The first time I read Watt (in French) I knew exactly and/or vaguely what would be happening next. This happened with Comment C'est upon my first read as well, and with my first read of Murphy (in French). This led me to believe I was Samuel Beckett in my past life. Beckett died in 1989. I was born in 1996. I figure a seven year waiting period is about the time that passes between soul rebirth. I am Samuel Beckett reincarnated. Worship me.
Sam, honestly speaking this navel-gazing novels about novels or the possibility of making novels have been aging pretty badly. The more time passes the more you look and sound like someone who was extremely self-concerned in a time of world turmoil, and who writes about rather uninteresting topics. As we approach new times of total world destruction, reading about the musings of wandering homeless people (who are not actual homeless people, but philosophically deep people talking AS IF they were homeless) falls kind of flat.
Your master Joyce on the other hand is aging like fine wine, becoming more and more actual despite talking about big farting women. Why do you think that is the case? Could it be that you were a talentless hack who lived off his parents money, got a very good education, tried to leech off a more talented man and failed (without ever failing better) and then was read only because he rode the wave of glamourous post-war "being a nihilistic(looking) writer"?
What sort of literature would the "new times of total world destruction" call for? As masturbatory as people like Beckett are, it is equally pointless to write endless spiritual sequels to The Waste Land, too, because its fundamental message has become completely integrated into the zeitgeist. Everyone knows we are living in the ruins of real civilization, dead, but still shambling about like mummies.
Decadence gave rise to modernism. We will soon see a literary revolution once we escape our contemporary dedcadence movement (Millenial/Zoomer autofiction).
>Everyone knows we are living in the ruins of real civilization, dead, but still shambling about like mummies
No. Everyone believes that we live at the forefront of human progress, that the civilization we inhabit is the only legitimaste civilization, morally, ethically, and economically, in history thus far.
His name alone carries and shields Trinity College from the hacks and pseuds that followed him. Whenever some loser 20 something writer pops up in Ireland, they have to live with the unshakable knowledge that Beckett is looming large over them across every single medium there is to write in. They might be successful, they might make money, but they will never topple him in the eye of the critic, or literarygay, such is his standing and this makes them fricking seethe. Beckett bridges the gap from Joyce to the "modern world" and because of that trinitygays will never escape him. Joyce dying in 1941 almost makes him some "relic" something you can forget or toss away in the modern mind, but having Beckett in colour photographs burning shit or being on television, writing for television, having people alive who knew and spoke to him who are maybe only in their 50s all tie him to the now.
The first time I read Watt (in French) I knew exactly and/or vaguely what would be happening next. This happened with Comment C'est upon my first read as well, and with my first read of Murphy (in French). This led me to believe I was Samuel Beckett in my past life. Beckett died in 1989. I was born in 1996. I figure a seven year waiting period is about the time that passes between soul rebirth. I am Samuel Beckett reincarnated. Worship me.
Sam, honestly speaking this navel-gazing novels about novels or the possibility of making novels have been aging pretty badly. The more time passes the more you look and sound like someone who was extremely self-concerned in a time of world turmoil, and who writes about rather uninteresting topics. As we approach new times of total world destruction, reading about the musings of wandering homeless people (who are not actual homeless people, but philosophically deep people talking AS IF they were homeless) falls kind of flat.
Your master Joyce on the other hand is aging like fine wine, becoming more and more actual despite talking about big farting women. Why do you think that is the case? Could it be that you were a talentless hack who lived off his parents money, got a very good education, tried to leech off a more talented man and failed (without ever failing better) and then was read only because he rode the wave of glamourous post-war "being a nihilistic(looking) writer"?
What sort of literature would the "new times of total world destruction" call for? As masturbatory as people like Beckett are, it is equally pointless to write endless spiritual sequels to The Waste Land, too, because its fundamental message has become completely integrated into the zeitgeist. Everyone knows we are living in the ruins of real civilization, dead, but still shambling about like mummies.
Decadence gave rise to modernism. We will soon see a literary revolution once we escape our contemporary dedcadence movement (Millenial/Zoomer autofiction).
read Cartarescu, read Moresco, read Houellebecq, read Krasznahorkai, etc. - in general read
>read Houellebecq
lol might as well read Stephen King
>Everyone knows we are living in the ruins of real civilization, dead, but still shambling about like mummies
No. Everyone believes that we live at the forefront of human progress, that the civilization we inhabit is the only legitimaste civilization, morally, ethically, and economically, in history thus far.
Share some of your current writings my dear Samuel.
In the 21st Century I am not a writer. You don't relive your past life in spiritual reincarnation, idiot.
Author of lovely novellas and wretched plays.
I liked waiting for godot
waiting for his birthday cards
just how it is
It's still alive that mf?
A fantastic stylist who unfortunately never had anything interesting to say.
Much such cases!
>Finishing the unnamable
I deserve a medal Holy crap that was a book Maybe
>unnamable is literally a name
>antibook is a book
Yeah what a fricking hack
Now How It Is
Avatar of the human condition
He killed the novel off modernism properly, with extreme prejudice in the Trilogy.
His name alone carries and shields Trinity College from the hacks and pseuds that followed him. Whenever some loser 20 something writer pops up in Ireland, they have to live with the unshakable knowledge that Beckett is looming large over them across every single medium there is to write in. They might be successful, they might make money, but they will never topple him in the eye of the critic, or literarygay, such is his standing and this makes them fricking seethe. Beckett bridges the gap from Joyce to the "modern world" and because of that trinitygays will never escape him. Joyce dying in 1941 almost makes him some "relic" something you can forget or toss away in the modern mind, but having Beckett in colour photographs burning shit or being on television, writing for television, having people alive who knew and spoke to him who are maybe only in their 50s all tie him to the now.
That's a sick portrait, you convinced me I'll read his books.
Where should I start?