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A review by thetrebekoning
The Unnamable by Samuel Beckett
3.0
I... I am so tired.
The Unnamable is a towering achievement in deconstructing every element of the novel - character, plot, motivation, theme, setting, everything - in order to draw attention to the role of the author. Or at least that's what I think it is.
Beckett's third novel in his famous trilogy is devoid of any real narrative moorings, being essentially a long monologue by the titular "Unnamable" narrator. Who this is can be a lot of things to a lot of people, but seeing as they're consistently referring to themselves as author of other Beckett books and a conduit for other Beckett characters, it feels a lot like the narrator is just Samuel Beckett's artistic voice. Beckett uses this conceit of being a opaquely-styled narrator/author really well, but it feels like he obscures the stability of the narrator's role as much as everything else in the novel.
As far as everything else in the novel, well — there isn't much of it. There isn't really a dramatis personae to speak of, as every character that's mentioned seems like just a figment of this one voice that is simultaneously inventing and is invented by the text. There's no actual setting, just flashes of environments that quickly move away or morph into one another. There's no plot, just the aforementioned monologue that makes Portnoy's Complaint look like a Tolstoy novel by comparison, and seems to be composed of whatever came to Beckett's mind and felt associated enough to the tone of the book to be logged. As there's no plot, there's no real motivation for the narrator aside for just continuing until done. It feels like a beautiful watercolor portrait left out in the rain: there is a form underneath everything, but the presentation is melted and amorphous to the point that you can't really see it without squinting.
So, like Molloy (and very unlike Malone Dies), I feel like I saw some part of the point in this, or what lack of a point the point seemed to be. Unfortunately, The Unnameable differs from its predecessor by being an entirely obnoxious reading experience. Is sitting down and reading a 110-page paragraph that makes a point to deny you meaning or satisfaction "the point?" Sure, close enough. Does that make this "good?" I feel like that's something I can't answer. Beckett sure did make it difficult enough to supply some verisimilitude to the experience of trying to construct meaning in the world, but I don't know if I can really say it was worth it to go through.
Ultimately, I think the real takeaway I got from this novel is that sometimes "great art" isn't really "good." I don't feel enriched by this book, or even robbed. I just feel exhausted. I don't think I would recommend this for anybody but the most determined of modernism aficionados. Godspeed you crazy bastards.
The Unnamable is a towering achievement in deconstructing every element of the novel - character, plot, motivation, theme, setting, everything - in order to draw attention to the role of the author. Or at least that's what I think it is.
Beckett's third novel in his famous trilogy is devoid of any real narrative moorings, being essentially a long monologue by the titular "Unnamable" narrator. Who this is can be a lot of things to a lot of people, but seeing as they're consistently referring to themselves as author of other Beckett books and a conduit for other Beckett characters, it feels a lot like the narrator is just Samuel Beckett's artistic voice. Beckett uses this conceit of being a opaquely-styled narrator/author really well, but it feels like he obscures the stability of the narrator's role as much as everything else in the novel.
As far as everything else in the novel, well — there isn't much of it. There isn't really a dramatis personae to speak of, as every character that's mentioned seems like just a figment of this one voice that is simultaneously inventing and is invented by the text. There's no actual setting, just flashes of environments that quickly move away or morph into one another. There's no plot, just the aforementioned monologue that makes Portnoy's Complaint look like a Tolstoy novel by comparison, and seems to be composed of whatever came to Beckett's mind and felt associated enough to the tone of the book to be logged. As there's no plot, there's no real motivation for the narrator aside for just continuing until done. It feels like a beautiful watercolor portrait left out in the rain: there is a form underneath everything, but the presentation is melted and amorphous to the point that you can't really see it without squinting.
So, like Molloy (and very unlike Malone Dies), I feel like I saw some part of the point in this, or what lack of a point the point seemed to be. Unfortunately, The Unnameable differs from its predecessor by being an entirely obnoxious reading experience. Is sitting down and reading a 110-page paragraph that makes a point to deny you meaning or satisfaction "the point?" Sure, close enough. Does that make this "good?" I feel like that's something I can't answer. Beckett sure did make it difficult enough to supply some verisimilitude to the experience of trying to construct meaning in the world, but I don't know if I can really say it was worth it to go through.
Ultimately, I think the real takeaway I got from this novel is that sometimes "great art" isn't really "good." I don't feel enriched by this book, or even robbed. I just feel exhausted. I don't think I would recommend this for anybody but the most determined of modernism aficionados. Godspeed you crazy bastards.