Stirrings Still

by Samuel Beckett

A dense interior monologue, Stirrings Still was written by Beckett in 1987 and 1988, when he had become increasingly reflective about his life. It portrays, in Beckett's spare style, a "consciousness" exploring a "self," faced with uncertainties about its own existence. Stirrings Still is a spellbinding work, full of a sense of farewell. Originally published in collaboration with John Calder in a limited edition of 226 copies numbered one to two hundred and lettered A to Z, the colume was dedicated to Beckett's longtime friend and publisher Barney Rosset.

Genres: Fiction, Short Stories, Literature, Irish Literature

46 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1988

About the author

Novels of Samuel Barclay Beckett, Irish writer, include Murphy in 1938 and Malone Dies in 1951; a wider audience know his absurdist plays, such as Waiting for Godot in 1952 and Krapp's Last Tape in 1959, and he won the Nobel Prize of 1969 for literature.

Samuel Barclay Beckett, an avant-garde theater director and poet, lived in France for most of his adult life. He used English and French. His work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human nature, often coupled with black gallows humor.

People regard most influence of Samuel Barclay Beckett of the 20th century. James Augustine Aloysius Joyce strongly influenced him, whom people consider as one modernist. People sometimes consider him as an inspiration to many later first postmodernists. He is one of the key in what Martin Esslin called the "theater of the absurd". His later career worked with increasing minimalism.

People awarded Samuel Barclay Beckett "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation".

In 1984, people elected Samuel Barclay Bennett as Saoi of Aosdána.

Reviews

[Fergus, Weaver of Autistic Webs · Rating 5 out of 5]

A Perfect Work: But only perfect in its depiction of an ultimately barely tolerable (to the eyes of youth) postmodern celebration of the Beyond, as in Mallarme's verse:

Une dentelle s'abolit
En doute du jeu supreme -
A l'entr'ouvrir comme une blaspheme
Sur l'absence eternel d'un lit.

"I doubt, therefore I am NOT." The absurd reversal of Cartesian faith. What on earth did the author have in mind in writing this short work? Is our youthful Black and White Common Sense ultimately NONsense? Maybe.

Let's see...

Quite simply, this book is a Rhapsody dedicated to that Terra Incognita that follows Old Age - a Paean to our eventual terminus within a "dream-crossed twilight where three dreams cross," as Eliot poetically puts it.

The narrator, presumably an ageless old man with no illusions, probes the inner landscapes of his waking dreams, and shows us he "will not cease from exploration," as his end draws near.

His inner conversations are sublimely akin to Pablo Casals playing Bach, suggesting amblings through dimly lit landscapes devoid of anyone's humanity save his own - in an otherwise mad driven marketplace of faceless desire. Yet he has hope for a final surcease of this vanity.

What do any of us know of our end?

Little or nothing...

It seems such a brutal exit for us, so we bury it with our dreams. But our dreams are the very stuff of this procession of images upon which our lives are founded in essence and wherein we all thrive in our closing years, as are the hopes of the unnamed narrator.

For our dreams in our elderly years beckon to us to follow... They are, after all, more human than this world is.

And we old folks who've lived full but painful lives wilfully comply, "for youth is cruel, and suffers no remorse, and smiles at situations that it cannot see."

We, on the other hand, have seen youth's unpleasant eventualities in all their monstrous banality, and now bravely tolerate those vainly flitting fantasies.

But the fantasies of old age encompass the worst and the best of those years. And we are not afraid to revisit the worst of them at our end, for they have served us well -

For they winnow the uncouth dreams of youth with the pounding pestle of hard-won wisdom -

And usher in the beginingless beginning, and endless end, of the Higher Dream. “I’ll go on. I can’t go on…

“I’ll go on!”

[Narjes Dorzade]

حالا گراف‌های تن‌اش را می‌شناسد و می‌تواند از آن خارج شود

[Klowey · Rating 5 out of 5]

A short piece of 8 pages, the last thing Beckett wrote for publication. I am not that familiar with Beckett's non-plays to know if this is typical, but it has a unique poetic rhythm and that inexplicable Beckett ability to express what it means to be human, and in this case, to grow old.

It may be hard to find and is in The Complete Short Prose, 1929-1989, available here to borrow and read online:
https://archive.org/details/samuelbec...

Highly recommended, especially for Beckett fans.

[O · Rating 3 out of 5]

après l’entretien avec l’artiste danoise Henriette Heise, j’enchaîne avec une conférence théologique et poétique par Signe Gjessing, puis celui-ci de Beckett, poème que je ne connaissais pas. je lis beaucoup aujourd’hui - sacrés trains allemands !

[Sajid · Rating 4 out of 5]

“No matter how no matter where. Time and grief and self so-called. Oh all to end.”

Just blew my mind.

[James · Rating 5 out of 5]

“One night as he sat at his table head on hands, he saw himself rise and go.”

“Stirrings Still” is the last piece of sustained writing Beckett did before his death in 1989. As the title implies, he still, even after the apparent finality of “Worstward Ho”, has some last somethings to express. He seems to be expressing that final moment of separation, of letting go, just before the final oblivion is attained.

What is remarkable is that , after the compressed stream-of-consciousness of “Worstward Ho”, he has turned to a simple third person limited point of view, and has crafted this final piece with some of the most beautiful prose he has ever written. “Stirrings Still” is a lovely, minor key coda to an extraordinary body of work.

[Myhte · Rating 4 out of 5]

The sun disappears at last and with it all shadow. All shadow here. Slow fade of afterglow.

not knowing where he was or how he got there or where he was going or how to get back to whence he knew not how he came. So on unknowing and no end in sight. Unknowing and what is more no wish to know nor indeed any wish of any kind

till nothing left from deep within but only ever fainter oh to end. No matter how no matter where. Time and grief and self so-called. Oh all to end.

[Robin · Rating 4 out of 5]

80/100

[rafael montenegro fausto · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Une nuit donc ou un jour assis à sa table la tête sur les mains il se vit se
lever et partir. D’abord se lever sans plus accroché à la table. Puis se
rasseoir. Puis se lever à nouveau accroché à la table à nouveau. Puis partir.
Commencer à partir. Pieds invisibles commencer à partir. A pas si lents
que seul en faisait foi le changement de place. Comme lorsqu’il
disparaissait le temps d’apparaître plus tard à nouveau à une nouvelle
place. Puis disparaissait à nouveau le temps d’apparaître plus tard à
nouveau à une nouvelle place à nouveau. Ainsi allait disparaissant le
temps chaque fois d’apparaître plus tard à nouveau à une nouvelle place à
nouveau. Nouvelle place à l’intérieur du lieu où assis à sa table la tête sur
les mains. Même lieu et même table que lorsque Darly mourut et le quitta.
Que lorsque d’autres à leur tour avant et après. Que lorsque lui enfin à son
tour. La tête sur les mains mi-souhaitant mi-redoutant chaque fois qu’il
redisparaissait qu’il ne réapparaisse plus. Ou simplement se le demandant.
Ou simplement attendant. Attendant voir si oui ou non. Si oui ou non à
nouveau seul n’attendant rien à nouveau."

[Samy Sanzana · Rating 4 out of 5]

Pura poesía

[katherine · Rating 3 out of 5]

Almost illegible and very weird but I think I liked it! A lot to process, I just finished and am very confused. I liked how the structure and language was very intentional and played into the story’s themes.

It’s a very impressive and masterful work about the uncertainties of existence but it’s not something I wholly understand after the first reading. I don’t think I would recommend it but I like Beckett and this story (being his last work of prose before death) seems significant so I definitely want to read some critical essays about it. 3.5⭐️

[Jane Fudger · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book is only 28 pages long.It is a short story published after the author's deat. The story is auto biographical describing Beckett's frustration and anxiety of being unable to leave his home. He uses his dreams and imagination to walking outside
This is a strange story which initially seemed non- sensical. I read it quickly at first to get an idea of the storyand then returned to it with the result that the second reading made a lot more sense! An interesting concept

[Joost van Hoek · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ik wilde Beckett toch eens proberen te lezen: het is een klassieke schrijver. Het verhaal pakt me echter niet en ik blijf het daardoor rationeel bekijken. Ik denk dat ik er te dom voor ben. Misschien over een jaar of vijf weer proberen.

[Clive · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is my all-time awesome read. In his later prose, Samuel Beckett seemed to go beyond the confines of imagination and language. This, for me, was the finest example. I imagine drifting on a boat into a mist, where there is an orb of light!

[Daniel · Rating 3 out of 5]

The only worthwhile read from Company etc. Read this instead of NoHow On

[Tatiana Reyes · Rating 3 out of 5]

Tengo que volver a leer. Tengo que volver a leerlo otra vez. Otra vez, una tercera o cuarta o quinta vez.

[Wordgenerator]

Mérite un commentaire plus long que le livre lui-même
Pour la lecture accrochez-vous

[Emma Ramilli · Rating 5 out of 5]

Nooo eeee oh. Letto in macchina con il mio Maestro. Mi ha impedito di lanciarmi fuori dall’auto. Mi ha salvato la vita. In tutti i sensi.

[Cassandre · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Puis long silence long tout court ou si long que peut-être plus rien et puis à nouveau depuis ses tréfonds à peine un murmure oh qu'il serait et ici le mot perdu que de finir là où jamais avant."

A la fois magnifique et dérangeant. Certaines phrases sont à relire plusieurs fois, jusqu'à ce qu'elles prennent forme et dégagent une ébauche de sens, ou alors on ne comprend pas, et l'on reste sur le ressenti. Déroutant. Entre errance et enfermement. Peut être qu'il faut être taré pour être fasciné par ce genre de bouquins... Si oui, alors je le suis, et j'assume totalement. Pire encore, je le relirai. Et si possible en anglais.

[Hesam]

جنب و جوشهای ایستا - برگردان: محمد صنعتی

[Oryx · Rating 5 out of 5]

4.89

[Jure Godler · Rating 5 out of 5]

What a piece!