Three Novels

by Samuel Beckett

Paperback, 1958

Status

Available

Call number

843.914

Publication

Grove Press (1958), Paperback, 414 pages

Description

"The first novel of Samuel Beckett's mordant and exhilarating midcentury trilogy introduces us to Molloy, who has been mysteriously incarcerated, and who subsequently escapes to go discover the whereabouts of his mother. In the latter part of this curious masterwork, a certain Jacques Moran is deputized by anonymous authorities to search for the aforementioned Molloy. In the trilogy's second novel, Malone, who might or might not be Molloy himself, addresses us with his ruminations while in the act of dying. The third novel consists of the fragmented monologue-delivered, like the monologues of the previous novels, in a mournful rhetoric that possesses the utmost splendor and beauty-of what might or might not be an armless and legless creature living in an urn outside an eating house. Taken together, these three novels represent the high-water mark of the literary movement we call Modernism. Within their linguistic terrain, where stories are taken up, broken off, and taken up again, where voices rise and crumble and are resurrected, we can discern the essential lineaments of our modern condition, and encounter an awesome vision, tragic yet always compelling and always mysteriously invigorating, of consciousness trapped and struggling inside the boundaries of nature."--Publisher's website.… (more)

User reviews

LibraryThing member iayork

I can't go on, you must go on, I'll go on.: Sharply influenced by James Joyce, this trilogy by Samuel Beckett is a truly remarkable achievement. It is a poetic descent into complete obscurity, words removed from their subjects, relations with no establishments. The first novel, Molloy, at least

bears the semblance of a plot, and is, in my opinion, the weakest of the three. It tells two seemingly unrelated stories through a strict stream of consciousness technique. The second novel, Malone Dies, is much more abstract, bearing only a touching relation with actuality, the decaying stories and thoughts of a man resolved to die, a man trying to find his epitaph, a man in fear of the void in which there is only silence. The third novel, The Unnamable, is a unique piece in world literature. It is a novel about words, words speaking about words, narrated by a voice whose existence is melts and transforms with his ideas, an entity whose being is confirmed only by his speech. It is, to my mind, the most extreme form of stream of consciousness writing, bearing no relation to actualities, to reality, only related to ideas. The story, if one can call it that, is simply the story of the voice that tells it, a voice that wishes for the silence, that wants to find an end, the perfect sentence, the perfect phrase, who wishes to be still but is afraid to be still, who speaks words of no meaning, speaks only to avoid the silence that lies beyond his reach. This last novel is truly astonishing. A warning though: do not look for any sense of plot, character, or even reality in these books, for they are thoughts removed from the objects of thought.

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LibraryThing member itwriter

The manifesto of the true dissident.

LibraryThing member baswood

[The Beckett Trilogy: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable] - Samuel Beckett

It was a long time ago. How long ago I can't really say. Perhaps I was bamboozled it would appear from the evidence, but what evidence from the book lying on my desk, the book that I am not going to read. Charity begins at

home, but in this case it was a shop selling charity, who was selling this charity and was I in the mood for buying? I was gazing upwards and I couldn't quite see, somebody was in the way, my neck was hurting a fortiori. Movement was impossible, crammed in nowhere to go, if only I could reach up, it is tantalisingly close, rows and rows wherever I looked, but I could not see too much because my head had become stuck, stuck looking upwards, but I could see those dirty dusty jackets and if I could move my arm above my head then surely I would get some relief, I could enclose my fingers around a spine and a sharp tug might do the trick. There I did it, but horror of horrors a sound like cardboard fluttering on wood, I jerked forward trapping a paper object against my chest, still could not move my head, how long did I stay in this position, perhaps not very long, because a shove from the right unlocked my potential, just enough, just enough, the smell of damp overcoats cold winter dampness, chilling I got my right hand under the object, the thought of trying to bend down to pick something off the floor made me press tighter, tighter, but this prevented me moving my hand any further, a short cough, not my cough I don't think, but difficult to place, but now I was getting hot under my collar, pressure from behind, more movement a grunted apology an arm appearing above my head, but not my arm, my arm was trapped, but I could now move my head, fresh air, fresh cold air, a space had been made to my left. I was holding my breath, I could hold my breath underwater for 52 seconds, not moving, concentrating, trying not to panic, but thinking what it would feel like to drown, bubbles, choking, thrashing of arms, light disappearing. I escaped I was holding a book, I looked inside: Lindsey 1980 it said, was that a girl or a boy a woman or a man, evidence that somebody had possessed this object, which had certainly taken on the look of something unpleasant, or was that just the dust jacket with its mouldy mottled brown yellow design, it somehow looked forbidding, not welcoming. I dare you to open me with intent, intent to what, intent to get through the first paragraph. The first paragraph finished at page 84, but the count started at page 11. I could not hold my breath for that long, but I felt I might need to. I needed a distraction, something to stop my eyes slipping down the page, slipping into a temporary unconsciousness: a temporary death, from which waking up would be a guilt ridden experience. I know this. Molloy, Moran, Malone, Mahood would all slip by in an unnamable abyss. What did Lindsey think, that pretty college girl in glasses, I am quite sure that Lindsey is what I have said she was or is, but perhaps no longer; college girls grow up, but probably not growing up thinking of Molloy, Moran Malone or Mahood. She might have never forgiven the author for changing Sapos name to Macmann, but closer reading would have revealed that Sapo was just a shortening of his Mothers name; Mrs Saposcat. He became Macmann because he needed the lineage of Molloy, Moran, Malone. Mahood. Lindsey probably thought that a novel written in the genre of the Absurd and with the technique of a stream of consciousness becomes absurd stream of consciousness. How much of the absurd stream of consciousness could she take, she might not have had a choice because she had written her name on the flyleaf, part of a college curriculum. How long before her eyes glazed over how long before her mind wandered to the girl next door. The phone rings, she must get up to answer: it is 1980. Sapo is no more, forgotten never to be revisited, but the book has not read itself. Lindsey gets back into position and she ploughs on through the Unnamable: the head in the glass jar, the voices, the craving for silence, will it never end? It did end, but forty pages from the finishing line; Malone and Moran although going round in circles appeared to be getting somewhere, nowhere good, but somewhere. Malone got to be dead which was his ambition from the start, but the Unnamable, oh the unnamable just got stuck and her neck started to ache. I can't go on. I go on.
3.5 stars.

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LibraryThing member araridan

I would give Molloy alone 5 stars, but I think the novels are in order of best to worst, and also in order of how much sense they make. But Molloy was really good, so I think the 4-star rating is an accurate judgement of the series as a whole since I would probably give Malone Dies 4 stars, and the

Unnamable 3.

9/19 - I finished "Molloy" today. The intimidating 93 page rant without any paragraph breaks that comprises the first chapter turned out to be quite enjoyable. There is very little plot but one is privy to the inner monologue of essentially a homeless person, Molloy. Thoughts move from subject to subject quite rapidly, following tangents and somehow making their way back, and at other times pages and pages can be spent describing one obsessive neurotic ritual. The second chapter follows Moran, a private detective who is on a mission to track down Molloy. He is very unlikable, extremely harsh with his son and maid. His demeanor is defined by his need for order and therefore he always seems uptight or strict. The second chapter is essentially another long rant/inner dialogue, but with paragraph breaks. I find it especially interesting that some people read the second chapter as a prequel to the first, or that Moran and Molloy are the same character...one representing the old age of the other....Something to keep in mind when you read it...which you should do.

10/5 - Finished the second installment entitled "Malone Dies" last night. Basically I had a hard time reading this novel mostly because I couldn't tell what was going on. I felt a little better once I looked the book up online for reviews and criticism and basically confirmed that there is no plot, character development (in fact some characters change names with little warning), or scene. You know some dude is dying, but it's unclear if he is home, in a hospital, or in some other institution. The bulk of the text is actually memories and nightmares which is why I was having a hard time following any structure...there isn't much of one. However, there is a pretty hilarious/depressing story dealing with a seemingly retarded man and his very elderly caretaker and their attempts at intercourse. I can appreciate that Beckett was trying to do something different as far as structure and language of novels are concerned; I just happened to like the way he pulled it off in Molloy better.

10/24 - Finished "the Unnamable." I really couldn't tell you what happened in this last short novel of the trilogy. Some scenes (possibly all) involved a cranky no arms, no legs, blind, deaf thing and a woman who collects his shit to fertilize her garden. Other than that the story seemed like a bunch of incoherent rambling.

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LibraryThing member sometimeunderwater

Read Molloy which was tricky. Read Malone Dies which was trickier still. Once you're stuck in the groove, they're wonderful, but takes some time to get there.

Have not yet read The Unnamable.

LibraryThing member OmieWise

Reading these three novels was one of the seminal moments in my education. When I later read Anti-Oedipus by Deleuze and Guattari I was amazed at how much they had simply cribbed from Beckett. That too was a lesson in the direct power of fiction over that of theory.

LibraryThing member evertonian

The trilogy is Beckett's best work, and one of the most important in the twentieth century. A brave encounter with the essence of nihilism.

LibraryThing member wrmjr66

Reading Molloy now. No promises that I'll read the trilogy.

Those were my sentiments before reading Molloy. After reading it, I'd say I'm much more likely to read them all--just not one after another. Molloy is much what I expected from Beckett: disjointed, bleak at times, always funny. If you don't

think Waiting for Godot is hilarious, then you aren't likely to find the humor in this book either. As a novel, it's easy to see what Beckett is trying to do. He is playing another variation on the impossibility of relating one's story. He's clearly closer to Kafka than to Sterne, but it's all part of the same game.

In this case, Beckett uses two narrators. First is Molloy, a vagrant who inexplicably finds himself in his mother's room and is ordered by some unknown person to report how he got there. The second is Jacques Moran who is some sort of investigator. He is assigned to find Molloy, though he is given no clue how to find him or what to do with him once found. Midway through his unsuccessful search--a journey during which he becomes more and more like Molloy--he is ordered back home to write a report on his search.

So that's the "plot" summary, such as it is. What is interesting is the narrative game. If you're bored with that particular narrative game, then you'll find this boring. I still like this sort of thing, so I enjoyed it and if I have world enough and time, I will probably read the others.

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LibraryThing member poetontheone

MOLLOY:

Molloy is a hopeless leper wandering from town to town, through forest and desert, for his mother. To draw a slight comparison with the 'heroes' of Gogol, he is a pitiable protagonist that is not without humor. The first section, where the titular character is at the helm, is laced with

grand body humor. Philosophical meditations on the asshole, a fervent wish for self castration. Altogether, the content of the first section lends itself more to flashes of language that are sublime, though perhaps sad. The second section is narrated by Moran, a private detective who sets off from home with his son in search of Molloy. He is all the more pitiful, being entrenched in the monotous routine of domestic life. By the end of his travels however, he is alone in the world with worn clothes, matted, hair, and stinking flesh, hunched over on crunches. In his impoverishment though, he is liberated, and at last we come full circle.

With regard to form, the page is nearly black, drowning in a stream of consciousness narrative. A happy death. So much black casts shadows across form, and the content is not exempt from this. Molloy is a shadow of what Moran is to become. Moran, at the outset, is a shadow of who Molloy once might have been. Beckett goes through the tradition of Joyce (as far as I know it) with a hacksaw by way of Lautremont. I will get through the rest of the trilogy with time. It seems it might be best absorbed in small doses, much like poison.

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LibraryThing member martymojito

Wow, this was hard work. Such a weird turn of phrase. Difficult to read but rewarding but I am still not sure if I enjoyed it or not. I found myself looking at the page numbers working out how many pages were left - not a good sign. The first story about Molly has only two paragraphs - one is less

than a page long and the next is about 80 pages long, mad. I haven;t the energy or will to move on to the next story - maybe later, life is too short.

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LibraryThing member motleystu

Molloy might be my favourite novel at the moment, especially the second part. I really like all the talk about bees. Very beautiful and funny.

LibraryThing member casspurp

To try and review the Three Novels separately would require far too many words for here. These stories are masterpieces and Beckett was at the top of his game. Readers looking for any semblance of a plot, happy endings, strict narrative, or answers to any questions should probably opt for something

in their local aeroports. Beckett has provided those who tag along an epistemological breakdown of life and its intricacies, failures, and rejections of desire and appeal. Each voice or creation (use of the term "character" is far too simplistic) strives for an end. The end can be viewed as death, a change of location, being given answers, or finding purpose. However, Beckett refuses to give readers an ending. Each novel leaves off with a consciousness in a position of continuing against its will. This decision by Beckett is either to further his usually humanist perspective of ending silence or wishing readers to come to terms with their own uncontrollable entropy. He was never clear, so it is up to readers to infer what these 'M' fellows wish to communicate.

When reading, one should not try to ascribe any conventional means of interpretation, however. By this, I mean labelling the novels as commentary on a particular historical event or somehow deciding Beckett is a Science Fiction writer. Beckett knew exactly what he was doing when he sought to sever the mind from its weak body and by the last sentence of The Unnameable, we might not be able to conclude what exactly has transpired over the past several hundred pages, but we know something -- what we just read has ever happened before in literature. Indeed, I highly doubt it will ever happen again. You're flipping through the pages of genius when reading these novels and if you don't walk away feeling a bit queasy or as if your world has been rattled a bit... you might want to try again.

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LibraryThing member ToddSherman

“To know you can do better next time, unrecognizably better, and that there is no next time, and that it is a blessing there is not, there is a thought to be going on with.”

—Malone Dies by Samuel Beckett

It’s probably been fifteen years since I’d read “Malloy”, the first part to

Beckett’s non-self-acknowledged “Trilogy”, and I cannot deny the impact that the first part had on my own novel of OCD, body dysmorphic disorder, delusion and addiction: “Fluid Babies”. The impact that this second installment will have on my future writing will have to be intercepted by radar, sifting the raw dataflow for Beckettian echoes. I certainly won’t wait another fifteen years to complete this master’s experiment on the deconstructed novel. Fortunately, pioneers such as Beckett can only truly be appreciated by those brave readers, critics and writers who skirt the steady diet of comfort food and sugar buzzes by preferring to indulge in the exotic and bizarre fare from unfamiliar countries. Whole food. Ingested and digested. Over time to understand and then implement its uniqueness in personal, favorite dishes. I’d imagine chutneys developed this way. Over time. Restless experimentation. Punctuating the familiar with flamboyance from alien shores, alien planets, alien hands shaking over the distances and leaving an otherworldly scent.

This. This is how I feel about Samuel Beckett. He doesn’t just write. He shows you how easy it is to not give a fuck about the particulars while showing how important those particulars actually are. Knowing the difference makes all the difference in the world. And if you don’t get it, well, then you probably weren’t open to a new way of looking at the world anyway. Chutneys aren’t for everyone.

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LibraryThing member brakketh

Relentless and amazing internal monologues running throughout these three short novels.

LibraryThing member tungsten_peerts

It's difficult for me to write about this one. When I was a young undergraduate, Beckett's work hit me like a sandbag between the eyes, and this trilogy was the ultimate blow. It was like suddenly understanding the *how* of how awful everything was, in my viscera. I never quite recovered from it:

I'm not sure whether to thank Samuel Beckett, or curse his memory.

Of course you must also understand that, as he's showing you the architecture of wrong-ness, Beckett is also excruciatingly funny.

Far beyond 5 stars.

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LibraryThing member jwhenderson

Beckett's three great novels like his plays, break new ground in their structure and narrative. A bleak emptiness hovers throughout the three novels that one may consider a sort of trilogy. I was mesmerized from the opening pages of Molloy and wondered what it was in this bleak indeterminacy that

was so beguiling. Reading slowly and closely I slowly found a method in this seemingly chaotic world. Drawn inward by moments of humor that counterposed the strange events, if they can be called that, I was drawn forward by the narrator even as the narrative itself seemed to be collapsing. These are three novels with so much wonder and ideas to think about that the attentive reader cannot fail to be impressed. I found these novels to be moving in a unique way and important additions to the literature of modernism.

In Samuel Beckett's novel, Molloy, the first sentence states bluntly, “I am in my mother's room.” This is followed on the first page of the novel with the phrase “I don't know” repeated five times, and if you add “I don't understand” and “I've forgotten” you have eight assertions of lack of knowing. How can or should the reader interpret those comments as establishing anything but a high level of uncertainty both about what the narrator (I) is telling us and what the narrator, may or may not, believe about himself and the world around him? Of most interest to this reader is the comment that the narrator would like to “finish dying” and that his mother is dead, although he is not sure exactly when she died.

What is the reader's expectation for the succeeding 167 pages of the novel based on the first page filled with uncertainty and death? There is work mentioned, but the pages he works on are filled with “signs I don't understand”. Can we say the same for ourselves as readers? At best we are left with snippets of possible information about a handful of others (the man who comes every week, they who may or may not have buried his mother, the son that he may or may not have, and the chambermaid without true love, and yet another who was the true love-whose name he has forgotten, repeatedly). As I reread these lines I cannot help but note the humor of the situation.

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