After Molloy and Malone Dies, the third installment of the trilogy Beckett tends a little towards the recount or nothing. Beckett will prolong his rantings piétinantes, its ratiocinations schizoid, his existential babble. He invents a new avatar, a new voice, in this case a man after declining, impotent whose speech dislocates as and as the end seems near. His prose dissolves constantly corroded by uncertainty, the unspeakable, elusive. This voice seems to speak to say nothing, prey to empty and ridiculous, yet the reader senses imperceptibly it actually evokes the essence of the human condition, namely the confrontation of consciousness to its environment, limits language, the enigma of identity, dilemmas otherness.
Despite some burlesque passages, the unspeakable is a novel dry, austere, free of intrigue and action. Molloy is a less tedious work and its metaphysical scope also pregnant.
