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screen_memory 's review for:
Watt
by Samuel Beckett
Hegel writes, simply, that, though there can be an infinite variety of *here's* when saying "here is ___, consciousness readily understands what is being referred to as *there*, even though, if one were to turn around, the tree that was *there* now becomes a house; one knows regardless the *here is ___* remains the tree. In Watt, however, language labors to specify the *here* against all other possible *here's* to a particularly exhausting degree.
*Disclaimer* Nothing said here is meant as a condemnation. I've said before that frustration is often a credible aesthetic goal.
Beckett's is a literature of exhaustion (no relation except ideational to Barth's essay) - it is a deliberate aesthetic effect. The exercise of language in this novel is to some gobsmacking degree mathematical (to say nothing of the talk of square roots of cubes and cube roots and other such nonsense) to the effect that sometimes dozens of qualitative permutations are included in the interest of exactitude, so no quality or possibility of action is excluded from consideration; e.g. reference the picture of text posted in this post - this went on for two and a half pages.
Watt, whether it was intended to or not, demonstrates language's incredible fallibility, its deficiencies, its astounding obsolescence; exhibited by Beckett's unfathomable ability to, through his characters, speak or converse to an exhaustive degree and yet still have said absolutely nothing at all. Or, similarly, unbelievably long paragraphs will follow focusing solely on, say, what combination of footwear or lack thereof Watt might wear with mention of every single possibility - a shoe on the left foot, a boot on the right; a boot on the left, a shoe on the right; barefoot on the left...etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.
In seeking exactitude, the neurotic, obsessive, and terribly over-introspective Watt inches no closer towards it; the absolute impotence of his language, its total lack of substance and stolidity, leads to its obsolescence and inevitable collapse. Watt is incapable of contemplating the slightest course of action without dragging the reader through the detritus of a mind absolutely ravaged by incontinence, thus the novel largely serves as a litmus test to just how much absurdity and meaninglessness a reader can willingly suffer in pursuit of an aesthetic experience.
*Disclaimer* Nothing said here is meant as a condemnation. I've said before that frustration is often a credible aesthetic goal.
Beckett's is a literature of exhaustion (no relation except ideational to Barth's essay) - it is a deliberate aesthetic effect. The exercise of language in this novel is to some gobsmacking degree mathematical (to say nothing of the talk of square roots of cubes and cube roots and other such nonsense) to the effect that sometimes dozens of qualitative permutations are included in the interest of exactitude, so no quality or possibility of action is excluded from consideration; e.g. reference the picture of text posted in this post - this went on for two and a half pages.
Watt, whether it was intended to or not, demonstrates language's incredible fallibility, its deficiencies, its astounding obsolescence; exhibited by Beckett's unfathomable ability to, through his characters, speak or converse to an exhaustive degree and yet still have said absolutely nothing at all. Or, similarly, unbelievably long paragraphs will follow focusing solely on, say, what combination of footwear or lack thereof Watt might wear with mention of every single possibility - a shoe on the left foot, a boot on the right; a boot on the left, a shoe on the right; barefoot on the left...etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.
In seeking exactitude, the neurotic, obsessive, and terribly over-introspective Watt inches no closer towards it; the absolute impotence of his language, its total lack of substance and stolidity, leads to its obsolescence and inevitable collapse. Watt is incapable of contemplating the slightest course of action without dragging the reader through the detritus of a mind absolutely ravaged by incontinence, thus the novel largely serves as a litmus test to just how much absurdity and meaninglessness a reader can willingly suffer in pursuit of an aesthetic experience.