I took a deep breath and had another go at Samuel Beckett’s novel trilogy Molloy, Malone Dies and The Unnameable. It’s a work I have long admired but haven’t always necessarily enjoyed. That gap has closed considerably. Still, I would caution any readers with a low tolerance for extreme navel gazing. This trilogy will definitely test your endurance, especially in the dog days of August.
The story is so obviously preoccupied with futility and pointlessness that to describe it would itself seem pointless. Yet there is entertainment value to be found, and it does require some sort of description. For now I’ll adopt the protagonist’s own stance and declare that I have no choice in the matter, that I simply must go on if only for the sake of filling up space.
Molloy presents a physically disabled homeless man who sets out on a bicycle to visit his mother. The journey is repeatedly sidetracked, first by a charge of vagrancy, then by a lonely older woman with philanthropic leanings who seems to have taken a shine to Molloy. Other misadventures follow, none of them apropos of anything. I don’t think it’s giving too much away to say that Molloy is never to reach his destination. Anyone familiar with Beckett’s best known work, Waiting for Godot will know this fictional landscape well.
The narration passes on to Molloy’s apparent alterego Jacques Moran, identified by critics as a private detective, although I came to think of him as a kind of surreal social worker. Accompanied by his teenaged son, and again travelling by bicycle, the anal retentive Moran sets out to meet with Molloy. His mission is likewise fated to never reach its conclusion. Moran’s caustic and self-serving narration provides most of the humour in this trilogy and it became my favourite part.
Malone Dies is set in a hospital, or possibly an insane asylum. Molloy/Moran is now known as Malone and confined to a bed, his health in rapid decline, his world now revolving around a few simple possessions; among them a notebook, a stubby pencil, and a stick he sometimes uses to draw other objects to him. Never seeing anyone, not even those who bring his meals and remove his chamber pot, Malone passes the time writing a rather banal coming of age story, presumably based on his own youth. He abandons this story and instead reflects on a sordid sexual affair he had with one of his attendants. Then he tells of a deranged attendant who took Malone and some other patients on an excursion. At which point the second novel abruptly ends.
The Unnameable finds Molloy/Moran/Malone virtually paralyzed, unable to even shift his gaze. Reduced at last to nothing but his thoughts, he resorts to the above-mentioned navel gazing. The Unnameable is a tour de force display of pure stream of consciousness writing. I know of nothing to compare it to outside of Marcel Proust or James Joyce in full flight. The degree of absorption required to get this down on paper and still maintain some semblance of continuity is quite astounding to me. It’s the closest thing I know of to the documenting of what goes on in a dying person’s head during their final days and hours; or at least a plausible guess at it.
And although I’ve described this story as a tale of futility, it can’t be denied that it also has a doggedness about it, a fighting spirit if you will, and in that sense it isn’t the relentless downer that I initially made it out to be. Also not to be overlooked is the boldness of the author’s vision given the usual constraints of having to satisfy publishers, not to mention the fickle public.