Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Molloy/Malone Dies/The Unnamable by Samuel Beckett
It's so nice to know where you're going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there.
I was out of sorts. They are deep, my sorts, a deep ditch, and I am not often out of them.
Not to want to say, not to know what you want to say, not to be able to say what you think you want to say, and never to stop saying, or hardly ever, that is the thing to keep in mind, even in the heat of composition.
And in winter, under my greatcoat, I wrapped myself in swathes of newspaper, and did not shed them until the earth awoke, for good, in April. The Times Literary Supplement was admirably adapted to this purpose, of a neverfailing toughness and impermeability. Even farts made no impression on it. I can't help it, gas escapes from my fundament on the least pretext, it's hard not to mention it now and then, however great my distaste. One day I counted them. Three hundred and fifteen farts in nineteen hours, or an average of over sixteen farts an hour. After all it's not excessive. Four farts every fifteen minutes. It's nothing. Not even one fart every four minutes. It's unbelievable. Damn it, I hardly fart at all, I should never have mentioned it.
There I am then back in the saddle, in my numbed heart a prick of misgiving, like one dying of cancer obliged to consult his dentist.
All roads were right for me, a wrong road was an event, for me.
Precautions are like resolutions, to be taken with precaution.
For I always say either too much or too little, which is a terrible thing for a man with a passion for truth like mine.