Two parallel journeys, their directions erratic, asymptotic. The most absurd fits of cold reason are twisted, in a stream of consciousness, with oneiricism. The is no certainty, no closure, apart from that of the unending procession ever convergent, like an asymptote, on death.

(From CSM Library. Read from a red paperback of the trilogy, which includes Molloy and The Unnameable, both of which I no longer have time to read. The first page of The Unnameable fell out many times, before I finally taped in back in.)

molloy's bit was much better than moran's. ( )

I did not love this book, though I feel as if I probably ought to have, as it's apparently considered (with the second and third in the trilogy it belongs to) one of the most important novels of the 20th century.

The first half I found pretty tedious, and that's presumably part of the point. I was doing the intellectual equivalent of tapping my watch to see if it was still running when the first section thankfully came to an end. The second half was initially much more palatable, but then I found Moran so odious (again, by design) that reading his story gave me very little pleasure.

The way the two halves began to engage with one another was a little enticing but ultimately didn't seem a big enough payoff to me given the amount of time and effort even my shallow slog cost me.

Here's hoping the other members of the trilogy manage to lift my estimation of this one. ( )

Discussed with Krapp's Last Tape

http://alittleteaalittlechat.wordpress.com/2013/07/04/krapps-last-tape-and-mollo... ( )

Taking modernism’s inner monologue to the extreme ( )