Few works of contemporary literature are so universally acclaimed as central to our understanding of the human experience as Nobel Prize winner Samuel Becketts famous trilogy Molloy, the first of these masterpieces, appeared in French in 1951 It was followed seven months later by Malone Dies and two years later by The Unnamable All three have been rendered into English by the author....
|Title||:||Three Novels: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable|
|Publisher||:||Grove Press Auflage 1st Edition 16 Juni 2009|
|Number of Pages||:||416 Seiten|
|File Size||:||981 KB|
|Status||:||Available For Download|
|Last checked||:||21 Minutes ago!|
Three Novels: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable Reviews
Many do not even know that Beckett wrote novels; these are his finest. Molloy itself is a masterpiece of stream-of-consciousness modernism--linking a simple vagabond named Molloy, with a lofty mind, to a sinister agent corrupt in thought sent to find Molloy. As the controlled agent gets closer to who Molloy is, he himself begins to fall apart and see life differently. Malone Dies is simply the mental construction of a dying man seeking to fill out his last living moments with three imaginative "stories." All three of these novels are immersed in words and are more an experience of language. The unnamable is truly that, nothing is specified or real, but in a fictive, engrossing manner, Beckett attempts to describe the unnamble in human life without ever naming it. Each of these books are amazing independently, but they deserve to be read as a whole as they form an engrossing and closed trilogy. If you read this, you will read language crafted by Beckett which communicates the unimaginable--thoughts close to everyman, but thoughts which you thought were inexpressible with language. Don't be wary of the language, this is a reading experience that will take you whole and speedily through the pages.
These three novels are the best of the 20th century.They contain all the beauty, despair, and spareness that makes Beckett the patron writer of our century. They get at the core of what it means to be a self in the midst of the void, having, against one's will, a self's attendant thoughts, words, stories, and imagination. "I, say I. Unbelieving" says Beckett in the first line of The Unnamable, and you can believe him. These novels are as metaphysical as novels get, asking sincerely what it means to be. And asking just as sincerely if language can ever help us figure that out.Each novel, with Molloy on his crutches, Malone in his death-bed, The Unnamable in his skull, is screamingly funny and cryingly horrible. Beckett's sense of the absurd and the ridiculous are only matched by his encyclopedic knowledge and overwhelming but strangely life-affirming pessimism, which helps us go on as we laugh at the world's collection of whimsies. There are no novels better. There are few funnier. There are none containing more truth.
It's a pity more people don't read Beckett and cannot seem to enjoy him. The trilogy stands right up there with Ulysses as perhaps the greatest work of the century. With Beckett, who needs a plot? Prose has never been more austerely beautiful and never will be again, after Beckett. Yes, there are some maddening scenes in these three inter-related novels and, yes, there is no conventional "plot," but what we have is a distillation of the bare-boned dilemma of existence. When sad, pathetic, tormented Malone (let's not kid ourselves, he's Everyman) lies in his forlorn room watching the sky from his window, there is no more beautiful poetry in the English language. The moon, in Beckett, is truly the moon. At his very greatest, when he is wringing that stark, cold cosmic beauty from despair, Beckett is the finest writer of the century, better even than Joyce. Such a sad shame that this great trilogy will never be read or appreciated except by such few people. It's just the best there is. Period.
Samuel Beckett's works here present a painstakingly crafted alternate dimension of the mind. The myriad of expression and wordings of this trilogy is unparalleled in any other works I have read. The books forcibly immerse the reader into the twisted experiences of the characters, scrawling the pages with absolutely lucid confusion. Very very very difficult reading, but if you can make your way through the convoluted prose, Samuel Beckett's storytelling draws and leads masterfully within these works. Reading these, I seldom came back up to breathe.
This is a clever, funny book. Unnameable (aka "Unreadable") is some tough going, but Molloy and Malone Dies are quite clever.What I found most interesting here was the extreme literary "inwardness" (I think H. Kenner said it first so I won't take credit for it). Everything is at its most unromantic...its most physical. It provides an interesting contrast when put up against the ever-expanding branching out of Ulysses. In Ulysses, everything is connected to something and ends in an optimistic comment on the universe. In Molloy and Malone Dies, nothing is connected to anything.
It is easy to criticize what you don't understand, have never tried, or never lived -- and then make a balls of it. The writing of Beckett -- all of Beckett -- is a discovery of change in literature, in writing, and philosophy. Discovery is failure, pleasure, fun, and game. This is not the same as any other book, and there is its originality, its life-breath and its passion. If you don't enjoy reading it, for god's sake put it down. It isn't for everyone, but for those whom it is, you'll read on...
While not wishing to underplay the seriousness of this work as described by the other reviewers, I need to point out to potential readers just how amusing Beckett is. What keeps you reading this long work (and all his writing) is not the depressing sameness, for why would you bother, but the wonderful jokes and puns; bleak, black and ironical certainly, but funny as all hell. Communicating with his mother by knocking her on the head, one knock for yes, two for no! Hilarious! I love it!
I first read these three novels (in the fabulous German translation) when I was eighteen, and that was an experience that totally hooked me into literature and probably saved myself from writing, because what comes after that? Of course not postmodernistic literature, in my opinion, and of course nothing from today at all, where's the new Beckett? The Beckett that is not like Beckett at all! I can't see him (or her)! Can you?