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After a six-month hiatus from all things literary (misdirected angst about my useless degree in the current job market), I just started the same book I last finished: The Unnamable by Samuel Motherfucking Beckett. In a nutshell, it's a 145-page monologue by the universe's most ambiguous narrator (Is he alive? dead? a blind mute quadriplegic in an urn? in heaven? hell? an empty void? a blackened pit? a brain trapped within a skull?) who is certain of nothing except a compulsion and desire to speak at last one true thing and consequently to be finally and eternally silent, complicated by his mistrust of his own words and those of the apparent other characters (real people? shades? disembodied voices? voices in his own head?) who attempt to convince him that he is in fact them and he has lived their own disparate, sordid, and absurd existences. On the one hand, it is rather  , but on the other, it somehow strikes me as the most truthful piece of writing I have ever read.
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Jun 8, 2009 03:02
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| # ¿ May 9, 2024 10:42 |
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