Beckett attempts to explain existentialism through first person train of thought narrative. He does a terrible job of explaining this philosophy. His play Waiting for Godot does the trick much better, bonus if you see Sir Ian’s version.

My 14th book in October. Where do they keep going!

Sigh. Now, what a predicament I'm in. This book is a tough one to read. My edition is actually only 176 pages long. I figured it wouldn't take me long. I didn't realise that 90 of those pages would be a single paragraph.

The writing of this is odd. There's a great amount of detail about seemingly unimportant things. It's stream of consciousness to one degree. It's funny too, some mad things happen, like Molloy hits a dog on his bicycle and kills it but it turns out the woman was taking it to be put down anyway so he's done her a favour? Spared her the money of putting it down and the slow emotional goodbye. Weird, huh?

It's split into two parts. One around Molloy and one around Moran. Moran has the task of 'finding' Molloy though we don't know why and nor does he. He doesn't know where to find Molloy or what to do with him once he's found him. In the end things become ambiguous, things become reminiscent of the beginning and possibly, a pretty awesome twist is brewing. But, I won't spoil it.

I think this isn't the right time for me to read Beckett. The prose didn't really strike me, mostly it just bored me. I can imagine being far older and adoring it. But not right now. So Beckett will have to wait for me, rather than me for him. Sorry.

I liked the premise and the writing was good, it was just slow and didn't bowl me over or anything.

For reasons I don't really understand, the Beckett trilogy just feels so perfect a counterpoint to the various confusions I've been feeling lately. I enjoyed this book immensely.

Agora ficou claro a influência de Beckett em Hilst, imagine Hilst escrevendo de forma mais racional, este é o Beckett.

What is Literature? you might ask. Or you might not. Though there seems to be much talk of truth and authenticity. Apparently, because fiction isn't "true" (that is, based on "real facts" that "happened in real life"), it isn't interesting, or useful, or, god forbid, "authentic". What a load of Shit. Do you want to know what Literature is? I don't mean a definition, I mean really, what it is? How it's made, what it does (to you)? No need to click on a social media site ad promising to teach you "how to write a story". Just read this book. And then read it again. It is the incarnation of Literature, in all its magic and mystery. It is the flesh made word. It is the creation and destruction of flesh, made word.

I lived with this text for a long time, more than three months. I read it twice, but not once-through and then a second time through. I took two steps forward then two steps back, carefully taking notes on the second pass. Like Molloy, I went in circles to find my way out of the forest. And like Molloy, I didn't want to leave the forest; every word, every line, felt like a clue, a clue to a mystery; a bit of light in the darkness, catching a glimpse of a secret. In the end you understand. Not because of the text, but despite the text, despite the text that can't and won't describe demonstrate reveal, despite the language that isn't adequate, despite the text that creates and destroys itself at the same time. But you will understand.

Maybe I am biased, predisposed by the forces of Canonized Culture, to find such great beauty in the stream-of-conscious depiction of a man (two? or just the one?) on an odyssey of his own making in Ireland - but this was really good. Rereading Waiting for Godot made me think that huh, Beckett is pretty good. Reading this makes me think that Beckett, for all his worldwide fame, is under-appreciated? A potentially backhanded compliment: I think this should be on high-school curricula. Gotta love a miserable misanthrope, gotta love a confused bumbler, gotta love these slices of humanity.

Comecei a ler “Molloy” de Samuel Beckett pouco depois de ter lido “The Pattern Seekers: How Autism Drives Human Invention” (2020) de Baron-Cohen, especialista internacional em autismo, e enquanto por acaso apanhava um episódio da série “The Good Doctor” [1] no Netflix, que retratava os dias de internato de um jovem médico autista. Com este fundo, comecei a ver a personagem Molloy emergir das páginas com uma caracterização muito distinta daquela que tinha criado a partir da leitura de resenhas e análises críticas da obra. Procurei saber mais sobre Beckett e descobri que o mesmo — tal como o seu mentor James Joyce — padecia do transtorno do espectro do autismo [2].

...continuar a ler no blog, "Samuel Beckett, e a neurodiversidade", 31 julho 2021
https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.com/2021/07/samuel-beckett-e-neurodiversidade.html

surreal, ridiculous, hilarious, elliptical. strips humanity, novels, characters and plot down to nothing. makes life seem stupid, silly and absurd. maybe unfair to compare to Waiting for Godot but I feel like Godot really did accomplish all that this book does in a more effective and concise way