DREAM OF FAIR TO MIDDLING WOMEN

by Samuel Beckett

Hardcover in very good condition. First edition. The lightest of shelfwear to the jacket. The pages are clean and sound, all text clear. CM

Genres: Fiction, Irish Literature, 20th Century, Roman, Literature, Classics, Ireland

256 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1932

About the author

Novels of Samuel Barclay Beckett, Irish writer, include Murphy in 1938 and Malone Dies in 1951; a wider audience know his absurdist plays, such as Waiting for Godot in 1952 and Krapp's Last Tape in 1959, and he won the Nobel Prize of 1969 for literature.

Samuel Barclay Beckett, an avant-garde theater director and poet, lived in France for most of his adult life. He used English and French. His work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human nature, often coupled with black gallows humor.

People regard most influence of Samuel Barclay Beckett of the 20th century. James Augustine Aloysius Joyce strongly influenced him, whom people consider as one modernist. People sometimes consider him as an inspiration to many later first postmodernists. He is one of the key in what Martin Esslin called the "theater of the absurd". His later career worked with increasing minimalism.

People awarded Samuel Barclay Beckett "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation".

In 1984, people elected Samuel Barclay Bennett as Saoi of Aosdána.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dream of Fair to Middling Women is a monstrously ambitious and exuberantly experimental novel, it is so extravagantly intricate that it literally turns into a cultural and lexical conundrum.
Considering James Joyce’s greatest influence on the book, it may easily be titled as A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Madman.
Every madman needs one’s own mad cosmology…

The night firmament is abstract density of music, symphony without end, illumination without end, yet emptier, more sparsely lit, than the most succinct constellations of genius. Now seen merely, a depthless lining of hemisphere, its crazy stippling of stars, it is the passional movements of the mind charted in light and darkness. The tense passional intelligence, when arithmetic abates, tunnels, skymole, surely and blindly (if we only thought so!) through the interstellar coalsacks of its firmament in genesis, it twists through the stars of its creation in a network of loci that shall never be co-ordinate. The inviolable criterion of poetry and music, the non-principle of their punctuation, is figured in the demented perforation of the night colander. The ecstatic mind, the mind achieving creation, take ours for example, rises to the shaftheads of its statement, its recondite relations of emergal, from a labour and a weariness of deep castings that brook no schema.

Having real prototypes for its personages (Smeraldina-Rima is Peggy Sinclair, Syra-Cusa – Lucia Joyce, Alba – Ethna MacCarthy) the story also may be read as a roman à clef.
And, of course, every madman has one’s own mad loves: abstract love, spiritual love, ideal love, platonic love, carnal love, failed love…

Still, bitched and all as the whole thing was from that sacrificial morning on, they kept it going in a kind of way, he doing his poor best to oblige her and she hers to be obliged, in a gehenna of sweats and fiascos and tears and an absence of all douceness.

So roving the world purposelessly, young Belacqua – an author’s alter ego – finds himself caught in the rattrap of his indolence and he sees himself as a denizen of Limbo and an eternal prisoner in Dante’s Hell…

At his simplest he was trine. Just think of that. A trine man! Centripetal, centrifugal and… not. Phoebus chasing Daphne, Narcissus flying from Echo and… neither. Is that neat or is it not? The chase to Vienna, the flight to Paris, the slouch to Fulda, the relapse into Dublin and… immunity like hell from journeys and cities.

Travelling through life, similar to Narcissus, one looks for one’s reflection in all things.

[Fergus, Weaver of Autistic Webs · Rating 3 out of 5]

Aarrgh! Beckett has crossed me once too often, now.

In the past, I’ve found his garrulous quodlibets about nothing of any consequence pleasantly diverting.

But now he’s taken my favourite character from Dante's Purgatorio - Bellacqua, who's as much an inveterate Aspie as I will always be - and transmogrified him into a Woke, lost autistic adult with smut for brains.

Oh, well. My faith in Beckett's cynical comic talent has eaten crow once again.

But isn’t that what he intended? To make me see what’s on my very own plate in alarmingly minute detail??

It's so hard being an autistic guy to whom double-entendres were for so long off limits.

I wake to sleep
And take my waking slow.

I thought I could trust Beckett, who wrote, "sleeping or waking - what difference?" I thought he was nightmarishly stuck in the ice where his plumage was caught, like me and Mallarme.

And he is. The Big Diff is he’s quite inured to the pain. La sagesse de la viellesse.

But Beckett's no bird - or if he is, he's a crow starved for carrion - namely, for our illusions. And certainly no angel, as Mallarme was.

But his fate is to not be forgotten: as his authorized biographer says, he is doomed to be remembered. So perhaps he was no Spring Aspie when he crashed in that hospital after the war.

My take is that his whole life became fragmented after that breakdown, as my life was, after my own. But a fragmented life is still livable. As this video of the Master himself shows.

My question remains: why did this man want to be awake in a Woke World? Maybe that was his way of communicating after his débâclé… or maybe just his meds.

But let’s let Beckett HIMSELF reply! Note, throughout the video you’re about to watch, his disjointed and somewhat spasmodically rapid movements (much like mine in my dotage!):

https://youtu.be/1ohAssRQsjM

My palaver is done. Two and a half stars.

[AiK · Rating 5 out of 5]

4.5 баллов! Роман, прототипами главных героинь в котором являются женщины, с которыми у автора были отношения, был опубликован только после смерти Беккета, что вызывает вопрос, было ли ему неудобно перед людьми, связанными с ними, что он о них так писал, или он просто не хотел знать оценки и реакции на такой провокационный роман. Он считал его сырым, но, тем не менее, не подверг каким-либо переделкам и усовершенствованиям.
Поначалу сбивало с толку, как можно таким богатым, блестящим, метафорическим языком писать о довольно скабрезных или физиологичных вещах, он бросает вызов хорошему вкусу, который вынужден принять всю эту скабрезность и физиологичность, в немом восторге от его литературных упражнений. Бывали моменты, которые вызывали вопрос, а не сексист ли он? Сюжета а романе почти нет, большое влияние Джойса очень чувствуется, а по количеству аллюзий Беккет - несомненный рекордсмен, продемонстрировавший нам всю глубину своего интеллекта и превосходность образования. Надо дополнительно отметить, что это дебютный роман, написанный в 26-летнем возрасте.
Герой романа, Белаква, заимствован из "Божественной комедии" Данте. Там он был грешником, чьим главным грехом в земной жизни была лень, и который не видел смысла карабкаться по уступам к чистилищу. Все три истории любви оказались неудачными, его возлюбленная насилует его...
Беккет довольно циничен, в его философии нет альтруизма. Он не считает, что людям можно помочь, разве что затянуть потуже корсет или положить на тарелку добавки. В его понимании жизни смысла не так много. Его мир абсурден в безмятежности его мозговых цилиндров, размышляющий о том, что самый лучший способ зажечь фитиль - подумать о берете.
Это сложный литературный этюд, созданный примерно с той же целью, с какой пианисты разучивают этюды для тренировки пальцев.

[Katia N]

He didn’t want it published and i understand why. Having read the majority of his late work, i thought i would become his completist, a rare desire for me. But this his first novel has put this notion of mine in doubt. He didn’t want this to be published in his life time and i see why. In stye in seems heavily influenced by Joyce. Though some traits of Beckett proper start to shimmer through. Young Beckett seemed to be a bit more reckless and desperate than young Joyce on the page. HI sense of humour is more sharp. But both are extremely verbal dexterous. In Beckett’s case he throws the words in at least four languages and invent his own words in this book. He seems to be swimming in his own cleverness. But it comes across to me like a youthful show-off for its own sake. This is very different from his later, austere language full of empty spaces, as well as existential urgency.

The content is as what one would expect from a young male: girls, sex, booze, meandering. His female protagonists are based upon real women in his life at that time. I wanted to find out what he has written about Lucia Joyce. But her alter -ego has got a very limited presence. Other two girls in the novel seem to be representing two types; accessible but needy and boring and artistic, dreamy and not available.

There were a few scenes and a few comments that i’ve remembered after finished reading. An example:

To read Balzac is to receive the impression of a chloroformed world. He is absolute master of his material, he can do what he likes with it, he can foresee and calculate its least vicissitude, he can write the end of his book before he has finished the first paragraph, because he has turned all his creatures into clockwork cabbages and can rely on their staying put wherever needed or staying going at whatever speed in whatever direction he chooses. The whole thing, from beginning to end, takes place in a spellbound backwash. We all love and lick up Balzac, we lap it up and say it is wonderful, but why call a distillation of Euclid and Perrault Scenes from Life? Why human comedy?

Very mature, imaginative and wonderfully daring. On the sentence level he is so much superior already to the majority of more experienced writers. That is if one can imagine what ‘a clockwork cabbage’ actually might stand for. I am still pondering.

I’ve enjoyed reading this novel but it has not made an impact of sheer speechless awe i’ve learned to expect from reading Beckett. The end was majestic in its absurd understatement though:

What was that in his lap? He shook off his glasses and bent down his head to see. That was his hands. Now who would have thought that! He turned them this way and that, he clenched and unclenched them, keeping them on the move for the wonder of his weak eyes that were down now almost on top of them, because he was anxious to see the details. He opened them in unison at last, finger by finger together, till there they were, wide open, face upward, rancid, an inch from his squint, which however slowly righted itself as he began to lose interest in them as a spectacle. Scarcely had he made to employ them on his face when a voice, slightly more in sorrow than in anger this time, enjoined him to move on, which, the pain being so much better, he was only too happy to do.

He has moved on; and I am happy to move on to my next Beckett soon.

[PaperBird]

Did a review of this book here: https://youtu.be/nDTH13g5S3c

[Mary Alice]

I decided to read one of Beckett's novels because I read a wonderful novel ABOUT him by Jo Baker.

Dream of Fair to Middling Women was Beckett's first novel, written in 1932, after he had published some poetry, plays and essays. He believed in this book, and shopped it in vain to publishers all over Europe. It was considered indecent, too Joycean, and quite hard to read. Twenty years later, when Beckett was famous, publishers clamored for the book, but Beckett had put it behind him. He made the manuscript available to scholars, but did not want to revisit it himself since his writing had changed very much in style in the years since writing Dream. Yet, scholars often wrote about Dream and quoted from it. Beckett eventually told his friends he wanted the book published "some little time" after he passed away. He died in 1989, and the book was published in the early 1990s.

This book is full of words, English, German, French and Spanish words, as well as many, many made-up words. Critics advise us not to read Dream without knowing French and German. I don't know French or German, but I read it anyway because (I reasoned) it's mostly written in English. I still only understood about ten percent of the book. I don't even know if I picked up on most of the "indecent" parts.

Dream is the story of Belacqua, a young Irishman and his pursuit of happiness or love and or/sex or life in a tunnel and maybe some intellectual company in Germany, France and Ireland. Sometimes, the scenes of Bel's life are understandable, but sometimes not, and a lot of things seem to be going on at once, especially in Belacqua's head. I longed for the rare dialogue, where I could more easily "see" what was going on. The book is supposed to be funny, but I never heard any jokes. Beckett inserts himself in the story quite frequently, and it is only then that I can see a bit of rueful humor.

If you've read a page or two of Finnegan's Wake, you will understand what reading much of this novel is like. Yes, in his early years, before his stark funny plays, Beckett loved and was influenced by Joyce.

I would not presume to rate this book.

[Cam Roberts · Rating 3 out of 5]

Reading this particular novel was on the whole an incredibly messy experience, and yet there are some commendable strengths; one example being the foibles of a humorous love-triangle articulated from the point of view of the protagonist, Belacqua. The novel is slipshod in maintaining a fluid narrative progression, at times the novel would indulge itself in extravagance (most readers can tell when a young writer is laying on a little too much authorial relish & stylistic hubris).

I've read a lot of Beckett's work, whether it be his prose, poetry, or works for theatre, radio, film, television (he is, after all, my favorite writer). Interestingly enough, most of Beckett's novels were originally written in French (not his native language), and subsequently translated into English later on by Beckett & sometimes an assistant. This being his first novel, however, was originally written in English, which is a major issue primarily to the writing's aesthetic integrity. Beckett claimed years later (after publishing his Trilogy) that writing in French forced him to be more reductive, precise, and economical with the text. Beckett wrote this work when he was only 26 years of age, and the influence of James Joyce is exceedingly overt, at times to the point of ventriloquism. It's a highly ambitious and enthusiastic work, albeit it suffers from a lack of the subtlety, constraint, and editorial self-discipline that we are so used to seeing in Beckett's later work. The extravagant hodgepodge of discursive devices are often subverted into mere tricks. Some critic or scholar of Beckett, I can't remember who, said the novel was like "Potpourri" - I'd quite agree with that assertion.

[George · Rating 2 out of 5]

"Dream of Fair to Middling Women" written (in 1932) by Samuel Beckett at the age of 26 was never published in his lifetime. It has a "demo tape" feel to it. It's rough and unwieldy. It was his first book and wasn't published until after he died.

I will say that most of it flew over my head and some parts are quite poetic.
But I would only recommend this book to true fans of Beckett.

[Alan (the Lone Librarian) Teder · Rating 3 out of 5]

Still crazy after all these years.

I was lucky enough to have a close friend living in the UK in 1992 when Beckett's first novel was finally published 60 years after it was written, so Christmas '92 brought with it this literary rarity which at the time was a mystery and enigma to me. After 25 years it is no less of a challenge to read with its untranslated sections of French and German, invented words, intentionally misspelled words and mostly non-linear plot.

What has changed in the meantime with the advent of the internet is that even without direct access to critical analyses of the book I am now able to search out enough background information about it to put it into some sort of context. And translations and lookups of words have also become so much easier. So words that looked like typos such as the consistent use of "strom" where "storm" seems to be the context can now easily be identified as the German word for "stream" or "current". Perhaps one day there will be an annotated edition that will explain all of those sorts of things, but in the meantime it has become much less frustrating to read.

It is still frustrating though because the more you learn about things such as the Smeraldina-Rima being the code name for Beckett's youthful crush Peggy Sinclair and the Syra-Cusa being the stand-in for James Joyce's daughter Lucia Joyce the more you are left wondering who the further code-named characters such as the Polar Bear (sometimes called the PB) and the Alba are meant to be.

But I certainly felt more comfortable reading it now and I've even begun to think that maybe I can still tackle Finnegans Wake.

[Max Nemtsov · Rating 5 out of 5]

Возвращаться к Бекетту — всегда счастье, это лучший отдых и прочистка глаз. К счастью, у него осталось еще чего нечитанного. А это — очень молодежный роман, во всех смыслах. Тут тебе и взросление, тут и задор юности, которую прет от того, что она открыла для себя силу и богатство слов. Похоже на раннего Пинчона и единственного Фаринью. Кайф автор очень заразен — читателю его будто вдувают паровозом. А герой-рассказчик меж тем излагает нам что-то (вообще говоря - не очень интересное) о своих запутанных (да, там на всем тексте стоит тэг «всё сложно», так что нынешней молодежи все должно быть просто) отношениях с тремя бабами (вполне автобиографических), одна из которых, понятно, чудесная, хоть и ебанутая дочка Джойса (в тексте у Бекетта, я подозреваю, она чуть более ебанута, чем была в жизни) в диапазоне от изящной словесной вольтижировки до мастурбационного рэпа. Примерно на четырех опознаваемых языках. В общем, для начинающих — самое оно в виде разминки перед «Финнеганами» Джойса. Существует ру-перевод, но что в нем, я не знаю, хотя Дадян человек вроде как уважаемый.

[Cody · Rating 4 out of 5]

The general line on this is that it's little more than Joyce-lite. I'm going to be honest, and I don't mean to offend anyone, but I couldn't give a rat's ass about James Joyce. Sure, sure—I understand the import and contribution he made to the novel. I wouldn't argue against that in any way. I really enjoyed him as a far younger person. I will just be damned if anything actually moves me as I ebb toward the half-century mark. I’ve gone back and found you oftentimes can’t. What Joycean residue is present here, namely the way-too-modernist "Und" section, is the only thing keeping this from being a pentastar-spangled work.

I don't like much (any?) modernism, so my barometer is anything but true. Grain, salt...that whole deal. If, like me, you see Beckett as THE definitive break from that too-precious movement, and also wish that there were more pricks to kick, read on. This is the original world of Belacqua, and it's one we're all richer by exploring. I toil here.

[Carduelis · Rating 3 out of 5]

Samuel Beckett, İrlandalı nobel ödüllü yazar; okuduğum ilk kitabı Godotyu Beklerken. Bu kitaptan etkilendiğim için her yıl kendi kendime yaptığım bir yazarın tüm kitaplarını kronolojik okuma etkinliğimin bu yılki yazarı. Şubat ayıyla birlikte okuduklarım - sıradan kadınlar düşü, aşksız ilişkiler, econun kemikleri - Absürt edebiyatın temsilcisi Beckett, kitaplarında mitlere, eski önemli yazarlara eserlerine aynı zamanda popülere ve kendi kültürüne dair kinayeler göndermeler bolca var. Mizahı - hele de başka kültüre ait bir mizahı kara mizahı- okumak ve anlamak zor, sanırım çevirmek de zor. Kişi ,olay, zaman ,mekan ,karakter, olay örgüsü tam olarak yok; yine de ilk iki kitabı daha severek okudum, üçüncü olan Eco'nun Kemikleri tam bir muamma olarak kaldı bende.
Zor bir yazar Beckett: dünyayla insanın uzlaşamaması, tabii ki ölüm ve ölümün nasılı; büyük derdi kadınlar, ayak sorunsalı, her daim ayağını vuran ayakkabıları ile üç kitabında karakteri Belacqua ve aşkları... Ben bu absürt metinlerden sonra bende kalanı sevdiğim için okumaya devam…

"Hepimiz deli doğarız bazılarımız öyle kalır"

Herkese keyifli okumalar.


Vahşi düşüncelerimi içine attığım sandık.Sıradan Kadınlar Düşü, (önsöz)

Eğer başkasının yüreğine geri dönmek böyle bir şeyse, bu dünyada ya da bundan sonrakinde bundan daha iyi bir şey olabilir miydi? Zihin loş ve sessizleştirilmiş bir hasta-odası, gölgelerle dolu ışıl ışıl bir şapel gibi; zihin en sonunda kendi kendinin sığınağı, ilgisiz, kaygısız; sefil uyarılmaları ve ayrımcılıkları ve anlamsız saldırıları bastırılmış; zihin aniden ferahlamış, huzursuz bedenin eklentisi olmaktan vazgeçmiş ve anlayışın parıltısı söndürülmüş. Şiddetle sızlayan zihnin kapakları kapanıyor, zihnin içine aniden kasvet basıyor; ne uyku var, hayır henüz değil, ne de bir düş, terleri ve titremeleriyle, gri meleklerin üşüştüğü aşırı ussal bir karanlığın uyanışı bu; ondan geriye kalan hiçbir şey yok burada, ölmüşlerinin ve doğmamışlarının ruhlarının ortaya çıkmasına elverişli olan mezarın ve rahmin gölgesinden başka.syf64

Aşk narsisizme... göz yumar.
Burada duraklıyoruz, sözcüklerin üzerinde durmamanızı rica ediyoruz, sözcüklerin sizi öfkelendirmesine izin vermeyiniz; korku içinde tir tir titreyerek iddiayı bir basamak yükseltiyoruz.

Aşk narsisizm ister.syf59

Günler ona ait değildi ki harcasın, onlar kazanılması gereken ekilmemiş topraklardı. O, günlerini zaten kazanmıştı. Harcanmış olan kendisiydi, bir de ona ait olmayan günlerin zenginliğiydi, onları kazanıp yoksullaştırana kadar. Gün-kazanırken harcanmıştı. Günleri azken hafifti ve ışık içindeydi. Günleri çoğalınca ağırlaştı ve karanlıkla doldu. Yaşam, günlerin içinde ağırlaşmak ve kararmak ve zenginleşmekti. Doğal ölüm, günlerin kara zenginliğiydi. Gün-yoksulluğunun parlaklığı hayatta kalmak ve iyi olmak için -ki ölebilesin- bestelenmeyen müzikti ye ona ait olmayan günlerin müziğiydi, her bir saati sahip olabilmek için fazlasıyla çeşitli olan günlerin.syf181

Gece seması müziğin soyut yoğunluğudur, sonsuz senfonidir, sonsuz aydınlıktır, yine de yaratıcılığın en berrak yıldız kümelerinden daha boş ve daha loş ışıklıdır. Şimdi tek görünen, yarımkürenin dipsiz perdesi, yıldızların çılgın beneklenmele-riydi, aklın ışıkta ve karanlıkta çizilmiş tutkulu devinimleriydi. Gergin ve tutkulu zekâ, aritmetik yetersiz kaldığında, yaratılıştaki gökkubbesinin yıldızlararası kömürçuvalı bulutsuları içinde körlemesine ve kendinden emin (sadece böyle düşünür-sek eğer!) tüneller açacak, gökköstebeği, evrenin asla koordine olamayacak yörüngeler ağı içerisindeki yıldızları arasında kıvrılıp dönecektir.syf37

Esrik zekâ, yaratılışı gerçekleştiren zekâ, bizimkini alın mesela, söyleminin uç noktalarına, doğuşundaki çapraşık bağlantılara, hiçbir düzeni kabul etmeyen karmaşık tasarıların çabası ve yorgunluğu sonucunda yükselir. Zihin aniden gömülür, sonra bir öfke ve enerji rapsodisi için-de harekete geçer, ölüme doğru koşturur ve içine dalar, işte bu yaratıcı bütünlüğün bir unsurudur, en yüce doruğudur, protonuna ulaşılamaz; ama oradadır, bu görünmez ısrarcı fare o sanatsal yüzeyin yıldızlarla ilgili anlaşılmazlığının arkasında huzursuzlanır durur. Bu, aklın, karanlığın içinden, giderek daha yukarıya, tepeye doğru çiçeklenen dairesel hareketidir,syf38

kederdeydi, çalılıktaydı, tümüyle hayalet bir avuntunun kederiydi kendi, arzunun karayelinin geri alındığı Araf'tı şimdi. Gururlu değildi, havada yavaş yavaş uzaklara doğru en derin parçalarını çıkarıp atarak uçmakta olan gagasını gök kubbeye dikmiş bir kuş da değildi; ruhu sürgündeydi, her daim ve sonsuza dek. Meraklı değildi, denizlerin patikalarında dolaşan, dünyanın derinlerinde sıçrayıp dolanan, geride çürümüş zaman pislikleri bırakan bir balık da değildi. O, muhteşem, büyük, ruhsal derinlikli bir adamdır, ölçülüdür, güçlüdür, içindekine karşın. Jawohl(peki).syf66

İradenin parıltısı ve avından kaçmak için dışarı malikum olan beynin tokmak-vuruşları yok olduğunda üçüncü varlık karanlık girdaptı; kaçış ile akış çelişkisinin olmadığı ve Eros'uri Anteros kadar değersiz olduğu ve Gece'nin kızlarının bulunmadığı o yerde Araf ile rahimmezar sessiz düşüncenin kaygısız ruhlarıyla hayat buldu. Miskinliğe saplanıp kalmıştı, kimliksizdi, onun çekmesine ve dürtmesine de aynı şekilde vurdumduymazdı. Kentler ve ormanlar ve varlıklar da kimliksizdi, gölgeydi hepsi, ne çekiyor ne dürtüyorlardı. Üçüncü varlığı eksenden ve konturdan yoksundu, merkezi her yerde, dış kenarı hiçbir yerdeydi, keşfedilmemiş bir miskinlik bataklığıydı.
Kesin olan tek şey şudur: Kendi başına karar verebildiği sürece kayıtsızlık, meraksızlık ve ilgisizlikten oluşan bir bataklık içerisinde hem kendi kimliğinden hem de başkalarının kimliğinden kurtuluşu, lanetlenmiş görünüşü için dalgalanmanın tek seçenek olarak görünen hazin bozgunundan daha uygundur. Bunun daha sık olmaması nedeniyle, daha sık dibe dalamaması nedeniyle üzgündür. Miskinliğinin siyah goblenleriyle tepeden tırnağa sarınmayı, aynı şeyi açıp sermekten ve onu tıpkı yükselen ve alçalan, başa ve sona hiç ulaşamayan ve birbirine yaslanamayan küçük melekler gibi anlamsız sar-mallarla kaydetmekten daha çok sevmektedir.syf139


özgür değildi ve bu nedenle gönüllü olsa da yüreğine geri dönemeyecekti, iradesini kullanamayacak ve gönül meyhanesinde büyüyemeyecekti. Kendi için bu denli gerekli ve bu denli arzu edilir bir durumu istediği zaman başlatabileceğine bir budala gibi ikna olmuş bir halde, deneme yaparken yaratıcılığını tüketti. Her taşın altına baktı. Küçük beynini nefesini tutmak üzere eğitti, duygularıyla her türlü anlaşmayı yaptı, küçük beyninin kapaklarını alevlenen ıvır-zıvırın üzerine zorla kapatmaya çalıştı, ıvır-zıvırı dışarıda bırakıp bilincini silmek ve içine gömülmek için hal duygusunu tasavvur edilebilecek her şekilde kamçıladı. Parmaklarının boğumlarıyla göz yuvarlarındaki mor sağanakları baskılamayı öğrendi. Derisinin altında, göbeğinin üstünde yatakta uzanıyordu, yastığa gömülmüş ve fena halde buruşmuş yüzünü eylemsizliğinin bütün acıklı küçük ağırlığıyla aşağı, dünyanın taşıyıcılarına doğru bastırarak saatler ve saatler boyunca yatıyordu, ta ki her şey gibi kendi de yumuşak bir şekilde ağır ağır karanlığın içine geçip düşmeye başlayana kadar, o ve yatak ve oda ve dünya. Her şey hiçbir şey içindi.syf141


Şefkatle bunu atlatacağını söyler dururdu, içinden geldiğinde ona"bebek!"ler ve "salak"lar bahşederdi fakat bütün bu zaman süresince gerçek düşüncesi adamın kendi için umutsuz bir vaka olduğuydu, kaçınılmaz biçimde saftı, her daim bencildi, sadece kendine sadıktı, kendini nasıl beğeniyorsa bütün bu zaman zarfında öyle olmaya çalışıyordu, kendi sefil standartlarına görülmemiş bir tutuculukla bağlıydı; onun sefil biri olduğunu düşündü ve sefil biri olduğunu ifade etmek istedi kız. Kendi ya da başkasının elinin altındaki şantajcı kişiliğinin dehşetinin gölgesine kıvrılır yatardı, her zaman onun gölgesinde yatardy Kişilikmiş! Şu eski lanet umacı! Kız, adamın bunu atlatamayacağını, bunu atlatmak istemediğini ve bunu atlatmanın üçüncü şahıs Belacqua'ya karşı işlenecek bir günah olduğunu düşündü. Erkek ise yine de zaman zaman, kızın o eksiksiz ve tatminkär ayna ve cımbız işine karşın, kendisiyle seks yapmaya hazır olduğunu düşünmüştü. Ne zaman ki kız kafasını toplayıp Belacqua'nın içinden çıkılmaz bir Araflı olduğuna karar verdi, işte o noktada oyunu terk etti. Eğer istediği buysa sevgilisi kendi hüznünde çürüyebilirdi, ama kendisi onu dinlemek için orada bulunmayacaktı. Nolle consolari ab aliqua creatura...(hiç kimseden teselli istememek) İğrenç bir palavraydı. Saflığın da hileli saflığın da canı cehenneme, canı cehenneme, canı cehenneme, syf208

[Sam Griffin · Rating 4 out of 5]

A near impossible book to review.
At times totally inaccessible and akin to hiking through a bog, and at times utterly brilliant. I’m sure I will find new aspects to this utterly unique work with every reread, but above all else it is a delight to see the early glimmers that hint at Beckett’s genius and the masterpieces he would go on to craft

[J. · Rating 3 out of 5]

Under The Night Colander

The night firmament is abstract density of music, symphony without end, illumination without end, yet emptier, more sparsely lit, than the most succinct constellations of genius. Now seen merely, a depthless lining of hemisphere, its crazy stippling of stars, it is the passional movement of the mind charted in light and darkness. The tense passional intelligence, when arithmetic abates, tunnels, skymole, surely and blindly (if we only thought so) through the interstellar coalsacks of its firmament in genesis, it twists through the stars of its creation in a network of loci that shall never be co-ordinate. The inviolable criterion of poetry and music, the non-principle of their punctuation is figured in the demented perforation of the night colander. The ecstatic mind, the mind achieveing creation, take ours for example, rises to the shaftheads of its statement, its recondite relations of emergal, from a labour and a weariness of deep castings that brook no schema.

This material, which the author never wanted published, called the Dream Of Fair To Middling Women-- is a kind of soft-boiled Becket-In-The-Egg. Come and meet the starry-eyed apprentice, student of Joyce and brooding Irish boy-man, come with us and watch Sammy run amok in stream-of-consciousness high-jinks. An unmanageable flood that the mature writer would routinely chop, slop, grind, and purée brutally down to size, once he moved on to his journeyman days.

Skymole

This was compiled before Murphy, Watt and More Pricks Than Kicks. And long before the plays. But lay aside the later work and we find this to be a conscientious and muscle-flexing outing; in fact there is something of the trial-by-fire going on here, as self-administered by One Unrelenting And Jesuitical practitioner. Reading Beckett is always a bit like getting into a boxing ring on Open Ticket night, where the reader must be prepared for all comers, any kind of game, blatant cheating, and all of it on the rough side.

That this is a hidden blurt of juvenalia written in a blinding heat seems apparent; the concerns spin vertiginously down from that Infinite Night Sky to the niceties of arriving informally at a posh party ... simple-you-say-I-think-not ... after having barfed up a day's work in drinks... whilst stage-managing the getting of the girl. The unpleasant meeting unexpectedly with the unsettling, as we ride his shoulder.

Do you have to be Irish and vehemently narcissistic to arrive at that Holy Tranquility, that trans-configuration of the banal and the immortal wherein you may care for this kind of thing, in book-form, of all the unlikely ? I think it may actually help.
It did me. But I feel better now.

[Curt Barnes · Rating 5 out of 5]

. A fan in particular of early Beckett, i.e. of "Murphy," and particularly of the first part of "Watt" which features a certain Mr. Hackett, I found this exuberant, flamboyant exercise in quasi-poetic comic prose almost their equal. There are individual sentences to savor, for words-as-music (if one consider string quartets and oompah bands both musical), that describe outrageously comic situations and personae with an almost ferocious originality. Yes, the work’s style, certainly the hero’s stream-of-consciousness episode, owes quite a bit to Joyce, but Beckett’s signature tart humor is already richly manifest. Bleakness expressed in effulgent prose, buffoonery in elegant turns of phrase, in color and obvious love of the medium. Beckett may have outdone Joyce in a cheeky display of authorial devices whereby he breaks boundaries of fiction and inserts himself, reveals the writing process, etc. All of this scrambles along, full of surprises, without the least pretentiousness but only the enthusiastic abandon of breakneck youth.

This would be a feast for a literary polyglot, but even if, like me, you don’t understand much French, little Latin and less German and Italian, and aren’t familiar with, or sure of the meanings of words like
catastasis
expunction
emergal
pleroma
erethisms
gedankenflucht
postil
chiappate
mollecone
turbary
dephlogisticate
cang
genau
multipara
pucelle
lanugo
coryza
apodasis
ipsissimosity
ausgeschlossen
exornation
dehiscence
fauces
coenaesthesis
arcitenens
speculum
didcalced
narquois
maneen
lancinated
unprevisible
bawn
pinace
agenesia
or
crassamenta,
you may still enjoy this book tremendously. Such was, is, the infectious work of a young literary and comic genius.

For particulars of plot, let others serve.

The book shines fresh as rainwater. If you haven’t yet, read "Murphy" first, then this one.

[J B · Rating 5 out of 5]

As a young writer, who sees a world of creativity, experimentalism and uncertainty all around him I affirm that this book is the essence of what I feel right now. Beckett wasn't one who sure where to put his thoughts but made his effort (a grand one at that) to make collect all of it into this novel. This novel therefore is madness, which is not for everyone. But it is a genius type madness of language, color, humor and music. I actually rate this a 4.5 but I round it off to 5. The introductions were amazing too! Go read it if you want a really hard challenge, I thought it was rewarding.

Going through the book I must comment, I didn't get much of it. I did not know what was mainly said and didn't make the effort to look up his allusions but I got used to the writing after awhile. After the second "part" his writing made more sense to me, though it must of been half getting used to it and half of it being more simplified writing (not to say that it was anywhere near simple writing at that point, but closer to it). I would love to read this again.

[Laura · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Let it be said now without further ado, they were just pleasantly drunk. That is, we think, being more, becoming and unbecoming less, than usual. Not so far gone as to be rapt in that disgraceful apotheosis of immediacy from which yesterday and to-morrow are banished and the off dawn into the mire of coma taken; and yet at the same time phony and contrapanic-stuck, than usual. Not, needless to say, melting in that shameless ecstasy of disintegration justly quenched in the mire and pain of reassemblage; no, immediacy, it was merely an innocent and agreeable awareness of being and that less clocklaboriously than was their habit. Pleasantly drunk.” — And so with this you see a sample of what I had to deal with, reading this book, not really understanding most of it.

And Smeraldina-Rima, upon hearing big words: “What’s that? Something to eat?”

[Guy Cranswick · Rating 2 out of 5]

This really has forensic and scholarly interest. It is not easy as it is somewhere between an essay and a pastiche. First novels are often like that. It is read because of what Beckett became. The reader must have a working knowledge of French and German - in fact it must have the most German of any Beckett text; along with Italian and some familiarity with the author's bio in order to interpret it.

[Benn · Rating 4 out of 5]

Samuel Beckett's first novel which he wrote in a fever pitch at age 26 and could not get published in Ireland due to it's salacious content. He kept it under wraps his whole life and it was published posthumously a little while after his death per his wishes. He referred to it as "The chest into which I threw my wild thoughts." It is a tour-de-force in rhetorical bombast and a great deal fun to read, small on plot, strong on wordplay.

[Johnny · Rating 3 out of 5]

Having performed (only at the college-level, mind you) in Beckett’s most famous literary work, “Waiting for Godot,” it was only natural that I should be curious about the novel published posthumously about 60 years after it was written. So, picking up Dream of Fair to Middling Women, I was most curious to discover what it was like. I discovered that, as with one publisher who originally rejected it, Dream of Fair to Middling Women does read at times like a poor person’s James Joyce, but as with a U.S. novel that touched on some of the forbidden themes in this novel, Portnoy’s Complaint, it also features its own intriguing style. My conclusion is that it is not only “literature,” but (perhaps because of its subject matter) sadly overlooked literature.

Dream of Fair to Middling Women must be considered literature because it is designed to provoke thought, examine language through a combination of abuse and artifice, challenge with word play in English, French, German, and Latin, and examine the emotional underpinning of both our conscious and unconscious choices. At times, Beckett draws farom biblical references, at others from mythological or musical references. At times, one is caught up in the poetry of his language, sometimes certain that he is playing with our minds in the same way as Lucky’s disputation in Waiting for Godot. Indeed, this is both a trivial and a profound book, depending on one’s approach. Still, even if one approaches it as a trivial book, one is apt to be caught up in the word play, the rhetorical whimsey.

As one might expect from the title, Dream of Fair to Middling Women is about sex. To be more precise, it is about sexual obsession. Yet, despite the book’s early reputation, it is not about titillation; it is not graphically descriptive (at least, in a straight-forward way). Indeed, we are specifically told after one of Belacqua’s sexual thought-progressions that he and the “Alba” never actually consummated the sexuality upon which they discoursed (p. 177). At another point (p. 198), we are again deprived of any consummation. To be sure, there are lots of poetic death wishes in this story but, surprising to me, only one reference to the little death (again on p. 177). However, it appears that there is an incident of public masturbation on p. 184 after reading a disturbing obituary.

At one point, the experience of Belacqua (our protagonist) sounds almost biblical. Beckett explores the idea of one becoming the bride of one’s soul, the two becoming one. Belacqua ponders (or perhaps engages in the services of) many visits to a brothel (I am never entirely certain whether the descriptions are in Belacqua’s imagination or reality) and discovers of his idyllic lover that after the act, “She ceased to be the bride of his soul. She simply faded away. Because his soul, by implication, had as many brides as his body.” (p. 40) The tenor of the book, however, is rather cynical toward the idea of marriage/commitment. At one point, playing on the idea of the character considered as the “if” portion of a conditional sentence (as “IF he should marry my daughter…”), Beckett describes the would-be mother-in-law “…upholding the apodosis to ogle the hope of her grandmaternity.” (p. 75) At one point, Beckett breaks the fourth wall long enough to threaten a supporting character with matrimony if he doesn’t behave (p. 149). In fact, there is a brief conversation about the woman taken in adultery on p. 209.

The euphemisms are intriguing. In light of the subject matter, one should not be surprised at the term, “demented hydraulic.” (p. 41) Latinisms also serve with uses of the “put-“ root in numerous iterations and terms like clitoridia puella. Polygamous infidelity is summarized as lex stallionis (the “law of the stud” as opposed to the more familiar lex talionis or “eye-for-an-eye” we know as the “law of the talon”—p. 101). At times, the protagonist just wishes for the right amount of alone-time to “troglodyse himself” (pp. 123, 128) which may refer to any type of anti-social action from picking one’s nose to something more lurid. I was amused during a discourse on the character’s feet and the problems with finding shoes/boots to fit that Beckett invented the apropos term, “pedincurabilities.” (p. 133) At another point, a character paraphrases a famous biblical concept about the pre-existence of Jesus after making a joke about one Mr. Sauerwein (“sour wine”) who should have been called “Sauerschwein” (“sour swine”) and noted that “’Before Mr. Sauerschwein was,’ said the Mandarin, ‘we are.’” (p. 104) One of the women who fascinates Belacqua (as well as his friend Chas) is the lovely Alba. In turn, Alba finds all men to be “homo-sexy.” (p. 154), though I’m not certain what she meant as she immediately wished she was a Lesbian. Further, as Belacqua matures, we discover his sentiment is: “’Give me chastity’ he mentioned, ‘but not yet.’” (p. 186)

Remember those adolescent dreams that one could see women with their clothes off? So does Beckett’s protagonist as he considers being able to Roentgen (aka X-ray) through millions of leather tunics (p. 161). I enjoyed the badinage between Alba and our protagonist when he asserts that Love is a great Devil. Alba responds that Love must be a little devil, an imp. Our “hero” doubles-down that Love is a great Devil, a fiend (p. 173). There is also a wonderful moment in that scene where he waxes poetic and says, “There is a shortness of poetic sight when the image of the emotion is focused before the verbal retina…” (p. 170). Yet, the Alba takes him so literally and questions the idea of a “verbal retina” so as to destroy the poetic moment.

Dream of Fair to Middling Women is worth reading, worth struggling with, but it is not something to be read casually. It will frustrate and it will confound. Just as I don’t believe many people “understand” Waiting for Godot upon first viewing or reading, so is the case with Dream of Fair to Middling Women. It’s not for everyone and it will be offensive to some (even, at times, to me), but it is worth consideration. At least, I understood more upon first reading than when I first attempted Finnegan’s Wake which, indeed, foreshadowed some of Beckett’s styling in this volume.

[Mandel · Rating 3 out of 5]

(Part of my current project of reading everything Beckett published in precise chronological order.)

Beckett's first novel, written during a summer of poverty after he left his teaching position at Trinity College, determined to become a writer. It has the feel of something written as an act of desperation: Beckett's determination, doubt, and self-torment come through very vividly. But not a lot more than this does. The writing is muddled by Beckett's then-inability to tear himself from Joyce's influence. When he submitted to one publisher, he received the comment that it was a slavish imitation of Joyce. This isn't quite right, as I see it. Rather, it seems to me like the work of a brilliant writer trying desperately not to imitate Joyce, but mostly failing. Some of Beckett's later preoccupations peek through the haze, but despite the fact that Beckett is absolutely my favorite writer, this was a hard book to get through. Maybe it was hard in part because Beckett is my favorite writer: I could almost feel how tortured he was when writing this, how uncertain his life must have seemed at the time. It's said that by the time he finished it, all the money he had left was five pounds. This was almost a century ago, but I couldn't help feeling for Beckett as I read it.

[elektrospiro · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Patrzcie, oto Belacqua, przekarmione dziecko, pedałuje, szybciej, coraz szybciej, z otwartą gębą i rozdętymi nozdrzami pędzi wzdłuż fryzów głogu za furmanką Findlatera, szybciej, coraz szybciej, aż wreszcie zwalnia przy koniu, przy czarnym tłustym zadzie konia."

Tak właśnie, od fascynacji końskim zadem, zaczyna się króciutki - ćwierć-stronicowy, pierwszy rozdział powieści, by dopiero w drugim, zgodnie z zaleceniem Hitchcocka, zacząć od...nie, nie od trzęsienia ziemi, ale w każdym razie od erupcji. Nawet jeśli tylko w spodniach i w wyniku publicznego trzepania kapucyna na plaży. Cóż, miłość i tęsknota mają swoje wymagania, nawet jeśli strażnicy miejscy nie wykazują w tej kwestii krzty zrozumienia. Mimo tak erotycznego początku Belacqua zdołał osiągnąć w powieści zaledwie 2‰ upadków, jakich doświadczył Bungo...I nie dziwota, bo bohater jest rozdarty pomiędzy dwoma popędami/uczuciami: uganianiem się za samicami (Apollo) i ucieczką przed nimi (Narcyz). (...)

Cała recenzja pod adresem: https://nakanapie.pl/recenzje/622-upa...

[Baibhav Sharma · Rating 4 out of 5]

Difficult to read. Still worth it if you admire Beckett's work.

[Volodymyr Stoyko · Rating 3 out of 5]

"WTF, що це я таке прочитав?" - перше питання, яке в мене виникло після того, як індикатор прогресу читання на планшеті дійшов до 100%. Після Годо я вирішив продовжити знайомство з Бекетом, але одного бажання, як виявилося, не зовсім достатньо. Кожен з розділів я перечитував як мінімум тричі. А окремі речення - ще частіше. Це дуже втомлювало, проте настрою подолати цей твір мені вистачило і тепер хочу поділитися враженнями з вами.

В моїх планах ця книга не проскакувала, навіть, в першому десятку пріоритетів. Так, там був більш відомий твір "Мерфі", який я читаю зараз, але назва зробила своє. Власне, це було останнє, що мені сподобалося. На стільки незв'язних думок, речень, ідей, як на сторінках цієї книжки, я не зустрічав у своєму житті ніколи і, надіюся, не зустріну. Після Молоя, Малона, Годо - абсурдністю мене не здивувати. Але і абсурдність, як би це дивно не звучало, має свої впізнавані обриси. І в цьому творі їх не було.

Самому собі важко пояснити звідки в мене стільки терпіння взялося для того, аби дочитувати книжку. Можливо, було шкода вже потраченого часу. Або таки хотілося дізнатися чим завершиться це періодичне знущення Бекета над своїм героєм Белаквою (який, насправді, є героєм Данте) та його непростими відносинами з трьома жінками, що мали місце у його житті. Зрештою, я так і не зрозумів хто був проблемною стороною цих стосунків та причиною постійних любовних фіаско головного героя.

Книга насичена надскладними алегоріями та неологізмами, монологами та абстрактними образами, що ламають мозок кожен раз, як тільки ти припускаєш, що починаєш щось розуміти. Звісно, якщо ви плануєте для себе скласти більш чітке враження про творчість Бекета - то повинні хоча б спробувати читати цю книжку. Вона є першим великим твором автора, який він сам, правду кажучи, не хотів публікувати. Тому світ побачив її лише після смерті Бекета. Якщо ж абстрагуватися від творчості похмурого ірландця, то на загал ніколи і нікому радити не буду, адже зайде далеко, дуже далеко не кожному.

[Artem Huletski · Rating 4 out of 5]

123

"Мастерское исследование, ребята, от этого не уйдёшь, крупнейшей мясорубки в истории бойскаутов, одиннадцатое одиннадцатого через одиннадцать лет и ни капельки Sehnsucht между картонными крышками этой книги*".

* Вероятно, автор (или Белаква) пишет (или воображает) эти строки 11 ноября 1929 г., т.е. ровно через одиннадцать лет после подписания перемирия, положившего конец Первой мировой войне.

Конгениально, количество непонятных слов и неологизмов автора (или Белаквы?) на страницу зашкаливает. Даже гугл не знает всего ;) А желание исчерпать текст и договориться до тишины, как и в других работах Беккета, поражает своим присутствием, стремящимся к полному отсутствию. И, что характерно, вы многого в этой книге не поймёте, но пойманное останется с вами надолго.

"Пожалуй, единственное, что позволяет героям Беккета не покончить с собой ещё до того, как открыта первая страница книги, - это грустный смех, бесконечно далёкий от ницшеанской помпезности и сартровского самолюбования. А грусть никогда не бывает злой." (Марк Дадян)

[Chris · Rating 3 out of 5]

enjoyed this, though I won’t pretend I was able to decipher many chunks of the froth of his writing. bad place to start with Beckett despite being the most obvious maybe

[Jim · Rating 5 out of 5]

Of all the authors I have read, I find Beckett to be the most challenging by far. In much the same way as reading textbooks and scholarly works (meaning books meant to teach first and foremost and not to entertain or take one's mind off the day or transport you to another world/time/perspective), reading Beckett forces you to pay full attention to every single word. You can't skim Beckett, or if you do, then you are not reading Beckett at all, for by skipping or eliding or jumping ahead you miss the point. The words, the cadences, the repetitions, the minimalism, the circularity, the now-ness. Beckett demands your attention and immersion, or maybe he just expects it. Why else read? Why words? Why? I won't get into over-reviewing each specific text in any Beckett book as I find that defeatist, or maybe beyond my ken. Often it’s merely words on the page given meaning by how the reader interprets/intuits/internalizes them. I say Beckett is unequaled, unmatched, unsurpassed, but that is just one opinion. Still, I say read him, often, and again…

So, genius.
I started this, Beckett’s first novel - written in 1932, unpublished until 1992! - in 2019 but decided I was not in the mind to complete the task at hand. Beckett demands full attention. Anyway. Parts of this novel were pilfered by him for other of his works throughout his literary career, so some parts of the book were initially over-familiar and I was concerned I had read this and forgotten (extremely unlikely), or was finding myself skimming the parts I knew looking for the parts I did not. Dumb idea, and no way to read Beckett, so I shelved the book only to pick it up now. The pandemic seems an ideal match for Beckett’s consistently morose themes. Beckett had his own way with words, syntax, punctuation, and languages (he often used Latin, German, and French, unitalicized always, he saved that convention for emphasis only), and was not beyond creating a word when he felt the need.
The book is pegged as anti-realism/anti-novel, and anti-feminism/anti-sexuality, and deals with the male body as a broken/failing machine.
Influences: Chaucer’s “The Legend of Good Women” - which is a lengthy poem of ten virtuous women, Alfred Tennyson’s “A Dream of Fair Women” -, and Henry Williamson’s “The Dream of Fair Women”.
The main character, Belacqua, is fascinating, and quite obviously a novelization of Beckett himself. He leaves you with the impression of a man at odds with the world. Too smart, too emotional, too aware. A bit of the dandy, a bit of the artist, a bit of the layabout going on. Of the world, yet not in it, quite. Obviously struggles with idealization of the Female countered by realities of actual females. Leans towards derision of females who will have sex, juxtaposed with wanting to have sex with his beloved, maybe.
The women - Smeraldina-Rima, Syra-Cusa, Alba - were all derived from real life persons of Beckett’s acquaintance.
I am left to wonder if this book wasn’t ever published while Beckett lived because his literary circle would know pretty much right off who the characters were cobbled from, and Beckett would rather have avoided any unfavorable conversations. Possible too that Beckett borrowed overmuch the book’s style from Joyce and Proust, having not yet developed his own, and was loathe to be critiqued or labeled a copyist. Unoriginal.
There is a lot to enjoy in this novel, but there is much also dross, slag, and detritus. Beckett has no problem being an aesthete and a literary snob and a youth quite full of himself (this attitude comes through in the critical essays found in his book “Disjecta”). I love Beckett and was surprised at the immensity of words here, as in lots of them. Later Beckett is pared down severely, almost impossibly so, which I find much more appealing and powerful. I do love me some words - Proust and Joyce are absolute faves - but I feel Beckett is overdoing it here. Still, he’s 26 and in the throes of developing and managing his mighty skills, so overexuberance - and a bit of mimicry - is hardly misplaced. Likely a novel I need to buy and return to, as I found my first full reading a bit heady. Dialogue is my bane, my scourge, and here it is exacerbated by Beckett’s loquacity, comedic interjections, and overused nonsense. One is left to wonder if Beckett’s trajectory would have changed if this book had been published in 1932. He hated all of his works, so I venture he could not have cared less.
Not a Beckett to start with - ironic that - but surely one to read.

[christina · Rating 1 out of 5]

A jumble, a rumble, a misogynist grumble.

I am well aware that Beckett did not want his first novel published, that this was written when he was 26, that he was heavily influenced by Joyce, that the three women in the novel are based on his experiences with Peggy, Lucia, and Ethna... and while these are all valid reasons as to why this novel suffers; this is just one of a few reasons to be disappointed in Dream of Fair to Middling Women.

Technically, stylistically, it is a mess. Faint -- very faint -- glimmers of later Beckett's voice could be heard but primarily, this novel suffers from a disjointed, incongruent voice; it does not appear as if Beckett knows which position he wants to place his voice nor where he wants to place narrative emphasis -- is this a thoroughly subjective novel in which the protagonist is exposed to a world mitigated by his circumstances or is this a novel that exemplifies the toxicity of the male and female relationship or this is a novel of how experience, memory, and translation of the two embed themselves into a personal narrative? It's unclear. Equally, Beckett's syntax is awkward; much of what is written appear as in a simple, active sentence but then replacing a single word that suits just fine, with an obscure or overly pretentious word for the sake of appearing more learned. Annoying and indicative of both Beckett's arrogance and his inability to speak with greater authorial flourish. For all of this, it can be argued that a writer's first novel should be riddled with problems, a voice should not be clear -- as it needs refinement. I agree.

Yet this isn't the only way in which Dream of Fair to Middling Women suffers. The most problematic is that Beckett, in this novel, issues forth a long, arrogant, conceited, narcissistic diatribe of the fragility of the male ego. We've seen this before: men whose egos are so easily fractured by a woman's self-possession that they have to write a scathing -- though veiled as philosophical reasoning -- treatise on the unfairness of the world and the necessity of the objectification of women and the protection of men and their egos through forms of disassociation from vulnerability, accountability, and self-reflection.

Perhaps this is why Beckett really only focuses on men in his other works, recognising he is incapable of voicing his opinion on anything other than the universal experience -- this is the Beckett I prefer and the one I missed whilst reading this.

[Matthew Edgeworth · Rating 3 out of 5]

Beckett’s first novel, written in a matter of weeks in 1932 when he was just twenty-six, and never published within his lifetime (other than a few fragments). It was rejected by publishers at the time and then simply shelved.

It is more clearly autobiographical than the other Beckett novels I have read. Our protagonist is a young man called Belacqua (an alter ego which also features in some of Beckett’s short stories), essentially being to Beckett what Stephen Dedalus was to Joyce, albeit without the distance of time. The back cover informed me that this was “very much a young man's book, drunk on its own cleverness and the author's formidable learning.”

Well by christ I would have to agree. It’s certainly a challenge for the old intellect, let's just say. When I can understand just what the hell is going on, I am enjoying the wonderfully rich writing style and the affected, almost unbelievably high-brow humour. It’s full of dense literary allusions, puns and a macaronic wit (hence why I tend to have google translate handy). Drunk on its own cleverness is right; if you ever want to get an acute sense of your own intellectual shortcomings this would be a fine place to start. Twenty-six year old Beckett is smarter than us and he definitely knows it.

In some ways it’s like reading some of the densest Dedalus sections of Ulysses; in its experimental style, nonlinear (almost nonexistent) plot and it’s profound rejection of literary realism it also hues close to Finnegans Wake (which I confess I have never gotten far with).

Yet nonetheless I didn't stop reading. My eyes glazed over certain passages with a combination of bewilderment, awe and humour (sometimes just bewilderment…), but there is definitely something enjoyable about it all the same. Particularly when certain passages do just click.

Although it’s very high-brow, it doesn’t have the seriousness of Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist, or even Beckett’s later stuff. It’s wild and fun in a bawdy young man’s way, albeit filtered through a profoundly intellectual writing style.

[Bryan]

Eerst wil ik even aankaarten dat het boek “Droom van matig tot mooie vrouwen”, geschreven door Samuel Beckett, erg ingewikkeld is. De zinnen begreep ik niet altijd. Soms voelde het aan alsof de zinnen zelf niet in de context thuishoorden. Er zit niet echt een rode draad doorheen het verhaal. Hierdoor was het lezen van het boek een traag proces maar zeker een leuke uitdaging om mijn hersenen te testen. Deze moeilijke schrijfwijze en de meerdere talen die de schrijver gebruikt, maken het lastig om alles goed te begrijpen. Hij gebruikt Duits, Spaans, Latijn, Frans en Italiaans. De schrijver houdt geen blad voor de mond waardoor het wel soms wat ruw overkomt. Het boek is zeker niet luchtig door de verwarrende taal, lange zinnen, veel rare vergelijkingen en verouderde woorden. Om nog maar te zwijgen over de zelf uitgevonden bijvoeglijke naamwoorden of zelfs zelfstandige naamwoorden, bijvoorbeeld: “zeewierlachje”. Dit zorgde er wel voor dat het lezen een hel werd. Ik heb wel respect voor Samuel Beckett daar hij kan schrijven op zo’n moeilijke manier. Dit vereist talent. Dit boek is een aanrader voor mensen die ervaren lezers zijn en die een uitdaging zoeken. Het is zeker geen boek voor niet-lezers. Ikzelf heb mij mispakt, de schrijfwijze is boven mijn niveau.