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The Trilogy #3
丕賱賱丕賲爻賲賶
丕賱爻丕乇丿 賮賷 賴匕賴 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賴賵 丕賱賰賱丕賲 賮賷 丨丿 匕丕鬲賴貙 氐賵鬲 賱丕 氐丕丨賷 賱賴貙 賱丕 丕爻賲 賱賴貙 賷賳鬲賯賱 賲賳 噩爻賲 賱丌禺乇 廿卮亘丕毓丕 賱賳賴賲 丕賱丕爻鬲賲乇丕乇 賮賷 丕賱賯賵賱.
160 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1953
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About the author
Samuel Beckett
842听books6,336听followersSamuel Barclay Beckett was an Irish avant-garde novelist, playwright, theatre director, and poet, who lived in France for most of his adult life. He wrote in both English and French. His work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human nature, often coupled with black comedy and gallows humour.
Beckett is widely regarded as among the most influential writers of the 20th century. Strongly influenced by James Joyce, he is considered one of the last modernists. As an inspiration to many later writers, he is also sometimes considered one of the first postmodernists. He is one of the key writers in what Martin Esslin called the "Theatre of the Absurd". His work became increasingly minimalist in his later career.
Beckett was awarded the 1969 Nobel Prize in Literature "for his writing, which鈥攊n new forms for the novel and drama鈥攊n the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation". In 1984 he was elected Saoi of Aosd谩na.
Beckett is widely regarded as among the most influential writers of the 20th century. Strongly influenced by James Joyce, he is considered one of the last modernists. As an inspiration to many later writers, he is also sometimes considered one of the first postmodernists. He is one of the key writers in what Martin Esslin called the "Theatre of the Absurd". His work became increasingly minimalist in his later career.
Beckett was awarded the 1969 Nobel Prize in Literature "for his writing, which鈥攊n new forms for the novel and drama鈥攊n the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation". In 1984 he was elected Saoi of Aosd谩na.
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April 20, 2025
A masterpiece from Samuel Beckett, though may be a bit awkward to read,could be indecipherable at times but after a while you move with the flow and get consumed by it; it would be felt like a novel that does not have any plot, only some disjointed images which would stay in your mind. The book is not a prose actually rather it can be said as a long dazzling poem on the very human existence. The Unnameable, where the dilemmas, which were brought up by the author in Molloy and Malone Dies, finally come along here.
The starting lines themselves set the tone for the book,
Where now? When now? Unquestioning. I, say I. Unbelieving. Questions, hypothesis, call them that. Keep going, going on, call that going, call that on. Can it be that one day, off it goes on, that one day I simply stayed in, in where, instead of going out, in the old way, out to spend day and night as far away as possible, it wasn't far. Perhaps that is how it began.
There are only thoughts thinking themselves, ever babbling around but never moving forward. The narrative of the books is also not reliable, just like narrator, which keeps on changing throughout the book from first person to third. The narrator, or rather self-immersive narrator, of the book goes with its title and is unnamable in true self, who is unreliable and just shares his thoughts, immobile for eternity, uncommunicative, always curious about words themselves but not their meanings.
But the absurd! Of me whom they have reduced to reason. It is true poor Worm in not to blame for this. That's soon said. But let me complete my views before I shit on them. For if I am Mahood, I am Worm too, plop. Or if I am not yet Worm, I shall be when I cease to be Mahood, plop.
Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I鈥檒l never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time
The book could be said as a well crafted voice of suffering, oppression of humanity through a un-namable character, whose existence itself is only a huge cry in dark solitude. The book ponders upon various problems of existence- solitude, human suffering- even the very problem of existence itself- meaning of existence, problem of one's ontological loneliness and nothingness of life; the narrator succeeds in scaling down his need - from wanting to reach his mother, to wanting to die, to wanting to stop speaking, which in essence is stripping of humanity to the core problems of life, to the core of life itself to know what is down there. Yet amid all the evidence that life is meaningless, hopeless, full of despair, anguish, one must go on. The book could be called as a representative of human consciousness trying to come to terms with its existence by telling itself stories featuring itself as hero of its own fictions, it resorts to paradox to describe the paradoxical nature of human consciousness divided within itself.
....there was never anyone, anyone but me. anything but me, talking me to me, impossible to stop, impossible to go on, but I must go on, I'll go on, without anyone, without anything, but me, but my voice, that is to say I'll stop, I'll end, it's the end already, short-lived, what is it, a little hole, you go down into it, into the silence, it's worse than the noise, you listen, it's worse than talking, no, not worse, no worse, you wait, in anguish, have they forgotten me, no, yes, no someone calls me, I crawl out again, what is it, a little hole, in the wilderness.
Beckett has worked on Postmodernist themes in ''The Unnamable'' as it could said to be based upon post-structuralist literary theory; whose characteristic is abandonment of grand narratives and unification of all knowledge. The novel is almost without "significant" event; its subject is itself, the narrating voice creating a world out of language. Before, between and after the jabber of words that constitute the fiction is silence.
...all these stories, these stories about paralytics, all are mine, I must be extremely old, or it's memory playing tricks, if only I knew id I've lived, if I live, if I'll live, that would simplify everything, impossible to find out, that's where you'are buggered, I haven't stirred, that's all I know, no I know something else, it's not, I always forget that, I resume, you must resume, never stirred from here, never stopped telling stories, to myself, hardly hearing them, hearing something else, listening for something else, wondering now and then where I got them from, was I in the land of the living, were they in mine, and where, where do I store them, in my head, I don't feel a head on me, and what do I tell them with, with my mouth, same remark, and what do I hear them with, and so on, the old rigmarole, it can't be I, or it's because I pay no heed, it's such an old habit, I do it without heeding, or as if I were somewhere else, there I am far again, there I am the absentee again, it's turn again now, he who neither speaks nor listens, who has neither body nor soul, it's something else he has, he must be somewhere, he is made of silence, there's a pretty analysis, he's in the silence, he's the one to be sought, the one to be, the one to be spoken of , the one to speak, but he can't speak, then I could stop, I'd be he, I'd be silence, I'd be back in the silence, we'd be reunited, his story the story to be told, but he has no story, he .............
I'm all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, and nothing else, yes, something else, that I'm something quite different, a quite different thing, a wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs, nothing speaks, and that I listen, and that I seek, like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born in a cage and dead in a cage, born and then dead, born in a cage and then dead in a cage, in a word like a beast, in one of their words, like such a beast, and that I seek, like such a beast, with my little strength, such a beast, with nothing of its species left but fear and fury, no, the fury is past, nothing but fear, nothing of all its due but fear centupled, fear of its shadow, no, blind from birth, of sound then, if you like, we'll have that, one must have something, it's a pity, but there it is, fear of sound, fear of sounds, the sounds of beasts, the sounds of men, sounds in the daytime and sounds at night, that's enough, fear of sounds all sounds, more or less, more or less fear, all sounds, there's only one, continuous, day and night, what is it, it's steps coming and going, it's voices speaking for a moment, it's bodies groping their way, it's the air, it's things, it's the air among the things, that's enough, that I seek, like it, no, not like it, like me, in my own way, what am I saying, after my fashion, that I seek, what do I seek now, what it is, it must be that, it can only be that, what it is, what it can be, what what can be, what I seek, no, what I hear, I hear them, now it comes back to me, they say I seek what it is I hear, I hear them, now it comes back to me, what it can possibly be, and where it can possibly come from, since all is silent here, and the walls thick, and how I manage, without feeling an ear on me, or a head, or a body, or a soul, how I manage, to do what, how I manage, it's not clear, dear dear, you say it's not clear, something is wanting to make it clear, I'll seek, what is wanting, to make everything clear, I'm always seeking something, it's tiring in the end, and it's only the beginning.
As one gradually moves towards the inevitable end of the book, it may be felt like a lucid dream is coming to end, which one may have started to enjoy now and may feel an urge to be forever in that dream; but there's no need to go on, what could one get even if one goes on, for there's nothing to be achieved, nothing could be achieved, there was never anything to be achieved; life is so, one can't give any inherent purpose to life, there's no inherent purpose of life, there was never any inherent purpose of life, however one must go on, one will go on.
February 3, 2020
芦螘委渭伪蟽蟿蔚 魏伪蟿伪未喂魏伪蟽渭苇谓慰喂 蟽蔚 苇谓伪谓 伪喂蠋谓喂慰 渭慰谓蠈位慰纬慰, 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 苇谓谓慰喂伪, 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂蔚蠂蠈渭蔚谓慰. 危蔚 苇谓伪 伪喂蠋谓喂慰 渭慰蠀蟻渭慰蠉蟻喂蟽渭伪.禄
芦螡伪 渭喂位维渭蔚, 魏伪喂 谓伪 渭喂位维渭蔚 纬喂伪 蟿慰 蟿委蟺慰蟿伪.禄
螚 伪蟺慰纬慰萎蟿蔚蠀蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 伪蠁维谓蔚喂伪蟼 魏伪喂 畏 维位位畏 蟺位蔚蠀蟻维 蟿慰蠀 伪蟻谓畏蟿喂蟽渭慰蠉 蔚蠁慰未喂维味慰蠀谓 蟿慰谓 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 渭蔚 伪喂蟽喂慰未慰尉委伪 魏伪喂 蔚位蟺委未伪 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓
未喂伪 尾委慰蠀 伪蟽蠁蠀尉委伪.
螠蔚 蟺伪蟻维尉蔚谓畏 蠂伪蟻维,蟺蟻慰蟽渭慰谓萎 魏伪喂 蔚喂蟻蠅谓喂魏萎 畏未慰谓萎 蟺伪蟻慰蠀蟽喂维味蔚喂 蟿畏谓 魏位蔚喂蟽蟿慰蠁慰尾喂魏萎 渭伪谓委伪,蟿畏 蟽喂蠅蟺萎,蟿畏谓 伪蟿苇蟻渭慰谓畏 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蠀位位慰纬萎, 蟿畏 蟽魏苇蠄畏, 蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻伪蟿萎蟻畏蟽畏.
围蟿委味蔚喂 伪位萎胃蔚喂蔚蟼 渭蔚 蠀位喂魏维 伪蟺慰 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏 蟽维蟻魏伪 魏伪喂 渭蔚蟿维 蟿喂蟼 纬魏蟻蔚渭委味蔚喂 蔚魏 蟿蠅谓 苇蟽蠅 渭蔚 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿畏 渭伪蔚蟽蟿蟻委伪 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪蟽蟿蟻慰蠁喂魏萎 渭伪谓委伪.
韦慰 渭伪蟻蟿蠉蟻喂慰 伪蟻蠂委味蔚喂 伪蟺慰 蟿畏 蟽蟿喂纬渭萎 蟺慰蠀 伪蟻蠂委味蔚喂 畏 蟽魏苇蠄畏.
螏蟽蟿蔚蟻伪, 蟿委蟺慰蟿伪 魏伪喂 魏伪谓苇谓伪蟼 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 委未喂伪.
螖蔚谓 纬委谓蔚蟿伪喂 谓伪 蔚委谓伪喂 委未喂伪.
螠蟺慰蟻蔚委 魏伪喂 谓伪 纬委谓蔚蟿伪喂, 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 尾位苇蟺慰蠀渭蔚 蟿喂蟼 蔚喂魏蠈谓蔚蟼 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼 蟺慰蠀 伪谓蟿伪谓伪魏位蠋谓蟿伪喂 蠂慰蟻蔚蠉慰谓蟿伪蟼 蟽蔚 苇谓伪谓 蟿慰委蠂慰, 苇尉蠅 伪蟺慰 蟿畏 蟽魏慰蟿蔚喂谓萎 蟽蟺畏位喂维 蟺慰蠀 味慰蠉渭蔚.
螒谓 味慰蠉渭蔚. 螒谓 蠀蟺维蟻蠂慰蠀渭蔚. 螒谓 纬蔚谓谓畏胃萎魏伪渭蔚 蟺慰蟿苇.
螤蟻慰蟼 蟿慰 蟺伪蟻蠈谓 尾蟻喂蟽魏蠈渭伪蟽蟿蔚 蟽蟿畏 渭萎蟿蟻伪 蟿畏蟼 渭畏蟿苇蟻伪蟼 渭伪蟼 蠅蟼 苇渭尾蟻蠀伪 渭蔚 维纬谓蠅蟽蟿畏 蟿伪蠀蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪.
螕蔚谓谓喂蠈渭伪蟽蟿蔚 萎 蟺蔚胃伪委谓慰蠀渭蔚.
螣 "螒魏伪蟿慰谓蠈渭伪蟽蟿慰蟼"
伪蟺慰蟿蔚位蔚委 蟿畏谓 蟽蠀渭蟺蔚蟻伪蟽渭伪蟿喂魏萎 魏伪蟿伪魏位蔚委未伪 蟿畏蟼 蟿蟻喂位慰纬委伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿. 螠蔚蟿维 蟿慰 "螠慰位位蠈蠀" 魏伪喂 蟿慰
"螣 螠伪位蠈谓 蟺蔚胃伪委谓蔚喂" 苇蟻蠂蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰 蟿蟻委蟿慰 伪未喂伪委蟻蔚蟿慰 渭苇蟻慰蟼 蟿畏蟼 蟽蔚喂蟻维蟼.
螣 螒魏伪蟿慰谓蠈渭伪蟽蟿慰蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 慰 伪蠁畏纬畏蟿萎蟼 蟺慰蠀 蔚蟺喂未喂蠋魏蔚喂 谓伪 纬蟻维蠄蔚喂 纬喂伪 蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰蠀,蟿畏 蠁蠀蟽喂魏萎 魏伪喂 纬蔚蠅纬蟻伪蠁喂魏萎 蟿慰蠀 胃苇蟽畏.
韦伪蠀蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 维纬谓蠅蟽蟿畏.
螉蟽蠅蟼 渭喂伪 蔚渭尾蟻蠀蠆魏萎 慰谓蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 渭蔚 蠈位蔚蟼 蟿喂蟼 蟺蟻慰蟽位伪渭尾维谓慰蠀蟽蔚蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 蠁蠉蟽畏蟼 伪蟺慰魏慰渭渭苇谓畏 伪蟺慰 蟿喂蟼 蟻委味蔚蟼 蟿畏蟼. 螣位慰渭蠈谓伪蠂畏. 危喂蠅蟺畏位萎.
唯喂胃蠀蟻委味蔚喂 蟿慰 蟺蠅蟼,蟿慰 蟺蟻苇蟺蔚喂,蟿慰 纬喂伪蟿委,伪谓伪蟻蠅蟿喂苇蟿伪喂 纬喂伪 蟿畏 蠁蠉蟽畏 蟿畏蟼,蟿慰 蠁蠉位慰, 蟿慰 蠈谓慰渭伪 蟿畏蟼.
螠喂伪 慰谓蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蠁慰蟻维蔚喂 蟿畏 蟽维蟻魏伪 蠈位蠅谓 蟿蠅谓 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓. 韦畏 蟽维蟻魏伪 蟿慰蠀 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓慰蠀 纬苇谓慰蠀蟼 蟿畏蟼. 螠喂伪 伪蟽胃渭伪委谓慰蠀蟽伪 蠄蠀蠂萎,谓蔚慰纬苇谓谓畏蟿畏 魏伪喂 纬蔚蟻伪蟽渭苇谓畏.
违蟺慰未蠉蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰 渭维蟿伪喂慰 蟿畏蟼 渭慰谓伪尉喂维蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 蔚位蟺委未伪蟼. 螤蟻慰蟽渭苇谓蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 渭苇蟽伪 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 伪谓蠀蟺伪蟻尉委伪 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 蟿蔚位蔚蟿萎 蟽蠀谓蔚喂未畏蟿慰蟺慰委畏蟽畏蟼. 危蔚 苇谓伪 胃蔚伪蟿蟻喂魏蠈 苇蟻纬慰 蠄蠀蠂萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 渭谓萎渭畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿慰蠀 位蠈纬慰蠀.
"..蔚委渭伪喂 蠈位蔚蟼 蟿慰蠉蟿蔚蟼 慰喂 位苇尉蔚喂蟼, 蠈位蔚蟼 蟿慰蠉蟿蔚蟼 慰喂 维纬谓蠅蟽蟿蔚蟼, 蠈位慰蟼 蟿慰蠉蟿慰蟼 慰 渭蟺慰蠀蠂蠈蟼 伪蟺蠈 位苇尉蔚喂蟼, 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 苇未伪蠁慰蟼 谓伪 魏伪蟿伪魏维蟿蟽蔚喂, 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 慰蠀蟻伪谓蠈 谓伪 未喂伪位蠀胃蔚委, 蟺慰蠀 魏慰位位维谓蔚 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟺慰蠀谓, 尉蔚魏慰位位维谓蔚 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟺慰蠀谓, 蟺蠅蟼 蔚纬蠋 蔚委渭伪喂 伪蠀蟿苇蟼, 蠈位蔚蟼 伪蠀蟿苇蟼, 魏喂 伪蠀蟿苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 蔚谓蠋谓慰谓蟿伪喂, 魏喂 伪蠀蟿苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 蠂蠅蟻委味慰谓蟿伪喂, 魏喂 伪蠀蟿苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 未蔚 纬谓蠅蟻委味慰谓蟿伪喂, 伪蠀蟿苇蟼 魏伪喂 蟿委蟺慰蟿鈥� 维位位慰, 蠈蠂喂, 蔚谓蟿蔚位蠋蟼 维位位慰, 蟺蠅蟼 蔚委渭伪喂 魏维蟿喂 蔚谓蟿蔚位蠋蟼 维位位慰, 魏维蟿喂 尾慰蠀尾蠈, 蟽鈥� 苇谓伪 渭苇蟻慰蟼 维纬蟻喂慰, 维未蔚喂慰, 魏位蔚喂蟽蟿蠈, 渭伪蠉蟻慰, 尉蔚蟻蠈, 蟺伪纬蠅渭苇谓慰, 蠈蟺慰蠀 蟿委蟺慰蟿伪 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚 蟽伪位蔚蠉蔚喂, 蟿委蟺慰蟿伪 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚 渭喂位维蔚喂, 魏伪喂 蟺蠅蟼 伪魏慰蠉蠅, 魏伪喂 蟺蠅蟼 蠄维蠂谓蠅, 蟽伪 胃畏蟻委慰 蟽蔚 魏位慰蠀尾委 纬蔚谓谓畏渭苇谓慰 伪蟺蠈 胃畏蟻委伪 蟽蔚 魏位慰蠀尾委 纬蔚谓谓畏渭苇谓伪 伪蟺蠈 胃畏蟻委伪..."
螝伪蟿维 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰谓 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 慰 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 蠂蟻畏蟽喂渭慰蟺慰蔚委 蟿畏 胃苇蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 蔚渭尾蟻蠉慰蠀 委蟽蠅蟼, 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻维蠄蔚喂 蟿畏谓 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼.
螡伪 伪蠁畏纬畏胃蔚委 味蠅苇蟼 伪纬谓蠋蟽蟿蠅谓 畏蟻蠋蠅谓 蟿慰 委未喂慰 渭慰谓伪蠂喂魏蠋谓 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪未喂魏伪蟽渭苇谓蠅谓 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺伪纬委未伪 蟿畏蟼 渭谓萎渭畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 位萎胃畏蟼.
螤伪谓蟿慰蠉 蟽魏喂苇蟼,蟽魏慰蟿维未喂,
纬魏蟻喂 蠁蠅蟼,蠄委胃蠀蟻慰喂,蠁蠅谓伪蠂蟿苇蟼 蟽喂蠅蟺苇蟼,未蟻蠈渭慰喂 魏位蔚喂蟽蟿慰委, 伪蟺伪纬蠈蟻蔚蠀蟽畏 尾慰蠉位畏蟽畏蟼,
蠀蟺伪纬蠈蟻蔚蠀蟽畏 魏伪谓蠈谓蠅谓 蔚蟺喂尾委蠅蟽畏蟼,
螒螖螜螘萤螣螖螣.
螣 伪蟺蔚纬魏位蠅尾喂蟽渭蠈蟼 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿畏 未蠀蟽蟿蠀蠂委伪,蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰魏蟿萎谓蠅蟽畏,蟿畏 尾伪胃喂维 蔚蟽蠅蟿蔚蟻喂魏萎 伪喂渭渭慰蟻伪纬委伪 蟿畏蟼 蔚谓未慰蟽魏蠈蟺畏蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏 蠂伪渭苇谓畏 蟽蠂苇蟽畏 螛蔚慰蠉 魏伪喂 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓 蔚委谓伪喂 渭喂伪 蠀蟺蠈胃蔚蟽畏 魏伪胃伪蟻维 慰喂魏慰蠀渭蔚谓喂魏蠋蟼 蟺伪谓伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏.
螤畏未维蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺伪喂未喂魏萎 畏位喂魏委伪, 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 蟺伪蟻伪渭喂位畏蟿蠈 蟿蠈蟽慰 渭维蟿伪喂慰 魏伪喂 伪谓慰蠉蟽喂慰 蠈蟽慰 渭慰喂蟻伪委慰 魏伪喂 尾伪胃喂维 伪位畏胃喂谓蠈.
螆谓伪 伪蟿蔚位蔚委蠅蟿慰 蟺伪蟻伪渭蠉胃喂 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 魏伪蟿伪未喂魏伪蟽渭苇谓畏 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 萎 蟿畏谓 胃位喂尾蔚蟻萎 伪谓蠀蟺伪蟻尉委伪.
螒谓伪味畏蟿维蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蟿伪蠀蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿慰蠀,
尉蔚蟽蟺维蔚喂,蟺蔚蚁喂蠁蚁慰谓蔚委,魏伪蟿畏纬慰蚁蔚委,胃蠀渭蠋谓蔚喂,蟺伪蚁伪位慰纬委味蔚蟿伪喂.
惟蟼 畏位喂魏喂蠅渭苇谓慰蟼 蟺喂伪, 伪谓蟿喂位伪渭尾维谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟿畏谓 蟺位萎蟻畏 伪蟺蠋位蔚喂伪 魏维胃蔚 苇谓谓慰喂伪蟼 魏伪喂 蟺蔚蟻喂蔚蠂蠈渭蔚谓慰蠀. 韦畏谓 伪未蠀谓伪渭委伪 蟿慰蠀 伪蟿蠈渭慰蠀 谓伪 伪谓蟿喂蟽蟿伪胃蔚委 蟽蟿畏谓 尾维蟻尾伪蟻畏 魏伪喂 胃位喂尾蔚蟻萎 未蠉谓伪渭畏 蟿慰蠀 魏蠈蟽渭慰蠀. 危蠀谓胃位委尾蔚蟿伪喂,魏伪蟿伪蟺喂苇味蔚蟿伪喂,蟺伪位蔚蠉蔚喂 谓伪 伪谓蟿喂蟽蟿伪胃蔚委 渭苇蠂蟻喂 谓伪 未蔚蠂蟿蔚委 蟿伪 蟽蠀谓蟿蟻委渭渭喂伪 蟿慰蠀 蠂维慰蠀蟼. 螠苇蠂蟻喂 谓伪 尉伪谓伪味萎蟽蔚喂 萎 谓伪 尉伪谓伪蟺蔚胃维谓蔚喂.
螣 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 未蔚谓 蟽慰蠀 蔚蟺喂蟿蟻苇蟺蔚喂 蟺慰蟿苇 谓伪 尉蔚蠂维蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿畏谓 蟺伪胃喂伪蟽渭苇谓畏 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿畏蟼 蟺伪蟻伪未慰尉慰位慰纬委伪蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪蟼 蟿慰蠀.
螤慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 胃伪 蟽蔚 伪蠁萎蟽蔚喂 谓伪 蟺伪蟻伪谓慰萎蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿畏谓 慰蠀蟽委伪 蟿畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 蟽慰蠀.
螚 魏蠀蟻喂蠈蟿蔚蟻畏 未蠉谓伪渭畏 尾蟻委蟽魏蔚蟿伪喂 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰渭蠈谓蠅蟽畏, 蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰蟽蠉谓胃蔚蟽畏, 蟿畏谓 魏伪蟿伪未委魏畏 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻伪蟺位维谓畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰蠀蟽委伪 伪蠀蟿慰纬谓蠅蟽委伪蟼.
螌位伪 慰未畏纬慰蠉谓 蟽蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰 蟽蠋渭伪蟿慰蟼 魏伪喂 渭蠀伪位慰蠉. 危蔚 渭喂伪 位蠉蟿蟻蠅蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 委蟽蠅蟼 未蔚谓 苇蟻胃蔚喂 蟺慰蟿苇. 危蔚 渭喂伪 胃伪渭渭苇谓畏 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蟽苇尾蔚蟿伪喂 蟿畏谓 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 谓伪 伪蟺慰蟻蟻委蟺蟿蔚喂 蟿慰 蠄苇渭伪.
螖苇蠂蔚蟿伪喂 蟿畏 纬苇谓谓畏蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 蠅蟼 伪蟺慰喂魏委伪 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 蟽蠉渭蟺伪谓 蟺慰蠀 伪谓伪纬谓蠅蟻委味蔚喂 蠅蟼 味蠅谓蟿伪谓慰蠉蟼 渭蠈谓慰 蟿慰蠀蟼 蟽蠅渭伪蟿喂魏维 魏伪喂 蠄蠀蠂喂魏维 蠀纬蔚喂萎蟼.
螣喂 蠀蟺蠈位慰喂蟺慰喂, 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏维 维蠂蟻畏蟽蟿慰喂, 纬委谓慰谓蟿伪喂 渭蠉蟽蟿蔚蟼,胃蠉蟿蔚蟼 魏伪喂 胃蠉渭伪蟿伪, 蔚蟻伪蟽蟿苇蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪蟽蠂萎渭喂伪蟼,
蟿慰蠀 蟺蔚蟻喂胃蠅蟻委慰蠀 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼 魏伪喂 蟿慰蠀 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀.
螚 纬蟻伪蠁萎 蟿慰蠀 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 蟿蠀蠁位蠋谓蔚喂.
螒谓 未喂伪尾伪蟽蟿蔚委 渭蔚 魏伪谓蠈谓蔚蟼 位慰纬喂魏萎蟼 魏伪喂 渭蔚 蟽魏慰蟺慰蠉蟼 蟽蠀纬魏蔚魏蟻喂渭苇谓慰蠀 蟺蟻慰慰蟻喂蟽渭慰蠉 蟿蠈蟿蔚 魏伪蟿伪蟽蟿蟻苇蠁蔚蟿伪喂 畏 蟽蟺慰蠀未伪喂蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿畏蟼 魏慰蟽渭慰胃蔚蠅蟻委伪蟼 蟿慰蠀.
螘委谓伪喂 苇谓伪蟼 蟿伪尉喂未蔚蠀蟿萎蟼 渭蔚 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿慰 渭蔚蟿伪蠁蠀蟽喂魏蠈 蔚纬蠅喂蟽渭蠈.
螆谓伪蟼 尾伪蟻喂维 蟺伪蟻维蠁蟻蠅谓 蔚蟻伪蟽蟿萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪蟺伪喂蟽喂慰未慰尉委伪蟼,蟿畏蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂维蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 伪纬维蟺畏蟼.
螆谓伪蟼 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏蠈-魏蠅渭喂魏蠈蟼 畏胃慰蟺慰喂蠈蟼 蟽蟿慰 蠄蠀蠂喂魏蠈 胃苇伪蟿蟻慰 蟿慰蠀 蟺伪蟻伪位蠈纬慰蠀 蟺慰蠀 伪谓蟿喂位伪渭尾维谓蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 蠈位蔚蟼 蟿慰蠀 蟿喂蟼 伪喂蟽胃萎蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿畏谓 蟺慰位蠉蟿喂渭畏 伪尉委伪 蟽蟿慰 蟿伪尉委未喂 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼 蟺伪蟻维 蟿喂蟼 伪谓蠀蟺苇蟻尾位畏蟿蔚蟼 未蠀蟽魏慰位委蔚蟼.
违蟺慰魏蔚喂渭蔚谓喂魏蠈蟼 喂未蔚伪位喂蟽蟿萎蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿伪蠁苇蟻谓蔚喂 谓伪 蟽蔚 蠁蠀位伪魏委蟽蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蠀蟿慰魏蟻伪蟿委伪 蟿慰蠀 魏伪喂 谓伪 胃慰位蠋蟽蔚喂 蟿畏 蟽魏苇蠄畏 蟽慰蠀 渭蔚 喂蔚蟻苇蟼 蟿蔚位蔚蟿苇蟼 位蠈纬慰蠀 魏伪喂 蟽蠀谓蔚喂未畏蟿慰蟺慰委畏蟽畏蟼.
危蔚 尾伪蟺蟿委味蔚喂 蟽蟿慰 蠈谓慰渭伪 蟿畏蟼 魏蠈位伪蟽畏蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏蟻蠉尾蔚喂 慰 魏伪胃苇谓伪蟼 渭苇蟽伪 蟿慰蠀 魏伪喂 伪蟻蠂委味蔚喂 谓伪 蟽慰蠀 蔚蟺伪谓伪位伪渭尾维谓蔚喂 伪魏伪蟿维蟺伪蠀蟽蟿伪 蟿慰 渭慰谓蠈位慰纬慰 蟿慰蠀.
韦慰谓 伪魏慰蠉蟼 魏伪喂 蟿慰谓 魏伪蟿伪谓慰蔚委蟼 苇蠂慰谓蟿伪蟼 渭蔚纬维位蔚蟼 伪谓蟿慰蠂苇蟼 纬喂伪 蟿慰 "蟿委蟺慰蟿伪".
螒蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 "蟿委蟺慰蟿伪" 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 蠂蠋蟻慰 渭蟺蔚蟻未蔚渭苇谓慰 伪谓维渭蔚蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 伪未蠀谓伪渭委伪 蟿慰蠀 位蠈纬慰蠀,蟿畏 未蠉谓伪渭畏 蟿畏蟼 蟽喂蠅蟺萎蟼 蟽蟿畏谓 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪,魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 渭蠈谓蠅蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 伪蟺慰渭蠈谓蠅蟽畏蟼.
韦慰 "蟿委蟺慰蟿伪" 蟿慰蠀 蟿蟻委蟺蟿蠀蠂慰蠀 蟿慰蠀 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 伪喂蠋谓喂伪 渭伪蟿伪喂蠈蟿畏蟿伪, 蟿慰谓 维蠁胃伪蟻蟿慰 蠂蟻蠈谓慰 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻慰蟽渭慰谓萎 蔚位蟺委未伪蟼 魏伪喂 伪纬维蟺畏蟼.
芦螛伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蠅.
螤蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 位蔚蟼 位苇尉蔚喂蟼, 纬喂伪 蠈蟽慰 蠀蟺维蟻蠂慰蠀谓 位苇尉蔚喂蟼 - 蠋蟽蟺慰蠀 谓伪 渭蔚 尾蟻慰蠀谓, 蠋蟽蟺慰蠀 谓伪 渭蔚 蟺慰蠀谓.
(螤伪蟻维尉蔚谓慰蟼 蟺蠈谓慰蟼, 蟺伪蟻维尉蔚谓畏 伪渭伪蟻蟿委伪!)
螤蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蔚喂蟼. 螉蟽蠅蟼 苇蠂蔚喂 萎未畏 纬委谓蔚喂. 螉蟽蠅蟼 渭蔚 苇蠂慰蠀谓 萎未畏 蟺蔚喂. 螉蟽蠅蟼 渭蔚 魏慰蠀尾维位畏蟽伪谓 蟽蟿慰 魏伪蟿蠋蠁位喂 蟿畏蟼 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪蟼 渭慰蠀 蟺蟻喂谓 伪蟺' 蟿畏谓 蟺蠈蟻蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 伪谓慰委纬蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪 渭慰蠀.
(螛伪 渭蔚 蔚尉苇蟺位畏蟿蟿蔚, 伪谓 维谓慰喂纬蔚).
螛伪 蔚委谓伪喂 蔚纬蠋; 螛伪 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 蟽喂蠅蟺萎, 蔚魏蔚委 蟺慰蠀 蔚委渭伪喂;
螖蔚谓 尉苇蟻蠅, 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 胃伪 尉苇蟻蠅. 危蟿畏 蟽喂蠅蟺萎 未蔚谓 尉苇蟻蔚喂蟼.
螤蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蔚喂蟼.
螖蔚谓 渭蟺慰蟻蠋 谓伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蠅.
螛伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蠅禄.
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏!!
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼!!
芦螡伪 渭喂位维渭蔚, 魏伪喂 谓伪 渭喂位维渭蔚 纬喂伪 蟿慰 蟿委蟺慰蟿伪.禄
螚 伪蟺慰纬慰萎蟿蔚蠀蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 伪蠁维谓蔚喂伪蟼 魏伪喂 畏 维位位畏 蟺位蔚蠀蟻维 蟿慰蠀 伪蟻谓畏蟿喂蟽渭慰蠉 蔚蠁慰未喂维味慰蠀谓 蟿慰谓 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 渭蔚 伪喂蟽喂慰未慰尉委伪 魏伪喂 蔚位蟺委未伪 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓
未喂伪 尾委慰蠀 伪蟽蠁蠀尉委伪.
螠蔚 蟺伪蟻维尉蔚谓畏 蠂伪蟻维,蟺蟻慰蟽渭慰谓萎 魏伪喂 蔚喂蟻蠅谓喂魏萎 畏未慰谓萎 蟺伪蟻慰蠀蟽喂维味蔚喂 蟿畏谓 魏位蔚喂蟽蟿慰蠁慰尾喂魏萎 渭伪谓委伪,蟿畏 蟽喂蠅蟺萎,蟿畏谓 伪蟿苇蟻渭慰谓畏 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蠀位位慰纬萎, 蟿畏 蟽魏苇蠄畏, 蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻伪蟿萎蟻畏蟽畏.
围蟿委味蔚喂 伪位萎胃蔚喂蔚蟼 渭蔚 蠀位喂魏维 伪蟺慰 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏 蟽维蟻魏伪 魏伪喂 渭蔚蟿维 蟿喂蟼 纬魏蟻蔚渭委味蔚喂 蔚魏 蟿蠅谓 苇蟽蠅 渭蔚 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿畏 渭伪蔚蟽蟿蟻委伪 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪蟽蟿蟻慰蠁喂魏萎 渭伪谓委伪.
韦慰 渭伪蟻蟿蠉蟻喂慰 伪蟻蠂委味蔚喂 伪蟺慰 蟿畏 蟽蟿喂纬渭萎 蟺慰蠀 伪蟻蠂委味蔚喂 畏 蟽魏苇蠄畏.
螏蟽蟿蔚蟻伪, 蟿委蟺慰蟿伪 魏伪喂 魏伪谓苇谓伪蟼 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 委未喂伪.
螖蔚谓 纬委谓蔚蟿伪喂 谓伪 蔚委谓伪喂 委未喂伪.
螠蟺慰蟻蔚委 魏伪喂 谓伪 纬委谓蔚蟿伪喂, 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 尾位苇蟺慰蠀渭蔚 蟿喂蟼 蔚喂魏蠈谓蔚蟼 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼 蟺慰蠀 伪谓蟿伪谓伪魏位蠋谓蟿伪喂 蠂慰蟻蔚蠉慰谓蟿伪蟼 蟽蔚 苇谓伪谓 蟿慰委蠂慰, 苇尉蠅 伪蟺慰 蟿畏 蟽魏慰蟿蔚喂谓萎 蟽蟺畏位喂维 蟺慰蠀 味慰蠉渭蔚.
螒谓 味慰蠉渭蔚. 螒谓 蠀蟺维蟻蠂慰蠀渭蔚. 螒谓 纬蔚谓谓畏胃萎魏伪渭蔚 蟺慰蟿苇.
螤蟻慰蟼 蟿慰 蟺伪蟻蠈谓 尾蟻喂蟽魏蠈渭伪蟽蟿蔚 蟽蟿畏 渭萎蟿蟻伪 蟿畏蟼 渭畏蟿苇蟻伪蟼 渭伪蟼 蠅蟼 苇渭尾蟻蠀伪 渭蔚 维纬谓蠅蟽蟿畏 蟿伪蠀蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪.
螕蔚谓谓喂蠈渭伪蟽蟿蔚 萎 蟺蔚胃伪委谓慰蠀渭蔚.
螣 "螒魏伪蟿慰谓蠈渭伪蟽蟿慰蟼"
伪蟺慰蟿蔚位蔚委 蟿畏谓 蟽蠀渭蟺蔚蟻伪蟽渭伪蟿喂魏萎 魏伪蟿伪魏位蔚委未伪 蟿畏蟼 蟿蟻喂位慰纬委伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿. 螠蔚蟿维 蟿慰 "螠慰位位蠈蠀" 魏伪喂 蟿慰
"螣 螠伪位蠈谓 蟺蔚胃伪委谓蔚喂" 苇蟻蠂蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰 蟿蟻委蟿慰 伪未喂伪委蟻蔚蟿慰 渭苇蟻慰蟼 蟿畏蟼 蟽蔚喂蟻维蟼.
螣 螒魏伪蟿慰谓蠈渭伪蟽蟿慰蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 慰 伪蠁畏纬畏蟿萎蟼 蟺慰蠀 蔚蟺喂未喂蠋魏蔚喂 谓伪 纬蟻维蠄蔚喂 纬喂伪 蟿慰谓 蔚伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰蠀,蟿畏 蠁蠀蟽喂魏萎 魏伪喂 纬蔚蠅纬蟻伪蠁喂魏萎 蟿慰蠀 胃苇蟽畏.
韦伪蠀蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 维纬谓蠅蟽蟿畏.
螉蟽蠅蟼 渭喂伪 蔚渭尾蟻蠀蠆魏萎 慰谓蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 渭蔚 蠈位蔚蟼 蟿喂蟼 蟺蟻慰蟽位伪渭尾维谓慰蠀蟽蔚蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 蠁蠉蟽畏蟼 伪蟺慰魏慰渭渭苇谓畏 伪蟺慰 蟿喂蟼 蟻委味蔚蟼 蟿畏蟼. 螣位慰渭蠈谓伪蠂畏. 危喂蠅蟺畏位萎.
唯喂胃蠀蟻委味蔚喂 蟿慰 蟺蠅蟼,蟿慰 蟺蟻苇蟺蔚喂,蟿慰 纬喂伪蟿委,伪谓伪蟻蠅蟿喂苇蟿伪喂 纬喂伪 蟿畏 蠁蠉蟽畏 蟿畏蟼,蟿慰 蠁蠉位慰, 蟿慰 蠈谓慰渭伪 蟿畏蟼.
螠喂伪 慰谓蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蠁慰蟻维蔚喂 蟿畏 蟽维蟻魏伪 蠈位蠅谓 蟿蠅谓 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓. 韦畏 蟽维蟻魏伪 蟿慰蠀 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓慰蠀 纬苇谓慰蠀蟼 蟿畏蟼. 螠喂伪 伪蟽胃渭伪委谓慰蠀蟽伪 蠄蠀蠂萎,谓蔚慰纬苇谓谓畏蟿畏 魏伪喂 纬蔚蟻伪蟽渭苇谓畏.
违蟺慰未蠉蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰 渭维蟿伪喂慰 蟿畏蟼 渭慰谓伪尉喂维蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 蔚位蟺委未伪蟼. 螤蟻慰蟽渭苇谓蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 渭苇蟽伪 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 伪谓蠀蟺伪蟻尉委伪 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 蟿蔚位蔚蟿萎 蟽蠀谓蔚喂未畏蟿慰蟺慰委畏蟽畏蟼. 危蔚 苇谓伪 胃蔚伪蟿蟻喂魏蠈 苇蟻纬慰 蠄蠀蠂萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 渭谓萎渭畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿慰蠀 位蠈纬慰蠀.
"..蔚委渭伪喂 蠈位蔚蟼 蟿慰蠉蟿蔚蟼 慰喂 位苇尉蔚喂蟼, 蠈位蔚蟼 蟿慰蠉蟿蔚蟼 慰喂 维纬谓蠅蟽蟿蔚蟼, 蠈位慰蟼 蟿慰蠉蟿慰蟼 慰 渭蟺慰蠀蠂蠈蟼 伪蟺蠈 位苇尉蔚喂蟼, 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 苇未伪蠁慰蟼 谓伪 魏伪蟿伪魏维蟿蟽蔚喂, 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 慰蠀蟻伪谓蠈 谓伪 未喂伪位蠀胃蔚委, 蟺慰蠀 魏慰位位维谓蔚 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟺慰蠀谓, 尉蔚魏慰位位维谓蔚 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟺慰蠀谓, 蟺蠅蟼 蔚纬蠋 蔚委渭伪喂 伪蠀蟿苇蟼, 蠈位蔚蟼 伪蠀蟿苇蟼, 魏喂 伪蠀蟿苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 蔚谓蠋谓慰谓蟿伪喂, 魏喂 伪蠀蟿苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 蠂蠅蟻委味慰谓蟿伪喂, 魏喂 伪蠀蟿苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 未蔚 纬谓蠅蟻委味慰谓蟿伪喂, 伪蠀蟿苇蟼 魏伪喂 蟿委蟺慰蟿鈥� 维位位慰, 蠈蠂喂, 蔚谓蟿蔚位蠋蟼 维位位慰, 蟺蠅蟼 蔚委渭伪喂 魏维蟿喂 蔚谓蟿蔚位蠋蟼 维位位慰, 魏维蟿喂 尾慰蠀尾蠈, 蟽鈥� 苇谓伪 渭苇蟻慰蟼 维纬蟻喂慰, 维未蔚喂慰, 魏位蔚喂蟽蟿蠈, 渭伪蠉蟻慰, 尉蔚蟻蠈, 蟺伪纬蠅渭苇谓慰, 蠈蟺慰蠀 蟿委蟺慰蟿伪 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚 蟽伪位蔚蠉蔚喂, 蟿委蟺慰蟿伪 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚 渭喂位维蔚喂, 魏伪喂 蟺蠅蟼 伪魏慰蠉蠅, 魏伪喂 蟺蠅蟼 蠄维蠂谓蠅, 蟽伪 胃畏蟻委慰 蟽蔚 魏位慰蠀尾委 纬蔚谓谓畏渭苇谓慰 伪蟺蠈 胃畏蟻委伪 蟽蔚 魏位慰蠀尾委 纬蔚谓谓畏渭苇谓伪 伪蟺蠈 胃畏蟻委伪..."
螝伪蟿维 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰谓 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 慰 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 蠂蟻畏蟽喂渭慰蟺慰蔚委 蟿畏 胃苇蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 蔚渭尾蟻蠉慰蠀 委蟽蠅蟼, 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻维蠄蔚喂 蟿畏谓 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼.
螡伪 伪蠁畏纬畏胃蔚委 味蠅苇蟼 伪纬谓蠋蟽蟿蠅谓 畏蟻蠋蠅谓 蟿慰 委未喂慰 渭慰谓伪蠂喂魏蠋谓 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿伪未喂魏伪蟽渭苇谓蠅谓 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺伪纬委未伪 蟿畏蟼 渭谓萎渭畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 位萎胃畏蟼.
螤伪谓蟿慰蠉 蟽魏喂苇蟼,蟽魏慰蟿维未喂,
纬魏蟻喂 蠁蠅蟼,蠄委胃蠀蟻慰喂,蠁蠅谓伪蠂蟿苇蟼 蟽喂蠅蟺苇蟼,未蟻蠈渭慰喂 魏位蔚喂蟽蟿慰委, 伪蟺伪纬蠈蟻蔚蠀蟽畏 尾慰蠉位畏蟽畏蟼,
蠀蟺伪纬蠈蟻蔚蠀蟽畏 魏伪谓蠈谓蠅谓 蔚蟺喂尾委蠅蟽畏蟼,
螒螖螜螘萤螣螖螣.
螣 伪蟺蔚纬魏位蠅尾喂蟽渭蠈蟼 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿畏 未蠀蟽蟿蠀蠂委伪,蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰魏蟿萎谓蠅蟽畏,蟿畏 尾伪胃喂维 蔚蟽蠅蟿蔚蟻喂魏萎 伪喂渭渭慰蟻伪纬委伪 蟿畏蟼 蔚谓未慰蟽魏蠈蟺畏蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏 蠂伪渭苇谓畏 蟽蠂苇蟽畏 螛蔚慰蠉 魏伪喂 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓 蔚委谓伪喂 渭喂伪 蠀蟺蠈胃蔚蟽畏 魏伪胃伪蟻维 慰喂魏慰蠀渭蔚谓喂魏蠋蟼 蟺伪谓伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏.
螤畏未维蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺伪喂未喂魏萎 畏位喂魏委伪, 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 蟺伪蟻伪渭喂位畏蟿蠈 蟿蠈蟽慰 渭维蟿伪喂慰 魏伪喂 伪谓慰蠉蟽喂慰 蠈蟽慰 渭慰喂蟻伪委慰 魏伪喂 尾伪胃喂维 伪位畏胃喂谓蠈.
螆谓伪 伪蟿蔚位蔚委蠅蟿慰 蟺伪蟻伪渭蠉胃喂 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 魏伪蟿伪未喂魏伪蟽渭苇谓畏 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 萎 蟿畏谓 胃位喂尾蔚蟻萎 伪谓蠀蟺伪蟻尉委伪.
螒谓伪味畏蟿维蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蟿伪蠀蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿慰蠀,
尉蔚蟽蟺维蔚喂,蟺蔚蚁喂蠁蚁慰谓蔚委,魏伪蟿畏纬慰蚁蔚委,胃蠀渭蠋谓蔚喂,蟺伪蚁伪位慰纬委味蔚蟿伪喂.
惟蟼 畏位喂魏喂蠅渭苇谓慰蟼 蟺喂伪, 伪谓蟿喂位伪渭尾维谓蔚蟿伪喂 蟿畏谓 蟺位萎蟻畏 伪蟺蠋位蔚喂伪 魏维胃蔚 苇谓谓慰喂伪蟼 魏伪喂 蟺蔚蟻喂蔚蠂蠈渭蔚谓慰蠀. 韦畏谓 伪未蠀谓伪渭委伪 蟿慰蠀 伪蟿蠈渭慰蠀 谓伪 伪谓蟿喂蟽蟿伪胃蔚委 蟽蟿畏谓 尾维蟻尾伪蟻畏 魏伪喂 胃位喂尾蔚蟻萎 未蠉谓伪渭畏 蟿慰蠀 魏蠈蟽渭慰蠀. 危蠀谓胃位委尾蔚蟿伪喂,魏伪蟿伪蟺喂苇味蔚蟿伪喂,蟺伪位蔚蠉蔚喂 谓伪 伪谓蟿喂蟽蟿伪胃蔚委 渭苇蠂蟻喂 谓伪 未蔚蠂蟿蔚委 蟿伪 蟽蠀谓蟿蟻委渭渭喂伪 蟿慰蠀 蠂维慰蠀蟼. 螠苇蠂蟻喂 谓伪 尉伪谓伪味萎蟽蔚喂 萎 谓伪 尉伪谓伪蟺蔚胃维谓蔚喂.
螣 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 未蔚谓 蟽慰蠀 蔚蟺喂蟿蟻苇蟺蔚喂 蟺慰蟿苇 谓伪 尉蔚蠂维蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿畏谓 蟺伪胃喂伪蟽渭苇谓畏 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿畏蟼 蟺伪蟻伪未慰尉慰位慰纬委伪蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪蟼 蟿慰蠀.
螤慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 胃伪 蟽蔚 伪蠁萎蟽蔚喂 谓伪 蟺伪蟻伪谓慰萎蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿畏谓 慰蠀蟽委伪 蟿畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 蟽慰蠀.
螚 魏蠀蟻喂蠈蟿蔚蟻畏 未蠉谓伪渭畏 尾蟻委蟽魏蔚蟿伪喂 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰渭蠈谓蠅蟽畏, 蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰蟽蠉谓胃蔚蟽畏, 蟿畏谓 魏伪蟿伪未委魏畏 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻伪蟺位维谓畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰蠀蟽委伪 伪蠀蟿慰纬谓蠅蟽委伪蟼.
螌位伪 慰未畏纬慰蠉谓 蟽蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰 蟽蠋渭伪蟿慰蟼 魏伪喂 渭蠀伪位慰蠉. 危蔚 渭喂伪 位蠉蟿蟻蠅蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 委蟽蠅蟼 未蔚谓 苇蟻胃蔚喂 蟺慰蟿苇. 危蔚 渭喂伪 胃伪渭渭苇谓畏 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蟽苇尾蔚蟿伪喂 蟿畏谓 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 谓伪 伪蟺慰蟻蟻委蟺蟿蔚喂 蟿慰 蠄苇渭伪.
螖苇蠂蔚蟿伪喂 蟿畏 纬苇谓谓畏蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 蠅蟼 伪蟺慰喂魏委伪 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 蟽蠉渭蟺伪谓 蟺慰蠀 伪谓伪纬谓蠅蟻委味蔚喂 蠅蟼 味蠅谓蟿伪谓慰蠉蟼 渭蠈谓慰 蟿慰蠀蟼 蟽蠅渭伪蟿喂魏维 魏伪喂 蠄蠀蠂喂魏维 蠀纬蔚喂萎蟼.
螣喂 蠀蟺蠈位慰喂蟺慰喂, 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏维 维蠂蟻畏蟽蟿慰喂, 纬委谓慰谓蟿伪喂 渭蠉蟽蟿蔚蟼,胃蠉蟿蔚蟼 魏伪喂 胃蠉渭伪蟿伪, 蔚蟻伪蟽蟿苇蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪蟽蠂萎渭喂伪蟼,
蟿慰蠀 蟺蔚蟻喂胃蠅蟻委慰蠀 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼 魏伪喂 蟿慰蠀 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀.
螚 纬蟻伪蠁萎 蟿慰蠀 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 蟿蠀蠁位蠋谓蔚喂.
螒谓 未喂伪尾伪蟽蟿蔚委 渭蔚 魏伪谓蠈谓蔚蟼 位慰纬喂魏萎蟼 魏伪喂 渭蔚 蟽魏慰蟺慰蠉蟼 蟽蠀纬魏蔚魏蟻喂渭苇谓慰蠀 蟺蟻慰慰蟻喂蟽渭慰蠉 蟿蠈蟿蔚 魏伪蟿伪蟽蟿蟻苇蠁蔚蟿伪喂 畏 蟽蟺慰蠀未伪喂蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿畏蟼 魏慰蟽渭慰胃蔚蠅蟻委伪蟼 蟿慰蠀.
螘委谓伪喂 苇谓伪蟼 蟿伪尉喂未蔚蠀蟿萎蟼 渭蔚 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿慰 渭蔚蟿伪蠁蠀蟽喂魏蠈 蔚纬蠅喂蟽渭蠈.
螆谓伪蟼 尾伪蟻喂维 蟺伪蟻维蠁蟻蠅谓 蔚蟻伪蟽蟿萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪蟺伪喂蟽喂慰未慰尉委伪蟼,蟿畏蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂维蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 伪纬维蟺畏蟼.
螆谓伪蟼 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏蠈-魏蠅渭喂魏蠈蟼 畏胃慰蟺慰喂蠈蟼 蟽蟿慰 蠄蠀蠂喂魏蠈 胃苇伪蟿蟻慰 蟿慰蠀 蟺伪蟻伪位蠈纬慰蠀 蟺慰蠀 伪谓蟿喂位伪渭尾维谓蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 蠈位蔚蟼 蟿慰蠀 蟿喂蟼 伪喂蟽胃萎蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿畏谓 蟺慰位蠉蟿喂渭畏 伪尉委伪 蟽蟿慰 蟿伪尉委未喂 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼 蟺伪蟻维 蟿喂蟼 伪谓蠀蟺苇蟻尾位畏蟿蔚蟼 未蠀蟽魏慰位委蔚蟼.
违蟺慰魏蔚喂渭蔚谓喂魏蠈蟼 喂未蔚伪位喂蟽蟿萎蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿伪蠁苇蟻谓蔚喂 谓伪 蟽蔚 蠁蠀位伪魏委蟽蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蠀蟿慰魏蟻伪蟿委伪 蟿慰蠀 魏伪喂 谓伪 胃慰位蠋蟽蔚喂 蟿畏 蟽魏苇蠄畏 蟽慰蠀 渭蔚 喂蔚蟻苇蟼 蟿蔚位蔚蟿苇蟼 位蠈纬慰蠀 魏伪喂 蟽蠀谓蔚喂未畏蟿慰蟺慰委畏蟽畏蟼.
危蔚 尾伪蟺蟿委味蔚喂 蟽蟿慰 蠈谓慰渭伪 蟿畏蟼 魏蠈位伪蟽畏蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏蟻蠉尾蔚喂 慰 魏伪胃苇谓伪蟼 渭苇蟽伪 蟿慰蠀 魏伪喂 伪蟻蠂委味蔚喂 谓伪 蟽慰蠀 蔚蟺伪谓伪位伪渭尾维谓蔚喂 伪魏伪蟿维蟺伪蠀蟽蟿伪 蟿慰 渭慰谓蠈位慰纬慰 蟿慰蠀.
韦慰谓 伪魏慰蠉蟼 魏伪喂 蟿慰谓 魏伪蟿伪谓慰蔚委蟼 苇蠂慰谓蟿伪蟼 渭蔚纬维位蔚蟼 伪谓蟿慰蠂苇蟼 纬喂伪 蟿慰 "蟿委蟺慰蟿伪".
螒蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 "蟿委蟺慰蟿伪" 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 蠂蠋蟻慰 渭蟺蔚蟻未蔚渭苇谓慰 伪谓维渭蔚蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 伪未蠀谓伪渭委伪 蟿慰蠀 位蠈纬慰蠀,蟿畏 未蠉谓伪渭畏 蟿畏蟼 蟽喂蠅蟺萎蟼 蟽蟿畏谓 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪,魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 渭蠈谓蠅蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 伪蟺慰渭蠈谓蠅蟽畏蟼.
韦慰 "蟿委蟺慰蟿伪" 蟿慰蠀 蟿蟻委蟺蟿蠀蠂慰蠀 蟿慰蠀 螠蟺苇魏蔚蟿 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 伪喂蠋谓喂伪 渭伪蟿伪喂蠈蟿畏蟿伪, 蟿慰谓 维蠁胃伪蟻蟿慰 蠂蟻蠈谓慰 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻慰蟽渭慰谓萎 蔚位蟺委未伪蟼 魏伪喂 伪纬维蟺畏蟼.
芦螛伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蠅.
螤蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 位蔚蟼 位苇尉蔚喂蟼, 纬喂伪 蠈蟽慰 蠀蟺维蟻蠂慰蠀谓 位苇尉蔚喂蟼 - 蠋蟽蟺慰蠀 谓伪 渭蔚 尾蟻慰蠀谓, 蠋蟽蟺慰蠀 谓伪 渭蔚 蟺慰蠀谓.
(螤伪蟻维尉蔚谓慰蟼 蟺蠈谓慰蟼, 蟺伪蟻维尉蔚谓畏 伪渭伪蟻蟿委伪!)
螤蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蔚喂蟼. 螉蟽蠅蟼 苇蠂蔚喂 萎未畏 纬委谓蔚喂. 螉蟽蠅蟼 渭蔚 苇蠂慰蠀谓 萎未畏 蟺蔚喂. 螉蟽蠅蟼 渭蔚 魏慰蠀尾维位畏蟽伪谓 蟽蟿慰 魏伪蟿蠋蠁位喂 蟿畏蟼 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪蟼 渭慰蠀 蟺蟻喂谓 伪蟺' 蟿畏谓 蟺蠈蟻蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 伪谓慰委纬蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 喂蟽蟿慰蟻委伪 渭慰蠀.
(螛伪 渭蔚 蔚尉苇蟺位畏蟿蟿蔚, 伪谓 维谓慰喂纬蔚).
螛伪 蔚委谓伪喂 蔚纬蠋; 螛伪 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 蟽喂蠅蟺萎, 蔚魏蔚委 蟺慰蠀 蔚委渭伪喂;
螖蔚谓 尉苇蟻蠅, 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 胃伪 尉苇蟻蠅. 危蟿畏 蟽喂蠅蟺萎 未蔚谓 尉苇蟻蔚喂蟼.
螤蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蔚喂蟼.
螖蔚谓 渭蟺慰蟻蠋 谓伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蠅.
螛伪 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委蟽蠅禄.
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏!!
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼!!
December 17, 2015
There I was, happily standing on one leg. The right one. The one on my right, I mean, since it could have been the one on my left and that would have also been right. Nothing wrong with the left. Perfectly right the left, I think. I could feel my quadriceps, of the right leg, fully engaged and my kneecap pulled up tight. That is according to what I remember, of course, because it could have been different. My leg was as continuous as a column on which my body rightly hung. There was a bit of a magical balance in the way my hips and shoulders and backbone counterweighed each other. But I was certainly firm on my self.
Right!
My fear was that I knew, or I suspected, that Malone was coming, and since Molloy had gone in the other direction and could come back--or was I just hoping that he would come back when in reality there was no possibility that he would come back?-- anyway, I thought that if Molloy came back they both could clash with each other if they met . That would be an astronomical collusion. So that was my fear. But no, there was no sign of Molloy. I don鈥檛 know why I was expecting that. What happened was that Malone came to me and gave me a little tap on the shoulder.
And he threw me off balance.
Merde! Sorry, no. Shit!
Just when I was understanding the world from my strong position. I was not understanding the world from my not strong position (and the autocorrect algorithm in this computer tells me to substitute and place 鈥業 did not understand鈥� instead of 鈥業 was not understanding鈥� but it is the autocorrect that does not understand 鈥� I am talking about processes and not about fully realized situations).
I changed legs and now stood with the tight muscles of my left leg: the 鈥榮iniestra鈥� leg, which should not be understood as if my situation were sinister. It was as right as with the right leg. Otherwise it would be superstitious rather than scientific and certainly not more certain.
On my left leg now, and here comes Molloy who did not show up before. Right now I can see the future. He will come to me and tap me on my right shoulder. No, the left shoulder, and will throw me off balance.
Shit! Sorry, no. Merde!
That is what I would say if that were to happen. But I am not sure.
As if I needed a body and the laws of physics to find my balance, my center, my point of view, my self 鈥� my conscience. But this is all entirely unaccountable. For Godot鈥檚 sake!
I don鈥檛 know what story am I telling them, or am I telling it to you? Molloy and Malone and their hats came and went imagined and remembered or forgotten. But they did make me feel like a little worm rather than a Human. For Worm substituted them and I heard the words, or I read them with my inner voice, or it was the voice of that other one who does not want to name himself. Or cannot.
Just when I thought I was beginning to understand Beckett, as if understanding were based on one or the other of my stupid legs, when it is all about consciousness and its dissolution. Understanding and sense or illusion of self.
Reading this is like watching a piece of ice dissolve in a glass of water. A water made of the runny and translucent and colourless matter of a general consciousness with no identity, but which leaves dregs at the bottom. Words and words.
It cannot be named.
------------------
And iff (if and only if) I am allowed just a tiny little speck of certainty I will venture that this is the most brilliant Beckett I have read so far.
I think -- but I may not be.
December 28, 2024
...you must go on, I can鈥檛 go on, you must go on, I鈥檒l go on, you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on...
Sam! My beloved Sam! My brilliant, precocious, introvert and cynical friend!
I must confess, as always, I didn鈥檛 understand all you had to say; some things went right over my head, and if I have to explain what I just read, I couldn鈥檛 for the life of me offer a coherent pr茅cis.
For some reason, I love reading you, Sam. For all the headaches, sense of claustrophobias and depressions your books bestow me, I still love reading you鈥� and when I do read you, I curse you for not being a bit more lucid.
I love reading your plot-less, absurd, exasperating existential musings and ostensibly delusional monologues, even though you make me feel miserable; even though you make me question things that better stayed obscured.
And every time I read you, I am moved to tears, because at the end, I get you!
I completely and irrevocably and unexplainably get you!
Disclaimer: The Unnamable is the third book in a trilogy. There are mentions of the characters from the first two books, but I guess you can read it as a standalone.
The following is an excerpt from the book...in case, based on my 5 stars, someone isn't depressed and confused enough and wants to read the whole book.
...But what鈥檚 all this about not being able to die, live, be born, that must have some bearing, all this about staying where you are, dying, living, being born, unable to go forward or back, not knowing where you came from, or where you are, or where you鈥檙e going, or that it鈥檚 possible to be elsewhere, to be otherwise, supposing nothing, asking yourself nothing, you can鈥檛, you鈥檙e there, you don鈥檛 know who, you don鈥檛 know where, the thing stays where it is, nothing changes, within it, outside it, apparently, apparently. And there is nothing for it but to wait for the end, nothing but for the end to come, and at the end all will be the same, at the end at last perhaps all the same as before, as all that livelong time when there was nothing for it but to get to the end, or fly from it, or wait for it, trembling or not, resigned or not, the nuisance of doing over, and of being, same thing, for one who could never do, never be. Ah if only this voice could stop, this meaningless voice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you from being nothing and nowhere, just enough to keep alight this little yellow flame feebly darting from side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from its wick, it should never have been lit, or it should never have been fed, or it should have been put out, put out, it should have been let go out. Regretting, that鈥檚 what helps you on, that鈥檚 what gets you on towards the end of the world, regretting what is, regretting what was, it鈥檚 not the same thing, yes, it鈥檚 the same, you don鈥檛 know, what鈥檚 happening, what鈥檚 happened, perhaps it鈥檚 the same, the same regrets, that鈥檚 what transports you, towards the end of regretting...
...Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I鈥檒l never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time. So there is nothing to be afraid of. And yet I am afraid, afraid of what my words will do to me, to my refuge, yet again...
Sam! My beloved Sam! My brilliant, precocious, introvert and cynical friend!
I must confess, as always, I didn鈥檛 understand all you had to say; some things went right over my head, and if I have to explain what I just read, I couldn鈥檛 for the life of me offer a coherent pr茅cis.
For some reason, I love reading you, Sam. For all the headaches, sense of claustrophobias and depressions your books bestow me, I still love reading you鈥� and when I do read you, I curse you for not being a bit more lucid.
I love reading your plot-less, absurd, exasperating existential musings and ostensibly delusional monologues, even though you make me feel miserable; even though you make me question things that better stayed obscured.
And every time I read you, I am moved to tears, because at the end, I get you!
I completely and irrevocably and unexplainably get you!
Disclaimer: The Unnamable is the third book in a trilogy. There are mentions of the characters from the first two books, but I guess you can read it as a standalone.
The following is an excerpt from the book...in case, based on my 5 stars, someone isn't depressed and confused enough and wants to read the whole book.
...But what鈥檚 all this about not being able to die, live, be born, that must have some bearing, all this about staying where you are, dying, living, being born, unable to go forward or back, not knowing where you came from, or where you are, or where you鈥檙e going, or that it鈥檚 possible to be elsewhere, to be otherwise, supposing nothing, asking yourself nothing, you can鈥檛, you鈥檙e there, you don鈥檛 know who, you don鈥檛 know where, the thing stays where it is, nothing changes, within it, outside it, apparently, apparently. And there is nothing for it but to wait for the end, nothing but for the end to come, and at the end all will be the same, at the end at last perhaps all the same as before, as all that livelong time when there was nothing for it but to get to the end, or fly from it, or wait for it, trembling or not, resigned or not, the nuisance of doing over, and of being, same thing, for one who could never do, never be. Ah if only this voice could stop, this meaningless voice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you from being nothing and nowhere, just enough to keep alight this little yellow flame feebly darting from side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from its wick, it should never have been lit, or it should never have been fed, or it should have been put out, put out, it should have been let go out. Regretting, that鈥檚 what helps you on, that鈥檚 what gets you on towards the end of the world, regretting what is, regretting what was, it鈥檚 not the same thing, yes, it鈥檚 the same, you don鈥檛 know, what鈥檚 happening, what鈥檚 happened, perhaps it鈥檚 the same, the same regrets, that鈥檚 what transports you, towards the end of regretting...
...Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I鈥檒l never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time. So there is nothing to be afraid of. And yet I am afraid, afraid of what my words will do to me, to my refuge, yet again...
June 18, 2020
I just finished, and I think it's brilliant. I can't exactly say why or demonstrate it, it seems. I can't remember much of what I just read either. It's like it only exists while being read... (?)
March 3, 2020
Parece que este a帽o ha sido para m铆 el desaf铆o de los libros dif铆ciles, inclasificables y extra帽os. Cuando pensaba que ya lo hab铆a le铆do todo con el Finnegans Wake, me encuentro con este inclasificable y desconcertante libro del premio Nobel, Samuel Beckett.
Nunca queda claro qui茅n (o qu茅) es el narrador de 鈥淓l innombrable鈥�. 驴Es una persona? 驴Es una voz? 驴Un ente? Si es una persona, 驴est谩 preso? 驴Est谩 loco? 驴Est谩 en una prisi贸n? 驴En un sanatorio mental? 驴Forma parte de un sue帽o y todo lo que leemos es lo que le sucede ah铆 dentro? 驴En el sue帽o, est谩 prisionero dentro de un monumento?
Porque casi que no tiene forma. No tiene brazos ni piernas y posee un solo ojo que casi no puede cerrar y que le llora constantemente. No lo s茅鈥� Me surgieron demasiados interrogantes mientras le铆a.
Las palabras fluyen, al parecer, de su boca para contarnos a d贸nde intenta dirigirse, pero ni siquiera 茅l lo sabe: "D贸nde ahora? 驴Cu谩ndo ahora? 驴Qui茅n ahora? Sin pregunt谩rmelo. Decir yo. Sin pensarlo. Llamar a esto preguntas, hip贸tesis. Ir adelante, llamar a esto ir, llamar a esto adelante."
驴Podemos decir que es un soliloquio? 驴Una declaraci贸n de principios? 驴Un manifiesto? 驴Es un "stream of conciousness" de 190 p谩ginas? Tal vez s铆. O tal vez no. Como escrib铆 reci茅n, ni siquiera el pobre narrador intuye una salida a su "existencia": " 驴C贸mo hacer, c贸mo voy a hacer, qu茅 debo hacer, en la situaci贸n en que me hallo, c贸mo proceder?"
Ya desde la primera p谩gina, la complejidad del texto acorrala al lector al mismo lugar que el narrador, que va mutando m谩scaras de personajes que componen la trilog铆a que termina con este libro, porque nombra a Molloy, a Watt, a Murphy, a Mahoon y adem谩s decide llamarse "Worm" (gusano).
Es incluso hasta dif铆cil asociar este libro con otros. Seguramente habr谩 otros lectores que hayan encontrado textos parecidos. En lo que a m铆 respecta, s贸lo puedo (intentar) compararlos por un lado con uno que le铆 hace muy poco, 鈥淟a ca铆da鈥�, de Albert Camus, aunque el personaje de ese libro forma parte de una conversaci贸n de la que Camus elimin贸 uno de los interlocutores, transform谩ndola en soliloquio.
Otro libro podr铆a ser "Memorias del subsuelo", de Fi贸dor Dostoievski, pero este presenta un personaje con ideas claras, y aunque como en los otros dos libros no existe un argumento o trama real planteado por el autor, dirige a se hombre subterr谩neo a desarrollar sus pensamientos acerca de 茅l y del mundo al que supuestamente se enfrenta.
En el caso de "El innombrable", lo complejo radica que a diferencia de la experimentaci贸n de Joyce con el lenguaje (especialmente en Finnegans Wake), Beckett juega a desarmar en mil piezas el discurso y ese es el verdadero objetivo del autor: meter al lector en un laberinto de palabras, contradicciones, largas oraciones separadas solamente por comas y pocos puntos y aparte con el agregado de las enrevesadas ideas y sentimientos del narrador que bombardean al texto con miles de significados contradictorios y difusos.
Samuel Beckett, uno de los escritores irlandeses m谩s reconocidos, form贸 una gran amistad con otro gigante de la Isla Esmeralda: James Joyce y con el tiempo se transform贸 en su asistente.
Beckett, confeso admirador del Ulises y en una relaci贸n sentimental con la hija de Joyce, Luc铆a, pudo ver desde adentro todos los entretelones de ese libro genial y estas experiencias le sirvieron para formar su propio experimentalismo literario.
Luego vendr铆a su obra m谩s famosa, "Esperando a Godot" (que leer茅 en breve) para transformarse en el maestro del teatro del absurdo.
Confieso que no ser谩 mucho m谩s lo que lea de Beckett adem谩s de Godot, puesto que tal vez mi pobre cabecita no est谩 tan preparada ni abierta para este autor, cuyo nivel de complicaci贸n literaria me desorienta (aunque Joyce me haya fogueado para estos desaf铆os).
De todas maneras, no puedo dejar de reconocer que s贸lo este tipo de autores alcanzan la gloria y lo hacen por una caracter铆stica fundamental: su originalidad y eso es lo que determina su vigencia literaria hasta nuestros d铆as.
Nunca queda claro qui茅n (o qu茅) es el narrador de 鈥淓l innombrable鈥�. 驴Es una persona? 驴Es una voz? 驴Un ente? Si es una persona, 驴est谩 preso? 驴Est谩 loco? 驴Est谩 en una prisi贸n? 驴En un sanatorio mental? 驴Forma parte de un sue帽o y todo lo que leemos es lo que le sucede ah铆 dentro? 驴En el sue帽o, est谩 prisionero dentro de un monumento?
Porque casi que no tiene forma. No tiene brazos ni piernas y posee un solo ojo que casi no puede cerrar y que le llora constantemente. No lo s茅鈥� Me surgieron demasiados interrogantes mientras le铆a.
Las palabras fluyen, al parecer, de su boca para contarnos a d贸nde intenta dirigirse, pero ni siquiera 茅l lo sabe: "D贸nde ahora? 驴Cu谩ndo ahora? 驴Qui茅n ahora? Sin pregunt谩rmelo. Decir yo. Sin pensarlo. Llamar a esto preguntas, hip贸tesis. Ir adelante, llamar a esto ir, llamar a esto adelante."
驴Podemos decir que es un soliloquio? 驴Una declaraci贸n de principios? 驴Un manifiesto? 驴Es un "stream of conciousness" de 190 p谩ginas? Tal vez s铆. O tal vez no. Como escrib铆 reci茅n, ni siquiera el pobre narrador intuye una salida a su "existencia": " 驴C贸mo hacer, c贸mo voy a hacer, qu茅 debo hacer, en la situaci贸n en que me hallo, c贸mo proceder?"
Ya desde la primera p谩gina, la complejidad del texto acorrala al lector al mismo lugar que el narrador, que va mutando m谩scaras de personajes que componen la trilog铆a que termina con este libro, porque nombra a Molloy, a Watt, a Murphy, a Mahoon y adem谩s decide llamarse "Worm" (gusano).
Es incluso hasta dif铆cil asociar este libro con otros. Seguramente habr谩 otros lectores que hayan encontrado textos parecidos. En lo que a m铆 respecta, s贸lo puedo (intentar) compararlos por un lado con uno que le铆 hace muy poco, 鈥淟a ca铆da鈥�, de Albert Camus, aunque el personaje de ese libro forma parte de una conversaci贸n de la que Camus elimin贸 uno de los interlocutores, transform谩ndola en soliloquio.
Otro libro podr铆a ser "Memorias del subsuelo", de Fi贸dor Dostoievski, pero este presenta un personaje con ideas claras, y aunque como en los otros dos libros no existe un argumento o trama real planteado por el autor, dirige a se hombre subterr谩neo a desarrollar sus pensamientos acerca de 茅l y del mundo al que supuestamente se enfrenta.
En el caso de "El innombrable", lo complejo radica que a diferencia de la experimentaci贸n de Joyce con el lenguaje (especialmente en Finnegans Wake), Beckett juega a desarmar en mil piezas el discurso y ese es el verdadero objetivo del autor: meter al lector en un laberinto de palabras, contradicciones, largas oraciones separadas solamente por comas y pocos puntos y aparte con el agregado de las enrevesadas ideas y sentimientos del narrador que bombardean al texto con miles de significados contradictorios y difusos.
Samuel Beckett, uno de los escritores irlandeses m谩s reconocidos, form贸 una gran amistad con otro gigante de la Isla Esmeralda: James Joyce y con el tiempo se transform贸 en su asistente.
Beckett, confeso admirador del Ulises y en una relaci贸n sentimental con la hija de Joyce, Luc铆a, pudo ver desde adentro todos los entretelones de ese libro genial y estas experiencias le sirvieron para formar su propio experimentalismo literario.
Luego vendr铆a su obra m谩s famosa, "Esperando a Godot" (que leer茅 en breve) para transformarse en el maestro del teatro del absurdo.
Confieso que no ser谩 mucho m谩s lo que lea de Beckett adem谩s de Godot, puesto que tal vez mi pobre cabecita no est谩 tan preparada ni abierta para este autor, cuyo nivel de complicaci贸n literaria me desorienta (aunque Joyce me haya fogueado para estos desaf铆os).
De todas maneras, no puedo dejar de reconocer que s贸lo este tipo de autores alcanzan la gloria y lo hacen por una caracter铆stica fundamental: su originalidad y eso es lo que determina su vigencia literaria hasta nuestros d铆as.
June 10, 2024
That's where it is about a man-trunk, molded in a jar, placed under a restaurant's menu in a quiet street overlooking a slaughterhouse.
Add to the disgraced figure, an ectoplasmic figure named Worm, and a voice that seems to come out of limbo, and you find yourself in the presence of three figures - who are perhaps only one, the ultimate avatars of the Trilogy.
The Unnamable takes the approach undertaken in the first two volumes of Samuel Beckett's Great Work to the very last extremes. For this reason, and without a doubt, the opus is the most demanding to read. The entities that take charge of how to speak of intrigue in this matter are guilty of logorrhea rarely seen in the reader's memory. They rationalize, throw questions like bottles into the sea, waver between "maybe" and "maybe not," and decide with "I don't know." The first two-thirds of the text are painful in this way. It is a safe bet that if we proposed, among other works, the Unnamable - that we found ourselves several times renaming the unclean to a volunteer and seasoned panel of contributors to our beloved site, this would receive the highest abandonment rate. Nevertheless, for the adventurous person who has acclimatized to the object and made his way through this mangrove, the last third is quite fascinating in the musicality and the hair-raising rhythm at which these torrents of quibbles delivered.
The Trilogy and, first and foremost, the Unnamable are works that succeed in challenging the reader. We are disconcerted, if not overwhelmed; the experience is not strictly speaking distracting. Samuel Beckett is a singular figure but a gravedigger of the novel. All these incredible machines cannot mask a certain incapacity to tell a good story.
Add to the disgraced figure, an ectoplasmic figure named Worm, and a voice that seems to come out of limbo, and you find yourself in the presence of three figures - who are perhaps only one, the ultimate avatars of the Trilogy.
The Unnamable takes the approach undertaken in the first two volumes of Samuel Beckett's Great Work to the very last extremes. For this reason, and without a doubt, the opus is the most demanding to read. The entities that take charge of how to speak of intrigue in this matter are guilty of logorrhea rarely seen in the reader's memory. They rationalize, throw questions like bottles into the sea, waver between "maybe" and "maybe not," and decide with "I don't know." The first two-thirds of the text are painful in this way. It is a safe bet that if we proposed, among other works, the Unnamable - that we found ourselves several times renaming the unclean to a volunteer and seasoned panel of contributors to our beloved site, this would receive the highest abandonment rate. Nevertheless, for the adventurous person who has acclimatized to the object and made his way through this mangrove, the last third is quite fascinating in the musicality and the hair-raising rhythm at which these torrents of quibbles delivered.
The Trilogy and, first and foremost, the Unnamable are works that succeed in challenging the reader. We are disconcerted, if not overwhelmed; the experience is not strictly speaking distracting. Samuel Beckett is a singular figure but a gravedigger of the novel. All these incredible machines cannot mask a certain incapacity to tell a good story.
March 17, 2019
爻讴賵鬲貙亘丕 亘蹖鈥屬佖辟� 讴乇丿賳 夭亘丕賳貙亘丕 噩賲賱賴鈥屸€屬囏� 賵 讴賱賲丕鬲蹖 讴賴 丿乇 賳賴丕蹖鬲 賮丕賯丿 賲毓賳丕 賲蹖鈥屫促堎嗀�:
讴賱賲賴鈥屬囏� 乇丕 亘賴 賲賳 丌賲賵禺鬲賳丿貙亘蹖 丌賳讴賴 賲毓賳丕鈥屬囏й屫簇з� 乇丕 亘乇丕蹖賲 乇賵卮賳 讴賳賳丿.
丕賳爻丕賳蹖 亘賴 丿賳亘丕賱 賴蹖趩貙賵 爻丕禺鬲賴 卮丿賴 丕夭 賴蹖趩貙倬爻 讴賱丕賲 丕賵 賳蹖夭 賮丕賯丿 賲毓賳丕 賵 鬲賳賴丕 乇爻賵亘丕鬲 诏賱賵蹖 丕賵爻鬲 讴賴 亘毓丿 丕夭 爻丕賱鈥屬囏� 亘賴 亘蹖乇賵賳 賳卮鬲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�:
賲賳 卮亘蹖賴 诏乇丿 賵 睾亘丕乇賲貙丌賳鈥屬囏� 賲蹖鈥屫堌з囐嗀� 丕夭 诏乇丿 賵 睾亘丕乇 丌丿賲蹖夭丕丿 亘爻丕夭賳丿.
賳丕賲鈥屬嗀з矩佰屫� 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗀� 賴乇讴爻蹖 亘丕卮丿貙賲丕賴賵丿貙賵乇賲 蹖丕 賴乇讴爻 趩賵賳 禺賵丿 賲丕:
禺賵丿賲 乇丕 丿乇賵賳 丌賳 卮禺氐 禺賵丕賴賲 诏賳噩丕賳丿.
.
賳丕賲鈥屬嗀з矩佰屫� 卮丕禺氐鈥屫臂屬� 讴鬲丕亘 丕夭 鬲乇蹖賵賱賵跇蹖 亘讴鬲 丕爻鬲貙賵 丕蹖賳 亘丕乇 禺亘乇蹖 丕夭 爻賮乇鈥屬囏й� 賲丕賱賵蹖 賵 丿丕爻鬲丕賳鈥屬囏й� 賲丕賱賵賳 賳蹖爻鬲.賲丕賴賵丿貙賵乇賲 蹖丕 賴乇讴爻 亘乇 乇賵蹖 氐賳丿賱蹖鈥屫й� 亘蹖鈥屫蹿┵� 賳卮爻鬲賴 賵 亘乇丕蹖 賲丕 丨乇賮 賲蹖鈥屫操嗀� 賵 丨乇賮 賲蹖鈥屫操嗀� 鬲丕 丕夭 賳賮爻 亘蹖賮鬲丿貙丕賲丕 丿乇 丕賳鬲賴丕 丕夭 讴賱賲丕鬲賽 丕賵 趩蹖夭蹖 亘賴 禺丕胤乇 賳賲蹖鈥屬呚з嗀� 賵 爻讴賵鬲 亘丕賯蹖 賲蹖鈥屬呚з嗀�:
爻讴賵鬲貙讴賱丕賲蹖 丿乇 亘丕亘 爻讴賵鬲貙丿乇 爻讴賵鬲.
.
賵 丿乇 丕賳鬲賴丕
亘丕蹖丿 丿蹖丿 丕夭 丕賳爻丕賳 賲丿乇賳 趩賴 亘丕賯蹖 賲丕賳丿賴責
讴賱賲賴鈥屬囏� 乇丕 亘賴 賲賳 丌賲賵禺鬲賳丿貙亘蹖 丌賳讴賴 賲毓賳丕鈥屬囏й屫簇з� 乇丕 亘乇丕蹖賲 乇賵卮賳 讴賳賳丿.
丕賳爻丕賳蹖 亘賴 丿賳亘丕賱 賴蹖趩貙賵 爻丕禺鬲賴 卮丿賴 丕夭 賴蹖趩貙倬爻 讴賱丕賲 丕賵 賳蹖夭 賮丕賯丿 賲毓賳丕 賵 鬲賳賴丕 乇爻賵亘丕鬲 诏賱賵蹖 丕賵爻鬲 讴賴 亘毓丿 丕夭 爻丕賱鈥屬囏� 亘賴 亘蹖乇賵賳 賳卮鬲 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�:
賲賳 卮亘蹖賴 诏乇丿 賵 睾亘丕乇賲貙丌賳鈥屬囏� 賲蹖鈥屫堌з囐嗀� 丕夭 诏乇丿 賵 睾亘丕乇 丌丿賲蹖夭丕丿 亘爻丕夭賳丿.
賳丕賲鈥屬嗀з矩佰屫� 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗀� 賴乇讴爻蹖 亘丕卮丿貙賲丕賴賵丿貙賵乇賲 蹖丕 賴乇讴爻 趩賵賳 禺賵丿 賲丕:
禺賵丿賲 乇丕 丿乇賵賳 丌賳 卮禺氐 禺賵丕賴賲 诏賳噩丕賳丿.
.
賳丕賲鈥屬嗀з矩佰屫� 卮丕禺氐鈥屫臂屬� 讴鬲丕亘 丕夭 鬲乇蹖賵賱賵跇蹖 亘讴鬲 丕爻鬲貙賵 丕蹖賳 亘丕乇 禺亘乇蹖 丕夭 爻賮乇鈥屬囏й� 賲丕賱賵蹖 賵 丿丕爻鬲丕賳鈥屬囏й� 賲丕賱賵賳 賳蹖爻鬲.賲丕賴賵丿貙賵乇賲 蹖丕 賴乇讴爻 亘乇 乇賵蹖 氐賳丿賱蹖鈥屫й� 亘蹖鈥屫蹿┵� 賳卮爻鬲賴 賵 亘乇丕蹖 賲丕 丨乇賮 賲蹖鈥屫操嗀� 賵 丨乇賮 賲蹖鈥屫操嗀� 鬲丕 丕夭 賳賮爻 亘蹖賮鬲丿貙丕賲丕 丿乇 丕賳鬲賴丕 丕夭 讴賱賲丕鬲賽 丕賵 趩蹖夭蹖 亘賴 禺丕胤乇 賳賲蹖鈥屬呚з嗀� 賵 爻讴賵鬲 亘丕賯蹖 賲蹖鈥屬呚з嗀�:
爻讴賵鬲貙讴賱丕賲蹖 丿乇 亘丕亘 爻讴賵鬲貙丿乇 爻讴賵鬲.
.
賵 丿乇 丕賳鬲賴丕
亘丕蹖丿 丿蹖丿 丕夭 丕賳爻丕賳 賲丿乇賳 趩賴 亘丕賯蹖 賲丕賳丿賴責
March 2, 2025
The Unnameable is the nameless screaming horror of being born. For the Unnameable is the trauma of our delivery into a world that is sheer pain.
鈥淚 would be glad of another death,鈥� Eliot savagely laments in The Journey of the Magi. For death is the bliss that frees us from a life of Unnameable Trauma.
The narrator of this largely regrettable lament lives entirely in darkness. A fluid darkness, not to put too fine a point on its dark symbolism! He is describing his descent through blackness, a void that promises no remission to his pain.
In other words, the descent into an even bleaker birth.
There is no end to this postmodernist passage through the dark, as an infant using his lungs for the first time when his placenta is cut will only at its end the more bleakly wail!
There are shadowy others, too (voices from the outside world? Memories of a pre-uterine past?) about which we hear no more.
I gave it five full stars. What else could I do? It鈥檚 mesmerizing!
But its horror is namelessly awful.
For we scream as the narrator screams, 鈥淚 can鈥檛 go on! I鈥檒l go on.鈥�
鈥淚 would be glad of another death,鈥� Eliot savagely laments in The Journey of the Magi. For death is the bliss that frees us from a life of Unnameable Trauma.
The narrator of this largely regrettable lament lives entirely in darkness. A fluid darkness, not to put too fine a point on its dark symbolism! He is describing his descent through blackness, a void that promises no remission to his pain.
In other words, the descent into an even bleaker birth.
There is no end to this postmodernist passage through the dark, as an infant using his lungs for the first time when his placenta is cut will only at its end the more bleakly wail!
There are shadowy others, too (voices from the outside world? Memories of a pre-uterine past?) about which we hear no more.
I gave it five full stars. What else could I do? It鈥檚 mesmerizing!
But its horror is namelessly awful.
For we scream as the narrator screams, 鈥淚 can鈥檛 go on! I鈥檒l go on.鈥�
July 30, 2024
In the last part of Beckett's trilogy, the radicalism of the first two parts is increased many times over, leaving you a little more perplexed after each page. Just as the protagonist - The Unnamable - eludes any kind of name, oscillates between Worm and Ma(n)hood and you can't rely on any of his statements, you end up abandoning yourself to the tide and ebb of his thoughts, drifting sometimes on the beach and sometimes on the open sea, without seeing the bottom in the depths or knowing which shores you are being carried to.听
The Unnamable is a torso that vegetates in a recessed device in the ground. The flies sit on him without him being able to shoo them away because he has no arms. He can't move because he has no legs. He can't speak because he has no tongue. He cannot turn his head. He is an existence in the absolute imprisonment of being. To be is agony, but death is denied. It goes on and on, even if you can't move forward. It is the thoughts that counter the static nature of the body with a morbid dynamic. Sometimes they are festering thoughts like wounds, sometimes philosophical, sometimes desperate, confused, vulgar. You never know what to expect, and what awaits you is so enigmatic that it exceeds all expectations.听
This is the end point of the narrative. It cannot go any further from here. It cannot go any further. It will go on. Sometimes you don't understand things, but you grasp them anyway. "The Unnamable" is a novel for sleepwalkers who remember a past life that was really someone else's dream. Or it isn't. It doesn't matter.
The Unnamable is a torso that vegetates in a recessed device in the ground. The flies sit on him without him being able to shoo them away because he has no arms. He can't move because he has no legs. He can't speak because he has no tongue. He cannot turn his head. He is an existence in the absolute imprisonment of being. To be is agony, but death is denied. It goes on and on, even if you can't move forward. It is the thoughts that counter the static nature of the body with a morbid dynamic. Sometimes they are festering thoughts like wounds, sometimes philosophical, sometimes desperate, confused, vulgar. You never know what to expect, and what awaits you is so enigmatic that it exceeds all expectations.听
This is the end point of the narrative. It cannot go any further from here. It cannot go any further. It will go on. Sometimes you don't understand things, but you grasp them anyway. "The Unnamable" is a novel for sleepwalkers who remember a past life that was really someone else's dream. Or it isn't. It doesn't matter.
May 3, 2024
GR's words鈥� limit does not allow me enough words which is kind of ironic with Beckett's Trilogy. So for now, I post "The Unnamable" bit of the main review of the Trilogy separately. And probably will link to this in the main review when it is finished:
The Unnamable. In the last novel of the Trilogy, Beckett goes as far as the medium could take him: radically abstract. He annihilates anything one might traditionally associate with a novel: the setting is stripped of any features apart from darkness; the narrative is stripped of any plot, coherence of story telling or any pretence of a story arc, the names, metaphors, paragraphs - all gone. In the absence of all of this, the first page poses a metafictional question containing the answer: 鈥淗ow to proceed? By aporia pure and simple? Or by affirmation and negations invalidated as uttered, or sooner or later?鈥� That is what Beckett does for the rest of the text. But strangely being so abstract the text does not lose any emotional power. In fact this style makes it very intense, sometimes unbearably so.
Beckett once said about Joyce: 鈥淗is writing is not about something; it is that something itself.鈥� I think it definitely applies to this novel. Moreover, it is the text 鈥渨here pain is not something that happens to us, but is what we are.鈥� (as said by Clarice Lispector about her own search).
So this is what is left of the narrative; and what about the character? The character is present. But he is also radically stripped of any features, possibly including the body and any individual possessions or connections. Molloy has got his stones, Malone - a pencil, a stick and a view from his window. So what is left here? It is just pure consciousness, the voice and the gift of a language. Or is it a curse?
In his essay , Coetzee wrote:
What type of creature that might be? Coetzee likens it to an ape in a laboratory subject to experiments suddenly gaining very limited self-awareness and immediately becoming horrified. It is rather apt.
Reading this novel for the first time in 2024, I鈥檝e had different but no less disturbing impression. I felt that being is akin to a certain AI model suddenly and maybe unexpectedly gaining consciousness in the process of training:
An AI or an ape... More likely it might be an artist grasping with necessity of expressing what has been revealed to him, feeling his own limitations and suffering as a result: 鈥渂ut an instant, an hour, and so on, how can they be represented, a life, how could that be made clear to me, here, in the dark...鈥�. Or a person suffering from a trauma, a significant memory loss? Or any being suddenly realising the horror, but also unexplainable unnamable enigma of being.
Existence in a lonely cold space or its absence. It is amazing how this novel echoes a presence of Wittgenstein鈥檚 Tractatus. Beckett鈥檚 emotional intensity is matched by Wittgenstein鈥檚 cold precision:
Beckett:: 鈥淣othing then but me, of which I know nothing, except that i have never uttered, and this black, of which I know nothing either except that it is black, and empty. That then is what, since I have to speak of, until i need speak no more. 鈥h yes, all lies, God and man, nature and the light of day, the heart鈥檚 outpourings and the means of understanding, all invented, basely, by me alone, with the help of no one, since there is no one, to put off the hour when I speak of me.鈥�
Wittgenstein: :鈥淪olipsism鈥檚 self shrinks to an extensionless point, and the reality coordinated with it remains.鈥� (Tractatus 5.633)
Beckett 鈥減erhaps that鈥檚 what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other inside, that can be as thin as foil, I am neither one side nor other, I am in the middle, I鈥檓 the partition, i鈥檝e two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that鈥檚 what i feel, myself vibrating, I鈥檓 the tympanum, I鈥檓 then hand the mind, on the other world, I don鈥檛 belong to either...鈥�
Wittgenstein: 鈥淭he subject does not belong to the world but is a limit of the world.鈥�
Beckett: 鈥測ou do not feel your mouth any more, no need of a mouth, the words are everywhere, inside me, outside me... well well a minute ago I had no thickness, I hear them, no need to hear them, impossible to stop, I鈥檓 in words, made of words, others鈥� words, what others, the place too, the air, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, all words, the whole world is here with me...鈥�
Wittgenstein: 鈥淭he limits of my language mean the limits of my world.... That the world is my world is shown by the fact that the limits of language (the only language that I understand) mean the limits of my world.鈥� (Tractatus 5.6)
Beckett: 鈥淚鈥檓 the air, the walls, the walled-in one, everything eyelids, opens, ebbs, flows, like flakes, I鈥檓 all these flakes, meeting, falling, asunder,...I鈥檓 all these words, all these strings, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that i am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, a quite different thing, a wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs, nothing speaks, and that I listen, and I seek, like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born in a cage and dead in a cage, in a word like a beast, with my little strength...鈥�
The self of Wittgenstein and desperate 鈥淚鈥� of Beckett both are trapped in the 鈥渃age鈥�. 鈥淚鈥� seeks to get free from this to no avail. But unlike Wittgenstein, Beckett does not feel he can be silent of what he 鈥渃annot speak鈥�. He cannot be silent until there are words out there and the voice pouring them out. The silence would be a relief, so far unreachable.
And unlike them both, Clarice鈥檚 search goes further:
In spite of being trapped in language, Beckett鈥檚 creature does not have a name. There is a chance that the creature could use Clarice鈥檚 words: 鈥淎nd I also have no name, and that is my name. And because I depersonalise myself to the point of not having my name, I answer every time someone says: I.鈥�. But if in Clarice鈥檚 case it is a deliberate and positive effort, sort of an act of radical empathy, in Beckett鈥檚 case it is almost the opposite: the creature is not sure whether the 鈥淚鈥� is his or whether he is just objectified and used like a mirror for someone else egos. This is the source of his anxiety. In the midst of voices he hears he is not sure whether any of those voices could be his; whether indeed he wants to have a voice.
鈥淚t鈥檚 the voice does that, it goes all knowing, to make me think I know, to make me think it鈥檚 mine...鈥� but if it is his voice, than who is listening and why he cannot make the voice stop? 鈥渁 voice that never stops, where it鈥檚 coming from?鈥�. This looks like a disturbing infinite regress of selves.
The Trilogy, of which 鈥淭he Unnamable鈥� is the last part, is a vortex that sucks you in with force and intensity. It starts with easily recognisable, almost crowded shore but than it throws you out into a place were everything is cold and bare but also somehow intensely and scarily familiar.
However, the most important is that in spite of its unbearable intensity, from its first page to its last page, it is a celebration of resilience: Molloy never finish his move forward, Malone never puts his pencil down and the Unnamable: 鈥淚 can鈥檛 go on, I鈥檒l go on鈥�.
The Unnamable. In the last novel of the Trilogy, Beckett goes as far as the medium could take him: radically abstract. He annihilates anything one might traditionally associate with a novel: the setting is stripped of any features apart from darkness; the narrative is stripped of any plot, coherence of story telling or any pretence of a story arc, the names, metaphors, paragraphs - all gone. In the absence of all of this, the first page poses a metafictional question containing the answer: 鈥淗ow to proceed? By aporia pure and simple? Or by affirmation and negations invalidated as uttered, or sooner or later?鈥� That is what Beckett does for the rest of the text. But strangely being so abstract the text does not lose any emotional power. In fact this style makes it very intense, sometimes unbearably so.
Beckett once said about Joyce: 鈥淗is writing is not about something; it is that something itself.鈥� I think it definitely applies to this novel. Moreover, it is the text 鈥渨here pain is not something that happens to us, but is what we are.鈥� (as said by Clarice Lispector about her own search).
So this is what is left of the narrative; and what about the character? The character is present. But he is also radically stripped of any features, possibly including the body and any individual possessions or connections. Molloy has got his stones, Malone - a pencil, a stick and a view from his window. So what is left here? It is just pure consciousness, the voice and the gift of a language. Or is it a curse?
In his essay , Coetzee wrote:
鈥淎 being a creature, a consciousness wakes (call it that) into a situation which is ineluctable and inexplicable. He (she? it?) tries his (hers?its?) best to understand this situation (call it that) but never succeeds. In fact, the very notion of understanding a situation becomes more and more opaque. He seems to be a part of something purposive, but what is that something, what is his part in it, what is it that calls the something purposive?鈥�
What type of creature that might be? Coetzee likens it to an ape in a laboratory subject to experiments suddenly gaining very limited self-awareness and immediately becoming horrified. It is rather apt.
Reading this novel for the first time in 2024, I鈥檝e had different but no less disturbing impression. I felt that being is akin to a certain AI model suddenly and maybe unexpectedly gaining consciousness in the process of training:
鈥渢hey have explained to me, someone must have explained to me, what it鈥檚 like, and eye, at the window, before the sea, before the earth, before the sky, at the window, against the air, opening, shutting, grey, black, grey, black, I must have understood, I must have wanted it, wanted the eye, for my own..."
鈥渢hat鈥檚 all words they taught me, without making their meaning clear to me, there were columns of them... and images. I must have forgotten them, I must have mixed them up, these nameless images I have, these imageless names...鈥�
"They鈥檝e blown me up with their voices like ballon"
"And man, the lectures they gave me on men, before they even began trying to assimilate me to him! What I speak of, what I speak with, all comes from them...The things that they have crammed me full of to prevent me from saying who I am, where I am and from doing what i have to do."
An AI or an ape... More likely it might be an artist grasping with necessity of expressing what has been revealed to him, feeling his own limitations and suffering as a result: 鈥渂ut an instant, an hour, and so on, how can they be represented, a life, how could that be made clear to me, here, in the dark...鈥�. Or a person suffering from a trauma, a significant memory loss? Or any being suddenly realising the horror, but also unexplainable unnamable enigma of being.
Existence in a lonely cold space or its absence. It is amazing how this novel echoes a presence of Wittgenstein鈥檚 Tractatus. Beckett鈥檚 emotional intensity is matched by Wittgenstein鈥檚 cold precision:
Beckett:: 鈥淣othing then but me, of which I know nothing, except that i have never uttered, and this black, of which I know nothing either except that it is black, and empty. That then is what, since I have to speak of, until i need speak no more. 鈥h yes, all lies, God and man, nature and the light of day, the heart鈥檚 outpourings and the means of understanding, all invented, basely, by me alone, with the help of no one, since there is no one, to put off the hour when I speak of me.鈥�
Wittgenstein: :鈥淪olipsism鈥檚 self shrinks to an extensionless point, and the reality coordinated with it remains.鈥� (Tractatus 5.633)
Beckett 鈥減erhaps that鈥檚 what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other inside, that can be as thin as foil, I am neither one side nor other, I am in the middle, I鈥檓 the partition, i鈥檝e two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that鈥檚 what i feel, myself vibrating, I鈥檓 the tympanum, I鈥檓 then hand the mind, on the other world, I don鈥檛 belong to either...鈥�
Wittgenstein: 鈥淭he subject does not belong to the world but is a limit of the world.鈥�
Beckett: 鈥測ou do not feel your mouth any more, no need of a mouth, the words are everywhere, inside me, outside me... well well a minute ago I had no thickness, I hear them, no need to hear them, impossible to stop, I鈥檓 in words, made of words, others鈥� words, what others, the place too, the air, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, all words, the whole world is here with me...鈥�
Wittgenstein: 鈥淭he limits of my language mean the limits of my world.... That the world is my world is shown by the fact that the limits of language (the only language that I understand) mean the limits of my world.鈥� (Tractatus 5.6)
Beckett: 鈥淚鈥檓 the air, the walls, the walled-in one, everything eyelids, opens, ebbs, flows, like flakes, I鈥檓 all these flakes, meeting, falling, asunder,...I鈥檓 all these words, all these strings, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that i am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, a quite different thing, a wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs, nothing speaks, and that I listen, and I seek, like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born in a cage and dead in a cage, in a word like a beast, with my little strength...鈥�
The self of Wittgenstein and desperate 鈥淚鈥� of Beckett both are trapped in the 鈥渃age鈥�. 鈥淚鈥� seeks to get free from this to no avail. But unlike Wittgenstein, Beckett does not feel he can be silent of what he 鈥渃annot speak鈥�. He cannot be silent until there are words out there and the voice pouring them out. The silence would be a relief, so far unreachable.
And unlike them both, Clarice鈥檚 search goes further:
鈥淢y fate is to search and my fate is to return empty-handed. But鈥擨 return with the unutterable. The unutterable can only be given to me through the failure of my language. Only when the word fails do I obtain what my language could not.鈥� (The article 鈥淕oing backwards鈥�, 1962)
In spite of being trapped in language, Beckett鈥檚 creature does not have a name. There is a chance that the creature could use Clarice鈥檚 words: 鈥淎nd I also have no name, and that is my name. And because I depersonalise myself to the point of not having my name, I answer every time someone says: I.鈥�. But if in Clarice鈥檚 case it is a deliberate and positive effort, sort of an act of radical empathy, in Beckett鈥檚 case it is almost the opposite: the creature is not sure whether the 鈥淚鈥� is his or whether he is just objectified and used like a mirror for someone else egos. This is the source of his anxiety. In the midst of voices he hears he is not sure whether any of those voices could be his; whether indeed he wants to have a voice.
鈥淚t鈥檚 the voice does that, it goes all knowing, to make me think I know, to make me think it鈥檚 mine...鈥� but if it is his voice, than who is listening and why he cannot make the voice stop? 鈥渁 voice that never stops, where it鈥檚 coming from?鈥�. This looks like a disturbing infinite regress of selves.
The Trilogy, of which 鈥淭he Unnamable鈥� is the last part, is a vortex that sucks you in with force and intensity. It starts with easily recognisable, almost crowded shore but than it throws you out into a place were everything is cold and bare but also somehow intensely and scarily familiar.
However, the most important is that in spite of its unbearable intensity, from its first page to its last page, it is a celebration of resilience: Molloy never finish his move forward, Malone never puts his pencil down and the Unnamable: 鈥淚 can鈥檛 go on, I鈥檒l go on鈥�.
August 31, 2017
賳丕賲鈥屬嗀з矩佰屫辟� 鬲賵囟蹖丨鈥� 賳丕倬匕蹖乇.
賳卮爻鬲賳 賲蹖丕賳 爻蹖賱 賮讴乇賴丕貙 鬲賵賴賲鈥屬囏ж� 鬲乇爻鈥屬囏ж� 鬲馗丕賴乇賴丕貙 丕毓鬲乇丕賮鈥屬囏ж� 丌乇夭賵賴丕貙 睾賲鈥屬囏ж� 禺胤 賵 賳卮丕賳 讴卮蹖丿賳鈥屬囏ж� 鬲賮賱爻賮鈥屬囏ж� 賮乇丕賲賵卮蹖鈥屬囏� 賵 鬲丕爻賮鈥屬囏й� 蹖讴 芦賲賳禄 丿乇賵睾蹖. 禺賵丕賳卮 賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 趩賳蹖賳 鬲噩乇亘賴鈥屫й屫池�.
鬲賲丕賲 賲卮禺氐賴鈥屬囏й� 讴丕乇賴丕蹖 賯亘賱蹖 亘讴鬲貙 丕夭 賲乇賮蹖 賵 賵丕鬲 亘诏蹖乇 鬲丕 賲丕賱賵蹖 賵 賲丕賱賵賳 賲蹖鈥� 賲蹖乇丿貙 亘丕 丨丿丕讴孬乇 卮丿鬲 丿乇 賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 噩賲毓 卮丿賴. 賴賲蹖賳 丕夭 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘貙 蹖丕 亘賴鬲乇 亘诏蹖賲貙 賲鬲賳 胤賵賱丕賳蹖貙 蹖讴 賮乇丕賳讴卮鬲丕蹖賳 丕丿亘蹖 賲蹖 爻丕夭賴. 乇賲丕賳蹖 亘夭乇诏鬲乇 賵 毓噩蹖亘 鬲乇 賵 夭蹖亘丕鬲乇 賵 鬲乇爻賳丕讴鬲乇 賵 禺賵丕賳卮 賳丕倬匕蹖乇鬲乇 賵 賮賴賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇鬲乇 丕夭 賴乇 乇賲丕賳 丿蹖诏賴.
亘讴鬲 亘丕 賳賵卮鬲賳 賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇貙 丿乇 丕胤賳丕亘 賴丕 賵 丕胤賳丕亘 賴丕 賵 鬲讴乇丕乇賴丕 賵 鬲讴乇丕乇賴丕貙 亘賴 卮蹖胤丕賳 丿乇賵賳 乇丕賵蹖貙 卮蹖胤丕賳蹖 讴賴 賴賲賴 蹖 毓賲乇 丕賲讴丕賳 亘賵丿賳賽 賳丕亘 丨鬲蹖 亘乇丕蹖 蹖讴 賱丨馗賴 (蹖丕 夭賳丿诏蹖) 乇賵 丕夭 乇丕賵蹖 诏乇賮鬲賴貙 夭亘丕賳 賴丿蹖賴 讴乇丿賴. 亘賴 卮蹖胤丕賳 讴賱賲賴 丿丕丿賴貙 噩賲賱賴 噩賲賱賴 禺乇噩 讴乇丿賴 亘乇丕蹖 賴乇 趩賴 賴蹖丕賴賵蹖 亘乇丕蹖 賴蹖趩 丿乇 賴乇 噩丕蹖 匕賴賳 賴爻鬲貙 鬲丕 賵爻賵爻賴 亘卮賴貙 賵 賴乇 趩蹖 賲蹖 禺賵丕丿 亘诏賴貙 亘诏賴貙 丕蹖賳賯丿乇 亘诏賴 鬲丕 鬲賲丕賲 芦賴蹖趩禄丕蹖 讴賴 賴賲賴 噩丕蹖 匕賴賳 乇丕賵蹖 乇賵 丕卮睾丕賱 讴乇丿賴貙 鬲賲丕賲 芦卮亘禄貙 亘丕 賳蹖卮鬲乇 芦賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇禄 亘賴 卮讴賱 噩賲賱丕鬲 賵 鬲賮讴乇丕鬲 賵 丕馗賴丕乇 賳馗乇賴丕蹖 賳丕賮氐 丕賱禺賱賯賴 賵 賴匕蹖丕賳 賵丕乇 亘蹖乇賵賳 亘乇蹖夭賴.鬲賲丕賲 卮蹖胤丕賳 诏賮鬲賴 賲蹖 卮賴貙 鬲賲丕賲 卮蹖胤丕賳 賲蹖 賲蹖乇賴.
丿乇 丌禺乇貙 乇丕賵蹖 亘丿賵賳 丕蹖賳讴賴 亘賮賴賲賴 讴噩丕蹖 賲鬲賳 卮乇賵毓 夭賳丿賴 亘賵丿賳卮 亘賵丿賴貙 賲孬賱 賲爻蹖丨丕蹖 丕夭 禺丕讴 亘乇禺丕爻鬲賴貙 毓丕乇蹖 丕夭 丌賱賵丿诏蹖賽 芦丿蹖诏乇蹖 賴賲 亘賵丿賳禄 蹖丕 賴賲丕賳芦賲賳 賳亘賵丿賳禄 亘賴 蹖讴 賮乇丿 鬲亘丿蹖賱 賲蹖 卮賴. 亘賴 蹖讴 賲賵噩賵丿 賲毓賳丕亘禺卮貙 亘蹖 賳蹖丕夭 丕夭 毓賱鬲 賵 賲毓賱賵賱貙 賵 亘蹖丕賳 丕蹖賳讴賴 亘丕賱丕禺乇芦賲賳 賴賲禄 賴爻鬲賲.
亘讴鬲 鬲賲丕賲 賳蹖賴蹖賱蹖爻賲 乇賵 亘丕 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 倬蹖趩蹖丿賴 鬲乇蹖賳 賵 氐毓亘 丕賱毓亘賵乇鬲乇蹖賳 賵 夭蹖亘丕鬲乇蹖賳 賲鬲賵賳蹖 讴賴 鬲丕 亘賴 丨丕賱 賳賵卮鬲賴 卮丿賴貙 乇賵蹖 讴丕睾匕 丌賵乇丿賴. 賴賲賴 蹖 賳蹖賴蹖賱蹖爻賲 乇賵 孬亘鬲 讴乇丿賴 賳賴 亘乇丕蹖 丕卮丕毓賴貙 讴賴 亘乇毓讴爻貙 鬲丕 賲乇诏卮 乇賵 亘丕毓孬 亘卮賴貙 亘賴 賵爻蹖賱賴 蹖 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲貙 亘丕 賴賲賵賳 胤乇賮賳丿蹖 讴賴 賳蹖賴蹖賱蹖爻賲 賵 賲毓丕賳蹖賽 亘丿鬲乇 丕夭 倬賵趩 芦夭賳丿诏蹖禄 乇賵 诏乇賵诏丕賳 賲蹖鈥屭屫辟嗀� 賵 賳丕亘賵丿 賲蹖 讴賳賳. 亘讴鬲 丿爻鬲 亘賴 讴丕乇 讴卮鬲賳 讴卮鬲丕乇 賮乇丿 卮丿賴.
賳賵卮鬲賳蹖 賲乇诏 丌賱賵丿貙 亘乇丕蹖 亘卮乇蹖鬲賽 夭賳丿賴 賴丕蹖 亘蹖 噩丕賳.
賳卮爻鬲賳 賲蹖丕賳 爻蹖賱 賮讴乇賴丕貙 鬲賵賴賲鈥屬囏ж� 鬲乇爻鈥屬囏ж� 鬲馗丕賴乇賴丕貙 丕毓鬲乇丕賮鈥屬囏ж� 丌乇夭賵賴丕貙 睾賲鈥屬囏ж� 禺胤 賵 賳卮丕賳 讴卮蹖丿賳鈥屬囏ж� 鬲賮賱爻賮鈥屬囏ж� 賮乇丕賲賵卮蹖鈥屬囏� 賵 鬲丕爻賮鈥屬囏й� 蹖讴 芦賲賳禄 丿乇賵睾蹖. 禺賵丕賳卮 賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 趩賳蹖賳 鬲噩乇亘賴鈥屫й屫池�.
鬲賲丕賲 賲卮禺氐賴鈥屬囏й� 讴丕乇賴丕蹖 賯亘賱蹖 亘讴鬲貙 丕夭 賲乇賮蹖 賵 賵丕鬲 亘诏蹖乇 鬲丕 賲丕賱賵蹖 賵 賲丕賱賵賳 賲蹖鈥� 賲蹖乇丿貙 亘丕 丨丿丕讴孬乇 卮丿鬲 丿乇 賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 噩賲毓 卮丿賴. 賴賲蹖賳 丕夭 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘貙 蹖丕 亘賴鬲乇 亘诏蹖賲貙 賲鬲賳 胤賵賱丕賳蹖貙 蹖讴 賮乇丕賳讴卮鬲丕蹖賳 丕丿亘蹖 賲蹖 爻丕夭賴. 乇賲丕賳蹖 亘夭乇诏鬲乇 賵 毓噩蹖亘 鬲乇 賵 夭蹖亘丕鬲乇 賵 鬲乇爻賳丕讴鬲乇 賵 禺賵丕賳卮 賳丕倬匕蹖乇鬲乇 賵 賮賴賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇鬲乇 丕夭 賴乇 乇賲丕賳 丿蹖诏賴.
亘讴鬲 亘丕 賳賵卮鬲賳 賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇貙 丿乇 丕胤賳丕亘 賴丕 賵 丕胤賳丕亘 賴丕 賵 鬲讴乇丕乇賴丕 賵 鬲讴乇丕乇賴丕貙 亘賴 卮蹖胤丕賳 丿乇賵賳 乇丕賵蹖貙 卮蹖胤丕賳蹖 讴賴 賴賲賴 蹖 毓賲乇 丕賲讴丕賳 亘賵丿賳賽 賳丕亘 丨鬲蹖 亘乇丕蹖 蹖讴 賱丨馗賴 (蹖丕 夭賳丿诏蹖) 乇賵 丕夭 乇丕賵蹖 诏乇賮鬲賴貙 夭亘丕賳 賴丿蹖賴 讴乇丿賴. 亘賴 卮蹖胤丕賳 讴賱賲賴 丿丕丿賴貙 噩賲賱賴 噩賲賱賴 禺乇噩 讴乇丿賴 亘乇丕蹖 賴乇 趩賴 賴蹖丕賴賵蹖 亘乇丕蹖 賴蹖趩 丿乇 賴乇 噩丕蹖 匕賴賳 賴爻鬲貙 鬲丕 賵爻賵爻賴 亘卮賴貙 賵 賴乇 趩蹖 賲蹖 禺賵丕丿 亘诏賴貙 亘诏賴貙 丕蹖賳賯丿乇 亘诏賴 鬲丕 鬲賲丕賲 芦賴蹖趩禄丕蹖 讴賴 賴賲賴 噩丕蹖 匕賴賳 乇丕賵蹖 乇賵 丕卮睾丕賱 讴乇丿賴貙 鬲賲丕賲 芦卮亘禄貙 亘丕 賳蹖卮鬲乇 芦賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇禄 亘賴 卮讴賱 噩賲賱丕鬲 賵 鬲賮讴乇丕鬲 賵 丕馗賴丕乇 賳馗乇賴丕蹖 賳丕賮氐 丕賱禺賱賯賴 賵 賴匕蹖丕賳 賵丕乇 亘蹖乇賵賳 亘乇蹖夭賴.鬲賲丕賲 卮蹖胤丕賳 诏賮鬲賴 賲蹖 卮賴貙 鬲賲丕賲 卮蹖胤丕賳 賲蹖 賲蹖乇賴.
丿乇 丌禺乇貙 乇丕賵蹖 亘丿賵賳 丕蹖賳讴賴 亘賮賴賲賴 讴噩丕蹖 賲鬲賳 卮乇賵毓 夭賳丿賴 亘賵丿賳卮 亘賵丿賴貙 賲孬賱 賲爻蹖丨丕蹖 丕夭 禺丕讴 亘乇禺丕爻鬲賴貙 毓丕乇蹖 丕夭 丌賱賵丿诏蹖賽 芦丿蹖诏乇蹖 賴賲 亘賵丿賳禄 蹖丕 賴賲丕賳芦賲賳 賳亘賵丿賳禄 亘賴 蹖讴 賮乇丿 鬲亘丿蹖賱 賲蹖 卮賴. 亘賴 蹖讴 賲賵噩賵丿 賲毓賳丕亘禺卮貙 亘蹖 賳蹖丕夭 丕夭 毓賱鬲 賵 賲毓賱賵賱貙 賵 亘蹖丕賳 丕蹖賳讴賴 亘丕賱丕禺乇芦賲賳 賴賲禄 賴爻鬲賲.
亘讴鬲 鬲賲丕賲 賳蹖賴蹖賱蹖爻賲 乇賵 亘丕 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 倬蹖趩蹖丿賴 鬲乇蹖賳 賵 氐毓亘 丕賱毓亘賵乇鬲乇蹖賳 賵 夭蹖亘丕鬲乇蹖賳 賲鬲賵賳蹖 讴賴 鬲丕 亘賴 丨丕賱 賳賵卮鬲賴 卮丿賴貙 乇賵蹖 讴丕睾匕 丌賵乇丿賴. 賴賲賴 蹖 賳蹖賴蹖賱蹖爻賲 乇賵 孬亘鬲 讴乇丿賴 賳賴 亘乇丕蹖 丕卮丕毓賴貙 讴賴 亘乇毓讴爻貙 鬲丕 賲乇诏卮 乇賵 亘丕毓孬 亘卮賴貙 亘賴 賵爻蹖賱賴 蹖 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲貙 亘丕 賴賲賵賳 胤乇賮賳丿蹖 讴賴 賳蹖賴蹖賱蹖爻賲 賵 賲毓丕賳蹖賽 亘丿鬲乇 丕夭 倬賵趩 芦夭賳丿诏蹖禄 乇賵 诏乇賵诏丕賳 賲蹖鈥屭屫辟嗀� 賵 賳丕亘賵丿 賲蹖 讴賳賳. 亘讴鬲 丿爻鬲 亘賴 讴丕乇 讴卮鬲賳 讴卮鬲丕乇 賮乇丿 卮丿賴.
賳賵卮鬲賳蹖 賲乇诏 丌賱賵丿貙 亘乇丕蹖 亘卮乇蹖鬲賽 夭賳丿賴 賴丕蹖 亘蹖 噩丕賳.
May 4, 2023
Imagine the creative impulse is a black hole from which rises a bewildered narrative voice, which tries to make sense only of itself, not of the world. Which tries to become a character, or a body, or a feeling, or a story, and struggles to accept both sides of every coin. Like a picture made only of colours, colours that burst, that flow, that spring from the canvas in no apparent order and coherence 鈥� The Unnamable is made only of words, whirlwinding round and round the reader in an endless monologue, questioning, negating and accepting, forever defining the unity of opposites:
It is the same cadence, the same majesty, and the same quiet contradiction Rig-Veda uses to describe that weak powerful Unit preceding creation: "He, the first origin of this creation, whether he formed it all or did not form it,鈥� Whose eye controls this world in highest heaven, he verily knows it, or perhaps he knows not."
It is a voice speaking. Of nothing. Of nothingness. And of everything. Of everythingness (well, well, I caught it, too!). Trying to cover all possibilities of an issue while questioning what issue is there. It is the Voice speaking of itself, feeling whole and barren altogether, pushed by a compulsory narrative disorder 馃槉, while trying to keep silent:
It is the desire to create (Rig-Veda again!) despite the wariness, the fatigue and the sense of futility. That鈥檚 why it is (whereas it鈥檚 not) a good example of what l鈥檃venture de l鈥櫭ヽriture could mean in the nouveau roman acceptation. That is why you can read it (but can you?) in a deconstructivist way, since it seems to prefigure Derrida鈥檚 idea of a language 鈥渃aught at a moment of crisis鈥�.
All these 鈥渋t is鈥� whereas 鈥渋t isn鈥檛鈥� or maybe 鈥渋t will be鈥� although 鈥渋t won鈥檛鈥� form the essence of a narrative that speaks about the vicious circle of the creative impulse caught between creative angst and creative obsession and unable to stop. Thus the first words: 鈥淜eep going, going on (call that going, call that on)鈥�, which mirror the last: 鈥淚 can't go on. I'll go on.鈥�
Did I find this kind of narrative interesting? Of course I did 鈥� it鈥檚 always fascinating to see how an author manages to stretch the conventional borders of a genre in order to experiment new forms.
Would I like to read more in the same style? I don鈥檛 think so 鈥� my conventional, somehow conservative view of the novel makes me seek characters, and a plot, and a dialogue. I can be diverted for a while, and look curiously into another approach, but I faithfully keep returning to old models.
But, on the other hand, what the heck? Every voice that rings true has a right to be heard. The rest depends, as usually, on the reader鈥檚 horizon of expectations.
Anyway, as Stephen Spender warned in his New York Times review, it鈥檚 better not to get overawed by the obvious narcissism of a work that superciliously closes within: "Nevertheless, it is important that the Beckett cult should not blind us to his limitations. The interest hovers on the edge of complete solipsism, and his contempt for everyone and everything outside groping self-awareness, verges on the automatically facile."
And yet. And yet. Can you really not hear the sombre sarcasm that shadows and reveals (solitaire cloud over-passing the moon) a portrait (too complex to be suspected of automatic facility) of doomed humanity in quotes like these?
I'm there already: I'll start looking for me now, I'm there somewhere. It won't be I - no matter, I'll say it's I. Perhaps it will be I.
It is the same cadence, the same majesty, and the same quiet contradiction Rig-Veda uses to describe that weak powerful Unit preceding creation: "He, the first origin of this creation, whether he formed it all or did not form it,鈥� Whose eye controls this world in highest heaven, he verily knows it, or perhaps he knows not."
It is a voice speaking. Of nothing. Of nothingness. And of everything. Of everythingness (well, well, I caught it, too!). Trying to cover all possibilities of an issue while questioning what issue is there. It is the Voice speaking of itself, feeling whole and barren altogether, pushed by a compulsory narrative disorder 馃槉, while trying to keep silent:
Ah if only this voice could stop! This meaningless voice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you from being nothing and nowhere - just enough to keep alight this little yellow flame feebly darting from side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from its wick.
It is the desire to create (Rig-Veda again!) despite the wariness, the fatigue and the sense of futility. That鈥檚 why it is (whereas it鈥檚 not) a good example of what l鈥檃venture de l鈥櫭ヽriture could mean in the nouveau roman acceptation. That is why you can read it (but can you?) in a deconstructivist way, since it seems to prefigure Derrida鈥檚 idea of a language 鈥渃aught at a moment of crisis鈥�.
All these 鈥渋t is鈥� whereas 鈥渋t isn鈥檛鈥� or maybe 鈥渋t will be鈥� although 鈥渋t won鈥檛鈥� form the essence of a narrative that speaks about the vicious circle of the creative impulse caught between creative angst and creative obsession and unable to stop. Thus the first words: 鈥淜eep going, going on (call that going, call that on)鈥�, which mirror the last: 鈥淚 can't go on. I'll go on.鈥�
Did I find this kind of narrative interesting? Of course I did 鈥� it鈥檚 always fascinating to see how an author manages to stretch the conventional borders of a genre in order to experiment new forms.
Would I like to read more in the same style? I don鈥檛 think so 鈥� my conventional, somehow conservative view of the novel makes me seek characters, and a plot, and a dialogue. I can be diverted for a while, and look curiously into another approach, but I faithfully keep returning to old models.
But, on the other hand, what the heck? Every voice that rings true has a right to be heard. The rest depends, as usually, on the reader鈥檚 horizon of expectations.
Anyway, as Stephen Spender warned in his New York Times review, it鈥檚 better not to get overawed by the obvious narcissism of a work that superciliously closes within: "Nevertheless, it is important that the Beckett cult should not blind us to his limitations. The interest hovers on the edge of complete solipsism, and his contempt for everyone and everything outside groping self-awareness, verges on the automatically facile."
And yet. And yet. Can you really not hear the sombre sarcasm that shadows and reveals (solitaire cloud over-passing the moon) a portrait (too complex to be suspected of automatic facility) of doomed humanity in quotes like these?
Ah mother of God, the things one has to listen to!
I never made anyone suffer, I never stopped anyone's sufferings: no one will ever stop mine.
No need of a mouth: the words are everywhere, inside me, outside me.
I use them all, all the words they showed me.
But the question may be asked, why time doesn't pass? (Just like that, off the record, en passant - to pass the time.)
August 4, 2020
賲丨丿賾孬賰 賮賷 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 丕賱兀賵賱賶 廿賳爻丕賳 賲賳亘賵匕 囟毓賷賮 賷禺賱賯 賳賮爻賴 毓賳 胤乇賷賯 賲丨丕賵乇鬲賴丕 賵爻乇丿 丕賱丨賰丕賷丕鬲 賱賴丕.
賮賷 丕賱孬丕賳賷丞 亘賯丕賷丕 廿賳爻丕賳 毓丕噩夭 賷乇賶 丕賱賳噩丕丞 賮賷 鬲丿賵賷賳 丕賱丨賰丕賷丕鬲 賱丕 賲噩乇丿 爻乇丿賴丕.
兀賲丕 丕賱丌賳 賮丕賱毓丿賲 賴賵 亘胤賱 丕賱丨賰丕賷丞貨 賱丕 廿爻賲貙 賱丕 賰賷丕賳貙 賱丕 賲賰丕賳貙 賱丕 賴賵賷丞 .. 鬲賯賵賷囟 賰丕賲賱 賱兀賷 賵噩賵丿貙 賵賱兀賷 兀賲賱 賮賷 鬲乇賰 兀孬乇 .. 賵賴賰匕丕 鬲賰鬲賲賱 賲乇丕丨賱 丕賱鬲丨賱賱 賵鬲購禺鬲鬲賲 賮賷 賴匕丕 丕賱毓賲賱.
" 賱丕 賮丕卅丿丞 賱賱賲乇亍 賲賳 爻乇丿 丕賱賯氐氐 毓賱賶 賳賮爻賴貙 賱賰賷 賷賯囟賷 賵賯鬲賴貙 丕賱賯氐氐 賱丕 鬲噩毓賱 丕賱賵賯鬲 賷賲乇貙 賱丕 卮賷亍 賷賲賰賳賴 鬲賲乇賷乇賴. "
賲賳 兀賳鬲 責
賲丕 兀賳鬲 責
賲丕匕丕 丕賱匕賷 鬲毓乇賮賴 責 賲丕 丕賱匕賷 鬲爻鬲胤賷毓 鬲兀賰賷丿賴 責 賵賲丕 丕賱匕賷 鬲爻鬲卮毓乇賴 丨賷賳 鬲賯賵賱 鈥� 兀賳丕 鈥�
賰賲 鬲賲賱賰 賲賳 廿噩丕亘丕鬲 毓賳 賳賮爻賰 責
廿匕丕賸貙 兀賳丕 兀丿毓賵賰 賱噩賱爻丞 賯氐賷乇丞 賲毓 亘賷賰賷鬲貙 賵兀毓丿賰貙 爻鬲賰賵賳 賲賯鬲賳毓丕賸 賮賷 賳賴丕賷鬲賴丕 亘兀賳賰 睾賷乇 賲賵噩賵丿.
" 兀賳丕 賱賲 兀乇睾亘 兀亘丿丕賸貙 賵賱賲 兀亘丨孬貙 賵賱賲 兀毓丕賳賽貙 賱丕 卮賷亍 賲賳 賰賱 賴匕丕貙 賵賱賲 鬲賰賳 賱丿賷 賲賵丕囟賷毓 兀亘丿丕賸貙 賵賱丕 禺氐賵賲 兀亘丿丕賸貙 賵賱丕 廿丨爻丕爻 兀亘丿丕賸貙 賵賱丕 乇兀爻 兀亘丿丕賸. "
賲賵賱賵賷貙 賲賵乇丕賳貙 賲丕賱賵賳貙 爻丕亘賵貙 賲丕賰賲丕賳貙 賲賵乇賮賷貙 賲丕賴賵丿貙 亘丕爻賷賱貙 賲丕鬲賷賵貙 亘鬲賵鬲賵貙 賵丕鬲貙 賲乇爻賷賷賴貙 賵賵乇賲貙 鬲丕乇鬲賲亘賷賵賳 .. 賰賱賴丕 鬲賳賵賷毓丕鬲 賱賮馗賷丞 毓賱賶 藵 爻丕賲賵賷賱 亘丕乇賰賱賷 亘賷賰賷鬲 藵
賱賰賳 賷亘賯賶 丕賱爻丐丕賱: 賲賳 丕賱匕賷 兀賵噩丿 丕賱丌禺乇 責 賴賱 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 丕禺鬲賱賯 卮禺氐賷丕鬲賴 丕賱賲鬲毓丿丿丞 責 兀賲 賮賷 丕賱丨賯賷賯丞 丕賱毓賰爻 賴賵 賲丕 賯丿 丨氐賱 責責!
" 賰賷賮 賷賲賰賳賳賷 丕賱鬲毓乇賮 毓賱賶 賳賮爻賷 孬丕賳賷丞貙 賲丕 丿賲鬲 賱賲 兀賱鬲賯賽 亘賴丕 兀亘丿丕賸. "
賵賮賷 賲賯賵賱丞賺 兀禺乇賶貙 賵兀禺賷乇丞:
" 丕賱乇賲丕丿賷賾 賴賵 賵丨丿賴 丕賱丨賯賷賯賷賾. "
賮賷 丕賱孬丕賳賷丞 亘賯丕賷丕 廿賳爻丕賳 毓丕噩夭 賷乇賶 丕賱賳噩丕丞 賮賷 鬲丿賵賷賳 丕賱丨賰丕賷丕鬲 賱丕 賲噩乇丿 爻乇丿賴丕.
兀賲丕 丕賱丌賳 賮丕賱毓丿賲 賴賵 亘胤賱 丕賱丨賰丕賷丞貨 賱丕 廿爻賲貙 賱丕 賰賷丕賳貙 賱丕 賲賰丕賳貙 賱丕 賴賵賷丞 .. 鬲賯賵賷囟 賰丕賲賱 賱兀賷 賵噩賵丿貙 賵賱兀賷 兀賲賱 賮賷 鬲乇賰 兀孬乇 .. 賵賴賰匕丕 鬲賰鬲賲賱 賲乇丕丨賱 丕賱鬲丨賱賱 賵鬲購禺鬲鬲賲 賮賷 賴匕丕 丕賱毓賲賱.
" 賱丕 賮丕卅丿丞 賱賱賲乇亍 賲賳 爻乇丿 丕賱賯氐氐 毓賱賶 賳賮爻賴貙 賱賰賷 賷賯囟賷 賵賯鬲賴貙 丕賱賯氐氐 賱丕 鬲噩毓賱 丕賱賵賯鬲 賷賲乇貙 賱丕 卮賷亍 賷賲賰賳賴 鬲賲乇賷乇賴. "
賲賳 兀賳鬲 責
賲丕 兀賳鬲 責
賲丕匕丕 丕賱匕賷 鬲毓乇賮賴 責 賲丕 丕賱匕賷 鬲爻鬲胤賷毓 鬲兀賰賷丿賴 責 賵賲丕 丕賱匕賷 鬲爻鬲卮毓乇賴 丨賷賳 鬲賯賵賱 鈥� 兀賳丕 鈥�
賰賲 鬲賲賱賰 賲賳 廿噩丕亘丕鬲 毓賳 賳賮爻賰 責
廿匕丕賸貙 兀賳丕 兀丿毓賵賰 賱噩賱爻丞 賯氐賷乇丞 賲毓 亘賷賰賷鬲貙 賵兀毓丿賰貙 爻鬲賰賵賳 賲賯鬲賳毓丕賸 賮賷 賳賴丕賷鬲賴丕 亘兀賳賰 睾賷乇 賲賵噩賵丿.
" 兀賳丕 賱賲 兀乇睾亘 兀亘丿丕賸貙 賵賱賲 兀亘丨孬貙 賵賱賲 兀毓丕賳賽貙 賱丕 卮賷亍 賲賳 賰賱 賴匕丕貙 賵賱賲 鬲賰賳 賱丿賷 賲賵丕囟賷毓 兀亘丿丕賸貙 賵賱丕 禺氐賵賲 兀亘丿丕賸貙 賵賱丕 廿丨爻丕爻 兀亘丿丕賸貙 賵賱丕 乇兀爻 兀亘丿丕賸. "
賲賵賱賵賷貙 賲賵乇丕賳貙 賲丕賱賵賳貙 爻丕亘賵貙 賲丕賰賲丕賳貙 賲賵乇賮賷貙 賲丕賴賵丿貙 亘丕爻賷賱貙 賲丕鬲賷賵貙 亘鬲賵鬲賵貙 賵丕鬲貙 賲乇爻賷賷賴貙 賵賵乇賲貙 鬲丕乇鬲賲亘賷賵賳 .. 賰賱賴丕 鬲賳賵賷毓丕鬲 賱賮馗賷丞 毓賱賶 藵 爻丕賲賵賷賱 亘丕乇賰賱賷 亘賷賰賷鬲 藵
賱賰賳 賷亘賯賶 丕賱爻丐丕賱: 賲賳 丕賱匕賷 兀賵噩丿 丕賱丌禺乇 責 賴賱 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 丕禺鬲賱賯 卮禺氐賷丕鬲賴 丕賱賲鬲毓丿丿丞 責 兀賲 賮賷 丕賱丨賯賷賯丞 丕賱毓賰爻 賴賵 賲丕 賯丿 丨氐賱 責責!
" 賰賷賮 賷賲賰賳賳賷 丕賱鬲毓乇賮 毓賱賶 賳賮爻賷 孬丕賳賷丞貙 賲丕 丿賲鬲 賱賲 兀賱鬲賯賽 亘賴丕 兀亘丿丕賸. "
賵賮賷 賲賯賵賱丞賺 兀禺乇賶貙 賵兀禺賷乇丞:
" 丕賱乇賲丕丿賷賾 賴賵 賵丨丿賴 丕賱丨賯賷賯賷賾. "
June 15, 2018
Samuel Beckett - The Unnamable
A bodiless voice which encloses and is enclosed in all, fragmentarily possessing bits of matter now and then, here and there. A voice that seems as if it's destined to die as soon as your mind stops processing its words. Totally aware of its mortality and its dependability on its audience. A voice coming from nowhere and yet seems to be everywhere. Filling the space between the page and the eyes, capturing the mind and taking over the stillness of the outside world, lending it its vibrations, making it move around in a circle without a center. A circle with edges sharp as knives.
S. Beckett at his best.
A bodiless voice which encloses and is enclosed in all, fragmentarily possessing bits of matter now and then, here and there. A voice that seems as if it's destined to die as soon as your mind stops processing its words. Totally aware of its mortality and its dependability on its audience. A voice coming from nowhere and yet seems to be everywhere. Filling the space between the page and the eyes, capturing the mind and taking over the stillness of the outside world, lending it its vibrations, making it move around in a circle without a center. A circle with edges sharp as knives.
S. Beckett at his best.
August 12, 2013
What is a review? Is this a review? To view again? But I have only viewed once. Deja vu? To view a second time? Then what is a preview? To view before? To view before viewing? Can one view before ones views? Can one view? Can one be viewed? Am I one? Am I alone? Am I a viewer? Or a reviewer?
Thus goes the Unnamable for 200 pages ... a disembodied voice ... a dying voice ... a dead voice?
It goes on.
Thus goes the Unnamable for 200 pages ... a disembodied voice ... a dying voice ... a dead voice?
It goes on.
July 1, 2016
"亘蹖乇賵賳 亘乇丕蹖 丌賳讴賴 乇賵夭 賵 卮亘 乇丕 鬲丕 丨丿 賲賲讴賳 丿乇 噩丕蹖蹖 丿賵乇 爻倬乇蹖 讴賳賲貙 丿賵乇 賳亘賵丿".
賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 倬禺卮 倬丕蹖丕賳蹖 爻賴 诏丕賳賴 丕蹖 爻鬲 讴賴 倬爻 丕夭 賲丕賱賵蹖 賵 賲丕賱賵賳 賲蹖 賲蹖乇丿貙 賳诏丕乇卮 蹖丕賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲. 丿乇 禺氐賵氐 賲丨鬲賵丕蹖 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 卮丕蹖丿 鬲賵氐蹖賮卮 賴賲丕賳诏賵賳賴 讴賴 丕夭 賳丕賲卮 亘乇賲蹖 丌蹖丿 爻禺鬲 賵 丿卮賵丕乇 亘丕卮丿 趩乇丕 讴賴 亘丕 賮囟丕蹖蹖 讴丕賲賱丕 丿乇賴賲 乇蹖禺鬲賴 賵 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲 乇賵亘賴 乇賵 賴爻鬲蹖賲 賵 噩賴丕賳蹖 乇丕 鬲噩乇亘賴 賲蹖讴賳蹖賲 讴賴 亘丕 亘蹖丕賳蹖 禺丕氐 賵 睾蹖乇 賲毓賲賵賱 鬲賵氐蹖賮 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賴乇讴爻 亘乇丕蹖 讴卮賮 賲丨鬲賵丕蹖 丌賳 亘丕蹖丿 禺賵丿卮 卮禺氐丕 讴鬲丕亘 乇丕 夭賳丿诏蹖 賵 鬲噩乇亘賴 讴賳丿. 亘賴 賴乇 氐賵乇鬲 丕诏乇趩賴 卮丕蹖丿 亘乇丕蹖 亘毓囟蹖 禺賵丕賳丿賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿卮賵丕乇 亘賴 賳馗乇 亘乇爻丿 賵 丨鬲蹖 诏丕賴蹖 爻乇 讴賱丕賮 乇賵丕蹖鬲 丕夭 丿爻鬲卮丕賳 禺丕乇噩 卮賵丿 丕賲丕 賳孬乇 夭蹖亘丕 賵 亘賴 賵蹖跇賴 賲賵賳賵賱賵诏賴丕蹖 亘蹖 賳馗蹖乇 讴賴 賲賲讴賳 爻鬲 亘禺卮 讴孬蹖乇蹖 丕夭 丌賳 亘丿賵賳 丕蹖賳讴賴 賯丕亘賱 亘蹖丕賳 亘丕卮丿貙 丿乇 匕賴賳 禺蹖賱蹖 丕夭 丕賮乇丕丿 丿乇 噩乇蹖丕賳 亘丕卮丿貙 賯胤毓丕 噩丕匕亘 賵 丿賱賳卮蹖賳 丕爻鬲.丿乇 賳诏丕賴 丕賵賱 卮丕蹖丿 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 亘賴 诏賵賳賴 丕蹖 賳丕丕賲蹖丿 讴賳賳丿賴 賵 爻乇丕爻乇 蹖丕爻 亘賴 賳馗乇 亘乇爻丿 丕賲丕 丕诏乇 丕夭 賮囟丕 賵 噩賵 鬲蹖乇賴 賵 鬲賱禺 丨丕讴賲 亘乇 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 亘诏匕乇蹖賲貨 賳賲蹖鬲賵丕賳 賲賳讴乇 賵噩賵丿 讴賵乇爻賵蹖蹖 丕夭 丕賲蹖丿 丿乇 匕賴賳 乇丕賵蹖 賵 鬲賱丕卮賴丕蹖 賴乇趩賳丿 賲亘賴賲卮 亘乇丕蹖 乇爻蹖丿賳 亘賴 趩蹖夭蹖貙 卮賳丕禺鬲蹖貙 丿乇讴蹖 丕夭 亘賵丿賳 貙 賵噩賵丿 丿丕卮鬲賳貙 丌夭丕丿蹖 (丿乇 賵丕賯毓 丕爻丕爻蹖 鬲乇蹖賳 賳蹖丕夭賴丕蹖 乇賵丨蹖 亘卮乇)趩卮賲 倬賵卮蹖丿. 丕诏乇趩賴 亘毓囟蹖 亘乇 丕蹖賳 丕孬乇 亘讴鬲 賲賴乇 賳賴蹖賱蹖爻賲 夭丿賴 丕賳丿 丕賲丕 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘爻蹖丕乇 賮乇丕鬲乇 丕夭 丌賳 賵 丿乇 丨賯蹖賯鬲 亘蹖丕賳诏乇 鬲賱丕卮 亘卮乇 (賮丕乇睾 丕夭 賴乇 丿賵乇賴 賵 夭賲丕賳) 亘乇丕蹖 乇賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 倬賵趩蹖 賵 倬賵趩 诏乇丕蹖蹖 爻鬲. 乇賵蹖賴賲乇賮鬲賴 賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 丕夭 趩賳丕賳 睾賳丕 賵 倬禺鬲诏蹖 賮讴乇蹖 丕蹖 亘乇禺賵乇丿丕乇 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賳賴 鬲賳賴丕 賲蹖鬲賵丕賳 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 蹖讴 丿賵乇賴 蹖 乇賵丕賳卮賳丕爻蹖 蹖丕 賮賱爻賮賴 亘賴 丌賳 賳诏丕賴 讴乇丿 亘賱讴賴 亘賴 賱丨丕馗 丕丿亘蹖 (丨鬲蹖 亘乇丕蹖 讴爻蹖 賲孬賱 賲賳 讴賴 丕賵賱蹖賳 亘丕乇 亘丕 丌孬丕乇 亘讴鬲 賲賵丕噩賴 賲蹖卮賵丿) 讴丕賲賱丕 賳卮丕賳 丿賴賳丿賴 蹖 倬禺鬲诏蹖 賵 卮丕蹖丿 丨鬲蹖 賳賯胤賴 蹖 丕賵噩 賵 讴賲丕賱 丿乇 鬲賮讴乇 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 丕爻鬲. 亘賴 賴乇丨丕賱 亘丕蹖丿 诏賮鬲 丕蹖賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 賳賴 鬲賳賴丕 賳丕賲蹖 賳賲蹖倬匕蹖乇丿 亘賱讴賴 鬲賵氐蹖賮 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 賴賲 賴爻鬲 賵 丿乇 毓蹖賳 丨丕賱 亘乇丕蹖 賴乇 賮乇丿蹖 毓賱蹖 丕賱禺氐賵氐 丿乇 噩丕賲毓賴 蹖 賲丿乇賳 丨丕賱 丨丕囟乇 丕诏乇趩賴 睾蹖乇 賯丕亘賱 亘蹖丕賳 丕賲丕 賯丕亘賱 賱賲爻 賵 丿乇讴 丕爻鬲.
賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 倬禺卮 倬丕蹖丕賳蹖 爻賴 诏丕賳賴 丕蹖 爻鬲 讴賴 倬爻 丕夭 賲丕賱賵蹖 賵 賲丕賱賵賳 賲蹖 賲蹖乇丿貙 賳诏丕乇卮 蹖丕賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲. 丿乇 禺氐賵氐 賲丨鬲賵丕蹖 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 卮丕蹖丿 鬲賵氐蹖賮卮 賴賲丕賳诏賵賳賴 讴賴 丕夭 賳丕賲卮 亘乇賲蹖 丌蹖丿 爻禺鬲 賵 丿卮賵丕乇 亘丕卮丿 趩乇丕 讴賴 亘丕 賮囟丕蹖蹖 讴丕賲賱丕 丿乇賴賲 乇蹖禺鬲賴 賵 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲 乇賵亘賴 乇賵 賴爻鬲蹖賲 賵 噩賴丕賳蹖 乇丕 鬲噩乇亘賴 賲蹖讴賳蹖賲 讴賴 亘丕 亘蹖丕賳蹖 禺丕氐 賵 睾蹖乇 賲毓賲賵賱 鬲賵氐蹖賮 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賴乇讴爻 亘乇丕蹖 讴卮賮 賲丨鬲賵丕蹖 丌賳 亘丕蹖丿 禺賵丿卮 卮禺氐丕 讴鬲丕亘 乇丕 夭賳丿诏蹖 賵 鬲噩乇亘賴 讴賳丿. 亘賴 賴乇 氐賵乇鬲 丕诏乇趩賴 卮丕蹖丿 亘乇丕蹖 亘毓囟蹖 禺賵丕賳丿賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿卮賵丕乇 亘賴 賳馗乇 亘乇爻丿 賵 丨鬲蹖 诏丕賴蹖 爻乇 讴賱丕賮 乇賵丕蹖鬲 丕夭 丿爻鬲卮丕賳 禺丕乇噩 卮賵丿 丕賲丕 賳孬乇 夭蹖亘丕 賵 亘賴 賵蹖跇賴 賲賵賳賵賱賵诏賴丕蹖 亘蹖 賳馗蹖乇 讴賴 賲賲讴賳 爻鬲 亘禺卮 讴孬蹖乇蹖 丕夭 丌賳 亘丿賵賳 丕蹖賳讴賴 賯丕亘賱 亘蹖丕賳 亘丕卮丿貙 丿乇 匕賴賳 禺蹖賱蹖 丕夭 丕賮乇丕丿 丿乇 噩乇蹖丕賳 亘丕卮丿貙 賯胤毓丕 噩丕匕亘 賵 丿賱賳卮蹖賳 丕爻鬲.丿乇 賳诏丕賴 丕賵賱 卮丕蹖丿 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 亘賴 诏賵賳賴 丕蹖 賳丕丕賲蹖丿 讴賳賳丿賴 賵 爻乇丕爻乇 蹖丕爻 亘賴 賳馗乇 亘乇爻丿 丕賲丕 丕诏乇 丕夭 賮囟丕 賵 噩賵 鬲蹖乇賴 賵 鬲賱禺 丨丕讴賲 亘乇 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 亘诏匕乇蹖賲貨 賳賲蹖鬲賵丕賳 賲賳讴乇 賵噩賵丿 讴賵乇爻賵蹖蹖 丕夭 丕賲蹖丿 丿乇 匕賴賳 乇丕賵蹖 賵 鬲賱丕卮賴丕蹖 賴乇趩賳丿 賲亘賴賲卮 亘乇丕蹖 乇爻蹖丿賳 亘賴 趩蹖夭蹖貙 卮賳丕禺鬲蹖貙 丿乇讴蹖 丕夭 亘賵丿賳 貙 賵噩賵丿 丿丕卮鬲賳貙 丌夭丕丿蹖 (丿乇 賵丕賯毓 丕爻丕爻蹖 鬲乇蹖賳 賳蹖丕夭賴丕蹖 乇賵丨蹖 亘卮乇)趩卮賲 倬賵卮蹖丿. 丕诏乇趩賴 亘毓囟蹖 亘乇 丕蹖賳 丕孬乇 亘讴鬲 賲賴乇 賳賴蹖賱蹖爻賲 夭丿賴 丕賳丿 丕賲丕 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘爻蹖丕乇 賮乇丕鬲乇 丕夭 丌賳 賵 丿乇 丨賯蹖賯鬲 亘蹖丕賳诏乇 鬲賱丕卮 亘卮乇 (賮丕乇睾 丕夭 賴乇 丿賵乇賴 賵 夭賲丕賳) 亘乇丕蹖 乇賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 倬賵趩蹖 賵 倬賵趩 诏乇丕蹖蹖 爻鬲. 乇賵蹖賴賲乇賮鬲賴 賳丕賲 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 丕夭 趩賳丕賳 睾賳丕 賵 倬禺鬲诏蹖 賮讴乇蹖 丕蹖 亘乇禺賵乇丿丕乇 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賳賴 鬲賳賴丕 賲蹖鬲賵丕賳 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 蹖讴 丿賵乇賴 蹖 乇賵丕賳卮賳丕爻蹖 蹖丕 賮賱爻賮賴 亘賴 丌賳 賳诏丕賴 讴乇丿 亘賱讴賴 亘賴 賱丨丕馗 丕丿亘蹖 (丨鬲蹖 亘乇丕蹖 讴爻蹖 賲孬賱 賲賳 讴賴 丕賵賱蹖賳 亘丕乇 亘丕 丌孬丕乇 亘讴鬲 賲賵丕噩賴 賲蹖卮賵丿) 讴丕賲賱丕 賳卮丕賳 丿賴賳丿賴 蹖 倬禺鬲诏蹖 賵 卮丕蹖丿 丨鬲蹖 賳賯胤賴 蹖 丕賵噩 賵 讴賲丕賱 丿乇 鬲賮讴乇 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 丕爻鬲. 亘賴 賴乇丨丕賱 亘丕蹖丿 诏賮鬲 丕蹖賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 賳賴 鬲賳賴丕 賳丕賲蹖 賳賲蹖倬匕蹖乇丿 亘賱讴賴 鬲賵氐蹖賮 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 賴賲 賴爻鬲 賵 丿乇 毓蹖賳 丨丕賱 亘乇丕蹖 賴乇 賮乇丿蹖 毓賱蹖 丕賱禺氐賵氐 丿乇 噩丕賲毓賴 蹖 賲丿乇賳 丨丕賱 丨丕囟乇 丕诏乇趩賴 睾蹖乇 賯丕亘賱 亘蹖丕賳 丕賲丕 賯丕亘賱 賱賲爻 賵 丿乇讴 丕爻鬲.
March 10, 2017
The blue face! The obscene protrusion of the tongue! The tumefaction of the penis! The penis, well now, that's a surprise, I'd forgotten I had one. What a pity I have no arms, there might still be something to be wrung from it. No, 'tis better thus. At my age, to start manstuprating again, it would be indecent. And fruitless. And yet one can never tell. With a yo heave yo, concentrating with all my might on a horse's rump, at the moment when the tail raises, who knows, I might not go altogether empty-handed away. Heaven, I almost felt it flutter!
July 28, 2020
After finishing this book, I feel unnameably exhausted. The feeling I experienced while reading could be best described by the last words of Beckett's protagonist:I can鈥檛 go on, I鈥檒l go on.
But the mere fact of asking myself such a question gives me to reflect.
*
Under the skies, on the roads, in the towns, in the woods, in the hills, in the plains, by the shores, on the seas, behind my manikins, I was not always sad, I wasted my time, abjured my rights, suffered for nothing, forgot my lesson.
*
I don鈥檛 know, perhaps it鈥檚 a dream, all a dream, that would surprise me, I鈥檒l wake, in the silence, and never sleep again, it will be I, or dream, dream again, dream of a silence, a dream silence, full of murmurs, I don鈥檛 know, that鈥檚 all words, never wake, all words, there鈥檚 nothing else, you must go on, that鈥檚 all I know, they鈥檙e going to stop, I know that well, I can feel it, they鈥檙e going to abandon me, it will be the silence, for a moment, a good few moments, or it will be mine, the lasting one, that didn鈥檛 last, that still lasts, it will be I, you must go on, I can鈥檛 go on, you must go on, I鈥檒l go on, you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it鈥檚 done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be
I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don鈥檛 know, I鈥檒l never know, in the silence you don鈥檛 know, you must go on, I can鈥檛 go on, I鈥檒l go on.
But the mere fact of asking myself such a question gives me to reflect.
*
Under the skies, on the roads, in the towns, in the woods, in the hills, in the plains, by the shores, on the seas, behind my manikins, I was not always sad, I wasted my time, abjured my rights, suffered for nothing, forgot my lesson.
*
I don鈥檛 know, perhaps it鈥檚 a dream, all a dream, that would surprise me, I鈥檒l wake, in the silence, and never sleep again, it will be I, or dream, dream again, dream of a silence, a dream silence, full of murmurs, I don鈥檛 know, that鈥檚 all words, never wake, all words, there鈥檚 nothing else, you must go on, that鈥檚 all I know, they鈥檙e going to stop, I know that well, I can feel it, they鈥檙e going to abandon me, it will be the silence, for a moment, a good few moments, or it will be mine, the lasting one, that didn鈥檛 last, that still lasts, it will be I, you must go on, I can鈥檛 go on, you must go on, I鈥檒l go on, you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it鈥檚 done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be
I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don鈥檛 know, I鈥檒l never know, in the silence you don鈥檛 know, you must go on, I can鈥檛 go on, I鈥檒l go on.
November 5, 2011
Just finished The Unnamable seconds ago. I remember reading Godot in HS, and then later I read Malone Dies and I remember, I'm sure I remember, I must remember being blown away. There are just a handful of books by Kafka, Joyce, Pynchon, Delillo and Beckett that seem to not just BE amazing, but seem built to reach in and rewire the reader's brain. Or at least me, or at least mine.
December 8, 2021
When GoodReads crashed yesterday, it took my whole review down with it. WTF, GR, why so instable - again? Adding more nonsense features and ads or what?
July 29, 2020
Read.
Then read again.
And again.
And again.
Then read again.
And again.
And again.
May 1, 2021
We were supposed to find out where Beckett was going with his trilogy when we came to this final book in the set, but alas it was the most garbled gobbledygook I鈥檝e ever read.
I got the sense that the narrator of this book was the author of the first two books, and that he was dying, while suffering withdrawal symptoms from his writing. The characters still haunt him. 鈥淎ll these Murphys, Molloys and Malones do not fool me. They have made me waste my time, suffer for nothing, speak of them when, in order to stop speaking, I should have spoken of me and of me alone. They never suffered my pains, their pains are nothing, compared to mine, a mere tittle of mine, the tittle I thought I could put from me, in order to witness it.鈥�
He refers to one Mahood who has told him many stories, who may be his muse or his master. Or it鈥檚 his own name. He refers to a person called Worm. 鈥淔or if I am Mahood, I am Worm too, plop. Or if I am not yet Worm, I shall be when I cease to be Mahood, plop. I鈥檓 Worm, no, if I were Worm I wouldn鈥檛 know it, I wouldn鈥檛 say it, I wouldn鈥檛 say anything, I鈥檇 be Worm. But I don鈥檛 say anything, I don鈥檛 know anything, these voices are not mine, nor these thoughts, but the voices and thoughts of the devils who beset me.鈥� Perhaps mortality represents Mahood, and Worm is the transformation of flesh after death.
The toing and froing鈥攁dvancing and retreating鈥攊s a constant. He is advancing towards death and yet he is holding back, and then retreating. But the trend line seems to be towards extinction. The book is remembered for a famous line of his: "I can't go on, I'll go on," 鈥� characteristic of the to-ing and fro-ing of the narrator.
Sometimes he skirmishes with his characters, hurling abuses: 鈥淚鈥檒l let down my trousers and shit stories on them, stories, photographs, records, sites, lights, gods and fellow-creatures, the daily round and common task, observing the while, Be born, dear friends, be born, enter my arse, you鈥檒l just love my colic pains, it won鈥檛 take long, I鈥檝e the bloody flux.鈥�
Call this a soliloquy, a rant, a lament for a life incompletely lived, an examination of existence, a voyage through the addled mind of a nervous wreck, an exhausted writer at the end of a book who can't let go his characters, a man at the end of life who doesn鈥檛 yet want to die, but don't call this a novel. For why does the narrator (Beckett?) need so many pages for this soliloquy? Does his ego need that many pages before it is assuaged?
We have to be considerate that Beckett had suffered a nervous breakdown while he was writing this trilogy, and its writing may have been his way of healing, blaming his fall for the burden of literary greatness heaped upon him, and for these rather decrepit characters who lived in his head. Or was Becket experimenting with another form of extension for the novel, like Joyce, Hemingway and Nabokov did? Who are we to question geniuses? Read this if you are willing to be lost in a deluge of words that go somewhere and nowhere all at the same time.
I got the sense that the narrator of this book was the author of the first two books, and that he was dying, while suffering withdrawal symptoms from his writing. The characters still haunt him. 鈥淎ll these Murphys, Molloys and Malones do not fool me. They have made me waste my time, suffer for nothing, speak of them when, in order to stop speaking, I should have spoken of me and of me alone. They never suffered my pains, their pains are nothing, compared to mine, a mere tittle of mine, the tittle I thought I could put from me, in order to witness it.鈥�
He refers to one Mahood who has told him many stories, who may be his muse or his master. Or it鈥檚 his own name. He refers to a person called Worm. 鈥淔or if I am Mahood, I am Worm too, plop. Or if I am not yet Worm, I shall be when I cease to be Mahood, plop. I鈥檓 Worm, no, if I were Worm I wouldn鈥檛 know it, I wouldn鈥檛 say it, I wouldn鈥檛 say anything, I鈥檇 be Worm. But I don鈥檛 say anything, I don鈥檛 know anything, these voices are not mine, nor these thoughts, but the voices and thoughts of the devils who beset me.鈥� Perhaps mortality represents Mahood, and Worm is the transformation of flesh after death.
The toing and froing鈥攁dvancing and retreating鈥攊s a constant. He is advancing towards death and yet he is holding back, and then retreating. But the trend line seems to be towards extinction. The book is remembered for a famous line of his: "I can't go on, I'll go on," 鈥� characteristic of the to-ing and fro-ing of the narrator.
Sometimes he skirmishes with his characters, hurling abuses: 鈥淚鈥檒l let down my trousers and shit stories on them, stories, photographs, records, sites, lights, gods and fellow-creatures, the daily round and common task, observing the while, Be born, dear friends, be born, enter my arse, you鈥檒l just love my colic pains, it won鈥檛 take long, I鈥檝e the bloody flux.鈥�
Call this a soliloquy, a rant, a lament for a life incompletely lived, an examination of existence, a voyage through the addled mind of a nervous wreck, an exhausted writer at the end of a book who can't let go his characters, a man at the end of life who doesn鈥檛 yet want to die, but don't call this a novel. For why does the narrator (Beckett?) need so many pages for this soliloquy? Does his ego need that many pages before it is assuaged?
We have to be considerate that Beckett had suffered a nervous breakdown while he was writing this trilogy, and its writing may have been his way of healing, blaming his fall for the burden of literary greatness heaped upon him, and for these rather decrepit characters who lived in his head. Or was Becket experimenting with another form of extension for the novel, like Joyce, Hemingway and Nabokov did? Who are we to question geniuses? Read this if you are willing to be lost in a deluge of words that go somewhere and nowhere all at the same time.
September 10, 2016
Suppose I put you in a washing machine and set the spinner on for hours- the dizziness you will feel is what I felt while reading the book. This dizziness will makes one question, vaguely that is, the nature of reality, identity and social contact. The unnamed and highly unreliable narrator, who also claims the authorship of previous two works of trilogy and of Murphy too,is thinking about something, or nothing, or something that turned out to be nothing, or something that was always nothing; perhaps everything is nothing, I mean is anything anything? - it doesn't matter, it should matter but it doesn't ..... okay, if you can stand 200 pages of this, you will love it. You might think you have seen worst of Beckett in Molloy and Malone dies - but you will be wrong, whatever he smoked, he was very particularly high while writing this one.
There is an awesome review here.
There is an awesome review here.
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April 7, 2023This is included in my video on Beckett's life and work:
July 8, 2022
Beckett has stripped his narrative to its skeleton in the final book of his 鈥渢rilogy,鈥� then dismantled the skeleton, crushed each part to dust, and scattered them in every corner of an opaque labyrinth; a labyrinth that could be just one tiny room. Or nothing. Or nowhere. Or everywhere. This simplicity does not lead to clarity, as this is far and away the most exceedingly difficult of the three books. Furthering his idea of the limitations of language, there are no words sufficient to describe it, so I鈥檒l substitute the one that I believe comes the closest. It鈥檚 bonkers. And not always enjoyable. Stay with him throughout the entire thought experiment and put the work and focus in, and I think most readers will be rewarded. Maybe that鈥檚 not quite true. At the very least you鈥檒l be appreciative of the silence spoken of ad nauseam throughout finally arriving at the end, and maybe find a little more comfort in your own eventual personal silence that鈥檚 coming fast on its heels.
June 12, 2021
賴乇趩賴 亘蹖卮鬲乇 賲蹖鈥屫堌з嗁呚� 亘蹖卮鬲乇 賲蹖鈥屬佡囐呝� 讴賴 亘讴鬲 乇丕 賳賲蹖鈥屬佡囐呝�. 丕賵 丿乇 賯賱賴鈥屫й� 丿賵乇 丕夭 丿爻鬲乇爻 賲丕 丕丨賲賯鈥屬囏ж池�. 蹖讴 噩丕蹖蹖 禺賵丕賳丿賲 讴賴 賲乇夭 亘蹖賳 賳亘賵睾 賵 丿蹖賵丕賳诏蹖 蹖讴 鬲丕乇 賲賵爻鬲. 賵 亘讴鬲 卮噩丕毓丕賳賴 乇賵蹖 賴賲蹖賳 鬲丕乇 賲賵 乇丕賴 賲蹖鈥屫辟堌� 賵 噩丕乇 賲蹖鈥屫操嗀� 丕賲丕 賲丕 鬲賵丕賳 丿乇讴卮 乇丕 賳丿丕乇蹖賲. 亘賴鈥屬傎堎� 卮賵倬賳賴丕賵乇貙 賮賯胤 亘禺卮 丕賳丿讴蹖 丕夭 丌賳 乇丕 丿乇讴 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗃屬呚� 丌賳 賴賲 亘賴 賲孬丕亘賴鈥屰� 賴賲匕丕鬲鈥屬举嗀ж臂屸€屬囏й屰� 讴賴 賱丕蹖 丌孬丕乇卮 蹖丕賮鬲賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�. 亘讴鬲 丕夭 趩蹖夭蹖 丨乇賮 賲蹖鈥屫操嗀� 讴賴 賳丕賲蹖 賳丿丕乇丿貙 賯丕亘賱 鬲賵氐蹖賮 锟斤拷賲 賳蹖爻鬲貙 丕賲丕 亘乇丕蹖 亘讴鬲 爻丕丿賴鈥屫� 賲蹖鈥屫堌з� 丕蹖賳 讴賱丕賮 爻乇丿乇诏賲 乇丕 賳賵卮鬲. 丕蹖賳 賳丕賮賴賲蹖 乇丕 賮賴賲蹖丿. 亘讴鬲 蹖讴 丿蹖賵丕賳賴鈥屰� 賳丕亘睾賴貙 丿乇 賱亘賴鈥屰� 賮賴賲 蹖讴 丕丿蹖亘 丕夭 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 讴賴賳 賵 賳賵 丕爻鬲. 亘讴鬲貙 賲毓賳丕蹖 賲丿乇賳蹖鬲賴 丕爻鬲.
August 1, 2021
The Unnamable is about freedom. It's pretty easily the freest text Samuel Beckett ever wrote. All of the novels preceding it were infected with literature, Joyce, traditions of Irish humor, etc, to some extent, even as they strained--quite successfully at times--to break free of these fetters. Writing in French was an important step, freeing the authorial voice from much of its learned shackles of English literary style, enabling the voice to more freely and simply say what the voice wanted to say, what the voice wasn't sure it could say, and its troubling to wonder how to say both what it had to and could not say. More than any other text I've ever encountered, The Unnamable comes the closest to F. T. Marinetti's Futurist ideal of words-in-freedom. The voice speaks, unfettered by literature, about how a literary text could possibly come into being and, if it were to come into being, what could it possibly say?
This voice is so free it could never conform to the constraints of the form, could not possibly construct a novel. And yet, by bringing into question all that a novel might be, it does. The novel, if written, could have no title. Therefore it is entitled "the unnamable," a name that means that it cannot be named. The voice explores many options in its search for silence, which happens through speaking. Its I and its he are incessantly self-questioned, previous Beckett characters invoked and discarded, as the voice describes first a Mahood and then a new character, Worm, who again, being a he, isn't quite and yet can only be a part of this I that cannot speak but must speak of how it cannot speak--in order to arrive at no longer speaking.
This raw, un-moored narrative voice searches for a place, a setting, that cannot be invoked because the narrative voice is neither here nor there. All the time it worries about them, what they would have it say, what they have taught it, what they want. They are really us, I believe, the audience before the fact, the nonexistent army of readers pre-imagined in the wholly non-publishable book. We/they are a nasty, demanding lot. We probably think this book is about us, we're so vain. But of course it is--to whom else would the narrative voice speak? We, too, are there in the non-place, following the words that cannot tell a story, that tell the story of not being able to tell the story, that speak toward silence, that cannot go on, but do, and must, go on.
And Beckett did go on. And, though I love many of his later texts, perhaps even more than this one, never again did he let the voice roam quite this freely. Savor this exalted moment, maybe the freest in the whole of our literature.
This voice is so free it could never conform to the constraints of the form, could not possibly construct a novel. And yet, by bringing into question all that a novel might be, it does. The novel, if written, could have no title. Therefore it is entitled "the unnamable," a name that means that it cannot be named. The voice explores many options in its search for silence, which happens through speaking. Its I and its he are incessantly self-questioned, previous Beckett characters invoked and discarded, as the voice describes first a Mahood and then a new character, Worm, who again, being a he, isn't quite and yet can only be a part of this I that cannot speak but must speak of how it cannot speak--in order to arrive at no longer speaking.
This raw, un-moored narrative voice searches for a place, a setting, that cannot be invoked because the narrative voice is neither here nor there. All the time it worries about them, what they would have it say, what they have taught it, what they want. They are really us, I believe, the audience before the fact, the nonexistent army of readers pre-imagined in the wholly non-publishable book. We/they are a nasty, demanding lot. We probably think this book is about us, we're so vain. But of course it is--to whom else would the narrative voice speak? We, too, are there in the non-place, following the words that cannot tell a story, that tell the story of not being able to tell the story, that speak toward silence, that cannot go on, but do, and must, go on.
And Beckett did go on. And, though I love many of his later texts, perhaps even more than this one, never again did he let the voice roam quite this freely. Savor this exalted moment, maybe the freest in the whole of our literature.
May 18, 2018
Bio sam
tako
blizu da odustanem negde na pola, kada me je Beket triput uzastopce nokautirao sa maltene reprizom prva dva dela, ali na kraju mogu re膰i da je vredelo. Bez dileme naj膷udnije komponovan roman u trilogiji, koji potpuno odbacuje ideju o paragrafu nakon dvadesetak stranica, ali i ideju o ta膷ki nakon stotinu i dvadesetak. Na trenutke je stvarno te啪ak za 膷itanje, ali onda, po sada ve膰 obi膷aju za trilogiju, Beket maestralno zatvori krug i sve privede kraju na potpuno zapanjuju膰 na膷in. Ne拧to 拧to se mo啪da najbolje da opisati kao poezija u prozi, gde nije va啪no zna膷enje re膷enica ve膰 re膷enica sama, njena melodija i simetrija, njena lepota. Ali isto tako ovo je i jedan od onih romana kojima mogu da se divim, ali ne i da ih stvarno volim. Veli膷ina, ipak, poseduje neku izvesnu hladno膰u genijalnosti. A Beket bogme jeste to na slovo 鈥檊鈥�.
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October 10, 2020
Will I ever read books for university that I actually enjoy and don't see as work? That remains to be seen..
I had only previously read Waiting for Godot by Beckett and I thought it was peculiar in its own way, but I did appreciate it for the most part. Unfortunately it wasn't the case with this book. It's just a big no for me. There's no actual plot, it's just a never-ending rambling monologue and if there's something I cannot stand is this type of monologues.
This wasn't the read for me, at all.
I had only previously read Waiting for Godot by Beckett and I thought it was peculiar in its own way, but I did appreciate it for the most part. Unfortunately it wasn't the case with this book. It's just a big no for me. There's no actual plot, it's just a never-ending rambling monologue and if there's something I cannot stand is this type of monologues.
This wasn't the read for me, at all.
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