Beckett's novel Molloy is a diptych of two long interior monologues that are part existential rumination, all shaggy dog story. By anatomizing thought and syncopating the progress of sentences with obsessive attention, Beckett creates a kind of awkward poise—an anomalous grace—on the stage of narrative. It is both precise and riveting, reveling in the humors and movements of language as it explores, with comic impulse and tragic obstinacy, “the crass tenacity of life and its diligent pains.”
Undiluted, raging, stream of consciousness chaos before it was distilled into those beautiful plays. Very difficult read, but if you like, admire, or respect Beckett, worth it.
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