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eBook How It Is ePub

eBook How It Is ePub

by Samuel Beckett

  • ISBN: 0394172485
  • Category: Classics
  • Subcategory: Literature
  • Author: Samuel Beckett
  • Publisher: Random House~trade; Later Printing edition (1964)
  • ePub book: 1590 kb
  • Fb2 book: 1819 kb
  • Other: mbr lrf doc lit
  • Rating: 4.8
  • Votes: 715

Description

Together with Molloy, How It Is counts for many as Samuel Beckett’s truest accomplishment in the novel form.

Together with Molloy, How It Is counts for many as Samuel Beckett’s truest accomplishment in the novel form. It is also his most difficult fiction, from a stylistic point of view and for the extremity of its vision.

Samuel Beckett was born in Dublin in 1906. He was educated at Portora Royal School and Trinity College, Dublin, where he graduated in 1927

Samuel Beckett was born in Dublin in 1906. He was educated at Portora Royal School and Trinity College, Dublin, where he graduated in 1927. His made his poetry debut in 1930 with Whoroscope and followed it with essays and two novels before World War Two. He wrote one of his most famous plays, Waiting for Godot, in 1949 but it wasn’t published in English until 1954. Waiting for Godot brought Beckett international fame and firmly established him as a leading figure in the Theatre of the Absurd. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1961.

how it was my life still with Pim how it is how it will be with Bom. fleeting impression I quote that in trying to present in three parts or episodes an affair which all things considered involves four one is in danger of being incomplete. that to this third part now ending at last a fourth should normally be appended in which would be seen among a thousand and one other things scarcely or not at all to be seen in the present formulation this thing.

The Grove Press (New York) published Beckett's English translation in 1964. An advance text of his English translation of the third part appeared in the 1962 issue of the Australian literary journal, Arna.

In Part One the voice is confused and confusing because the narrator is maximally dissociated

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.

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Nobel Prize winner (1969) Samuel Beckett was born on April 13, 1906 near Dublin, Ireland into a middle-class Protestant family. As a boy, he studied French and enjoyed cricket, tennis, and boxing. At Trinity College he continued his studies in French and Italian and became interested in theater and film, including American film. After graduation, Beckett taught English in Paris and traveled through France and Germany.

A sensitive reader who journey through How It Is will leave the book convinced that the author says more that is relevant to experience in our time than Shakespeare does in Macbeth. A wonderful book, written in the sparest of prose.

Samuel Barclay Beckett (/ˈbɛkɪt/; 13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989) was an Irish novelist, playwright, short story writer, theatre director, poet, and literary translator. A resident of Paris for most of his adult life, he wrote in both French and English. Beckett's work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human existence, often coupled with black comedy and gallows humor, and became increasingly minimalist in his later career

“It is one thing to be informed by Shakespeare that life “is a tale told by an idiot signifying nothingâ?; it is something else to encounter the idea literally presented in a novel by Samuel Beckett. But I am reasonably certain that a sensitive reader who journeys through How It Is will leave the book convinced that Beckett says more that is relevant to experience in our time than Shakespeare does in Macbeth. It should come as no surprise if a decade or so hence How It Is is appraised as a masterpiece of modern literature. This poetic novel is Beckett at his height.â? — Webster Schott“A wonderful book, written in the sparest prose. . . . Beckett is one of the rare creative minds in our times.â? — Alan Pryce-Jones“What is novel is the absolute sureness of design. . . built phrase by phrase into a beautifully and tightly wrought structure — a few dozen expressions permuted with deliberate redundancy accumulate meaning even as they are emptied of it, and offer themselves as points of radiation in a strange web of utter illusion.â? — Hugh Kenner

Comments

Sharpbrew Sharpbrew
Samuel Beckett is a tough read. This one is no exception and I need to reread it to even begin to say that I understand what I read. Before, during, and after Pim. Slogging through the mud dragging a bag of C-rations or something akin to that, listening to his life. Yeah, I've got a long way to go on this one. Nevertheless, as a reader I keep coming back to his prose for more. There's something there that haunts me and calls to me.
Read this one maybe after the trilogy books. It won't be quite the shock that way. Punctuation? Who needs it?! Makes a reader appreciate all those grammar school lessons about its importance much more. That's how it is.
Kagda Kagda
This is perhaps the strangest novel I have ever read. The entire book is one large unpunctuated paragraph. The scene--a man slowly slogging through mud and filth. He is haunted by the death, suicide, of his wife. On the way he meets a straggler, Pim, who he abuses violently as they both slide through the filth. Then he moves on alone again.

I'll have to read this one again. That Beckett is a great writer, there is no doubt. I'm way too much of a Beckett novice to attempt a thorough examination. Perhaps the best I can do here is to quote the title of a collection of his that I've just purchased: I Can't Go On, I'll Go On.
Dori Dori
based on what my daughter said it a good book .... that she had to read
Alsardin Alsardin
I've always thought Beckett's prose has been the treasure of his oeuvre. Beyond his meticulously structured plays or his mysterious narratives, his prose work stands out as solitary entities. Perhaps that's the best way to put it in describing a "novel" like this. He has created a new being, divested of character and author. At most, it's a meditation on all things known and unknown, directly looking inward, reflecting whatever gloss there is on the mirror of what we are (or think ourselves to be), and then seeing beyond that. And yet, one can barely decipher a line of thought, a passage through which all mortals go, a journey. In our days, it's rare for a simple book to do that. Beckett gives himself the liberty of living in the land of illusion, constructed only by language. In doing so, unveiling the fabric of consciousness to its- i'd hate to say it again- primordial essence (if there is one). For all those who love to ask questions, the stream of questioning is multiplied in this perilous work. Hardly will you reconsider ever having been in a state of internal crisis.

Thank you, Samuel Beckett
Innadril Innadril
I got this book because it was required by school but honestly it wasn't that interesting as every paragraph just is a drone on of nonsense. I know it's a great book and all, it just doesn't personally appeal to me.
August August
Took like three months to come. Snail mail much?
Buriwield Buriwield
Once again, that poet of despair Samuel Beckett puts the reader through purgatory--or, in this case, an endless tract of mud, which our narrator muddles through for about 150 pages. Written entirely without punctuation, and sometimes a little obscure as to exactly what is going on, this book does not make for easy reading. It's worth the effort, though.
I almost didn't get through it myself. "Post-modern hocus-pocus," I thought sourly, as I read the first third. But it becomes oddly compelling, even poetic. Beckett's severely minimalistic style is fascinating; there's nothing in this book except the eerily dehumanized voice of its narrator, a lonely monologue that generates real poignancy. The effect is like hearing a voice from beyond the grave, and it haunts the mind like few conventionally written novels do.
Imagine. Wallowing, hoping, despairing, sinking, dreaming... then a phrase:
"the air thrills with the hum of insects"
More mud. Grovelling, twisting, stumbling, crying... then another:
"I listen a good moment they are good moments"
Somehow the mud doesn't seem so dirty, the darkness doesn't seem so bleak. For there is lustre even in the mud. Such is the beauty of Beckett.
and is there not infinite wisdom in the following?
there are moments they are good moments.