I truly wish that I could bring myself to award this a full five stars, but unfortunately, I just can't. And this is by no means Beckett's fault.

There were certain parts within this collection that elicited a visceral 'Holy shit!' reaction from me. Such a reaction is sure to ensure that this book (or at least some of the selected stories) secures a place among my all-time favorites. However, there were just some sections that I found extremely inaccessible.

I comprehend the significance of difficult literature, and often, I find that my hard work pays off. But in this collection, there were a few too many stories that I deemed just too challenging (for me). Perhaps I could have made sense of them, but I wasn't truly compelled to do so. I had already obtained my fill elsewhere in the book and managed to work through the rest, picking up motifs and atmospheres that gave me a general idea without a full understanding, and I'm okay with that. I'm certain that more attentive rereads will offer great rewards.

At its finest, this collection is outstanding. For me, a standout was First Love. I'm aware that it might be an obvious choice, but it so splendidly highlights all the best aspects that I've (in my limited reading) come to know about Beckett - beauty, sadness, loneliness, and humor. The last of these is perhaps sometimes overlooked, depending, I suppose, on your sense of humor. As Beckett said elsewhere: "Nothing is funnier than unhappiness..."

Anyway, this is the first'review' I've attempted on Goodreads, and I'm going to leave it at that, as half-assed as it may be.

I skipped a significant portion of the early Joyce-imitative content. However, everything commencing from "First Love" onward is truly remarkable. In particular, Texts for Nothing stands out. In my perspective, it accomplishes all that the trilogy does, yet in approximately one-sixth of the length. It makes one wonder how Beckett managed to achieve this. These abject narrators, who seem to be filled with self-loathing and despair, cut very deep.

Their words and experiences resonate with a profound sense of human vulnerability and the absurdity of existence. Beckett's ability to convey such complex emotions and ideas in a concise and powerful manner is truly a testament to his genius as a writer.

The way he constructs these narratives, with their fragmented and often disjointed nature, adds to the overall impact and leaves the reader with a sense of unease and a desire to explore further.

It is through works like Texts for Nothing that Beckett continues to challenge and inspire readers, pushing the boundaries of literature and making us question our own understanding of the human condition.

I didn't read all of these stories. Instead, I only read a handful for my mum to assist her in choosing one for her class.

I have witnessed several productions of Beckett's plays previously. In fact, they were very excellent productions, especially when Fiona Shaw was involved. However, I had never read his prose before. From the very first page that I began reading, I immediately realized that this was something extremely different.

I once heard that Beckett discouraged anyone from venturing explanations for his work. Therefore, I won't do that. Nor do I feel as if I have an explanation. The stories are highly surreal and strange. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that numerous thoughts flit through your mind when reading these stories. And they are big thoughts too, such as death, sex, life, connection with others, perception, time, and consciousness. Not to mention the role and power of literature and stories.

All I can state is that it is pretty spectacular, and anyone who has an interest in literature should take a look at Beckett's prose at some point.

About once a year, I have a penchant for delving into what I consider to be truly challenging books. Moby Dick springs to mind, as does Ulysses. Gödel, Escher, Bach was an absolute back-breaker. And there are more hefty challenges sitting on my to-be-read pile: Proust's Swann's Way, Joyce's Finnegans Wake, and Heidegger's Being and Time. They seem to stare at me at night, waiting... lurking... seething.

Why do I subject myself to such works? Well, a part of me, perhaps a bit sick, actually relishes the challenge. I have a passion for puzzles. I lean towards jigsaw puzzles (never simple ones, mind you, and never under 1000 pieces - that's just boring!), and doing crossword puzzles helps keep my mind from crumbling with fear when I'm flying. I have this superstition about finishing all the "across" words before working on the "down" words - it's probably a control thing, but I digress. The point is, I love puzzles. I enjoy challenging my brain, but on my own timeline, when I don't have to. And there's the added bonus of actually having something intelligent to say when chatting about literature, philosophy, etc., with random strangers I meet (or hope to meet in a post-pandemic world). There's nothing quite like discussing Gödel's theorem with someone on the shuttle to the rental car place, you know? It's heartwarming.

This isn't my first encounter with Beckett. Many years ago, probably around twenty years or so, I took a train ride from Chicago to Salt Lake City for work (yes, I have a fear of flying, but I'm better about it now than I was then). During that trip, I read through Beckett's "trilogy" of novels: Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnameable. It was a harrowing experience, not because of the subject matter, but because of the sheer tediousness. But I was determined to understand them. So, I persevered. It was slow going. It took a two-day trip one way, reading every night for a week while in Salt Lake City, and a two-day trip back. In fact, I don't think I even finished it then, and had to slog through a few more days after I got home. It was, in a word, agonizing. And yet, I couldn't tear myself away.

You see, in those novels, you simply have to know what happens to those characters, and you have to know what happened to them in the past. They are like human train wrecks that you can't look away from. I'm reminded of Jim Morrison's (in)famous childhood encounter with a car wreck, where he saw bodies strewn all over the road and heard the screams of the wounded and dying. He claims that an Indian's soul leapt up and took over his body. I feel the same way about Beckett's characters. They leap up and invade your soul. You can't get rid of them without an exorcism, and I don't know the method for doing so or anyone else who does. If you don't want to be possessed by Beckett, it's best to just stay away.

But for those who won't or can't, here are a few of my disjointed notes. The analogy of watching a car wreck kept recurring to me as I read, so you might find traces and echoes of this throughout. These notes aren't in the order they appeared in the book, as the order really doesn't matter except to contextualize "more experimental" and "less experimental" periods, or one might say "more readable" and "less readable". I find Beckett's short fiction to be like a long, aimless meander through the liminal spaces, the little-used alleys and abandoned lots, of a town. Not a city or a village, but something in between, and only those spaces in between. Whereas the three novels are like a marathon, this is a series of day trips. You just focus on whatever interests you, with no compulsion to "see the sights".

Beckett is the master of entropic literature. It's like the old black and white partitioned sandbox with the child running clockwise, mixing it all up. Send him back around counter-clockwise, and it doesn't reverse the process, it creates even more chaos. This is an appropriate analogy for the works in this volume. Beckett's masterwork is undoing, and I can't help but watch, fascinated, like seeing a passenger train wreck in slow motion or watching a cow being folded and crushed in a meat grinder. It's utterly disgusting and completely engaging. One feels simultaneously sickened and fascinated.

The story "Fizzle 1", however, just left me feeling queasy. I'm constantly amazed at how a story like "Fizzle 1" can induce such a feeling of claustrophobia in me that I have to remind myself to breathe while reading it. It's exhausting and uncomfortable, and Beckett knows how to worm his way into your brain and flood your insides with oppression. It's like having a bull sit on your chest, slowly crushing the breath out of you.

I'm more than willing to give Beckett's experimental works the benefit of the doubt, but "The Image" was a complete failure. It probably should have just been kept in a private notebook or sent up the chimney flue like Kafka's ashes. That said, I was greatly intrigued and entertained (using the word "enjoyed" would be incorrect) by the other experimental work in the volume. There's a smartness to most of the works that isn't "oversmart". This story was "oversmart". It just tried too hard and ended up looking foolish.

In "Fizzle 4", consciousness asserts its independence from the body. It's a rather successful little piece of experimental fiction, perhaps the most successful of the fizzles. I think this is what Beckett was aiming for with his trilogy of novels, or something similar. But this little piece accomplished it without becoming the least bit tedious. I quite liked this one.

I suspect that Brian Evenson read and was influenced by "The Lost Ones" early in his writing career. Maybe I'm wrong, but this really reads like an Evenson tale. That's a good thing. This was perhaps the most "approachable" of the stories in this volume, while also being the most strange and surreal. I would have loved to have an entire collection of Beckett stories in this mode, but alas, such stories don't exist beyond this one. It's definitely a favorite.

"Heard in the Dark 2" is Eros and Thanatos, intertwined in a car wreck. It's messy, but you can't stop looking. I warned that this analogy was going to keep coming back. It's like herpes - you can't get rid of it!

I would be remiss if I didn't quote the man himself. So here's a nugget that stood out to me because it exemplifies the mindset of many of Beckett's characters: "Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it's me?" Here you have Beckett's short-story oeuvre, in a nutshell.

As an addendum, something occurred to me as I was reading the end-notes (talk about tedium!). The "Notes on the Texts" provides a perfect example, under one cover, of Machen's differentiation between Art and Artifice. This section is as dry and soulless as a ledger, while Beckett's short stories, while difficult and sometimes nearly indecipherable, clearly have "soul" and at least approach, in their own strange way, that "ecstasy" that Arthur Machen spoke of in Hieroglyphics: A Note Upon Ecstasy in Literature, as defining Fine Literature. It's an excruciating path to get there, but it's rewarding to the mind and heart, whereas these last notes are just pure academic/bibliographic dross. It's a car wreck that you really can't be fascinated by, no matter how hard you try, unless you're just trying to look smart.

Samuel Beckett is at the center of the modern and especially the postmodern/avant-garde literary movement. This is evident in his experimental texts, which are anthologized here and are characterized by an increasing intellectual darkness.

However, for me, the image of her remains associated with that bench, not the bench during the day, nor even the bench at night, but the bench in the dusk, so much so that when I speak of the bench, as it appeared to me that dusk, it is as if I am speaking of her, myself.

The reality, which is ostensibly contradictory, is expressed with a literary detachment from the traditional artistic masks, reflecting in its abstract structure the chaos of the era. The narrative continuity is disrupted, the traditional syntax is violated, along with the coherence of the narrative language, applying the stream of consciousness, so beloved in the sacred monsters of the modern (Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, T. S. Eliot).

The serious is mixed with the playful in several texts of the collection, as the language is treated as a game, simultaneously with the straightforward Kafkaesque atmosphere of the absurd. And Beckett undermines the foundations of the inherited ways of thinking and experience, thereby revealing the despair of man, the lack of communication, the non-sense of existence, and the void, the nothingness on which every certainty exists precariously.

Excuse me, sir, I said, and I rose an inch from my position, nervously taking my hat. What time is it, for the love of God! He told me some time, a time that meant nothing, only that I remember, I did not rest at all. Although what time would calm me? Ah, I know, I know, a time will come that will do it. But until then?

The apparent existence of meaning is scattered in a game of indeterminacies, with the way the language functions undermining the meaning-making. According to the poststructuralists, every form of cultural discourse expresses the ideology or the relations and constructions of contemporary society. Thematic obsessions, finally, are maintained, hats, caps, fathers, skulls, peripheral characters, alienation, deception, loss, so that it is difficult for the reader to distinguish one story from another, and they compose a narrative panorama, as noted by Erifili Maroniti in the introductory Note of the Translator. However, there still remains something transcendent that is not subject to realistic or idealistic manners. Beckett will describe something strange or confused using, nevertheless, universal language and symbols, so as to evoke memories and experiences of the reader.

No flesh anywhere, nor even a way to die. Leave all these things, to want to leave all these things, not knowing what this means, all these things, he said quickly, it happened quickly, in vain, nothing moved, no one spoke. Here, nothing will happen here, no one will be here, for many slow days. Departures, stories, are not for tomorrow. And the voices, wherever they come from, are soulless.

Becket has a penchant for run-on sentences! It's truly remarkable.

This particular poem titled "neither" really caught my attention.

It goes like this: "TO AND FRO in shadow from inner to outershadow, from impenetrable self to impenetrable unself by way of neither, as between two lit refuges whose doors once neared gently close, once turned away from gently part again, beckoned back and forth and turned away, heedless of the way, intent on the one gleam or the other, unheard footfalls only sound, till at last halt for good, absent for good from self and other, then no sound, then gently light unfading on that unheeded neither, unspeakable home."

All the stories within this poem are incredibly deep and they make me reflect on the depressing yet true aspects of humanity and existence as an individual. I find myself wondering why the author chose to write everything in French. I had to rely on the English translation to understand it.

Perhaps there is a certain charm or nuance in the French language that is lost in translation.

Nonetheless, the poem still manages to have a profound impact on me.

Beckett is a friend.

A distant friend, to be exact, whom I have never had the opportunity to meet in person, nor have I ever heard his voice. The only way I have come to know him is through his writings.

His works have evolved and gained a certain level of complexity over time, yet there is not a hint of pretentiousness in them.

Every emotion, every high and low, is palpable as you immerse yourself in his stories. It's like embarking on a never-ending journey.

Sometimes, we find ourselves thrust into a story right after a significant event has occurred, much like when we look at a painting by Francis Bacon.

In our minds, we can almost feel what is going to happen next.

Honesty, that is the true essence and value of anything we can create. There is no doubt about it.

Beckett's writing is a testament to this, and it continues to touch and inspire me in ways I could never have imagined.

This article seems to be a collection of various comments and opinions about different writers, especially James Joyce and Samuel Beckett. Some people praise one over the other, while others appreciate both. There are also comments about the blurbs written by them and the styles of their prose. For example, some say Joyce's prose is better, while others think Beckett nails it. There are even some rather strong and colorful opinions expressed, like "james joyce sux your fat ass." The article also touches on other related topics, such as the background of Raymond Federman and the influence of different writers. Overall, it's a lively and diverse discussion about literature and the different perspectives people have on it.

Some comments are more analytical, like the one that compares Federman's prose skills to those of other writers and points out that he has a unique style. Others are more emotional, like the ones that express love or hatred for a particular writer. There are also some humorous comments, like the one about Beckett's voice coming straight from his balls.

The article shows that literature is a subjective art form, and different people can have very different opinions about the same works. It also highlights the importance of debate and discussion in the world of literature, as it allows for a deeper understanding and appreciation of different writers and their styles.

Genius is a term that has been widely used and debated throughout history. It is often associated with extraordinary intellectual abilities, creativity, and innovation.

A genius is someone who has the capacity to think outside the box, to see things from a different perspective, and to come up with unique solutions to problems. They have an insatiable curiosity and a drive to explore and discover new ideas.

Geniuses can be found in various fields, such as science, art, music, literature, and mathematics. Some of the most famous geniuses in history include Albert Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, Isaac Newton, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

However, being a genius is not just about having a high IQ or being academically gifted. It also requires hard work, dedication, and perseverance. Geniuses often spend countless hours honing their skills and perfecting their craft.

In conclusion, genius is a complex and multifaceted concept that encompasses both natural talent and hard work. While some people may be born with a genetic predisposition to be geniuses, others can develop their intellectual abilities through education, training, and practice.

The best short prose I’ve ever read, and truly one of the most remarkable collections of stories to exist. Samuel Beckett's prose is, in some ways, written in a style similar to that of James Joyce. However, in my humble opinion, it is not only better but also easier to read, perhaps lacking a bit in the profoundness that Joyce's works are renowned for. The ambiguous nature of Beckett's writings makes it incredibly easy for the reader to become completely possessed and deeply impacted by them. It comes as no surprise that Theodor Adorno felt the same way. I wholeheartedly agree with Beckett when he considers his prose as his "important writing." There is a certain charm and allure in his words that draw the reader in and keep them engaged, making it a truly unforgettable literary experience.

The complete short prose is, of course, not short. It holds within it a world of thoughts and emotions that may seem condensed but are actually profound.

I will be back later with a review when and if I finish this book. And indeed, I finished it. It is good, of course, it's good. Why would it not be good? What is good? These are questions that linger in my mind as I reflect on the reading experience.

Is short prose just long prose condensed into a can? This is an interesting query. While short prose does present a concise form, it has its own unique charm and power. It can convey a powerful message or evoke a strong emotion in just a few words. It requires a different kind of skill and artistry compared to long prose.

In conclusion, short prose is a fascinating literary form that deserves our attention and appreciation. It may be short in length, but it is rich in meaning and impact.

Most readers are familiar with Samuel Beckett as a playwright, having encountered works such as 'Waiting for Godot', 'Krapp's Last Tape', and 'Happy Days'. Some may also know him as a novelist, perhaps through 'Watt' or the trilogy 'Malloy'-'The Unnameable'-'Malone Dies'. However, very few readers are acquainted with his short fiction, and this is truly a pity.

Some of these stories, in my humble opinion (IMHO), rank, or even outrank, his more renowned theatrical productions as works of artistic genius. Moreover, they are far more comprehensible upon a first reading compared to the plays and novels. All of Beckett's signature themes - death and loss, loneliness, anxiety, dread without an apparent object (I'm certain I've omitted one or more significant themes, and I'm aware that as a result, no one will like or respect me anymore) - are sharply defined in these stories. More importantly, they are incredibly humorous.

Beckett is a master of the Shakespearean art of making the hearer laugh just before inserting a stiletto between her ribs and into her heart. This is perfected in "First Love". This story, along with its three companions "The Expelled", "The Calmative", and "The End", are the first works Beckett wrote in French. They were also, like a fumarole venting on the side of an inactive volcano, a predictor of Beckett's impending period of explosive production. Over the next three years, he produced two plays, one of which was 'Godot', and three novels.

They can be read like one of Robert Browning's dramatic monologues, and, like Browning's monologue, they straddle the indistinct boundary between poetry and prose - meaning they must be read aloud to be fully appreciated. Although they were originally written in French, it is difficult to imagine that the originals could match these translations for exuberant virtuosic wordplay. I will be posting some of my own readings on SoundCloud in the near future. In the meantime, obtain a copy of this and read it. If you don't like it, keep rereading it until you do.