A review by yuefei
Molloy by Samuel Beckett
Two parallel journeys, their directions erratic, asymptotic. The most absurd fits of cold reason are twisted, in a stream of consciousness, with oneiricism. The is no certainty, no closure, apart from that of the unending procession ever convergent, like an asymptote, on death.
(From CSM Library. Read from a red paperback of the trilogy, which includes Molloy and The Unnameable, both of which I no longer have time to read. The first page of The Unnameable fell out many times, before I finally taped them back in.)
(From CSM Library. Read from a red paperback of the trilogy, which includes Molloy and The Unnameable, both of which I no longer have time to read. The first page of The Unnameable fell out many times, before I finally taped them back in.)