It’s probably fair to say I dragged myself through Molloy with only the occasional moment of more willing crawling. Samuel Beckett, perhaps, would have approved. This novel, his work as a whole, is full of pained movement that seems only one kick away from stillness. At school I studied Waiting for Godot and Endgame, two plays that I loved (eventually), but Beckett’s prose has always been both intimidating and unenticing. In Molloy we have big black brutal blocks of text with nary a paragraph break. I was hardly going to rush to read this, given I knew only to expect death and misery in what I did read. What is strange is that Beckett also wrote during his career its polar opposite, formally speaking: tiny fragments so fragmentary I could get nowhere at all in them, where even a single sentence seemed something so primordially bare that comprehension eluded me.
Regardless of these varied torments, I felt I had to make a sustained attack upon his prose. There are many good books I still have to read, of course, but always nudging me for Beckett was the awkward fact that many authors I really like – Jon Fosse and Thomas Bernhard, for example – are often claimed by critics as being his inheritors. And so, I tried again. “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better” – so does Sam put it in his late story “Worstwood Ho”. If I’ve failed, this time it’ll at least be a failure of interpretation, rather than a failure to get past the first page.
Eventually I felt I was getting something out of the work. But rather than try to summarise a book that is full of nonsense (Molloy spends several pages working out the optimal sequence for transferring sixteen stones between his four pockets and one mouth, to give one example), it makes more sense to note the path into meaningfulness, or at least the possibility of meaning, that I found most helpful, and reflect upon the relationship between the text I’ve read and the authors following him that I love.
Chasing
I mentioned movement at the beginning, and movement is maybe the best way into forming an understanding of Molloy, especially as it relates to the more accessible and well-known Godot. The plot of Molloy concerns two people, Molloy and Moran, each the narrator and author (both are writing reports) of their equally-sized parts. The first man is looking for his mother’s apartment, while the second man is seeking the first. Whereas Estragon and Vladimir in the play are tasked with waiting for someone, Molloy and Moran are tasked with finding someone – Molloy by himself, Moran by a figure called Youdi via his messenger Gaber. Molloy gets distracted often in his quest, and has experiences like getting arrested, running over a dog, and possibly murdering a man. Moran is more driven, if not for that any more successful. He is accompanied by his son, but though his narrative and voice are distinct, there are many similarities with Molloy’s path, including the talk of bicycles, a murder, and the decay of the body and mind.
Movement towards a goal, as opposed to waiting at an appointed point. These are not so different as they seem. In both cases Beckett’s tales are readable as a kind of allegory. Moran is instructed to find Molloy, but quickly forgets what he’s to do when he meets him – still, he trusts his instructions on faith. Just as Vladimir and Estragon are informed about Godot by a boy, Moran doesn’t hear from Youdi directly but via Gaber. These names are all richly interpretable. Gaber is Giver in German, but I also noticed it sounded like the archangel Gabriel. Youdi, as an invisible presence giving orders, reminded me of Yahweh, with whom he shares a syllable count and first letter. If the waiting of Vladimir and Estragon resembles that of the early Christians who believed the end of the world was about to arrive if only they waited a little longer, I thought there was something similarly religious in the shape of Moran’s quest in particular. Travelling with his son, and with a marked faith to his narration and cruelty to his action, I thought of the Binding of Isaac. In other words, the novel’s central dynamic and naming feels religious without ever being explicitly so, in the way that might make us feel comfortable resting upon such a view and ceasing any further enquiry.
Yet a simple allegory this is not, no more than is Godot. One topic that complicates matters is that of something close to movement: the body itself. Both Molloy and Moran’s bodies are in decay. Beckett might say with a wry and considered smile that they are both on their last legs. Certainly that seems the case for Moran, whose legs stop working over the course of his section. Molloy’s hardly seemed to work to begin with – he traverses the earth with a combination of crutches and a bicycle, something I could only imagine with some difficulty. No matter the damage, however, the bodies keep going. We could relate this back to the idea of faith by saying this is proof of how determined the characters are to honour their commitments – to one’s mother, to Youdi. But there’s too much humour in the writing to make this interpretation a comfortable one. Molloy ends his story crawling on the floor, before accidentally falling into a ditch; at one point, Moran gets on the floor and starts rolling about like a “cylinder”. Such moments are too funny to allow a straight-faced interpretation of the action. Their bodily faith seems too much like lunacy.
Beckett’s bodies try to reorientate the reader’s attention to the disregarded parts of existence. At one point Molloy sings the praises of the anus in more flowery language than I am prepared to quote; Moran, meanwhile, is obsessed by masturbation. It’s hard to think of the book as being about faith when that faith goes nowhere but the bodies with their earthiness are constantly present on the page. Then there is the matter that Moran, who is depicted as consciously religious, is guilty of all the crimes the religious normally are in the eyes of the confidently irreligious. He is full of pride (“I was short of sins” is a shockingly good way to tell us the exact opposite), he holds fast to that strain of Christian thought which demands “a horror of the body and all its functions”, yet is excited when he has a moment free from his son because it will allow him to masturbate. He also murders a stranger and drives away his son through repeated corporal punishment. Religion is certainly not the hero of this work, and devotion to the ideal seems hardly capable of taking its place.
Both Moran and Molloy’s sections of the story are bleak. Their bodies don’t work, their minds are in so much disorder, and all their strivings are unrewarded. Moran, for example, eventually, struggles home from his wanderings to find his animals dead. Both characters keep going because of a kind of faith, but the problem is that their leap of faith leads them not to land in God’s arms, but to fall straight into a ditch.
The question at this point is why read this book, or Malone Dies, or The Unnameable? The second novel of the Trilogy has the eponymous Malone stuck in what may be a hospital or a prison, telling stories to pass the time before he dies, only to get annoyed at his own work every-so-often and declare it “tedium”. This is an even more cramped space for narration than Molloy. At least with the first novel we could hope that something better might await Moran or Molloy – foolishly, perhaps, I thought perhaps their striving might be rewarded. With a man in bed, telling fictional stories and wishing he were dead, it’s even harder to find the traditional joys of fiction. If you don’t find Beckett funny, and I don’t find him quite funny enough, and you don’t love his language, which is often technically impressive and inventive (one favourite was “the unconquerable dark” which “licks the light” on a character’s face), the work is a hard sell. Indeed, it’s work. But now I can at least say I’ve managed the first two parts of the trilogy. That’s an achievement for before I die, anyway.
Two influences: Fosse and Bernhard
Besides thinking about religion and the body, I also found trying to compare Beckett with Jon Fosse and Thomas Bernhard a useful exercise to understand what Beckett might be trying to say, and why I found the others so much more enjoyable than I found him.
The main links between Fosse and Beckett concern ageing and madness and their associated changes to cognition. If only Molloy will monologue about his arsehole, excrement plays a role in both writers’ worlds. In the final section of Fosse’s Melancholy, for example, we could say the main narrative tension concerns the old woman Oline and her challenge to balance her need to pee with her promise to visit her dying brother. Something has gone wrong with her body, and she must resist it as long as she can. This is a similar dynamic to Molloy – the need to balance one’s duty to something higher with the demands of the body that carries us there. Another link, and related to this, is one of susceptibility. Both writers’ characters’ consciousnesses are very vulnerable to their external experiences, leading them to constantly lose track of what they are doing. Again, in Melancholy, there’s Lars, who in the scenes at the pub in Düsseldorf allows his idea of reality to be shaped by the words of his obviously-ill-intentioned fellow artists.
What separates these two writers, it seems to me, is their associated value judgements of these states. If the body is played for laughs in Beckett, it is also something decidedly important because it is the most human part of us. The “going on” of his characters is a physical going on, even if it’s just Molloy’s bizarre crutches-cum-bicycle hobbling. Fosse, I think, has less love of the body. Perhaps this is his (latent at the time of Melancholy, open by the time of Septology) Catholicism showing. Oline’s decay is something she has to avoid to remain connected to higher ideals, while Lars’ madness is just that – a sense that he has lost contact with something important and necessary for his art, something emphasised in the second section of the novel where he is in an asylum and more susceptible than ever to the faintest suggestions. In Septology, meanwhile, the second Asle is dying from alcoholism and hence unable to paint or, indeed, hold himself to life.
The things that Fosse values are beyond the body – our flesh and blood are necessary only insofar as they enable us to reach them. The overwhelming mystical experience of a world where the boundaries between past and present blur, as in Aliss at the Fire, or the presence of God in Septology – these are the things that really matter. If Beckett, in his bizarre and comic and even cruel way, celebrates the body, Fosse condemns it. But because Fosse’s vision has this religious and mystical angle instead of the bleak metaphysical emptiness of Beckett’s, I naturally prefer the former’s work, it being closer to my own leanings.
My second favourite who came, allegedly, from under Beckett’s overcoat is Thomas Bernhard. What links both writers is a certain cruelty. Beckett’s we see, for example, in Moran’s corporal punishment of his own son, which eventually leads him to flee, or in the pig butchery of the Lambert father in Malone Dies, who relishes in the creatures’ deaths. We might also perceive cruelty in Beckett’s treatment of his characters generally – the need to leave them immobile, bedbound, trapped. Bernhard’s cruelty is located differently: in his narration, in the bile of his narrators – the snobbery of the narrator of Woodcutters towards the artistic pretensions of the people at the party, or Roithamer’s hatred of his family in Correction. My preference here is again for the successor. Beckett’s narration bloodies his characters to build a bleak world, whereas Bernhard’s narrators bloody their world in order to big up themselves or what they like. If I am ultimately equivocal about Beckett’s bodies – the cruelty and bleakness balances the sense that they are important things – there’s no such sense of this with Bernhard.
Bernhard’s narrators are arrogant snobs. In Wittgenstein’s Nephew Bernhard describes a road trip across Austria just to get a copy of the Swiss newspaper, the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, because he detests Austrian papers and wants to read a particular article in this one. Crazy, certainly, but also an indication of passion, even of love. We may not share his good taste but it’s hard not to respect the idea of good taste. Woodcutters is a broadside against the bourgeoisie, but through the figure of the actor at the dinner party there are moments when Bernhard seems to say “look here, here’s something real and important.” In other words, proper snobbery can only be possible where there is a real value of the things and people one looks down on – a negative judgement that implies an affirmation of what is absent. You don’t need to agree with him to value the very valuing.
There is no such vision in Beckett, where all and each seems so much dirt. In Bernhard we laugh at the narrators for being nincompoops, and we laugh at the objects of their rage. But in Beckett, the few things he seems to place some value upon – the body, the faithful adherence to a duty – are also mocked relentlessly. The result is that Beckett seems more negative than the all-denying Bernhard.
The Unnameable awaits. I’ll keep it waiting for the moment – I need a break from Beckett for now. I do not, however, regret reading either Molloy or Malone Dies. Fun they decidedly were not. But like many difficult books, trying to gather my thoughts together for a blog post has done a good bit to redeem them. I have a better sense of why Beckett has so many fans, even if I cannot yet call myself one of them, and I can see how his influence eventually wound up inspiring those whose works I more unequivocally love. There’s much more to the texts than I got out of them. The theme of identity, for example, is worth exploring. I could also, should also, probably do more close reading of the language itself. But in my defence, these are tasks for books we love. So poor Sam will miss out on the premium™ MAS blog post treatment for the moment.
For a long time, I was kept away from Beckett by a lack of a way in. I had seen so many titles and articles, indeed own Beckett’s Dying Words by Christopher Ricks (gifted, rather than bought), which told me how much love and pleasure he could offer to the initiated, but this only made me feel foolish for not having any success myself. I hope this post may nevertheless have helped you.
Meanwhile, if you, reader, are a Beckett fanatic, what helped you to get into him?
