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Mal vu mal dit
Fasciné par le principe du philosophe irlandais Berkeley selon lequel « être c'est être perçu », Samuel Beckett l'applique ici, dans Mal vu mal dit, à l'acte d'écriture. Si le décor - un cabanon situé dans la caillasse d'une lande irlandaise - est relativement facile à planter car la nature, les couleurs, les objets, se laissent percevoir et décrire, comment peut-on percevoir les êtres ? Va-t-elle se laisser voir, se laisser dire, ou bien va-t-elle demeurer indicible, cette vieille femme vêtue tout de « noir immaculé », qui ne quitte sa masure et ne s'aventure à fouler l'herbe grise que pour aller visiter une tombe d'un « blanc hurlant » ? Avec quel regard parvenir à la saisir ? Un conflit s'instaure entre pensée et vision, entre ce que voit, ou croit voir l'œil ouvert, acharné, aux aguets, et ce que voit l'œil enfin fermé, paupières closes pour que puissent naître les « chimères » lorsque « l'œil couve sa pitance. Assoupi dans son noir à lui ». Tantôt la vieille femme est immobile, vue sous tel ou tel angle précis, comme soudain figée par l'objectif d'un photographe ; tantôt elle est parcourue d'un frémissement, ses lèvres se meuvent en un sourire infime, la voici alors douée du mouvement que seule lui confère la pensée de celui qui la crée. Ces deux regards possibles s'embrument parfois et se troublent comme se trouble aussi le rythme des mots lorsqu'ils cherchent à cerner ces insaisissables que sont le réel et son « contrepoison » : l'imaginaire. Mal vu mal dit est paru en 1981.
76 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1981
10 people are currently reading
537 people want to read
About the author
Samuel Beckett
930 books6,681 followersNovels 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.
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.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 57 reviews
November 6, 2016
Understood nothing, felt everything. Beautiful prose.
March 3, 2018
Trump Reviews The Classics
Didn’t understand a fucking word. Genius!
Didn’t understand a fucking word. Genius!
March 20, 2019
Time reading book. Wasted. Nonsensical minimalism. Point not taken. Existential questioning, disengaging. Why?
If you enjoyed the syntax above and think there is a shred of genius to it, then this book might just be for you. I recommend you stop reading this review and go to the book instead.
At 60 pages only, this novella was mind-numbingly boring. The “story” – if we can call it that ¬– is of an old woman in a cabin by herself observing the night and the morning star, and briefly ventures out to visit a grave. The big fault of this text is its absurd usage of minimalism. It comes across as clever and sophisticated, when in fact it is more of a puzzle to solve the meaning of the truncated sentences or thoughts.
Then I tried to understand the purpose of Beckett’s choice. Could it be the old woman has a degenerative disease? The text does not indicate anything as such, and besides, I am not familiar with any neurological diseases that result in such staccato constructions as these. And it is a third person narrator, so that does not help excuse the old lady. Maybe the narrator has brain damage? Well then, I definitely should not read this…
Some compare this to poetic prose, but there is nothing poetic about it. In fact, I find that an insult to great poets who painstakingly perfect their art through technical know-how and wordsmithing, with one key factor, a clear sense of purpose to deliver their art. Perhaps this is the main problem in Ill Seen Ill Said, the art fails because there is no sense of purpose for the chosen technique. Just because the language is sparse does not mean the narrative constitutes poetry.
The result of this exercise in minimalism and resulting ambiguity is a character I could care the less for, and a text that neither entertains nor engages at any depth.
If you enjoyed the syntax above and think there is a shred of genius to it, then this book might just be for you. I recommend you stop reading this review and go to the book instead.
At 60 pages only, this novella was mind-numbingly boring. The “story” – if we can call it that ¬– is of an old woman in a cabin by herself observing the night and the morning star, and briefly ventures out to visit a grave. The big fault of this text is its absurd usage of minimalism. It comes across as clever and sophisticated, when in fact it is more of a puzzle to solve the meaning of the truncated sentences or thoughts.
Such-such fiasco that folly takes hand. Such bits and scraps. Seen no matter how and said as seen. Dread of black. Of white. Of void. Let her vanish. And the rest. For good. And the sun. Last rays. And the moon. And Venus. Nothing left but black sky. White earth. Or inversely. No more sky or earth. Finished high and low. Nothing but black and white. Everywhere no matter where. But black. Void. Nothing else. Contemplate that. Not another word. Home at last. Gently gently.
Then I tried to understand the purpose of Beckett’s choice. Could it be the old woman has a degenerative disease? The text does not indicate anything as such, and besides, I am not familiar with any neurological diseases that result in such staccato constructions as these. And it is a third person narrator, so that does not help excuse the old lady. Maybe the narrator has brain damage? Well then, I definitely should not read this…
Some compare this to poetic prose, but there is nothing poetic about it. In fact, I find that an insult to great poets who painstakingly perfect their art through technical know-how and wordsmithing, with one key factor, a clear sense of purpose to deliver their art. Perhaps this is the main problem in Ill Seen Ill Said, the art fails because there is no sense of purpose for the chosen technique. Just because the language is sparse does not mean the narrative constitutes poetry.
The result of this exercise in minimalism and resulting ambiguity is a character I could care the less for, and a text that neither entertains nor engages at any depth.
January 16, 2018
I'm a huge fan of the so-called Nohow On trilogy, Beckett's last three short novels of the 1980s. Ill Seen Ill Said is the second and, although quite beautiful, a tad weaker than the sublime transcendence of the other two. This one was written in French, which perhaps explains why it's a tad less poetically satisfying--although it's still rhetorically more stripped down and economical and, well, sublime, than the earlier longer novels. (Although those novels are also brilliant in their own ways, just more free-form, style-less--as Beckett wished--and exploring other byways of language and a different inner voice.
Here we are presented with one of only a handful of female Beckettian creations, although she is seen from a distance by a "lidless eye"--apparently the narrator here--and watched over by 12 mysterious figures. The theme seems to be approaching death--not strange considering the author's advanced age when he wrote this piece. Interesting that he made the protagonist female--is she his soul, a feminine word in French? Are the 12 the apostles? Is the house, the rocks, the seacoast backdrop and the grave she visits part of Beckett's personal mythology? Memories of Foxrock, his hometown (as was seen in the previous novel, Company)? Could be but not necessarily. Beckett's works eschew context for situation. You just have to accept that and read what's there instead of the endless searching for what lesser authors always tell you--just to get it out of the way.
I agree with the critics who found the Nohow On trilogy less a trilogy than three separate novels. I also sympathize with John Calder and Barney Rosset (of Grove Press) for publishing them together (with Beckett's approval and his title) for they are of a length that makes for a nice still slim volume. No need to read them together though, I would say, for each is unique within the very distinctive and incrementally changing style of this very particular author.
Oh and I want a tee-shirt with the last sentence emblazoned on it: "Know happiness." Of course read aloud that might as well be "No happiness." Those appear to be our choices.
Here we are presented with one of only a handful of female Beckettian creations, although she is seen from a distance by a "lidless eye"--apparently the narrator here--and watched over by 12 mysterious figures. The theme seems to be approaching death--not strange considering the author's advanced age when he wrote this piece. Interesting that he made the protagonist female--is she his soul, a feminine word in French? Are the 12 the apostles? Is the house, the rocks, the seacoast backdrop and the grave she visits part of Beckett's personal mythology? Memories of Foxrock, his hometown (as was seen in the previous novel, Company)? Could be but not necessarily. Beckett's works eschew context for situation. You just have to accept that and read what's there instead of the endless searching for what lesser authors always tell you--just to get it out of the way.
I agree with the critics who found the Nohow On trilogy less a trilogy than three separate novels. I also sympathize with John Calder and Barney Rosset (of Grove Press) for publishing them together (with Beckett's approval and his title) for they are of a length that makes for a nice still slim volume. No need to read them together though, I would say, for each is unique within the very distinctive and incrementally changing style of this very particular author.
Oh and I want a tee-shirt with the last sentence emblazoned on it: "Know happiness." Of course read aloud that might as well be "No happiness." Those appear to be our choices.
Read
February 1, 2023(Part of my current project of reading everything Beckett published in precise chronological order.)
From 1979-80, Beckett wrote three consecutive pieces focusing on elderly women in grief: One Evening, Rockaby , and Ill Seen Ill Said. The last of these, though, marks a remarkable evolution in Beckett's work - in his mid-70s, no less.
Ill Seen Ill Said is about an old woman who, we are told, is both alive and dead at once. She circulates through what seems to be secluded plot of land on which stands the cabin where she lives surrounded by a zone covered with stones, which is in turn surrounded by a pasture. She is beset by some grief, often visiting a tombstone on her land. However, we're never told whose tombstone it is, or how they died.
The way Beckett writes about this woman endows upon her a beautiful, unique kind of spectrality. Like many of Beckett's figures, she seems confined to this space. However, whereas many similar characters from his previous works are trapped in some infernal Dantean scenario, this woman seems more like a nature divinity, eternally meandering through this land in paths of which we only get fragmentary glimpses. Like such a divinity, she suffuses everything, but isn't fully present in any particular time and place. Her eyes, her bluish skin, her black garb, her haunting face all appear and disappear according to unfathomable rhythms. As they do, they convey her grief. In an important sense, she doesn't suffer from grief, she is grief - its purest embodiment.
Besides the woman, there is the narrator, who is definitely a character in this text. The narrator seems intent on honoring the sanctity of its subject, often giving itself directives about how to proceed with its descriptions - most often, the simple imperative "careful", as if words themselves must take great care to do justice to the situation of this ghostly crone.
As with many of Beckett's later texts, this reads very much like prose poetry. It must read very slowly, and preferably aloud. Many of Beckett's sentences are very difficult to parse unless you read them while at least imagining the cadences of someone speaking them, at the same time bearing in mind that the pauses implicit in them are rarely marked with commas. (The whole piece only contains three of these.) If you take the care to read in this way, the prose is absolutely gorgeous, and filled with meticulously constructed nuances that a quick reading is very likely not to notice. It's an experience not to be missed.
From 1979-80, Beckett wrote three consecutive pieces focusing on elderly women in grief: One Evening, Rockaby , and Ill Seen Ill Said. The last of these, though, marks a remarkable evolution in Beckett's work - in his mid-70s, no less.
Ill Seen Ill Said is about an old woman who, we are told, is both alive and dead at once. She circulates through what seems to be secluded plot of land on which stands the cabin where she lives surrounded by a zone covered with stones, which is in turn surrounded by a pasture. She is beset by some grief, often visiting a tombstone on her land. However, we're never told whose tombstone it is, or how they died.
The way Beckett writes about this woman endows upon her a beautiful, unique kind of spectrality. Like many of Beckett's figures, she seems confined to this space. However, whereas many similar characters from his previous works are trapped in some infernal Dantean scenario, this woman seems more like a nature divinity, eternally meandering through this land in paths of which we only get fragmentary glimpses. Like such a divinity, she suffuses everything, but isn't fully present in any particular time and place. Her eyes, her bluish skin, her black garb, her haunting face all appear and disappear according to unfathomable rhythms. As they do, they convey her grief. In an important sense, she doesn't suffer from grief, she is grief - its purest embodiment.
Besides the woman, there is the narrator, who is definitely a character in this text. The narrator seems intent on honoring the sanctity of its subject, often giving itself directives about how to proceed with its descriptions - most often, the simple imperative "careful", as if words themselves must take great care to do justice to the situation of this ghostly crone.
As with many of Beckett's later texts, this reads very much like prose poetry. It must read very slowly, and preferably aloud. Many of Beckett's sentences are very difficult to parse unless you read them while at least imagining the cadences of someone speaking them, at the same time bearing in mind that the pauses implicit in them are rarely marked with commas. (The whole piece only contains three of these.) If you take the care to read in this way, the prose is absolutely gorgeous, and filled with meticulously constructed nuances that a quick reading is very likely not to notice. It's an experience not to be missed.
March 24, 2014
Somtimes you feel that some writers in the 20th century , were commissioned by a greedy psychiatrist to drive thier readers into becoming depression patients. Thier goal as fasionable Ivory-tower intellects was to make a reader lose all hope, and feel the helplesness and lack of purpose in life. obscurity, absurdity and replacing all smiles with gallows humor against all forms of existance. Beckett´s " Ill seen , Ill said " is just another example of those. Nobel or no Nobel, It dosn´t matter. It is a book that Places the depth of that philosophy in the hands of a malfunctioning stream of consciousness, and a disintegrated incoherent group of phrases. making the reader not only lose the joy of life, but lose the joy of even a good read.
January 10, 2012
Samuel Becket is a truly peculiar author. His prose- if you can even call it that- is as enigmatic as the most experimental poetry, seemingly impossible to decipher and analyze. Yet this stream of consciousness somehow resonates within you, conveying strong, captivating impressions and emotions.
“Ill Seen Ill Said” is trademark Becket: strong, beautiful writing that haunts you and shakes you to the very core in an apparently vague but extremely effective manner.
“Ill Seen Ill Said” is trademark Becket: strong, beautiful writing that haunts you and shakes you to the very core in an apparently vague but extremely effective manner.
February 4, 2019
This reads like a long prose poem that has beautiful and haunting atmosphere. Interesting, peculiar writing style. But I would have enjoyed the text more if it would have translated a little more meaning (at least for me). 2,5 stars.
January 24, 2023
This did not make an iota of sense. It is an abstract disjointed soup not a novel. But somehow I felt a lot.
June 10, 2023
Reading this, or in my case listening via NYR fiction podcast, was awful, in the way that one’s first shot of whiskey is. In the same way it was also intoxicating. It helped greatly to hear it read out loud. Otherwise I might’ve puked. Apologies that I don’t have the patience, attention span or intellect to say anything constructive.
April 26, 2026
deep in some recess this still shadowy album, perhaps in time be by her when she takes it on her knees. see the old fingers fumble through the pages. and what scenes they can possibly be that draw the head down lower still and hold it in thrall
the eye will close in vain. to see but haze. not even. be itself but haze. how can it ever be said? quick how ever ill said before it submerges all. light. in one treacherous word. dazzling haze. light in its might at last. where no more to be seen. to be said. gently gently.
face must wait. just time before the eye cast down. where nothing to be seen in the grazing rays but snow.
what is it defends her? even from her own. averts the intent gaze. incriminates the dearly won, forbids divining her. what but life ending?
ghost of an ancient smile smiled finally once and for all. such ill half seen the mouth in the light of the last rays. suddenly they leave it. rather it leaves them. off again to the dark. there to smile on. if smile is what it is.
the eye will close in vain. to see but haze. not even. be itself but haze. how can it ever be said? quick how ever ill said before it submerges all. light. in one treacherous word. dazzling haze. light in its might at last. where no more to be seen. to be said. gently gently.
face must wait. just time before the eye cast down. where nothing to be seen in the grazing rays but snow.
what is it defends her? even from her own. averts the intent gaze. incriminates the dearly won, forbids divining her. what but life ending?
ghost of an ancient smile smiled finally once and for all. such ill half seen the mouth in the light of the last rays. suddenly they leave it. rather it leaves them. off again to the dark. there to smile on. if smile is what it is.
August 7, 2014
There are these meaningless symbols. Twenty-six of them. And we put them together in units and we arrange these unit in lines. We punctuate them. Breathe life in them as we speak/read them aloud or in our heads. And they fail to capture even a quarter of the emotion, tangibility, and seeming futility of human existence. But they're better than silence. Mostly.
This book felt like an artist's rough sketch of outlines and gestures. A hint at a barren landscape and an old woman. Life is harsh and either it can't be looked at directly or age has blurred our vision. It was interesting, though not all that enjoyable to me personally. Like a prose-poem-philosophical lament. Had I read it in a more melancholy mood, I might have bumped it up a star or two.
Or...
In 1979, my great Aunt Bertheline enjoyed the twilight of her life in a barren coastal area of Greenland uninhabited but for her small cabin. It was a simple life for her where she moved among the white rocks and landscape. She sat in chairs letting the weight of her many years rest upon her brittled bones. The winters were bitter. Or harsh. Maybe they were bitter harsh as winters can be in desolate areas more fit for contemplating existence than actually existing. I visited her one last time and stayed for months. Or a year. I can't recall as most days bled into one another except for a stranger who began to show up almost beyond sight. A lone figure set against the background. A male. Tall. Something out of a David Lynch movie. And for almost the whole time he just stood and watched Bertheline. Like the Buddha under the tree, he meditated upon her with no need for food or sleep or bathroom breaks. For months. Or a year. It was unnerving but harmless and my aunt couldn't see that far so she was none the wiser. On the day before I left, I approached the man. I saw that he had a notebook in his hand and had been scratching down something or other. I asked if he was OK. His head bent a few degrees as if he was considering what I said and then he turned and walked away slowly. I heard he'd been seen in other places acting similarly and that sometimes he wrote books.
This book felt like an artist's rough sketch of outlines and gestures. A hint at a barren landscape and an old woman. Life is harsh and either it can't be looked at directly or age has blurred our vision. It was interesting, though not all that enjoyable to me personally. Like a prose-poem-philosophical lament. Had I read it in a more melancholy mood, I might have bumped it up a star or two.
Or...
In 1979, my great Aunt Bertheline enjoyed the twilight of her life in a barren coastal area of Greenland uninhabited but for her small cabin. It was a simple life for her where she moved among the white rocks and landscape. She sat in chairs letting the weight of her many years rest upon her brittled bones. The winters were bitter. Or harsh. Maybe they were bitter harsh as winters can be in desolate areas more fit for contemplating existence than actually existing. I visited her one last time and stayed for months. Or a year. I can't recall as most days bled into one another except for a stranger who began to show up almost beyond sight. A lone figure set against the background. A male. Tall. Something out of a David Lynch movie. And for almost the whole time he just stood and watched Bertheline. Like the Buddha under the tree, he meditated upon her with no need for food or sleep or bathroom breaks. For months. Or a year. It was unnerving but harmless and my aunt couldn't see that far so she was none the wiser. On the day before I left, I approached the man. I saw that he had a notebook in his hand and had been scratching down something or other. I asked if he was OK. His head bent a few degrees as if he was considering what I said and then he turned and walked away slowly. I heard he'd been seen in other places acting similarly and that sometimes he wrote books.
November 26, 2016
Generally the reader has no idea what is going on here from sentence to sentence but it doesnt really matter. Made up for by some incredible and unusual use of language and a completely unique and roundabout style of exposition. 'Ever scanter even the ranks weed', 'it it draws her' (yep two its), 'to vary the monotony', 'calm slabworn and polished by agelong comings and goings', 'while the eye digests it's pitance'.
The star system fails again here because this is probably a work of genius and I give it 3/5 because I enjoyed it and not 4/5 because I didn't 'really' enjoy it (it was a small bit hard going). Also parts of it were 'amazing' (ie 5/5) which I can't say of some books I really enjoyed. Just saying.
The star system fails again here because this is probably a work of genius and I give it 3/5 because I enjoyed it and not 4/5 because I didn't 'really' enjoy it (it was a small bit hard going). Also parts of it were 'amazing' (ie 5/5) which I can't say of some books I really enjoyed. Just saying.
August 14, 2012
words left strong impressions on me but meaning was hard to grasp possibly due to the rate at which i read it. feels like if i reread this book my rating would go up proportionate to the times i reread it and the rate at which i read. portions i read aloud to myself stuck with me the most/'gave' the most meaning. parts felt extremely creepy without anything 'going on' just literally from the feelings embedded in the words beckett chose to use. this is the first book i've read by samuel beckett, i will read more.
February 14, 2026
Beckett’s meditation on an old woman in her house in the middle of nowhere takes the microcosm and solitariness to extreme levels. And yet, you know this. Who enters Beckett without?
Existentialism is an easy term to apply and be done with. Of the three texts of Beckett’s I’ve read, all later novellas, all seemed concerned with the absence of company. How, by virtue of aloneness, we are driven into an absurdum. Of those three, Ill Seen Ill Said seems the most real as it is grounded in palpability—who could not imagine an old woman, living out her dying days, alone, in the middle of nowhere?
If time as one ages goes faster, Beckett’s works feel like spells to slow things down. There is a passage here that follows the seconds of a clock and it feels like Beckett’s hand is on the hand of that clock, resisting. Trying to freeze a moment. Because what is unthinkable to us is that moment is lost. For Beckett perhaps this is a blessing, because it pitches itself into non-being. But I feel, by virtue of these spells of non-being, it causes a strange kind of awareness. An awareness of a fierce kind of being in reverse. A resolute being opposed to even the nothingness, that summons itself in the dark like a ritual, following a star.
Existentialism is an easy term to apply and be done with. Of the three texts of Beckett’s I’ve read, all later novellas, all seemed concerned with the absence of company. How, by virtue of aloneness, we are driven into an absurdum. Of those three, Ill Seen Ill Said seems the most real as it is grounded in palpability—who could not imagine an old woman, living out her dying days, alone, in the middle of nowhere?
If time as one ages goes faster, Beckett’s works feel like spells to slow things down. There is a passage here that follows the seconds of a clock and it feels like Beckett’s hand is on the hand of that clock, resisting. Trying to freeze a moment. Because what is unthinkable to us is that moment is lost. For Beckett perhaps this is a blessing, because it pitches itself into non-being. But I feel, by virtue of these spells of non-being, it causes a strange kind of awareness. An awareness of a fierce kind of being in reverse. A resolute being opposed to even the nothingness, that summons itself in the dark like a ritual, following a star.
August 9, 2025
No idea what’s going on but go off
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March 12, 2026Moins fan ici de l’écriture minimaliste et assez énigmatique de Beckett, même si je suis charmée par le but du livre, par ce flux de conscience incessant et l’atmosphère pesante du récit
September 3, 2017
The stream of consciousness is interesting, poetic, hard to follow. But emotional and satisfying.
August 1, 2015
Samuel Beckettin pienoisromaanissa kertojana toimiva tarkkailija seuraa talven aikana ikkunastaan kaivolla ja haudalla käyvää vanhaa eukkoa. Kerronta on katkelmallista ja noudattelee monista Beckettin näytelmistä tuttua tematiikkaa. Välillä päästään kurkistamaan vällyjen alle, pihiseekö henki vielä ja näkeekö kertoja vielä naista.
On pakko myöntää, että en oikein saanut tähän tarinaan otetta, vaikka yritin lähestyä sitä kirjan nimen kautta. Silti katkelmallisuus, symbolisuus ja kuolemanläheisyys ja jälleen tilinteon aika omassa elämässä ovat vahvasti läsnä.
Onneksi kirja ei ollut tämän pidempi, ja samaistuminen kertojaan tai hänen motiiveihinsa jäivät kyllä saavuttamatta kokonaan. Tyylistä pidin, mutta tästä tehty näytelmä olisi luultavasti paljon mielenkiintoisempi kuin verbaalinen minimalistinen kokeilu. Samankaltainen tunnelma välittyy, kuin de Lillon Omegapisteessä, jossa elokuvaohjaaja katsoo päivästä toiseen museossa hidastettua versiota Psykosta. Tässä kohde on valikoitunut mummoksi. Miksi ihmeessä ja mistä on kysymys? Siinä onkin lukijalle pohdiskeltavaa…
On pakko myöntää, että en oikein saanut tähän tarinaan otetta, vaikka yritin lähestyä sitä kirjan nimen kautta. Silti katkelmallisuus, symbolisuus ja kuolemanläheisyys ja jälleen tilinteon aika omassa elämässä ovat vahvasti läsnä.
Onneksi kirja ei ollut tämän pidempi, ja samaistuminen kertojaan tai hänen motiiveihinsa jäivät kyllä saavuttamatta kokonaan. Tyylistä pidin, mutta tästä tehty näytelmä olisi luultavasti paljon mielenkiintoisempi kuin verbaalinen minimalistinen kokeilu. Samankaltainen tunnelma välittyy, kuin de Lillon Omegapisteessä, jossa elokuvaohjaaja katsoo päivästä toiseen museossa hidastettua versiota Psykosta. Tässä kohde on valikoitunut mummoksi. Miksi ihmeessä ja mistä on kysymys? Siinä onkin lukijalle pohdiskeltavaa…
September 12, 2022
nesta short story, Beckett explora o universo real e mental de uma velha mulher, viúva, que aguarda o fim dos dias numa casa isolada no meio de uma paisagem inóspita, deserta. em cerca de 30 páginas, o escritor ensaia sobre a solidão e o sentido da morte, numa escrita tão profunda quanto enigmática.
mal visto, mal dito aplica-se à própria experiência literária deste livro: quase não vemos a personagem, quase não nos é dito nada sobre a mesma, mas sabemos que ela lá está, sabemos como sofre e sentimos a inevitabilidade dos seus últimos dias, em profundo isolamento, mal vista e mal dita por toda a gente.
(5/5)
mal visto, mal dito aplica-se à própria experiência literária deste livro: quase não vemos a personagem, quase não nos é dito nada sobre a mesma, mas sabemos que ela lá está, sabemos como sofre e sentimos a inevitabilidade dos seus últimos dias, em profundo isolamento, mal vista e mal dita por toda a gente.
(5/5)
January 19, 2022
Late Beckett, eh? I'll add him to Late Shakespeare and Late Yeats. I did early in life plough through The Trilogy or one of them -- I can't rightly remember. But late Beckett went for novellas not for novels. This was beautiful, succinct, distilled. At times I suspected I was with Mary Magdalene in her age but I don't have a clue. Sheerly gorgeous language, evocation, mood. Meaning, with Beckett, is more than half up to you. It's very human, though, and the bits I remember from his novel trilogy were some human and humane bits, enormously touching in the wilderness of disjointed thought and prose. I'd thought I'd say that, for he might have a nihilistic-pessimistic rep.
February 16, 2011
Samuel Beckettin teos on tyyliltään runomainen luoden ennemminkin tunnetiloja kuin selkeitä tapahtumia. Ja varsin vahvoja tunnetiloja tämä luokin... haikeita, kaipaavia, synkkiäkin. Kirja käsittelee kuoleman odottamista ja kohtaamista, eikä ole sikäli niitä maailman helpoimpia lyhyestä sivumäärästä huolimatta.
November 16, 2011
Beckett on supistanut ilmaisun aivan minimiin. Kaunista kun käsitteli runomuotoisena, tylsää ja paikalleen jäänyttä kun ajatteli tarinana. Tämän ymmärtäminen vaatisi varmaan paljon enemmän Beckettin tuotannon lukemista.
May 5, 2013
Modernistiseen tyyliin kirjoitettu. Mieleen tulee tajunnanvirta, päähenkilö ei jäsentele tai selvennä ajatuksiaan. Tunnelmana kuolema, menetys, synkkyys. Kuka on kuollut tai kuolee, sitä ei selvitetä. Vaatii keskittymistä lukemiseen, ei avaudu. Minimaalisen ilmaisun takia hankala seurata.
January 22, 2012
Kirjoitustyyli ei oikein iske muhun.
March 8, 2013
« Déjà tout s’emmêle. Choses et chimères. Comme de tout temps. S’emmêle et s’annule. Malgré les précautions. »
November 25, 2015
Nainen. Mökissä. On. Kuolemassa. Hieno pieni romaani olemassaolon päättymisestä.
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July 15, 2013Mestarillinen tämäkin, harmittavan huonosti muistan.
April 1, 2014
An old woman lives in a shack. "The eye will return to the scene of its betrayals... Was it ever over and done with questions?"
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