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Samuel Beckett

Born in Dublin, in 1906, of Irish parentage, Samuel Beckett went to Trinity College in Dublin. He has lectured at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris, and has taught French at Trinity. In 1938, he settled in France as James Joyce's secretary. He began to write in French in 1945, and has since then written three novels in English—MURPHY and WATT— and various other books, including a collection of short stories entitled MORE KICKS THAN PRICKS. An examination of Mr. Beckett's work appears immediately after this opening section of his novel, MOLLOY, to be published in the United States by Grove Press in 1954.

(Copyright, 1954, by Samuel Beckett.)

MOLLOY (section from the novel)

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[0001] I am in my mother's room. [0002] It's I who live there now. [0003] I don't know how I got there. [0004] Perhaps in an ambulance, certainly a vehicle of some kind. [0005] I was helped. [0006] I'd never have got there alone. [0007] There's this man who comes every week. Perhaps I got here thanks to him. [0008] He says not. [0009] He gives me money and takes away the pages. [0010] So many pages, so much money. [0011] Yes, I work now, a little like I used to, except that I don't know how to work any more. [0012] That doesn't matter, apparently. [0013] What I'd like now is to speak of the things that are left, say my good-bys, finish dying. [0014] They don't want that. [0015] Yes, they're more than one, apparently. [0016] But it's always the same one that comes. [0017] You'll do that later, he says. [0018] Good. [0019] The truth is I haven't much will left. [0020] When he comes for the fresh pages he brings back the previous week's. [0021] They are marked with signs I don't understand. [0022] Anyway I don't read them. [0023] When I've done nothing he gives me nothing, he scolds me. [0024] Yet I don't work for money. [0025] For what then? [0026] I don't know. [0027] The truth is I don't know much. [0028] For example my mother's death. [0029] Was she already dead when I came? [0030] Or did she only die later? [0031] I mean enough to bury. [0032] I don't know. [0033] Perhaps they haven't buried her yet. [0034] In any case I have her room. [0035] I sleep in her bed. [0036] I piss and shit in her pot. [0037] I have taken her place. [0038] I must resemble her more and more. [0039] All I need now is a son. [0040] Perhaps I have one somewhere. [0041] But I think not. [0042] He would be old now, nearly as old as me. [0043] It was a little chambermaid. [0044] It wasn't real love. [0045] The real love was in another. [0046] We'll come to that. [0047] Her name? I've forgotten it again. [0048] It seems to me sometimes that I even knew my son, that I helped him. [0049] Then I tell myself it is impossible. [0050] It is impossible I could ever have helped anyone. [0051] I've forgotten how to spell too, and half the words. [0052] That doesn't matter apparently. [0053] Good. [0054] He's a queer card who comes to see me. [0055] He comes every Sunday apparently. [0056] The other days he isn't free. [0057] He's always thirsty. [0058] It was he who told me I'd begun all wrong, that I should have begun differently. [0059] He must be right. [0060] I began at the beginning, like an old fool, can you imagine that. [0061] Here's my beginning. [0062] Because they're keeping it apparently. [0063] I took a lot of trouble with it. [0064] Here it is. [0065] It gave me a lot of trouble. [0066] It was the beginning, you see. [0067] Whereas now it's nearly the end. [0068] Is what I do now any better? [0069] I don't know. [0070] That's beside the point. [0071] Here's my beginning. [0072] It must mean something, since they're keeping it. [0073] Here it is. ^{[place = margin left] [par.✓]} [0074] This time, then once more I think, then perhaps a last time, then I think it'll be over, with that world too. [0075] Premonition of the last but one but one. [0076] All grows dim. [0077] A little more, and you'll go blind. [0078] It's in the head.[0079] It doesn't work any more, it says, I don't work any more. [0080] You go dumb as well and sounds fade. [0081] The threshold scarcely crossed that's how it is. [0082] It's the head. It must have had enough. [0083] So that you say, I'll manage this time, then perhaps once more, then perhaps a last time, then nothing more. [0084] You are hard set to formulate this thought, for it is one, in a sense. [0085] Then you try to pay attention, to consider with attention all those dim things, saying to yourself, laboriously, it's my fault. [0086] Fault? [0087] That was the word. [0088] But what fault? [0089] It's not good-by, and what magic in those dim things to which it will be time enough, when next they pass, to say good-by. [0090] For you must say good-by, it would be folly not to say good-by, when the time comes. [0091] If you think of the forms and light of other days it is without regret. [0092] But you seldom think of them, with what would you think of them? [0093] I don't know. [0094] People pass too, hard to distinguish from yourself. [0095] That is discouraging. [0096] That's how I saw A and B going slowly toward each other, unconscious of what they were doing. [0097] It was on a road remarkably bare, I mean without hedges or ditches or any kind of border, in the country, for cows were chewing in enormous fields, lying and standing, in the evening silence. [0098] Perhaps I'm inventing a little, perhaps embellishing, but on the whole that's how it was. [0099] They chew, swallow, then after a short pause effortlessly bring up the next mouthful. [0100] A neck muscle stirs and the jaws begin to grind again. [0101] But perhaps I'm remembering things. [0102] The road, hard and white, seared the tender pastures, rose and fell at the whim of hills and hollows. [0103] The town wasn't far. [0104] It was two men, unmistakably, one short and one tall. [0105] They had left the town, first one, then the other, and the first, weary or remembering a duty, had retraced his steps. [0106] The air was sharp, for they wore greatcoats. [0107] They looked alike, but no more than others do. [0108] At first a wide space lay between them. [0109] They couldn't have seen each other, even had they raised their heads and looked about, because of this wide space, and then because of the undulating land, which caused the road to be in waves, not deep, but deep enough, deep enough. [0110] But the moment came when together they went down into the same trough and in this trough finally met. [0111] To say they were acquainted, no, nothing warrants it. [0112] But perhaps at the sound of their steps, or warned by some obscure instinct, they raised their heads and observed each other, for a good fifteen paces, before they stopped, breast to breast. [0113] Yes, they did not pass each other by, but halted, face to face, as in the country, of an evening, on a deserted road, two wayfaring strangers often do, without there being anything extraordinary about it. [0114] But they knew each other perhaps. [0115] Now in any case they do, now I think they will know each other, greet each other, even in the depths of the town. [0116] They turned toward the sea which, far in the East, beyond the fields, climbed high in the waning sky; and they exchanged a few words. [0117] Then each went on his way. [0118] Each went on his way, A toward the town, B by ways he seemed hardly to know, or not at all, for he went with uncertain steps and often stopped to look about him, like someone trying to fix landmarks in his mind, for one day, perhaps, he may have to retrace his steps, you never know. [0119] The treacherous hills where fearfully he ventured were no doubt only known to him from afar, seen perhaps from his bedroom window or, one black day, from the summit of a monument which, having nothing in particular to do and turning to height for solace he had paid his few coppers to climb, up the winding stones. [0120] From there he must have seen it all, the plain, the sea, and then these very hills that some call mountains, indigo in places in the evening light, their serried ranges crowding to the sky line, cloven with hidden ^{[place = margin left] [✓]} valleys that the eye divines from sudden shifts of color and then from other signs for which there are no words, nor even thoughts. [0121] But all are not divined, even from that height, and often where only one escarpment is supposed, and one crest, in reality there are two, two escarpments, two crests, riven by a valley. [0122] But now he knows these hills, that is he knows them better, and if ever again he sees them from afar it will be, I think, with other eyes, and not only that but the within, all that inner space one never sees, the brain and heart and other caverns where thought and feeling hold their sabbath, all that too quite differently disposed. [0123] He looks old and it is a sorry sight to see him solitary after so many years, so many days and nights unthinkingly given to that rumor rising at birth and even earlier, What shall I do? What shall I do? now low, a murmur, now precise as the headwaiter's And to follow? and often rising to a scream. [0124] And in the end, or almost, to be abroad alone, by unknown ways, in the gathering night, with a stick. [0125] It was a stout stick, he used it to thrust himself onward, or as a defense, when the time came, against dogs and marauders. [0126] Yes, night was gathering, but the man was innocent, greatly innocent, he had nothing to fear. Though he went in fear, he had nothing to fear, there was nothing they could do to him, or very little. [0127] But he can't have known it. [0128] I wouldn't know it myself, if I thought about it. [0129] Yes, he saw himself threatened, his body threatened, his reason threatened, and perhaps he was, perhaps they were, in spite of his innocence. [0130] What business has innocence here?

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[0131] What relation to the innumerable spirits of darkness? [0132] It's not clear. [0133] It seemed to me he wore a cocked hat. [0134] I remember being struck by it, as I wouldn't have been for example by a cap or by a bowler. [0135] I watched him recede, overtaken by his anxiety, at least by an anxiety which was not necessarily his, but of which as it were he partook. [0136] Who knows if it wasn't my own anxiety overtaking him. [0137] He hadn't seen me. [0138] I was perched higher than the road's highest point and flattened what is more against a rock the same color as myself, that is gray. [0139] The rock he probably saw. [0140] He gazed around as if to engrave the landmarks on his memory, and must have seen the rock in the shadow of which I crouched like Belacqua, or Sordello, I forget. [0141] But a man, a fortiori myself, isn't ^{[place = margin right] [ital. (?]} exactly a landmark, because. [0142] I mean if by some strange chance he were to pass that way again, after a long lapse of time, vanquished, or to look for some forgotten thing, or to destroy something, his eyes would search out the rock, not the haphazard in its shadow of that unstable fugitive thing, still living flesh. [0143] No, he certainly didn't see me, for the reasons I've given and then because he was in no humor for that, that evening, no humor for the living, but rather for what doesn't stir, or stirs so slowly that a child would scorn it, let alone an old man. [0144] However that may be, I mean whether he saw me or whether he didn't, I repeat I watched him recede, at grips (myself) with the temptation to get up and follow him, perhaps even to catch up to him one day, so as to know him better, be myself less lonely. [0145] But in spite of my soul's leap out to him, at the end of its elastic, I saw him only darkly, because of the dark and then because of the terrain, in the folds of which he disappeared from time to time, to re-emerge further on, but most of all I think because of other things calling me and toward which too one after the other my soul was straining, unmethodical, distracted. [0146] I mean of course the fields, whitening under the dew, and the animals ceasing from wandering and settling for the night, and the sea, of which nothing, and the sharpening line of crests, and the sky where without seeing them I felt the first stars tremble, and my hand on my knee and above all the other wayfarer, A or C, I don't remember, going resignedly home. [0147] Yes, toward my hand also, which my knee felt tremble and of which my eyes saw the wrist only, the heavily-veined back, the pallid rows of knuckles. [0148] But that is not, I mean my hand, what I wish to speak of now, everything in due course, but A or B returning to the town he had just left. [0149] But after all what was there particularly urban in his aspect? [0150] He was bareheaded, wore sand-shoes, smoked a cigar. [0151] He moved with a kind of loitering indolence which rightly or wrongly seemed to me expressive. [0152] But all that proved nothing, refuted nothing. [0153] Perhaps he had come from afar, from the other end of the island even, and was approaching the town for the first time or returning to it after a long absence. [0154] A little dog followed him, a Pomeranian I think, but I don't think so. [0155] I wasn't sure at the time and I'm still not sure, though I've hardly thought about it. [0156] The little dog followed wretchedly, after the fashion of Pomeranians, stopping, describing long gyrations, giving up, and then, a little farther on, beginning all over again. [0157] Constipation is a sign of good health in Pomeranians. [0158] At a given moment, pre-established if you like, I don't mind, the gentleman turned back, took the little creature in his arms, drew the cigar from his lips and buried his face in the orange fleece, [0159] for it was a gentleman, that was obvious. [0160] Yes, it was an orange Pomeranian, the less I think of it the more certain I am. [0161] And yet. [0162] But would he have come from afar, bareheaded, in sand-shoes, smoking a cigar, followed by a Pomeranian? [0163] Did he not seem rather to have issued from the ramparts, after a good dinner, to take his dog and himself for a walk, like so many citizens, dreaming and farting, when the weather is fine? [0164] But was not perhaps in reality the cigar a cutty, and were not the sand-shoes boots, hobnailed, dust-whitened; and what prevented the dog from being one of those stray dogs that you pick up and take in your arms, from compassion or because you have long been straying with no other company than the endless roads, sands, shingle, bogs, and heather, than this nature answerable to another court, than at long intervals the fellow convict you long to stop, embrace, suck, suckle and whom you pass by, with hostile eyes, for fear of his familiarities. [0165] Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it the time needed for it to love you and you it, then throw it away. [0166] Perhaps he had come to that, in spite of appearances. [0167] He disappeared, his head on his chest, the smoking object in his hand. [0168] Let me try and explain. [0169] From things about to disappear I turn away in time. [0170] To watch them out of sight, no, I can't do it. [0171] It was in this sense he disappeared. [0172] Looking away I thought of him, saying, He dwindles, dwindles. [0173] I knew what I meant. [0174] I knew I could catch him, lame as I was. [0175] I had only to want to. [0176] And yet no, for I did want to. [0177] To get up, to get to the road, to set hobbling off in pursuit of him, to hail him, what could be easier. [0178] He hears my cries, turns, waits for me. [0179] I am up against him, up against the dog, gasping, between my crutches. [0180] He is a little frightened of me, a little sorry for me, [0181] I disgust him not a little. [0182] I am not a pretty sight, I don't smell good. [0183] What is it I want? [0184] Ah that tone I know, compounded of pity, of fear, of disgust. [0185] I want to see the dog, see the man, at close quarters, know what smokes, inspect the shoes, find out other things. [0186] He is kind, tells me of this and of that and of other things, whence he comes, whither he goes. [0187] I believe him, I know it's my only chance to—my only chance, I believe all I'm told, I've disbelieved only too much in my long life, now I swallow everything, avidly. [0188] What I need now is stories, it took me a long time to know that, [0189] and I'm not sure of it. [0190] There I am then, informed as to certain things, knowing certain things about him, things I didn't know, things that troubled me, even things that never troubled me. [0191] What language. [0192] I am even capable of having learnt what his profession is, I who am so interested in professions. [0193] And to think I try my best not to talk about myself. [0194] In a moment I shall talk about the cows, about the sky, if I can. [0195] There I am then, he leaves me, he's in a hurry. [0196] He didn't seem to be in a hurry, he was loitering, I've already said so, but after three minutes talking with me he is in a hurry, he has to hurry. [0197] I believe him. [0198] And once again I am I will not say alone, no, that's not like me, but, how shall I say, I don't know, restored to myself, no, I never left myself, free, yes, I don't know what that means but it's the word I intend to use, free to do what, to do nothing, to know, but what, the laws of the mind perhaps, of my mind, that for example water rises in proportion as it drowns you and that you would do better, at least no worse, to obliterate texts than to blacken margins, to fill in the holes of words till all is blank and flat and the whole ghastly business looks like what it is, senseless, speechless, issueless misery. [0199] So I doubtless did better, at least no worse, not to disturb myself from my observation post. [0200] But, instead of observing I had the weakness to return in spirit to the other, the man with the stick. [0201] Then the murmurs began again. [0202] To restore silence is the role of objects. [0203] I said, who knows if he hasn't simply come out to take the air, relax, stretch his legs, disinflame his brain by stamping the blood down to his feet, so as to ensure himself a good night, a joyous awakening, an enchanted morrow. [0204] Was he carrying as much as a scrip? [0205] But this gait, the anxious looks, the club, could these be reconciled with one's conception of what is called a little turn. [0206] But the hat, a town hat, an old-fashioned town hat, which the least wind would carry far away. [0207] Unless it was attached under the chin, by means of a string or an elastic. [0208] I took off my hat and looked at it. [0209] It is fastened, it has always been fastened, to my buttonhole, always the same buttonhole, at all seasons, by a long lace. [0210] I am still alive then. [0211] That may come in useful. [0212] The hand that had seized the hat and that held it still I trust as far as possible from me and caused it to come and go in an arc. [0213] So doing, I watched the lapel of my greatcoat, and saw it open and close. [0214] I understand now why I never wore a flower in my buttonhole, though it was large enough to hold a whole bunch. [0215] My buttonhole was set aside for my hat. [0216] It was my hat that I beflowered. [0217] But it is neither of my hat nor of my greatcoat that I hope to speak at present, it would be premature. [0218] Doubtless I shall speak of them later, when the time comes to draw up the inventory of my goods and possessions. [0219] Unless I lose them between now and then.

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[0220] But even lost they will have their place, in the inventory of my possessions. [0221] But I am easy in my mind, I shall not lose them. [0222] Nor my crutches, I shall not lose my crutches either. [0223] But I shall perhaps one day throw them away. [0224] I must have been on the top, or on the slopes, of some considerable eminence, for otherwise how could I have seen, so far away, so near at hand, so far beneath, so many things, fixed and moving. [0225] But what was an eminence doing in this land with hardly a ripple? [0226] And I, what was I doing there, and why come? [0227] These are things that we shall try and discover. [0228] But these are things we must not take seriously. [0229] There is a little of everything, apparently, in nature and freaks are common. [0230] And I am perhaps confusing several different occasions, and different times, deep down, and deep down is my dwelling, oh not deepest down, somewhere between the mud and the scum. [0231] And perhaps it was A one day at one place, then B another at another, then a third the rock and I, and so on for the other components, the cows, the sky, the sea, the mountains. [0232] I can't believe it. [0233] No, I will not lie, I can easily conceive it. [0234] No matter, no matter, let us go on, as if all arose from one and the same weariness, on and on hoarding, until there is no room, no light, for anymore. [0235] What is certain is that the man with the stick did not pass by again that night, because I would have heard him, if he had. [0236] I don't say I would have seen him, I say I would have heard him. [0237] I sleep little and that little in the daytime. [0238] Oh not systematically, in my life without end I have dabbled with every kind of sleep, but at the time now coming back to me I took my doze in the daytime and, what is more, in the morning. [0239] Let me hear nothing of the moon, in my night there is no moon, and if it happens that I speak of the stars it's inadvertently. [0240] Now of all the noises that night not one was of those heavy uncertain steps, or of that club with which he sometimes smote the earth until it quaked. [0241] How agreeable it is to be confirmed, after a more or less long period of vacillation, in one's first impressions. [0242] Perhaps that is what tempers the pangs of death. [0243] Not that I was so conclusively, I mean confirmed, in my first impressions with regard to—wait—C. [0244] For the wagons and carts which a little before dawn went thundering by, on their way to market with fruit, eggs, butter, and perhaps cheese, in one of these perhaps he would have been found, overcome by fatigue or by discouragement, perhaps even dead. [0245] Or he might have gone back to the town by another way too far away for me to hear its sounds, or by little paths through the fields, crushing the silent grass, pounding the silent ground. [0246] And so at last I came out of that distant night, divided between the murmurs of my little world, its dutiful confusions, and those so different (so different?) of all that between two suns abides and passes away.