Okay, yesterday I started and finished Nohow On, the triptych of three "novels" by Samuel Beckett for my PoMo class. And I have no freaking clue what I just read. In each progressive story, from Company to Ill Seen Ill Said to Worstward Ho, the prose gets incresingly sparse and unintelligible. Here's a sample paragraph from Worstward Ho:

On back to unsay void can go. Void cannot go. Save dim go. Then all go. All not already gone. Till dim back. Then all back. All not still gone. The one can go. The twain can go. Dim can go. Void cannot go. Save dim go. Then all go.

Huh? I am just baffled by this. I'm supposed to write a one-page position paper on a passage from this book by Thursday, and I have no idea what to say. I looked online for any kind of criticism or explanation, and all I get are pronouncements of Beckett's genius and profundity. That's all well and good, but they don't explain why he's such a profound genius. They take no steps toward interpreting the text. If Beckett is trying to express emotions or talk about an instance in time, why isn't this called poetry?

Which may be my one big problem: my denseness when it comes to poetry. These three "novels" read like poems, in that they have no plot, no settings, no conflict, and often no characters. I'll say it plain: I just don't get it. Can anybody explain his writing to me? There are much smarter people than I who read this journal, and I would appreciate any and all input. I don't want you to write my paper for me, but I would at least like a place to start.

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This weekend has been busy. I read all of the incomprehensible book mentioned above. I read "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Poe and "Bartleby, the Scrivener" by Melville for my AmerRoma class. I wrote most of one review and started another. I began my next short story, which will not take place in a big city, but in a giant Singaporean bird park, called "In Jurong". I watched Chicago on DVD, and got to see the last ten minutes that I missed on the Singapore Airlines flight to Bali. I went to Old Navy (which I like, despite the annoying commercials) and bought a few new shirts. I went to a shoe store and didn't find anything I liked, so I'll be going out again today to hunt for running shoes (or tennis shoes or sneakers or kicks or whatever you want to call them).

Last night, I called my lady and sang "Happy Birthday" to her. She's twenty-six today. Her website is finally back up, which I'd call a nice birthday present. Go send some birthday wishes yourself, or even a Yahoo! postcard.

I haven't eaten yet today, and my stomach is rumbling, so I leave you now to forage for food.

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Now Reading:
Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes

Stories Out to Publishers:
7

Books Read This Year:
30

Zines/Fiction Mags Read This Year:
31