Three Novels: Malloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable

by Samuel Beckett

  Why not then speak of something else? Something the existence of which seems in a certain measure already established? On the subject of which one may chatter away without blushing purple every thirty or forty thousand words at having to employ such locutions. And which moreover (supreme guarantee) has caused the glibbest tongues to wag from time immemorial? It would be preferable. It's the old story: they want to be entertained, while doing their dirty work. (No, not entertained, soothed. No, that's not it either. Solaced? No, even less. No matter.) With the result they achieve nothing: neither what they want (without knowing exactly what), nor the obscure infamy to which they are committed. The old story.

  You wouldn't think it was the same gang as a moment ago, would you? What can you expect? They don't know who they are either, nor where they are, nor what they're doing, nor why everything is going so badly, so abominably badly - that must be it. So they build up hypotheses that collapse on top of one another (it's human, a lobster couldn't do it). Ah a nice mess we're in, the whole pack of us! Is it possible we're all in the same boat? No, we're in a nice mess each one in his own peculiar way. I myself have been scandalously bungled, they must be beginning to realize it. I on whom all dangles. Better still: about whom (much better) all turns, dizzily. Yes yes, don't protest: all spins.

  It's a head, I'm in a head! What an illumination! (Ssst! Pissed on out of hand.)

  Ah this blind voice! And these moments of held breath when all listen wildly! And the voice that begins to fumble again, without knowing what it's looking for. And again the tiny silence, and the listening again. For what? No one knows. A sign of life perhaps? A sign of life escaping someone (and bound to be denied if it came)? That's it surely. If only all that could stop, there'd be peace. No, too good to be believed. The listening would go on: for the voice to begin again, for a sign of life, for someone to betray himself (or for something else, anything). What else can there be but signs of life? The fall of a pin? The stirring of a leaf? Or the little cry that frogs give when the scythe slices them in half, or when they are spiked, in their pools, with a spear? One could multiply the examples: it would even be an excellent idea. But there it is, one can't. Perhaps it would be better to be blind: the blind hear better. (Full of general knowledge we are this evening. We have even piano-tuners up our sleeve: they strike A and hear G, two minutes later.)

  There's nothing to be seen in any case. This eye is an oversight.

  But this isn't Worm speaking. (True, so far - who denies it? It would be premature.) Nor I, for that matter. And Mahood is notoriously aphonic. But the question is not there, for the moment. (No one knows where it is, but it is not there, for the time being.)

  Ah yes, there's great fun to be had from an eye. It weeps for the least little thing: a yes, a no. The yesses make it weep, the noes too. (The perhapses particularly.) With the result that the grounds for these staggering pronouncements do not always receive the attention they deserve. Mahood, too (I mean Worm - no, Mahood), Mahood too is a great weeper (in case it hasn't been mentioned). His beard is soaking with the muck, it's quite ridiculous - especially as it doesn't relieve him in the slightest. (What could it possibly relieve him of? The poor brute is as cold as a fish, incapable even of cursing his creator: it's purely mechanical.)

  But it's time Mahood was forgotten. (He should never have been mentioned.) No doubt. But is it possible to forget him? It is true one forgets everything. And yet it is to be greatly feared that Mahood will never let himself be completely resorbed. Worm yes: Worm will vanish utterly, as if he had never been - which indeed is probably the case. (As if one could vanish utterly without having been at some previous stage!) That's soon said. But Mahood too for that matter? (It's not clear - tut tut, it's not clear at all.) No matter. Mahood will stay where he was put, stuck up to his skull in his vase, opposite the shambles, beseeching the passers-by (without a word, or a gesture, or any play of his features - they don't play) to perceive him ostensibly (concomitantly with the day's dish, or independently). For reasons unknown. Perhaps in the hope of being proven in the swim (that is to say guaranteed to sink, sooner or later). That must be it. (Such notions may be entertained, without any process of thought.)

  I myself am exceptionally given to the tear. I should have preferred this kept dark: in their position I should have omitted this detail. The truth being I have no vent at my disposal, neither the aforesaid nor those less noble. (How can one enjoy good health under such conditions?)

  And what is one to believe?

  That is not the point, to believe this or that: the point is to guess right, nothing more. They say: "If it's not white it's very likely black." It must be admitted the method lacks subtlety, in view of the intermediate shades all equally worthy of a chance. The time they waste repeating the same thing, when they must know pertinently it is not the right one! (Recriminations easily rebutted, if they chose to take the trouble - and had the leisure - to reflect on their inanity.)

  But how can you think and speak at the same time? How can you think about what you have said, may say, are saying - and at the same time go on with the last-mentioned? You think about any old thing, more or less, in a daze of baseless unanswerable self-reproach. That's why they always repeat the same thing, the same old litany, the one they know by heart: to try and think of something different, of how to say something different from the same old thing (always the same wrong thing said always wrong). They can find nothing, nothing else to say but the thing that prevents them from finding. They'd do better to think of what they're saying, in order at least to vary its presentation: that's what matters.

  But how can you think and speak at the same time (without a special gift)? Your thoughts wander, your words too - far apart. (No, that's an exaggeration: apart.) Between them would be the place to be: where you suffer, rejoice (at being bereft of speech, bereft of thought), and feel nothing, hear nothing, know nothing, say nothing, are nothing. That would be a blessed place to be: where you are.

  It's a lucky thing they are there (meaning anywhere) to bear the responsibility of this state of affairs: with respect to which if one does not know a great deal one knows at least this, that one would not care to have it on one's conscience. (To have it on one's stomach is enough.) Yes, I'm a lucky man to have them, these voluble shades. I'll be sorry when they go (for I won't have them always, not at this rate - they'll make me believe I've piped up before they're done with me).

  The master in any case: we don't intend (listen to them hedging), we don't intend (unless absolutely driven to it) to make the mistake of inquiring into him. He'd turn out to be a mere high official, we'd end up by needing God. (We have lost all sense of decency admittedly, but there are still certain depths we prefer not to sink to.) Let us keep to the family circle, it's more intimate. We all know one another now, no surprises to be feared. The will has been opened: nothing for anybody.

  This eye. Curious how this eye invites inspection, demands sympathy, solicits attention, implores assistance. To do what? It's not clear. To stop weeping, have a quick look round? Goggle an instant and close forever? It's it you see and it alone. It's from it you set out to look for a face, to it you return having found nothing, nothing worth having - nothing but a kind of ashen smear. Perhaps it's long grey hair, hanging in a tangle round the mouth, greasy with ancient tears. Or the fringe of a mantle spread like a veil. Or fingers opening and closing to try and shut out the world. Or all together: fingers, hair and rags, mingled inextricably.

  Suppositions all equally vain: it's enough to enounce them to regret having spoken (familiar torment). (A different past? It's often to be wished - different from yours, when you find out what it was). He is hairless and naked and his hands (laid flat on his knees once and for all) are in no danger of ever getting into mischief. And the face?

  Balls, all balls. I don't believe in the eye either. There's nothing here, nothing to see, nothing to see with. (Merciful coincidence, when you think what it would be: a world without spectator, and vice versa. Brr
r!) No spectator then. And better still no spectacle - good riddance! If this noise would stop there'd be nothing more to say.

  I wonder what the chat is about at the moment? Worm presumably (Mahood being abandoned). And I await my turn. Yes indeed, I do not despair (all things considered) of drawing their attention to my case, some fine day. Not that it offers the least interest. (Hey, something wrong there! "Not that it is particularly interesting"? I'll accept that.) But it's my turn. I too have the right to be shown impossible.

  This will never end, there's no sense in fooling oneself.

  Yes it will, they'll come round to it. After me it will be the end. They'll give up, saying: "It's all a bubble, we've been told a lot of lies, he's been told a lot of lies." (Who he? The master.) By whom? No one knows. The everlasting third party: he's the one to blame, for this state of affairs. The master's not to blame, neither are they, neither am I (least of all I). We were foolish to accuse one another (the master me, them, himself; they me, the master, themselves: I them, the master, myself). We are all innocent, enough. Innocent of what? No one knows. Of wanting to know, wanting to be able? Of all this noise about nothing? Of this long sin against the silence that enfolds us? We won't ask any more, what it covers, this innocence we have fallen to. It covers everything: all faults, all questions. It puts an end to questions.

  Then it will be over. Thanks to me all will be over. And they'll depart, one by one. Or they'll drop (they'll let themselves drop) where they stand, and never move again, thanks to me (who could understand nothing, of all they deemed it their duty to tell me to do). And upon us all the silence will fall again, and settle, like dust of sand, on the arena, after the massacres. (Bewitching prospect if ever there was one.)

  They are beginning to come round to my opinion. (After all it's possible I have one.) They make me say "if only this, if only that" - but the idea is theirs. (No, the idea is not theirs either.) As far as I personally am concerned there is every likelihood of my being incapable of ever desiring or deploring anything whatsoever. For it would seem difficult for someone (if I may so describe myself) to aspire towards a situation of which (notwithstanding the enthusiastic descriptions lavished on him) he has not the remotest idea. Or to desire with a straight face the cessation of that other (equally unintelligible) assigned to him in the beginning and never modified.

  This silence they are always talking about? From which supposedly he came, to which he will return when his act is over? He doesn't know what it is. Nor what he is meant to do, in order to deserve it.

  That's the bright boy of the class speaking now. He's the one always called to the rescue when things go badly. He talks all the time of merit and situations (he has saved more than one). Of suffering too: he knows how to stimulate the flagging spirit, stop the rot, with the simple use of this mighty word alone. Even if he has to add, a moment later: "But what suffering?" - since he has always suffered. Which rather damps the rejoicings. But he soon makes up for it, he puts all to rights again, invoking the celebrated notions of quantity, habit-formation, wear and tear, and others too numerous for him to mention: and which he is thus in a position, in the next belch, to declare inapplicable to the case before him (for there is no end to his wits).

  But (see above) have they not already bent over me till black and blue in the face? Nay, have they ever done anything else during the past..... ? (No, no dates for pity's sake.)

  And another question: What am I doing in Mahood's story, and in Worm's? Or rather what are they doing in mine?

  There are some irons in the fire to be going on with: let them melt.

  Oh I know, I know (attention please, this may mean something), I know, there's nothing new there. It's all part of the same old irresistible baloney, namely: "But my dear man, come, be reasonable. Look, this is you, look at this photograph. And here's your file: no convictions, I assure you. Come now, make an effort! At your age, to have no identity! It's a scandal, I assure you. Look at this photograph. What, you see nothing? True for you? No matter. Here, look at this death's-head: you'll see, you'll be all right, it won't last long. Here, look, here's the record: insults to policemen, indecent exposure, sins against the holy ghost, contempt of court, impertinence to superiors, impudence to inferiors, deviations from reason. Without battery - look, no battery! It's nothing. You'll be all right, you'll see."

  "I beg your pardon? Does he work? Good God no, out of the question! Look, here's the medical report: spasmodic tabes, painless ulcers (I repeat, painless, all is painless), multiple softenings, manifold hardenings, insensitive to blows, sight failing, chronic gripes, light diet, shit well tolerated, hearing failing, heart irregular, sweet-tempered, smell failing, heavy sleeper, no erections. Would you like some more? Commission in the territorials. Inoperable, untransportable. Look, here's the face (no, no, the other end). I assure you, it's a bargain. I beg your pardon? Does he drink? Good God yes, passionately! I beg your pardon? Father and mother? Both dead, at seven months interval: he at the conception, she at the nativity. I assure you, you won't do better, at your age. No human shape? The pity of it! Look, here's the photograph."

  ("You'll see, you'll be all right. What does it amount to after all? A painful moment, on the surface, then peace, underneath. It's the only way, believe me, the only way out.")

  "I beg your pardon? Have I nothing else? Why certainly, certainly - just a second. Curious you should mention it. I was wondering myself (just a second) if you were not rather..... (just a second, here we are, this one here)….. but I wanted to be sure. (What, you don't understand? Neither do I. No matter.) It's no time for levity."

  ("Yes, I was right, no doubt about it this time - it's you all over.")

  "Look, here's the photograph, take a look at that: dying on his feet. You'd better hurry, it's a bargain, I assure you."

  And so on, till I'm tempted.

  No: all lies. (They know it well, I never understood.) I haven't stirred. All I've said (said I've done, said I've been), it's they who said it. I've said nothing, I haven't stirred. They don't understand: I can't stir. They think I don't want to, that their conditions don't suit me - that they'll hit on others, in the end, to my liking, then I'll stir, I'll be in the bag. That's how I see it. (I see nothing.) They don't understand: I can't go to them, they'll have to come and get me, if they want me. Mahood won't get me out, nor Worm either. They set great store on Worm, to coax me out - he was something new, different from all the others (meant to be, perhaps he was - to me they're all the same). They don't understand: I can't stir. I'm all right here, I'd be all right here, if they'd leave me. Let them come and get me, if they want me. They'll find nothing. Then they can depart, with an easy mind.

  And if there is only one? Like me? He can depart without fear of remorse (having done all he could - and even more - to achieve the impossible and so lost his life). Or stay with me here (he might do that) and be a like for me: that would be lovely! My first like, that would be epoch-making! To know I had a like, a congenor! He wouldn't have to be like me: he couldn't but be like me, he need only relax. He might believe what he pleased, at the outset: that he was in hell, or that the place was charming. He might even exclaim: "I'll never stir again." (Being used to announcing his decisions, at the top of his voice, so as to get to know them better.) He might even add, to cover all risks: "For the moment." (It would be his last howler.) He need only relax, he'd disappear (he'd know nothing either). There we'd be the two of us: unbeknown to ourselves, unbeknown to each other.

  That's a darling dream I've been having! A broth of a dream! And it's not over. For here comes another, to see what has happened to his pal, and get him out, and back to his right mind, and back to his kin (with a flow of threats and promises, and tales like this of wombs and cribs, diapers bepissed and the first long trousers, love's young dream and life's old lech, blood and tears and skin and bones and the tossing in the grave). And so coax him out, as he me (that's right, pidgin bullskrit). And in the end, having lived his life (no, before, but you've
got my meaning).....And there we are the three of us (it's cosier).

  Perpetual dream! You have merely to sleep, not even that.

  It's like the old jingle: "A dog crawled into the kitchen and stole a crust of bread, then cook up with I've forgotten what and walloped him till he was dead." Second verse: "Then all the dogs came crawling and dug the dog a tomb and wrote upon the tombstone for dogs and bitches to come." Third verse, as the first. Fourth, as the second. Fifth, as the third. Give us time, give us time and we'll be a multitude: a thousand, ten thousand - there's no lack of room. Adeste, adeste, all ye living bastards. You'll be all right, you'll see, you'll never be born again. (What am I saying? You'll never have been born.) And bring your brats: our hell will be heaven to them, after what you've done to them.

  But come to think of it are we not already a goodly company? What right have I to flatter myself I'm the first? (First in time I mean of course.)

  There we have a few more questions. Please God they don't take the fancy to answer them!

  What can they be hatching anyhow, at this eleventh hour? Can it be they are resolved at last to seize me by the horns? Looks like it. In that case tableau any minute: "Oyez, oyez!" (I was like them, before being like me? Oh the swine - that's one I won't get over in a hurry. No matter, no matter.) The charge is sounded. Present arms, corpse! To your guns, spermatozoon! I too, weary of pleading an incomprehensible cause (at six and eight the thousand flowers of rhetoric), let myself drop among the contumacious. (Nice image that! Telescoping space! It must be the Pulitzer Prize.)