Read Acaba Nasıl? by Samuel Beckett Uğur Ün Online

acaba-nasl

Daha önce Ayrıntı Yayınları tarafından yayımlanmış olan ünlüÜçleme’sinden sonra kaleme aldığı bu romanda Samuel Beckett, artık roman kurgusunu bozmaktan vazgeçmiş, sadece en temel öğelerine indirgediği anlatıyı, bir “yokluk duygusu” üzerine oturtmuştur. Murphy ve Watt adlı daha önceki romanlarda kahramanlar üzerine birtakım bilgiler edinebiliyorduk. Oysa burada anlatıcı biDaha önce Ayrıntı Yayınları tarafından yayımlanmış olan ünlüÜçleme’sinden sonra kaleme aldığı bu romanda Samuel Beckett, artık roman kurgusunu bozmaktan vazgeçmiş, sadece en temel öğelerine indirgediği anlatıyı, bir “yokluk duygusu” üzerine oturtmuştur. Murphy ve Watt adlı daha önceki romanlarda kahramanlar üzerine birtakım bilgiler edinebiliyorduk. Oysa burada anlatıcı bize sadece kendi konumuyla ilgili deneyimini aktarmaktadır. Roman kahramanı gibi gözüken Pim’in anlatıcının kendisi olduğunu düşünürsek, bir roman parodisiyle karşı karşıya olduğumuzu varsayabiliriz. Ama bundan da hiçbir zaman kesin olarak emin olamayacağız. 1961’de yayımlanan bu roman aynı dönemde ortaya çıkmış olan minimal akımın da yetkin bir örneği. Acaba Nasıl? tekdüze, ele aldığı her konuyu yineleyen, herhangi bir kesinliğe ulaşmak gibi bir amacı olmayan bir “yokluk metni”. Yazar sadece bir sese indirgenmiş, elinde bulundurduğu bilgiye hapsolmuştur. Kapalı bir uzamda sanki okuyucusuyla birlikte kilitlenmiştir. Amacı okuyucusuyla bir ilişki kurmak değil, o anı geçiştirmektir. Oyalanmaktadır, okuru da oyalanmaya çağırmaktadır. Bütün bunları dili oyarak, dille oynayarak, oya gibi işleyerek gerçekleştirmektedir.Acaba Nasıl? kolay metinlerden hoşlanan okur için değildir. Noktalama işaretlerinin, kahramanın ve konunun yokluğu, roman boyunca söz konusu edilen ama bir türlü içeriklendirilmeyen özel adların bolluğu, kolaycı okuru şaşırtacaktır. Edebiyatın salt konuya indirgenemeyeceğini bilen has okur iseçetrefil bir dil yolculuğuna çıkacaktır....

Title : Acaba Nasıl?
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 9789755392615
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 152 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

Acaba Nasıl? Reviews

  • Amanda
    2019-04-11 10:00

    Based on all the 5 ⭐️ reviews I’m going to say this is a case of its me not you but I really did not enjoy this one.

  • K.D. Absolutely
    2019-04-19 17:58

    The 7th Beckett novel that I've read and similar to his The Unnamable (3 stars), this has no plot and told in first-person narrative. Unlike that novel though, this has a structure: divided into three parts that feels like past, present and future. It's just that the setting is all in mud or murky place where the narrator suffers like in the cell of Malone in Malone Dies (5 stars). The narration has no punctuations and it somehow signifies to me the continuity of the suffering like it does not need to have a period and it is free-flowing and unstoppable.Having no plot, this is hard to me to review. I do not even know what's the meaning of "Pim." If it is a person that the narrator meets in Part I and loses in Part II and then in Part III there is no mention of him and the mud but the mood of the narration is still sad, bleak and lonely. My take it is that this can be similar to life. Part I is when we were single and our life has no clear directions as we just party every night then we meet our spouses. Part II is when we try to have our marriage work and it is not easy since life is not easy anyway. Part III is when we are already old and have lost our spouses and we are dying so we are excited to reunite with our spouse its just that we are lonely to leave our children, other relatives and friends.But I am just guessing. Beckett here, like in his almost all of his novels, tells his story in a poetry-like way. You have to interpret his phrases to get whatever he wants to convey. The good thing is that his lyrical prose in engaging witty form is something to behold. You trying reading this short (compared to Murphy or Watt) novel and you will appreciate how beautiful this work is.Beckett is just uncomparable. One of his kind.

  • Kim
    2019-04-23 12:03

    My favorite Beckett. This is a must-read, but not easy by any means. This novel doesn't have punctuation. It may or may not have characters. Setting: mud. Props: sacks with a few things in them. This book is life-changing, and I feel it to be one of the best articulations of human cruelty in existence. An amazing glimpse, one might argue, into Beckett's ethics. Does really interesting stuff with notions of authorial voice/presence/conception of time. If he would have published it as a poem, he could have gotten away with it. Will break your heart and temporarily ruin your life. A good book to obsess on.

  • MJ Nicholls
    2019-04-12 17:06

    Novels narrated by various tersely named men (real or imagined) crawling through the mud (of their memories [and literal mud (perhaps)]) tend to lapse into screaming cliché. This is one of the better efforts.

  • Aslı Can
    2019-03-28 10:03

    Delirmek gibi bir deneyim oldu bu kitap benim için. Ha it ha çek on kelime on beş kelime ha it ha çek ileri geri okumak bakmak boşluğa ha it ha çek soruları cevapla yeni sorular sor ha it ha çek tekrar tekrar tekrar oku aynı cümleyi hangi cümleyi burada cümle falan yok burada dedim cümle falan yok

  • Sean
    2019-04-12 11:48

    The 'degree zero' of literature: narrative turned inward, generative and cyclical. Wherein character is dissolved into flux and drama is nothing more than its own begetting, the "slow translation from west to east", the double movement of self-extinguishment and self-resuscitation. How it has been, how it always will be, how it is.

  • Eric Cartier
    2019-04-24 10:55

    One of my favorite books ever. It's a poetic, punctuation-free, bleak and humorous three-part piece about one's past, present, and future selves. There's no story per se; it's more like an existential essay. I sped through the book nine years ago, but this past week I read most of it aloud, measuring phrases and writing in the margins. There are dead ends, revelations, repetitions, and lucent calculations, all in the name of storytelling about being. Beckett composed it in French in 1961 and translated it into English in 1964; I imagine the masterful rhythm is similar in both languages. I'm happy to have found, purchased, and marked up a first edition Grove Press paperback copy, which I'll return to whenever I need to refresh the panting present. The lone quote below says how it is.* * * * *before I had mine that vast pit and when I had it at last that vast stretch how it would be then when I had mine at last and when I had it no more mine no more how it would be then

  • [P]
    2019-04-20 10:47

    How it is. Dear God. How it will be. A few years ago I was outside, walking along, and a large black and white bird – of a type I had never seen before – fell out of a tree and onto the pavement. Straight down. No flutter of wings. No noise, except the dull thud of its body hitting the concrete. It was unhurt, however. I raised my eyebrows, and carried on walking. Coming towards me was a young woman with a pushchair. The pushchair was empty as the child was by her side. As they passed me they noticed the bird. Poor thing. I turned around. They had stopped, and, fearing for the bird’s safety, were trying to usher it off the pavement, and onto some grass. Arms outstretched. Both mother and child. Chik. Tsk. Here. No. There. Unfortunately, the bird did not understand. It ran away from the outstretched arms, the welcoming, protective embrace. And into the road. And under the wheels of a slow-moving car. Crunch. I’d never heard anything like it. Drawn out…Cruuuuuunnnnnch. How it is. How it will be. Dear God.Whenever I think of this incident, which I do quite frequently, I’m always put in mind of Samuel Beckett. I imagine he would have got a kick out of it, what with the bird being essentially herded towards death. It’s funny. And sad too. Too sad. Towards the end of his career Beckett wrote a series of short, experimental prose pieces, all of which are about the absurdity of the human predicament. Life, old age, death. How it was. How it is. How it will be. All of them are funny. And sad too. Too sad. Of those novels I feel a strong affection for the beautiful Ill Seen Ill Said and Worstward Ho. But I’m not reviewing those. His trilogy – which includes Molloy, Malone Dies and The Unnamable – is the most acclaimed, the most read, it seems. Which is perhaps a lie. For I have been given the impression that The Unnamable is endured more than read. I have, in fact, seen it called The Unreadable. As a joke. Being a contrary arse I’ve read the unreadable twice. It is my favourite of the trilogy.How it is, which was published in English in 1964, is often regarded as a kind of companion piece to The Unnamable. Yet I would wager that this has more to do with difficulty than anything else, with how many people struggle to understand or complete both books. You can tell how baffling a book is when you can find nary a single in-depth review of it anywhere on the internet, and that is the case with How It Is. I searched for almost an hour last night and managed to turn up little of any note. Am I going to be the first to give this book a thorough going over? Well, I am not one to shy away from a challenge. I will go on. I must go on, and on, and on. So: on…The narrator is lying in the mud, murmuring to the mud: his life: before Pim, with Pim and after Pim. He appears to be almost completely physically incapacitated, being able to move only by crawling, by pulling himself along, in the mud. His possessions are a sack, a tin opener, and some tins of food. It is a typically bizarre Beckettian situation.“find someone at last someone find you at last live together glued together love each other a little without being loved be loved a little without loving answer that leave it vague leave it dark”This mud-man scenario could be interpreted as a comment on the nature of human destiny, in that we, in a sense, crawled out of the primeval mud, and will one day return to it. Literally, for in death we eventually become of the earth, of the soil; we become, in the end, as formless as the mud itself. Furthermore, the struggle through the mud is, you might say, comparable to man’s struggle, i.e. that life involves dragging oneself through the dirt, looking for other people, finding them, losing them, eating, shitting, vomiting. How it is. How life is. And there is another kind of struggle, the struggle to give form, or meaning, to one’s existence, in among all that dirt, and the shitting and the vomiting. Who are you? What are you doing? What have you done? What will you do? Before. Now. After. An attempt to give structure to something – life – that is inherently without structure. We all do this. We divide our time on earth arbitrarily – days, weeks, months, years, hours, etc. – and we define our lives and ourselves by arbitrary events, like meeting Pim. There is certainly something in all this.If one accepts any of what I have been discussing, the style – which I imagine plays a major part in frustrating readers – is appropriate. The novel is presented as a series of very short paragraphs. There is no capitalisation, and no punctuation. Therefore, the book could be said to crawl into being, rather than confidently announce itself. Or perhaps one might argue that it has no real beginning, creating the impression that the man has always been there, in the mud. And what is a beginning? It is an arbitrary moment; it is a product of our desire to impose structure, or form, and meaning upon things. Ah! Despite the man’s efforts, How it Is has no structure or form; it is plotless. Moreover, his thoughts are often [or almost entirely] incoherent, they are muddled, they too are formless, like the mud.I’m not, of course, positioning myself as an authority on the novel, for there were certainly aspects of it that passed me by [not least Beckett’s own explanation, which makes precious little sense to me]; for example, I can’t satisfactorily explain, and feel no real desire to attempt to satisfactorily explain, what is going on with the man and the voice, i.e. what he means when he says ‘I say it as I hear it’ as though there is a kind of distance or disconnect between the two I’s, the mental and physical. Furthermore, this is the one Beckett novel that, as far as I can remember, includes so many references or allusions to religion, and I’m on shaky ground there too. But I’ll go on, I must go on, in any case.[Virgil, Dante, and Belacqua]I may be reaching somewhat but I can’t help but think the key to some of that is to be found in the sole reference to Belacqua. Beckett was, by all accounts, a big fan of Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy, a poem in three parts [three parts! Before Pim…etc]: Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso. He was, moreover, especially interested in the [minor] character Belacqua, frequently featuring him in his work, including the More Pricks Less Kicks collection. Dante and Virgil come upon him in Purgatorio, sitting in a fetal position; he is said to be the epitome of indolence or laziness. While you wouldn’t call it indolence, the man in How It Is is not, as noted, the most active. There is that. But the real point of interest, for me, is in which volume this character appears. Purgatory. The intermediate state, or place, between heaven and hell. Perhaps this is is where the mud man finds himself? Having said that, you could equally [or even more persuasively] make a case for him being in the Inferno, in a Dantesque circle of Hell, forced to live in mud as a punishment for past wrongs. Indeed, in the third circle of Hell [Canto IV], a slush falls from the sky and collects on the ground, creating a kind of muddy swamp, in which naked shades howl and roll around. What maybe gives this theory a little extra weight is that the man does speak [or murmur into the mud] about the possibility of going “up there,” a phrase that would suggest to most people [and Beckett must have been aware of this] Heaven. [In truth, I don’t believe any of this].As I come to the end of this review I realise that I haven’t said anything about how much [or how little] I enjoyed the book. I don’t, I must confess, rate it as highly as, for example, the respected American author William Gass, who chose it as one of his 50 Literary Pillars. I could name at least five Beckett novels I prefer [although being the sixth best Beckett novel is not exactly shameful]. I did occasionally find it moving, and I would hold up the final two or three pages as being as exhilarating as anything I have read, but How It Is did not always hold my attention; there were, as with many genuinely experimental works, moments of tedium, when I was essentially coasting, which means that I was turning pages but not really taking anything in. And there were also times when I had to gee myself up, to pick up and plough on. But I think that was kind of the point, that the author wanted you to struggle, as his mud man struggles.

  • Biblio Curious
    2019-03-27 11:41

    Well, now I just don't know what to think. Let's see, Beckett was a fan of James Joyce. I'm guessing he wrote this in admiration of Joyce's skill. Perhaps this book isn't the best for starting with Beckett's work. Perhaps Joyce is just in a league of his own, causing folks to emulate his style in a myriad of ways. Maybe I should read more of Beckett and come back to this? Maybe a library copy isn't the best way to read this? Maybe it should be a slow read?My 1st impression was it had a rhythm that I enjoyed. The paragraphs had a natural silence between them. I thought it was reincarnation. Then I chased Llamas. The rope around our narrator's neck and the sack made me think of the birthing experience. But what's the tin? There's no tin with reincarnation. Pim? Bom? Confusion sets in and reincarnation is out the metaphorical window. So why can't I stop thinking about this book?For now, I'll go with a neutral 3 stars 'cause I just don't know what to think!

  • David M
    2019-04-16 15:47

    The Grove centenary edition classifies it as a novel. Not sure I'd agree, although it does sort of have a plot - something about vaguely humanoid figures raping and killing each other in the mud before, during, and after the age of Pim. Science fiction? Opera? I think it could go well with illustrations by Francis Bacon.A kind of coda to the trilogy, how it is picks up where the Unnamable left off. But then the Unnamable ends in a very strange and desperate place, how could anyone possibly go further than that? Well, for starters, one could omit punctuation. Beckett was always looking to undermine his own strengths, and so perhaps it's fitting he would follow up one of the most virtuoso comma performances in all literature by completely dropping the mark.A good part of the tension and suspense of the trilogy comes from Beckett pushing against the traditional form of the novel. With how it is that's not even an issue. The boundary between literature and the other arts ceases to be meaningful. I for one infinitely prefer the trilogy, but then my taste is probably old-fashioned and conventional. Beckett's later vanguard texts do have their defenders. No less an authority than the estimable William Gass is on record calling how it is his favorite work by Beckett.

  • Dan Fitch
    2019-04-10 16:57

    Would you like to destroy your mind? Y/NYOK, read this book in one sitting.

  • Lee Foust
    2019-03-31 11:06

    A novel absolutely like no other--and I imagine a lot of readers breathing a sigh of relief over this fact. Still, the incantatory swatches of prose are musically mesmerizing. Sure, even I--who love such things--found my attention wandering here and there, as it will when listening to such music, but the clarity of this single voice creating, brick by brick, swatch by swatch of unpunctuated words, the repetative life of an odd tribe of men, an infinitely repeated hive-mind it seems, endlessly moving between domination and victimization in a kind of human logarithm without either a feasible beginning or ending.More than anything I found this particular novel to be rather Dantesque. In the first section there were several characters and scenes from the Inferno alluded to, and the concept of justice introduced in part three to describe the endless back and forth of the characters tormenting and being tormented had a distinctly Infernal ring to it. Beckett's hell, however, always feels--and this novel is not, in that, new ground for the author--more like life in stasis that the dead souls in stasis of Dante's medieval Christian epic. Still, I think the nod to the Florentine is all too obvious here--the only real justice is that tormentors also get tormented and vice-versa. What a beautiful world one imagines. That's just the way it is.It occurred to me that the system of men prone in the mud described here interactions (tormenting the figure ahead of them in the series and then falling back to be tormented by the body preceding them in the series) was perhaps a nod to the verse structure of Dante's Commedia. In Dante's tercets the middle rhyme-sound of a tercet become the key rhyme of the next tercet. As in Beckett's system, there's an intimation of an infinity that can never be completed as one must begin and end somewhere always leaving off a key rhyme at the end and a middle rhyme at the beginning of each new section or a tormentor and a victim at either end of his phalanx of mud wallowers.

  • Ville
    2019-03-30 16:49

    Ainoa mahdollinen vastaus kysymykseen "mitä The Unnameablen jälkeen voi enää tehdä". Täysin käsittämätön (mutta hyvällä tavalla; esim. Wake, Stein ja muut nahkasiivet) ja hemmetin koskettava: "those dragging on in front those dragging on behind whose lot has been whose lot will be what your lot is endless cortége of sacks burst in the interest of all" ahhhhhhh näin on

  • Simon Robs
    2019-04-13 16:48

    "HiI" how it was before with and after Pim in the mud panting murmuring sac of tins quaqua and so on and so forth - you too will consider putting your face down in the mud for relief maybe. The book jacket describes this as a love story - and so a Beckett love story goes. The narrator's wife Pam has defenestrated herself and he is what? Depressed, dejected, bent towards destruction? Or, is this his encomium to life that remains? Even a life in the gutter grasping for illusions of belonging? Does meaning signify or should it try? Whose meaning, what meaning?During my last trauma (3 previous one's also requiring extended hospital stays up to 3 months) in the second of three hospitals AGAIN for three-plus months while on dialysis and still in shock of waking to a missing leg peeps kept telling me 'it is what it is' ... over and over I pondered this trite and banal critique on life. What does that mean, really? Yes, of course the obvious, get used to and/or over IT. But then, what exactly is/was the IT of it? I uprooted my life as was, moved to another state, gave up much of my independence AND began the process of moving beyond the it is what is thing yet, that phrase I vowed to uncloak, to ferret out the marrow within - my detective career would now be reborn, my villain a nebulous malefactor as diaphanous as a spider's web in a spring dew, there but just so. And so I read and read looking for something to materialize while I heal into the new "it is." The 'how' preface in Beckett intrigued me - could he show the way? I, too, was caught, stuck, trapped on my belly in the cold for 3 1/2 days alone twisted, bleeding, a mess. I had time to go through the gamut of emotions and I did finally accepting that death was once again imminent. That I did wake, again, albeit missing parts and in dire ICU condition is something to explore, those days/hours of frantic struggle and hopeless giving over to what it was or the now new is, IS just as strange as Beckett's novel - maybe that's why, how it is, with me. I can't go on I'll go on, too.

  • Michail Varouxakis
    2019-04-21 15:58

    If you know Beckett then you know the "oh, no" feeling of his uncompromising marriage of the bleak with the sarcastic; shoulders sink with the "here we go again". But then after all the grinding has begun sixteen pages in you get a phrase like "we are on a veranda smothered in verbena the scented sun dapples the red tiles yes I assure you" and you hold your breath. I found myself - not reading it aloud so much, as being compelled by that voice to get it out of my throat: each time I read "murmur" I spewed each syllable from one side of the mouth, the other half pursed: I was a Beckett character and after the book was finished I felt exhausted for days. The Leibniz parody of the monads (still, after all those years!) (number 814345 etc) is philosophically kinky and along with his "opener", devastating.But, well, if Gertrude Stein composes coherence, as the Stein scholar Ulla Dydo says, then Beckett in a way composes generosity as he goes on from shock to shock and the occasional lyrical chunk.

  • Crito
    2019-04-13 10:41

    Beckett is so tapped in and so alien at the same time that I'm starting to be convinced that he's the result of some pure spirit or form of literature injecting itself into a human husk. And seeing as he developed under late era Joyce there's probably an ounce of truth in that.

  • Max
    2019-04-09 10:54

    One of the better mud-based narratives to come out of 20th century irish culture

  • Swarthout
    2019-04-01 17:58

    Its good to know I'm not the only one who finds the idea of eating food out of cans weird.

  • Megan Baxter
    2019-03-27 15:46

    Some books just seem designed to make you feel obtuse. I mean, I flatter myself that I'm a fairly perceptive reader, but then I get into the realms of the very weird, and don't know what I'm supposed to make of them. I tend to start off feeling like it's probably just me. I'm not smart enough to get it. I'm not educated in analyzing this type of English literature. I start off assuming that the book is probably better than I feel it is, because I don't get it, and that might mean the deficiency is in me.Note: The rest of this review has been withheld due to the changes in Goodreads policy and enforcement. You can read why I came to this decision here.In the meantime, you can read the entire review at Smorgasbook

  • Swarnadeep Banik
    2019-04-16 11:47

    this is a despairing tale of human nature that beckett told in fragmentary anti-narrative(s). this is the first beckett novel i have read, and it's distracting, difficult, but powerful where the anti-narrative format holds the situational problem of communication breakdown. betrayal, loneliness, and misfortune are its main characters which show the frailty in human nature. and, it's hard to carry on but worth it.

  • Alex Obrigewitsch
    2019-04-03 09:46

    This work is amazing. Beckett's best, I would say. It most clearly expresses what his mature works were always seeking to evoke. Like all difficult works, this text seems to be very commonly misunderstood. I believe that everyone should experience this work for themselves, and think through it for themselves, but I append a few remarks to clear up what I view to be some misunderstandings. All of these things can be gleaned from the text itself, from the voice that speaks it. One must seek to read carefully, to hear as it is said, as it is heard. The text does not tell of a past, present, and future. Before Pim, with Pim, after Pim; all are being told of. In a sense it could be said to be past, past, and passing. But the voice tells us that what came before did not come before; it never was. All that is is what is currently being said or heard or read. All that is is the voice, the words, telling.The characters are all a fiction. Pim, Bom, Bem; all are the same, in a sense, yet none of them really are. There is neither four nor a million. All of it is a lie, or a fiction, if you prefer. All there is is the voice, telling of a life. It is the voice that is heard when the panting stops, for it tells the life and makes the life happen. This voice is the anonymous voice of narration, narrating. It is nothing but a telling.The writer who hears the voice and writes it so it can tell itself again, make its journey ever again, left to right across the page, is spoken of directly on page 105.Enough, perhaps. For now.With How It Is, Beckett works to achieve a similar end as that worked out through the trilogy, especially The Unnamable. He says the same, differently, repeating difference through another telling that tells of the narrative voice telling itself once again, as it must.

  • Mehlika
    2019-04-08 10:46

    bir odada bir deli*dehşetli uzun zaman parçaları*başka bir şey bulmak varoluşu biraz daha sürdürmek için sorular bulmak kimdi onlar nasıl varlıklardı dünyanın neresindeydiler bu tür şeyler işte bu kuklalar gösterisini kim düzenliyor hiçbir anlamı yok git bir şeyler ye*----çığlıkları içmek istiyordum mavi vahşi gölge yumrukların üzerine eğilmiş----*dünyanın ucuna uzanırdım böylece dizlerimin üzerinde dünyanın çevresini dolaşırdım*kiminle ilgili yumuyorum gözlerimi

  • Jawad
    2019-04-17 17:52

    The grunt of a pig is more intelligible! Beckett at his worst. I regretted buying this book, and at a very high price too, from one of those 'intellegensia bookshop'. Utter bullshit, you can't retain a single idea, line, whatever. And some people of course would say 'wow' for no reason. Snobs! Empty interjections.

  • Davidnathan
    2019-04-21 11:53

    For best results read out loud.

  • Bob
    2019-04-07 10:03

    After finishing Beckett's Nohow On, I thought I'd dealt with the most challenging writing he could put forth, but no. This is a single work in three parts - for the most part, he is a craftsman at a workbench with an inventory of words which he combines and recombines in abstract patterns like the tiles in Islamic mosaics.You can find descriptions of the actual narrative structure by experts and perhaps if one were to read this a half dozen times, that structure might manifest itself unprompted.Despite having only read this in 2017, I have enjoyed jazz composer Michael Mantler's LP No Answer (with Carla Bley, Jack Bruce and Don Cherry) which adapts the text, for the better part of four decades.

  • Oisín
    2019-04-08 10:45

    The most "moving" of all the Beckett novels I've read. The use of a set vernacular over and over was effective, even though I don't think I really understood it. The idea that a bunch of men crawling through the mud, stabbing each other in the ass could become a system of communication was really funny. It did get a little sluggish at points, particularly in the first section.

  • Travelling Sunny
    2019-04-04 14:02

    This one's on the LIST, and I found a free copy HERE. I wasn't a fan of Beckett's Worstward Ho, and thumbing through the pages of this book, I can see it's written in similar style. Artsy. No puntuation. Odd thoughts pieced together in the loosest sense. Still. I shall try. Because it's on the LIST, and I'm not dead yet.

  • Roger
    2019-04-16 17:58

    Beckett is misunderstood. His books are not vague existentialist glosses on the immutable human condition. They are journeys. HOW IT IS might be the greatest novel I have ever read. I say this because the tears sprang out uncontrollably on the third-to-last page. I am thirty-eight years old and no book has had this effect on me in at least fifteen years. HOW IT IS is the story of a psychoanalysis. It is the story of a man discovering that he has a voice. It is a metaphorical account of Beckett's escape from schizophrenia. In Part One the voice is confused and confusing because the narrator is maximally dissociated. Through persistence and permutation the voice that speaks to him (this is not clear yet) forces the situation to change in an example of Hegelian self-determination. Pim emeges in Part Two as a necessary response to the breakdown of Part One's autistic solution. On to Part Two. By torturing Pim, the narrator learns what a voice is. He has never heard one before and does not possess one of his own. Part Two ends when the narrator and Pim switch places. Now he is the one being tortured by Bom. The book is organized like a mathematical proof. The narrator is attempting every solution, in series, in an attempt to discover what a voice is, where it is located, to whom it belongs. The voice moves around: outside him, inside Pim but caused by him, inside him but caused by Bom. Once he realizes that Bem and Bom are the same, his reasoning takes off. We see, in real time, the miracle of intelligence and psychic integration. Part Three is exhilarating as the narrator no longer crawls but begins to think. His reasoning accelerates as he comes closer to the truth. He picks up and abandons a series of partial solutions, each more comprehensive than the last. Finally, at the very end, he realizes the truth. The voice is his. It has always been his. He is dying. I still get goosebumps when I think of the cascade of YESES and screams that accompany the narrator's final accession to the truth. No other book I know (except maybe one of Beckett's other books) renders so movingly the will and desire to live than HOW IT IS.

  • Tania ChatdiMuse
    2019-03-25 10:48

    My mind panted right along Beckett with the repetitive words, the counting, the existential questions, the desperation in the mud. Never met this type of poetic novel before, I want his story novels. His writing is inspirational to me because I love the breaking of all barriers and experimental form in mostly all arts. His anti-text, the decoding of his thinking process as if written in mathematical sequences but not congruent. I'm seeing a collage of his novel, the mud like the muddled meanings of his text, God, emotional nakedness of body/mind, clinging desperation, love, cruelty a vessel of decay in humanity, confusion, solitude, clinging to scarce hopes, short sparse connections but when seen in whole connecting all the subjects until the long poem dies in the mud. Chaotic as is life. All in minimalistic, pounding, rhythmical words and numbers thrown at the canvas.

  • Melissa
    2019-04-18 09:48

    This book was hard to put down. Makes me think of something John Hollander said in an interview: "A poem that doesn’t get out of hand isn’t a poem." According to that statement, this book was a fine example of true poetry.