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Ebook Молой. Малоун умира. Неназовимото by Samuel Beckett read! Book Title: Молой. Малоун умира. Неназовимото
The author of the book: Samuel Beckett
Language: English
ISBN: No data
ISBN 13: No data
Format files: PDF
The size of the: 655 KB
Edition: ФАМА
Date of issue: 2007

Read full description of the books Молой. Малоун умира. Неназовимото:

Reading Beckett is not easy, since on the surface he seems to be talking of that which is rationally non existent, which doesn’t exist anywhere but perhaps in the subconscious of a mind; a mind which is set on the path of self exploration. An exploration, which is not merely to find a place, a balance with the world but rather to understand why is it that nothing makes sense or rather why “nothing” makes “perfect sense”. Can one live with this perception of nothingness and senselessness while still carrying a rational mind or is one in the danger of drifting away, as they say, with the flow of unrestrained thoughts?

Surely, Beckett doesn’t answer that. Suffering from an acute depression almost throughout his adult life, Sam’s writing is an expression of his deep state of melancholy. As a reader, you are a witness to his feelings of extreme despair. If you don’t keep a check and if you have, at any point in life, been plagued by hopelessness, you may find yourself moving towards a state where nothingness seems to prevail. Is it a warning? Perhaps yes. One needs to be cautious while reading him, specially this trilogy. It shakes one up; inside out to grasp the undeniable notion of the ultimate reality, to come face to face with it and let its voice enter inside you; a voice, which is constantly speaking to you, even if you are trying your best to ignore it. Is the experience fearful? I would say, no. It isn’t. It is just coming to terms with the inevitable. But then question is, why such a difficult prose; a prose where there seems to be no definite start and no explicit end, which seems more like a babbling of a disturbed mind than a rational approach. The answer for me is well; Sam’s writing is concentrated on the illustration of the idea of absurdism, as is apparent in his plays, and the writing here isn’t seeking out the reasons for the absurdness but is rather a grave transport of complete resignation; a resignation arising from a deep despair which can only culminate into the inescapable (that which isn’t obviously known). It reminded me of the “Myth of Sisyphus” by Albert Camus and the famous quote:

“The Struggle itself is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

The delivery of the intended despair wouldn’t have the same effect or wouldn’t have touched so deeply, if the prose had been but undemanding.



The trilogy starts with Molloy, moving on to Malone Dies and finally The Unnameable. It seems like a sequence, although there is no explicit reason to believe that. Only perhaps the impression of a cycle completed! In Molloy, there seems to be a plot, because there seems to be an action, a few characters with whom Molloy connects. Though being physically impaired, he is on the move always, in search of his mother. This much we know, because he tells us that. We know that he comes across a Policeman, and then a woman, whose dog is accidentally killed by Molloy but who still offers to care for him. Then there is another character of Moran, in the second part of book, who is on the look out of Molloy. He ventures out in his search with his son. Through a monologue by Moran, we are told about how the days are spent in search, how Moran seems to have killed a man (perhaps the same policeman, we don’t know) and how he also comes across a man, who from the appearance seems Molloy. Towards the end of second part you even contemplate whether Molloy and Moran aren’t the same persons. But it is not important, what holds you is the incessant working of mind, the statements stated with a complete submission.

“For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker. It is then the true division begins, of twenty-two by seven for example, and the pages fill with the true ciphers at last...”

In Malone Dies, Malone is awaiting his death. His movement is restricted as he is bedridden. He appears to be living in an asylum. To pass his time, he tells himself stories. The drivel which is carried on, in his mind, is an exercise in keeping himself occupied.

“ So I wonder if I should go on, I mean go on drawing up an inventory corresponding perhaps but faintly to the facts, and if I should not rather cut it short and devote myself to some other form of distraction, of less consequence, or simply wait, doing nothing, or counting perhaps, one, two, three and so on, until all danger to myself from myself is past at last.”

But it is the third one in trilogy, i.e. The Unnameable, where everything appears (so it seems) to come together. It sweeps you out of your mind. Yes, because here we don’t know who is talking to us, it may be one voice or another and it may switch places. It can be Molloy, Malone, Murphy or Moran or still, one who is not known, hence, unnameable. Could it be someone who’s been always there, from the very beginning; the beginning of times? Someone who has witnessed the coming and going (birth and death) of the likes of Molloys and Malones? This voice undoubtedly suggests this. But from where is it talking, i.e. if it is talking? The origin of the voice can be ascribed different places. It can be a grave, a place like heaven or hell, or it can be something in between, possibly inside a man, waiting to be released. But it certainly is coming after a death; death perhaps of Malone or Molloy, we don’t know that. It witnesses the passing of both of them on an interval, but we don’t know if the interval is regular. Now look at a quote from Molloy :

“And I, what was I doing there, and why come? These are things that we shall try and discover. But these are things we must not take seriously. There is a little of everything, apparently, in nature, and freaks are common. And I am perhaps confusing several different occasions, and different times, deep down, and deep down is my dwelling, oh not deepest down somewhere between the mud and the scum.”

And this one from Malone Dies:

“Yes, those were the days, quick to night and well beguiled with the search for warmth and reasonably edible scraps. And you imagine it will be so till the end. But suddenly all begins to rage and roar again, you are lost in forests of high threshing ferns or whirled far out on the face of wind-swept wastes, till you begin to wonder if you have not died without knowing and gone to hell or been born again.......”

I wonder whether Beckett wrote these books one at a time or was he writing the three of them simultaneously. Molloy passes and then Malone passes too, both unaware of some other presence, which witnesses their passing and seems to be always there, a consciousness turned into a voice, perhaps waiting for its birth too.

I also wondered whether Sam has tried to incorporate the concept of rebirth i.e. the birth cycle from Hindu philosophy, where a soul is consciousness and which never dies but is in the process of being born and dying as in a cycle.


“I hope this preamble will soon come to an end and the statement begin that will dispose of me. 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'll never know)...”

There were some more quotes which I felt related. For example, Beckett says:

“My master." There is a vein I must not lose sight of. But for the moment my concern..... (but before I forget: there may be more than one, a whole college of tyrants, differing in their views as to what should be done with me, in conclave since time began or a little later, listening to me from time to time, then breaking up for a meal or a game of cards)

Doesn’t it seem like waiting for the judgement before being born again?

Beckett also employs humor here to express his disdain with God. He takes a few quips before arriving at conclusion that perhaps, He too, is working under some compulsion, that He is bound to do what He is supposed to be doing. Hence, He is not to be blamed.

The end of the work is completely overwhelming, leaving one dazzled, as the writing reaches its culmination, asserting the need to go on, as there is but nothing else to be done, to be understood. The voice which may or may not belong to a man, the consciousness which may exist anywhere, anyplace, is subjected to the unfathomable because nothing is in one’s hands, neither the birth nor the death, so while one may find it impossible to move on, for there is no purpose in moving, one has to move on. In the words of Albert Camus - Opening oneself to the benign indifference of the Universe - one must go on.

“You must go on.
I can't go on.
I'll go on.”



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Ebook Молой. Малоун умира. Неназовимото read Online! Samuel 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—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation". He was elected Saoi of Aosdána in 1984.



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