been truly brilliant with it as well.

"All Strange Away" and "Imagination Dead Imagine" don't break much new ground, but they mark the beginning of an even more minimalist style, with bodies in spaces delineated geometrically. Personality and voice are being stripped away, and the characters, although less distinct, are becoming more plural. They seem like false starts for more in the theme of How It Is.

"Enough" is a new departure! It is distinctly Beckett, yet different from the short texts of the early '60s. There isn't a lot to it, but I find it delightful. I'm not sure if I would have felt the same had Beckett's name not been at the top. The narrator here appears to be female. While there have been females mentioned in some of these mid-period texts (mostly inert bodies), this is the first female narrator in S.B.'s oeuvre up to this point, I believe.

"Ping" is a perfect little poem text, stripped down to the minimum, almost to the point of not being there.

"Lessness" is much as the title implies. It is stripped to the bare bones. It is the most beautiful, in a vast and endless way, of these empty prose portraits.

"Stirrings Still" is chilling to read, knowing that these are the last words Beckett wrote, fully aware that he was writing, perhaps for the last time, to end yet again. It is beautiful, with the same concerns but few answers, just a gesture, a mark, a trace.

Everywhere, where the dismal time has left a beautiful thick suitcase, you will find compatriots with damp faces inhaling it greedily, fallen on all fours.

[...]

They impressed me and gave me money. I knew that the money was to make a start. When they were finished, I would have to find others, if I wanted to continue. The same with the shoes, when they wore out, I would have to either repair them or buy another pair, or go barefoot, if I wanted to continue. The same with the coat, the same with the trousers...

[...]

A man standing on the roof of his car was ranting with a mouth to the passers-by. At least that was my interpretation. He was shouting so loudly that fragments of speech reached my ears. Unity... brotherhood... Marx... capital... bread and butter... love. I didn't understand a word.

[...]

... no one will love you, don't panic.

[...]

But the body, how will I get there, where is the body?

[...]

... what is this unnamable thing that I name and name and never exhausts, and I call it words.

Why waste time saying a lot of words when a few words can do the trick?

In our daily communication, we often tend to use more words than necessary. However, it is important to realize that brevity can be just as effective, if not more so.

Using fewer words can make our message clearer and more concise. It allows the listener or reader to quickly understand the main point without getting lost in a sea of unnecessary details.

Moreover, being able to express ourselves with fewer words shows that we have a good command of the language and are able to convey our thoughts precisely.

So, the next time you find yourself rambling on, stop and think if you can say the same thing in fewer words. You might be surprised at how much more effective your communication can be.

The memory emerged faint and cold, that of the story I perhaps could have told. It was a story bearing resemblance to my life, one lacking the courage to reach an end or the strength to persevere.

It was as if a cloud of uncertainty hung over my past, making it difficult to clearly define the narrative.

The words "No smoking in the torture chamber" added an air of mystery and perhaps a touch of irony.

What could this torture chamber represent? Was it a metaphor for the inner turmoil and struggles I had faced?

Or was it a literal place where pain and suffering were endured?

The combination of these two snippets of text left me with a sense of unease and a desire to explore further.

Maybe by delving deeper into the story I could have told, I would find the answers I sought.

Or perhaps it would only lead to more questions and a greater sense of confusion.

Either way, the memory lingered, taunting me with its elusive nature.

Strictly speaking, I firmly believe that I have never truly been anywhere. However, that particular day, I must have returned. For a considerable period of time, a certain sound had been terrifying me. I chose not to investigate the cause, as I repeatedly told myself, "It's going to stop." But as the sound persisted without cessation, I had no alternative but to uncover the source. It turned out to be a man, precariously perched on the roof of a car, passionately haranguing the passers-by. At least, that was my interpretation. He was bellowing so loudly that snippets of his discourse managed to reach my ears. Words like "Union," "brothers," "Marx," "capital," "bread and butter," and "love" were thrown about. But it was all completely incomprehensible to me.

'The End' - 'The Complete Short Prose, 1929 - 1989', Beckett

I didn't truly desire to finish this book. I deliberately left a handful of stories unread and repeatedly reread my favorite passages. I will never be done with Beckett. He gives the impression that everyone who penned a book in the past 70 years was merely babbling like an infant, and true articulation only emerged when he published. For my part, his contemplations on existence come closest to what it means to live in the era in which I dwell.

A favorite quote from 'Texts for Nothing':

"It's with such prospects they exhort you to have patience, whereas you are patient, and calm, somehow somewhere calm, what calm here, ah that's an idea, say how calm it is here, and how fine I feel, and how silent I am, I'll start right away, I'll say what calm and silence, which nothing has ever broken, nothing will ever break, which saying I don't break, or saying I'll be saying yes, I'll say all that tomorrow, yes, tomorrow evening, some other evening, not this evening, this evening it's too late, too late to get things right, I'll go to sleep, so that I may say, hear myself say, a little later, I've slept, he's slept, but he won't have slept, or else he's sleeping now, he'll have done nothing, nothing but go on, doing what, doing what he does, that is to say, I don't know, giving up, that's it, I'll have gone on giving up, having had nothing, not being there." This quote beautifully encapsulates Beckett's unique perspective on life, patience, and the passage of time. It makes one reflect on the nature of existence and our place within it.

I have completed approximately two-thirds of this book. To be honest, roughly 80% of what I have read appears to be sheer gibberish. It is almost self-evident that Beckett was a great artist. However, I have very little appreciation for "l'art pour l'art."

Certainly, there are some excellent phrases within these pages, materials that are well worth appropriating for use in more coherent writing. Nevertheless, these lines are concealed amidst interminable stretches of logorrhea.

Yes, works such as "Assumption," "First Love," the three "Stories," and "Enough" are autotelic masterpieces. But so what? At least for the present moment, I simply cannot endure reading another sentence of this collection.

"Endgame," "Krapp's Last Tape," "Waiting for Godot," "Happy Days"... these were truly incredible works. They succeed, in part, because of a performative element that is lacking in this particular volume. (And no, I have no intention of reading the "Fizzles" aloud.)

I would be willing to contend that this is the literary equivalent of "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" or "Squidbillies," two truly dreadful shows that seem like the result of divine inspiration when watched under the influence of some intoxicating substance.

Although some stories in this volume I found quite impossible to “embrace”—having foregone basic “understanding” or “sense-making”—I must say that some pieces are just as delightful as they are profound.

“First Love” is a captivating tale that delves into the complex emotions of early romance. “Stories” offer a diverse range of narratives that keep the reader engaged. “From an Abandoned Work” provides a unique glimpse into the creative process. And “Heard in the Dark” creates an atmosphere of mystery and intrigue.

However, “Sedendo et Quiscendo”, “Ping”, and “Lessness” gave me the most trouble. These stories seemed to lack a clear structure or meaning, making it difficult for me to fully grasp their essence.

“Fizzles” started out cool with its interesting premise, but eventually lost my interest. The narrative became convoluted and hard to follow.

It's also worth noting that Beckett loves using vulgar language like shit, prick, and cunt jokes. While this may add a certain authenticity to his writing, it can also be off-putting for some readers.

Despite these challenges, I would love to revisit these stories in a few years. I'm sure my appreciation for them will grow as I gain more life experience and a deeper understanding of literature. I also suspect that hearing these stories aloud would provide a new perspective and help illuminate those parts that I struggled with.

In sum, I seem to respond best to Beckett when there is some grounding in the story, such as a character, a narrative, or a memory. When the piece veers too deep into abstraction, it can be dizzying and overwhelming. But overall, Beckett's writing is thought-provoking and unique, and I look forward to exploring more of his works in the future.