Samuel Beckett
The Unnamable
Where now? Who now? When now? Unquestioning.
I, say I. Unbelieving.
Questions, hypotheses (call them that).
Keep going, going on (call that going, call that on).
Can it be that one day (off it goes), that one day I simply stayed in (in where?) instead of going out, in the old way, out to spend day and night as far away as possible? (It wasn't far.) Perhaps that is how it began. You think you are simply resting (the better to act when the time comes, or for no reason) and you soon find yourself powerless ever to do anything again.
No matter how it happened. (It, say it, not knowing what.) Perhaps I simply assented at last to an old thing. (But I did nothing.)
I seem to speak (it is not I) about me (it is not me).
These few general remarks to begin with.
What am I to do (what shall I do, what should I do?) in my situation? How proceed? By aporia pure and simple? Or by affirmations and negations invalidated as uttered (or sooner or later)? (Generally speaking.) There must be other shifts. Otherwise it would be quite hopeless. But it is quite hopeless. (I should mention before going any further - any further on - that I say "aporia" without knowing what it means.)
Can one be ephectic otherwise than unawares? I don't know. With the yesses and noes it is different: they will come back to me as I go along. And now, like a bird, to shit on them all without exception.
The fact would seem to be (if in my situation one may speak of facts) not only that I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak, but also (which is even more interesting) that I shall have to..... I forget, no matter. And at the same time I am obliged to speak. I shall never be silent. Never.
I shall not be alone, in the beginning. (I am of course alone.) Alone. That is soon said. (Things have to be soon said.) And how can one be sure, in such darkness? I shall have company. In the beginning. A few puppets. Then I'll scatter them, to the winds, if I can.
And things? What is the correct attitude to adopt towards things? And (to begin with) are they necessary? What a question! But I have few illusions: things are to be expected. The best is not to decide anything (in this connection) in advance. If a thing turns up, for some reason or other, take it into consideration.
Where there are people (it is said) there are things. Does this mean that when you admit the former you must also admit the latter? Time will tell. The thing to avoid (I don't know why) is the spirit of system. People with things, people without things, things without people - what does it matter? I flatter myself it will not take me long to scatter them, whenever I choose, to the winds. (I don't see how.)
The best would be not to begin. But I have to begin. That is to say I have to go on. Perhaps in the end I shall smother in a throng: incessant comings and goings, the crush and bustle of a bargain sale. No, no danger. (Of that.)
Malone is there. Of his mortal liveliness little trace remains. He passes before me at doubtless regular intervals. (Unless it is I who pass before him? No, once and for all: I do not move.) He passes, motionless. But there will not be much on the subject of Malone, from whom there is nothing further to be hoped. Personally I do not intend to be bored. (It was while watching him pass that I wondered if we cast a shadow. Impossible to say.)
He passes close by me, a few feet away - slowly, always in the same direction. I am almost sure it is he. The brimless hat seems conclusive. With his two hands he props up his jaw. He passes without a word. Perhaps he does not see me. One of these days I'll challenge him. I'll say.....I don't know, I'll say something.....I'll think of something when the time comes. (There are no days here, but I use the expression.) I see him from the waist up: he stops at the waist, as far as I am concerned. The trunk is erect. But I do not know whether he is on his feet or on his knees. (He might also be seated.) I see him in profile. Sometimes I wonder if it is not Molloy. Perhaps it is Molloy, wearing Malone's hat. But it is more reasonable to suppose it is Malone, wearing his own hat. (Oh, look, there is the first thing! Malone's hat!)
I see no other clothes. Perhaps Molloy is not here at all. Could he be, without my knowledge? (The place is no doubt vast. Dim intermittent lights suggest a kind of distance.) To tell the truth I believe they are all here (at least from Murphy on). I believe we are all here. But so far I have only seen Malone. Another hypothesis: they were here, but are here no longer. I shall examine it after my fashion. Are there other pits, deeper down? To which one accedes by mine? (Stupid obsession with depth!) Are there other places set aside for us - and this one where I am, with Malone, merely their narthex? (I thought I had done with preliminaries.) No, no, we have all been here forever, we shall all be here for ever. I know it.
No more questions.
Is not this rather the place where one finishes vanishing? Will the day come when Malone will pass before me no more? Will the day come when Malone will pass before the spot where I was? Will the day come when another will pass before me, before the spot where I was? I have no opinion, on these matters.
Were I not devoid of feeling his beard would fill me with pity. It hangs down, on either side of his chin, in two twists of unequal length. Was there a time when I too revolved thus? No, I have always been sitting here, at this selfsame spot, my hands on my knees, gazing before me like a great barn-owl in an aviary. The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? (From time to time.) There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain. Past happiness in any case has clean gone from my memory, assuming it was ever there.(If I accomplish other natural functions it is unawares.) Nothing ever troubles me. And yet I am troubled.
Three Novels: Malloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable Page 13
