What do you think?
Rate this book
Samuel Beckett's Wake and Other Uncollected Prose
Edward Dahlberg, one of the last great men of letters, left behind at his death in 1977 dozens of uncollected essays, reviews, stories, and prefaces. Samuel Beckett's Wake gathers all the shorter pieces that were left out of (or written after) his two earlier collections of essays. The full range of Dahlberg's abilities in shorter forms is displayed from skillful reportage to imaginative essays, from proletarian fiction to inspired parody, from travel pieces and personal memoirs to historical studies, along with some of the most cantankerous book reviews ever published.
343 pages, Hardcover
First published September 1, 1989
About the author
Edward Dahlberg
41 books24 followersHis first novel, Bottom Dogs, based on his childhood experiences at the orphanage and his travels in the American West, was published in London with an introduction by D. H. Lawrence. With his advance money, Dahlberg returned to New York City and resided in Greenwich Village. He visited Germany in 1933 and in reaction briefly joined the Communist Party, but left the Party by 1936. From the 1940s onwards, Dahlberg made his living as an author and also taught at various colleges and universities. In 1948, he taught briefly at the experimental Black Mountain College. He was replaced on the staff by his friend and fellow author, Charles Olson.
He was an expatriate writer of the 1920s, a proletarian novelist of the 1930s, a spokesman for a fundamental humanism in the 1940s. For a number of years, Dahlberg devoted himself to literary study. His extensive readings of the works of Dante, Shakespeare, Thoreau and many others resulted in a writing style quite different from the social realism that characterized his earlier writing.
He moved to the Danish island of Bornholm in 1955 while working on The Flea of Sodom. The Sorrows of Priapus was published in 1957, becoming his most successful book thus far. He later moved to Mallorca, while working on Because I Was Flesh, an autobiography which was published in 1964. During the 1960s and 1970s, he became quite prolific and further refined his unique style through the publication of poetry, autobiographical works, fiction and criticism.
He was an expatriate writer of the 1920s, a proletarian novelist of the 1930s, a spokesman for a fundamental humanism in the 1940s. For a number of years, Dahlberg devoted himself to literary study. His extensive readings of the works of Dante, Shakespeare, Thoreau and many others resulted in a writing style quite different from the social realism that characterized his earlier writing.
He moved to the Danish island of Bornholm in 1955 while working on The Flea of Sodom. The Sorrows of Priapus was published in 1957, becoming his most successful book thus far. He later moved to Mallorca, while working on Because I Was Flesh, an autobiography which was published in 1964. During the 1960s and 1970s, he became quite prolific and further refined his unique style through the publication of poetry, autobiographical works, fiction and criticism.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 of 1 review
December 5, 2013
Over 300 pages of miscellaneous Dahlberg, most of it short, the last three entries Fiction, which is the same trash Dahlberg seems to have spent most of his life railing against, and I was going to give him four stars, or maybe even three, as the subject matter here is very similar to the rest of Dahlberg's nonfiction, but equally as lined with epigrams. I was going to paste some of the better ones here, but it will be up to you to find them. I'm in need for a good, scathing quote to ignite the entry into a film script I'm editing, and it's looking like Dahlberg is at the top of the list. Also, this is one of the instances where you should definitely judge the book by its cover and less by my little aimless words. Before ending this I wanted to say something along the lines of the prospect of Dahlberg receiving some posthumous recognition before realizing a couple of things:
A. This kind of work is just about impossible to collectively discuss. Collectively as in, say, with more than one or two other people. The topics presenting are really nothing new, from the writers at hand to the state of art, though the geographical pieces seem, nearly, to be Dahlberg's middle-ground for an every man-readability.
B. Perhaps this writer has been left behind because for all of his unending hatred, vitriol, which so often comes across as elementary bile, Dahlberg has such an extensive knowledge of history and language that he actually backs his arguments up - and he often does so inadvertently, or behind the scenes, though the scenes are right befor one's eyes; the sentences.
C. 'For a poet good writing is often an accident; for a critic it is generally impossible.'
Dahlberg stands mercilessly at the altar of the true writer. For this he was buried, and remains buried - his rage against the superfluous has landed him in a superfluous predicament - running through the 'torpid substance of modern life' and straight into the void. The words remain.
A. This kind of work is just about impossible to collectively discuss. Collectively as in, say, with more than one or two other people. The topics presenting are really nothing new, from the writers at hand to the state of art, though the geographical pieces seem, nearly, to be Dahlberg's middle-ground for an every man-readability.
B. Perhaps this writer has been left behind because for all of his unending hatred, vitriol, which so often comes across as elementary bile, Dahlberg has such an extensive knowledge of history and language that he actually backs his arguments up - and he often does so inadvertently, or behind the scenes, though the scenes are right befor one's eyes; the sentences.
C. 'For a poet good writing is often an accident; for a critic it is generally impossible.'
Dahlberg stands mercilessly at the altar of the true writer. For this he was buried, and remains buried - his rage against the superfluous has landed him in a superfluous predicament - running through the 'torpid substance of modern life' and straight into the void. The words remain.
Displaying 1 of 1 review