How Strange It Is To Be Anything At All

This song played over and over as I read The Unnamable.

When I first started reading The Unnamable, I felt consumed by a dark uncertainty. It wasn't exactly depressing or terrifying, but it definitely seemed dark and confusing. The longer I read, the less sure of anything I became, but the more I allowed a kind of cold, strange beauty to wash over me. This is difficult work, but it's worth reading because, at its core, it's gorgeous. But there is a darkness. There is a deep, strange darkness to this novel that, if you let, permeates you and causes you to question things.

There's a great lyric from a Neutral Milk Hotel song entitled "In an Aeroplane Over the Sea" in which Jeff Mangum sums up the great mystery of life:

"What a beautiful face/ I have found in this place/ That is circling all around the sun/ And when we meet on a cloud/ I'll be laughing out loud/ I'll be laughing with everyone I see/ Can't believe/ How strange it is to be anything at all."

While I'm not sure that the head in the jar/Molloy/Malone/Mahood is necessarily laughing at the absurdity of existence (actually, it/he is probably crying constantly), I do believe that the inherent strangeness of living is the very thing being discussed. Existence is hard, it's terrifying, it's beautiful, it's ugly, it's meaningful, it's empty. It's everything we ascribe to it and none of those things. And perhaps there is no point. But perhaps Becket, Molloy, Malone, Mahood, the jar all believe that the point is to search for a point even if no such point exists. And thus, it is simply strange to be.

Once again, I forgot to hit "Publish." Hence, this was saved as a draft on Thursday, not published til I checked it now.

Dick Laurent is Dead

"I'm at your house right now. Call me."

When we read Michael Bengal's article, "Molloy, Malone Dies, and The Unnameable: An Overview," I was struck by the passage in which Bengal writes

"Gradually, it becomes apparent that all the voices in the trilogy are but aspects of a single consciousness, whether it be titled Molloy, Moran, Malone, Mahood, or Worm, all alter egos of the aptly named Unnamable."

 This quote stuck out to me the most, as 1) it made the most sense when considering these novels together and 2) it really reminded me of the David Lynch film Lost Highway. In his film, Lynch explores the idea of flexible identity through use of a psychological event called a psychic fugue, which is said to be not only a complete break in one's identity, but a fundamental re-structuring of said identity. In Lost Highway, Bill Pullman's character suffers some sort of psychotic break, only to wake up as a completely different person, played by Balthazar Getty. The two characters share certain characteristics, fall for a version of the same woman, then slowly begin to shift and meld into each other.

When looking at Molloy and Malone Dies, I see the same kind of psychological distortion and dissonance happening with the characters. Firstly, their names are similar, as are the names of other characters, like Moll. Details introduced in Molloy pop up again in Malone Dies, such as the bicycle, or how the titular characters seem to be laying on a bed and thinking about their and others' lives.

So, what does this mean? Is Beckett trying to explore the slippery nature of identity and how it can shift and change over time in this albeit extreme case? The malleable nature of identity could relate to Beckett's work in general, as it shifts, grows, changes, and melts into itself constantly, never allowing for one, clear, understandable, approachable definition.

Weird.

I Can't Remember, Therefore I Am Not

Though we discussed a myriad of possibilities as to the central themes of Molloy, the one that really stuck with me was the concept of unreliable memory. As anyone who has taken a Psychology 101 course knows, memory is a wildly flighty, somewhat untrustworthy mechanism of the brain. I think Beckett explores this throughout Malloy, commenting not only on how memory can act as fiction in general, but how even we, ourselves, can be fooled by our own memories.

Beckett introduces the slippery nature of memory on the very first page, when Molloy says to himself,

"The truth is I don't know much. For example my mother's death. Was she already dead when I came? Or did she  only die later? I mean enough to bury. I don't know."

Molloy is dying, and yet the details of his life have seemingly slipped away. Or, at the very least, confused themselves with other details, thus erasing this man's very personality. If one cannot remember anything, what is it one can actually know? Molloy asks the same question on page eleven when he muses,

"A and C I never saw again. But perhaps I shall see them again. But shall I be able to recognize them? And am I sure I never saw them again? And what do I mean by seeing and seeing again?" 

As we noted in the first week after reading Imagination Dead Imagine, Beckett's writing has a way of capturing the seemingly un-capturable human psyche. In Molloy, Beckett's ability to capture the flickering quality of memory allows the reader to question what we know, how we know it, and how these two questions help us form.

(This was written a week ago, but for some reason, I forgot to publish it. Thus, it was merely a draft until right now. - Sept 19, 2012 3:17 pm.)

Constant Motion

I'm really intrigued by the story, "Ding-Dong," in More Pricks than Kicks. As compared to other stories in the collection, such as "Fingal" or even "Dante and the Lobster," "Ding-Dong" moves at a near breakneck pace, refusing to sit idly and unfold in a (perhaps) more conventional way. The pacing of this story mirrors the constant movement of its subject, Belaqua, but begs for additional interpretation. Could this be a sign of Beckett's insatiable creative appetite?

I wonder how much it relates to Beckett himself because of the way we've chosen to attack his body of work. By starting at the end of his career, at his most experimental, we've spoiled the ending in a way. We know the outcome of his constant artistic output, now we must focus on the process of getting there. Thus, phrases such as "his anxiety to keep on the move and his distress at finding himself brought to a standstill" seem apropos to Beckett's perpetual creative motion.

Additionally, when the class read "Dante and the Lobster," we learned that Belaqua and Beckett share certain distinct characteristics. Therefore, could it be a fair assumption to say that More Pricks than Kicks is allegorical for Beckett's life as a writer? Is he constantly going down new roads, as Belaqua does, just to see what's there?

If we do allow ourselves such an author-centric interpretation, "Ding-Dong" seems to fit into the (narrow) framework we've created for Beckett thus far in class. I see shades of his stream-of-consciousness style creeping in during this story, especially during the second paragraph. If we do not allow ourselves such an author-centric interpretation, in what way do these moments with Belaqua exist within Beckett's oeuvre?

Communicating with the Void in sparse language.

Something that really struck me while reading Worstward Ho is Beckett's ability to pare language down to its most essential elements in order to get a point across. Beckett definitely explored this concept in Company and Ill Said Ill Seen, but he seems to really achieve this linguistic minimalism in Worstward. Take for example, this passage:

"All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

This quote encapsulates two things that I find fascinating about Beckett's writing: 1) somehow, he's able to transcribe the artistic human psyche and 2) he knows he can never transcribe the artistic human psyche. There is no way to ever succeed in documenting, making sense of, and sharing one's thoughts, but the process of doing so is a success in itself. This self-aware dichotomy is what makes Beckett so compelling; by writing about the void, one falls into the void. By falling into the void, one falls out of the void. Awareness, acceptance, and acknowledgement of the void is the same as being engulfed by it and the same as climbing out of it. Furthermore, such acknowledgement of the void gives it the power to both create and destroy as evidenced by this quote found close to the end:

"The whole narrow void. No blurs. All clear. Dim clear. Black hole agape on all. Inletting all. Outletting all."

 By writing about absence in such sparse language, Beckett allows his words to swirl around him, creating a buzzing nest of sound. One your ears are used to the sound, however, it disappears.