17 of 18 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Great, Beautiful, Incomplete, June 5, 2008
This review is from: Novels I of Samuel Beckett: Volume I of The Grove Centenary Editions (Works of Samuel Beckett the Grove Centenary Editions) (Hardcover)
This is a great collection of Beckett's novels, including: Murphy, Watt, and Mercier and Camier.
Noticeably missing--and noted by Paul Auster in the editor's note--is Dream of Fair to Middling Women, published post-humously. This probably points to a rights issue with the Beckett estate, but that's conjecture.
Auster notes that Beckett's "reputation rests" on the work included in this collection and I would have to agree. He also writes that this collection is not a Collected Works, so Grove and Auster have covered their backs in missing a few works (mostly in French) here and there.
This collection includes corrections to grammar and typographical errors made in the original publications and was overseen by Auster and other leaders in the field.
All-in-all: Beckett fans will not be disappointed by this beautiful set and it makes for a great introduction for people new to his works.
Read, share, repeat.
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1 of 7 people found the following review helpful:
1.0 out of 5 stars
Unengaging, unrewarding and completely disappointing., October 22, 2011
This review is from: Novels I of Samuel Beckett: Volume I of The Grove Centenary Editions (Works of Samuel Beckett the Grove Centenary Editions) (Hardcover)
First of all, let me say that postmodern literature has never been my cup of tea and that I generally find it pretentious, overblown and its main features a more than logical consequence of the impotence of some writers to supersede the works of some of the masters of the past (notably the major prose works of nineteenth century literature, towards which trends like Modernism and Postmodernism constituted a "reaction" of sorts).
This commemorative edition by Grove Press features in a single volume some of the first early novels written by the renowned (and very postmodern) author Samuel Beckett. The first of these, 'Murphy', is one of the dumbest novels I have ever read in my life. And that is all I can say about it as there is not much else to comment on. The lack of plot, structure and coherent thought, coupled with its tasteless and ridiculous metaphors punctuated with the pretentious and atrocious prose style, will leave your mind reeling and asking for a long vacation far away from any longer exposure to this kind of blathering nonsense. If concepts like sharp wit, precision, substance, brevity and clarity of thought are some of your prerogatives when it comes down to reading, stay away from this abhorrent mess of a book. It's preferable to appear as an unsophisticated reader rather than submitting to this type of postmodern idiotic tripe and becoming the equivalent of a reading trash can. James Joyce was bad enough in itself but having to go through an imitation of that `elephantine pedant' (quoth Orwell) by an early Beckett who undoubtedly thought himself a "Joycean wanabee" is an excruciating experience. As a matter of fact, these three Beckett novels are so bad in terms of profundity, structure, narrative devices and prose style, that they have to be read in order to be believed. A dreadful rite of passage, yes, but also enlightening as regards the depths of impertinence and utter dumbness that a written text can achieve. Perhaps no other famous author (with the exception of Joyce and Proust, whose literary heritage -the School of Blowhardism- resembles the likes of a poisonous fungus) has abused so much of the poor reader's patience and his capacity of endurance. It is no small wonder either that a "novel" like `Murphy' was rejected by forty-two publishing houses back in its day, which in itself might be interpreted as a peculiar record of some kind. Anyway, that this novel can be consistently regarded by some critics as "significant" is for me proof enough that it takes all sorts to make a world (a world better equipped with enough asylums for the insane able to contain them). For a much better development of the same themes, read Beckett's "Eleuthéria", and consign this first abortive attempt at writing to the dustbin. I can't understand how the hell this atrocious debut is still in print...
The second novel in this volume is "Watt", written in 1953. Beckett again puts the reader in contact with the "pseudo-adventures" of another character virtually indistinguishable from the previous Murphy as regards his uncanny ability to wear down the patience of the reader with his unremarkable eccentricities. This novel was so shallow and its mannerisms so unbearable that I could only make it through the first and final chapters, and that only at the risk of getting very sick. Small thing this, as it doesn't really make a difference if you read this novel in a sitting or only the half of it or even combining the four chapters at random, the author's intentions are just the same: to waste the reader's time while trying to appear insightful in his portrayal of "existential nothingness". As a whole this novel (with all his foolish puns, insipid wordplay and irritating characters who deliver dull monologues twenty pages long) resembles a first draft instead of a fully realized work. The lasting impression it leaves on the reader is that his author didn't know exactly what he wanted to write about, choosing instead to mystify his audience by the conjunction of a thesaurus and an ineffable talent for logorrhea (and let me add that this also applies to any of the other novels here reviewed). If I have to compare it to something tangible, it would be to the equivalent of a whole lot of high caliber ammunition shot into the air, directed at nothing in particular. "Watt" a waste of wit... (you catch my ingenious worldplay?)
Oh yes and that reminds me: have I mentioned Beckett's particular sense of humour? Because that's another ISSUE the reader has to deal with. It seems that the man thought himself funny or witty while writing these novels. This peculiar kind of humour permeates all of them. But the truth is that I didn't find very much brilliance in a series of "comical" passages where some stupid and mundane attitudes are performed with appalling reiteration. One thing is to be funny, and another to be idiotic and exasperating for exasperation and artifice's sake. I may understand that postmodern authors, in order to conceal their average literary incompetence, must resort to these idiotic contrivances in their attempts to hold the reader's attention, as they are seemingly incapable of handling the basics of a story, that is to say: the creation of a plot, the delineation of a series of narrative substructures and of course the introduction of some major theme to get across to the reader. An easy and basic task, perhaps? Not at all. At least not for the likes of Beckett, judging by the way they wrote and their extended use of the so-called "stream of nonsense" style in order to sustain a narration.
Hopefully (thank you, God), this infamous volume closes with "Mercier and Camier" (1970), one of Beckett's lesser known works (don't worry, it deserves to be so). At bottom, this (mercifully) short novel is a clumsy blueprint (written around 1946) of Beckett's most famous work "Waiting for Godot" (1953) and continues with the tiring and clownish tradition already shown in Beckett's earlier novels. Artifice for artifice's sake, though at least in this case the narrator has the nerve to acknowledge it. The protagonists, similar to the two tramps in "Godot" make plans, want to achieve a series of goals and try to reach a destination, but to no avail. They even commit a murder which in the world Beckett describes seems an event so mundane and negligible as washing your dishes everyday. The psychological depth and complexity of these characters is non-existent so there is nothing worthy or remotely interesting to infer from all this bleak freak show, and for all its weirdness, it left me quite cold. Anyone having read "Waiting for Godot" will probably find this novel worthless and redundant, at least I did. I've always thought that the main characters in Beckett's most famous play were in a way a little bit dumb, but compared to Mercier and Camier they now strike me as "Übermenschen".
As to the physical characteristics of this particular edition, the covers seem tough and durable but the quality of the paper is nothing to write home about and the prologue, predictably, does not add anything of importance to the contents, which is quite understandable. After all, what can anybody say about these books once they have been read if nothing of value and no real plot is found in them? The only thing to do is to put them back into the shelf to gather dust or (even better) to take them down to your nearest second-hand bookstore where hopefully you may exchange them for some other worthy Beckett work like "Endgame" or "Krapp's Last Tape" . Do not be fooled by the abhorrent snobbery of some people (Salman Rushdie, Vladimir Nabokov, etc) who might make you believe that Beckett's prose works are precisely the best in his entire production. As a matter of fact, there is a reason why these novels are not very well known: they are not very good (especially when compared to Beckett's dramatic works, which are also difficult but meaningful and much worth the effort). There is also a reason why Grove Press commemorative volume III of Beckett's dramatic output has been long out of print while volumes I and II (complete novels) are still available for some readers who, inexplicably to me, prefer this pretentious and mimetic Joycean mud to the aforementioned plays...
There are so much better novels out there (before and after of Beckett's) that I cannot understand what some people can make out of these literary rip-offs. As for me, the only thing they have achieved is to rekindle my complete aversion to the sort of conceited and elaborate puerilities that postmodern literature was consistently able to display during the past century. Peace to its ashes, as far as I'm concerned.
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