Three Novels: Malloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable

by Samuel Beckett

  Nothing has ever changed since I have been here. But I dare not infer from this that nothing ever will change. Let us try and see where these considerations lead.

  I have been here, ever since I began to be (my appearances elsewhere having been put in by other parties). All has proceeded, all this time, in the utmost calm, in the most perfect order (apart from one or two manifestations the meaning of which escapes me). (No, it is not just their meaning escapes me, my own escapes me just as much.) Here all things..... No, I shall not say it, being unable to.

  I owe my existence to no one: these faint fires are not of those that illuminate or burn.

  Going nowhere, coming from nowhere, Malone passes.

  These notions of forbears, of houses where lamps are lit at night, and other such: where do they come to me from? And all these questions I ask myself? It is not in a spirit of curiosity: I cannot be silent. About myself I need know nothing.

  Here all is clear. No, all is not clear. But the discourse must go on. So one invents obscurities. Rhetoric. These lights, for instance (which I do not require to mean anything): what is there so strange about them, so wrong? Is it their irregularity, their instability, their shining strong one minute and weak the next, but never beyond the power of one or two candles? Malone appears and disappears with the punctuality of clockwork, always at the same remove, the same velocity, in the same direction, the same attitude. But the play of the lights is truly unpredictable. It is only fair to say that to eyes less knowing than mine they would probably pass unseen. But even to mine do they not sometimes do so? They are perhaps unwavering and fixed, and my fitful perceiving the cause of their inconstancy.

  I hope I may have occasion to revert to this question. But I shall remark without further delay (in order to be sure of doing so) that I am relying on these lights (as indeed on all other similar sources of credible perplexity) to help me continue and perhaps even conclude.

  I resume, having no alternative. Where was I? Ah yes: from the unexceptionable order which has prevailed here up to date may I infer that such will always be the case?

  I may of course. But the mere fact of asking myself such a question gives me to reflect. It is in vain I tell myself that its only purpose is to stimulate the lagging discourse: this excellent explanation does not satisfy me. Can it be I am the prey of a genuine preoccupation, of a need to know as one might say? I don't know. I'll try it another way. If one day a change were to take place, resulting from a principle of disorder already present, what then? That would seem to depend on the nature of the change. (No: here all change would be fatal and land me back, there and then, in all the fun of the fair.)

  I'll try it another way. Has nothing really changed since I have been here? No, frankly, hand on heart..... wait a second..... no, nothing to my knowledge. But, as I have said, the place may well be vast, as it may well measure twelve feet in diameter. It comes to the same thing, as far as discerning its limits is concerned.

  I like to think I occupy the centre, but nothing is less certain. In a sense I would be better off at the circumference, since my eyes are always fixed in the same direction. But I am certainly not at the circumference. For if I were it would follow that Molloy, wheeling about me as he does, would issue from the enceinte at every revolution (which is manifestly impossible). But does he in fact wheel? Does he not perhaps simply pass before me in a straight line?

  No, he wheels, I feel it. And about me, like a planet about its sun. And if he made a noise, as he goes, I would hear him all the time (on my right hand, behind my back, on my left hand) before seeing him again. But he makes none. For I am not deaf, of that I am convinced (that is to say half-convinced).

  From centre to circumference in any case it is a far cry and I may well be situated somewhere between the two. It is equally possible (I do not deny it) that I too am in perpetual motion, accompanied by Malone (as the earth by its moon). In which case there would be no further grounds for my complaining about the disorder of the lights, this being due simply to my insistence on regarding them as always the same lights and viewed always from the same point. (All is possible - or almost.) But the best is to think of myself as fixed and at the centre of this place (whatever its shape and extent may be). This is also probably the most pleasing to me. In a word: no change apparently since I have been here. Disorder of the lights perhaps an illusion. All change to be feared. Incomprehensible uneasiness.

  That I am not stone deaf is shown by the sounds that reach me. For though the silence here is almost unbroken, it is not completely so. I remember the first sound heard in this place (I have often heard it since). For I am obliged to assign a beginning to my residence here, if only for the sake of clarity. Hell itself, although eternal, dates from the revolt of Lucifer. It is therefore permissible (in the light of this distant analogy) to think of myself as being here forever, but not as having been here forever. This will greatly help me in my relation. Memory notably (which I did not think myself entitled to draw upon) will have its word to say, if necessary. (This represents at least a thousand words I was not counting on. I may well be glad of them.)

  So after a long period of immaculate silence a feeble cry was heard, by me. (I do not know if Malone heard it too.) I was surprised (the word is not too strong): after so long a silence a little cry (stifled outright). What kind of creature uttered it - and (if it is the same) still does, from time to time? Impossible to say. Not a human one in any case, there are no human creatures here (or if there are they have done with crying). Is Malone the culprit? Am I? (Is it not perhaps a simple little fart? They can be rending.)

  Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what. If only I were not obliged to manifest! And why speak of a cry? Perhaps it is something breaking? Some two things colliding? There are sounds here, from time to time, let that suffice. This cry to begin with (since it was the first). And others, rather different. I am getting to know them. (I do not know them all: a man may die at the age of seventy without ever having had the possibility of seeing Halley's comet.)

  It would help me, since to me too I must attribute a beginning, if I could relate it to that of my abode. Did I wait somewhere for this place to be ready to receive me? Or did it wait for me to come and people it? By far the better of these hypotheses (from the point of view of usefulness) is the former, and I shall often have occasion to fall back on it. But both are distasteful. I shall say therefore that our beginnings coincide: that this place was made for me, and I for it, at the same instant. And the sounds I do not yet know have not yet made themselves heard. But they will change nothing. (The cry changed nothing, even the first time. And my surprise? I must have been expecting it.)

  It is no doubt time I gave a companion to Malone. But first I shall tell of an incident that has only occurred once, so far. (I await its recurrence without impatience.) Two shapes then, oblong like man, entered into collision before me. They fell and I saw them no more. (I naturally thought of the pseudo-couple Mercier-Camier.) The next time they enter the field, moving slowly towards each other, I shall know they are going to collide, fall and disappear, and this will perhaps enable me to observe them better.

  Wrong. I continue to see Malone as darkly as the first time. My eyes being fixed always in the same direction I can only see (I shall not say clearly, but as clearly as the visibility permits) that which takes place immediately in front of me - that is to say (in the case before us) the collision, followed by the fall and disappearance. Of their approach I shall never obtain other than a confused glimpse, out of the corner of the eye. (And what an eye!) For their path too must be a curve (two curves), and meeting (I need not say) close beside me. For the visibility (unless it be the state of my eyesight) only permits me to see what is close beside me.

  I may add that my seat would appear to be somewhat elevated, in relation to the surrounding ground. (If ground is what it is. Perhaps it is water or some other liquid.) With the result that, in order to obtain the optimum view of what takes place in
front of me, I should have to lower my eyes a little. But I lower my eyes no more. In a word: I only see what appears close beside me. What I best see I see ill.

  Why did I have myself represented in the midst of men, the light of day? (It seems to me it was none of my doing. We won't go into that now.) I can see them still, my delegates. The things they have told me! About men, the light of day! I refused to believe them. But some of it has stuck.

  But when, through what channels, did I communicate with these gentlemen? Did they intrude on me here? No, no one has ever intruded on me here. Elsewhere then. But I have never been elsewhere. But it can only have been from them I learnt what I know about men and the ways they have of putting up with it. (It does not amount to much. I could have dispensed with it. I don't say it was all to no purpose. I'll make use of it, if I'm driven to it. It won't be the first time.) What puzzles me is the thought of being indebted for this information to persons with whom I can never have been in contact. Can it be innate knowledge? Like that of good and evil? This seems improbable to me. Innate knowledge of my mother (for example): is that conceivable? Not for me.

  She was one of their favourite subjects, of conversation. They also gave me the low-down on God. They told me I depended on him, in the last analysis. They had it on the reliable authority of his agents at Bally-I-forget-what (this being the place - according to them - where the inestimable gift of life had been rammed down my gullet). But what they were most determined for me to swallow was my fellow-creatures. In this they were without mercy.

  I remember little or nothing of these lectures. I cannot have understood a great deal. But I seem to have retained certain descriptions, in spite of myself. They gave me courses on love, on intelligence (most precious, most precious). They also taught me to count, and even to reason. (Some of this rubbish has come in handy on occasions, I don't deny it - on occasions which would never have arisen if they had left me in peace. I use it still, to scratch my arse with.) Low types they must have been, their pockets full of poison and antidote. (Perhaps all this instruction was by correspondence. And yet I seem to know their faces. From photographs perhaps?)

  When did all this nonsense stop? And has it stopped? (A few last questions.) Is it merely a lull?

  There were four or five of them at me: they called that presenting their report. One in particular (Basil I think he was called) filled me with hatred. Without opening his mouth, fastening on me his eyes like cinders with all their seeing, he changed me a little more each time into what he wanted me to be. Is he still glaring at me, from the shadows? Is he still usurping my name (the one they foisted on me) up there in their world, patiently, from season to season?

  No no, here I am in safety, amusing myself wondering who can have dealt me these insignificant wounds.

  The other advances full upon me. He emerges as from heavy hangings, advances a few steps, looks at me, then backs away. He is stooping and seems to be dragging invisible burdens. What I see best is his hat. The crown is all worn through, like the sole of an old boot, giving vent to a straggle of grey hairs. He raises his eyes and I feel the long imploring gaze, as if I could do something for him. Another impression (no doubt equally false): he brings me presents and dare not give them. He takes them away again (or he lets them fall) and they vanish.

  He does not come often (I cannot be more precise), but regularly assuredly. His visit has never coincided, up to now, with the transit of Malone. But perhaps some day it will. That would not necessarily be a violation of the order prevailing here. For if I can work out to within a few inches the orbit of Malone (assuming perhaps erroneously that he passes before me at a distance of say three feet), with regard to the other's career I must remain in the dark. For I am incapable not only of measuring time (which in itself is sufficient to vitiate all calculation in this connection) but also of comparing their respective velocities. So I cannot tell if I shall ever have the good fortune to see the two of them at once. But I am inclined to think I shall. For if I were never to see the two of them at once, then it would follow (or should follow) that between their respective appearances the interval never varies.

  No, wrong. For the interval may vary considerably (and indeed it seems to me it does) without ever being abolished. Nevertheless I am inclined to think (because of this erratic interval) that my two visitors may some day meet before my eyes, collide and perhaps even knock each other down.

  I have said that all things here recur sooner or later. (No, I was going to say it, then thought better of it.) But is it not possible that this does not apply to encounters? The only encounter I ever witnessed, a long time ago now, has never yet been re-enacted. (It was perhaps the end of something.) And I shall perhaps be delivered of Malone and the other (not that they disturb me) the day I see the two of them at one and the same time: that is to say, in collision.

  Unfortunately they are not the only disturbers of my peace. Others come towards me, pass before me, wheel about me. (And no doubt others still, invisible so far.) I repeat they do not disturb me. But in the long run it might become wearisome. (I don't see how. But the posssibility must be taken into account.)

  One starts things moving without a thought of how to stop them. In order to speak. One starts speaking as if it were possible to stop at will. It is better so. The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue. No, I must not try to think, simply utter. Method or no method I shall have to banish them in the end - the beings, things, shapes, sounds and lights with which my haste to speak has encumbered this place. (In the frenzy of utterance, the concern with truth.) Hence the interest of a possible deliverance by means of encounter.

  But not so fast. First dirty, then make clean.

  Perhaps it is time I paid a little attention to myself, for a change. (I shall be reduced to it sooner or later.) At first sight it seems impossible. Me? Utter me? In the same foul breath as my creatures? Say of me that I see this, feel that? Fear, hope? Know and do not know? Yes, I will say it, and of me alone.

  Impassive, still and mute, Malone revolves, a stranger forever to my infirmities: one who is not as I can never not be. I am motionless in vain, he is the god. And the other? I have assigned him eyes that implore me, offerings for me, need of succour. He does not look at me, does not know of me, wants for nothing. I alone am man and all the rest divine.

  Air. The air. Is there anything to be squeezed from that old chestnut? Close to me it is grey, dimly transparent, and beyond that charmed circle deepens and spreads its fine impenetrable veils. Is it I who cast the faint light that enables me to see what goes on under my nose? There is nothing to be gained, for the moment, by supposing so. There is no night so deep (so I have heard tell) that it may not be pierced in the end, with the help of no other light than that of the blackened sky, or of the earth itself.

  Nothing nocturnal here. This grey, first murky, then frankly opaque, is luminous none the less. But may not this screen which my eyes probe in vain, and see as denser air, in reality be the enclosure wall, as compact as lead? To elucidate this point I would need a stick or pole, and the means of plying it (the former being of little avail without the latter, and vice versa). (I could also do, incidentally, with future and conditional participles.) Then I would dart it, like a javelin, straight before me and know (by the sound made) whether that which hems me round, and blots out my world, is the old void, or a plenum. Or else (without letting it go) I would wield it like a sword and thrust it through empty air - or against the barrier.

  But the days of sticks are over. Here I can count on my body alone: my body incapable of the smallest movement, and whose very eyes can no longer close as they once could (according to Basil and his crew) to rest me from seeing, to rest me from waking, to darken me to sleep; and no longer look away, or down, or up open to heaven: but must remain forever fixed and staring on the narrow space before them where there is nothing to be seen (99 per cent of the time). They must be as red as live coals. I someti
mes wonder if the two retinae are not facing each other. And come to think of it this grey is shot with rose (like the plumage of certain birds, among which I seem to remember the cockatoo).

  Whether all grow black, or all grow bright, or all remain grey, it is grey we need, to begin with, because of what it is, and of what it can do, made of bright and black: able to shed the former, or the latter, and be the latter or the former alone. (But perhaps I am the prey - on the subject of grey, in the grey - to delusions.)

  How, in such conditions, can I write (to consider only the manual aspect of that bitter folly)? I don't know. I could know. But I shall not know. Not this time. It is I who write, who cannot raise my hand from my knee. It is I who think (just enough to write), whose head is far. I am Matthew and I am the angel - I who came before the cross, before the sinning: came into the world, came here.

  I add this, to be on the safe side: these things I say (and shall say, if I can) are no longer, or are not yet, or never were, or never will be - or (if they were, if they are, if they will be) were not here, are not here, will not be here, but elsewhere. But I am here. So I am obliged to add this: I who am here, who cannot speak, cannot think, and who must speak (and therefore perhaps think a little), cannot in relation only to me who am here, to here where I am; but can a little, sufficiently (I don't know how, unimportant), in relation to me who was elsewhere (who shall be elsewhere) and to those places where I was (where I shall be). But I have never been elsewhere (however uncertain the future). And the simplest therefore is to say that what I say (what I shall say, if I can) relates to the place where I am, to me who am there (in spite of my inability to think of these, or to speak of them), because of the compulsion I am under to speak of them (and therefore perhaps think of them a little).