Malone Dies, by Samuel Beckett (a Naxos Audiobook, originally published 1951)
Who cares?
Who cares about Malone's story, his life, his impending death? After hearing Malone describe the minutiae of his dying days, the routines of the asylum he finds himself in, the contents of his pockets, morbid scenes from his life as a parent, morbid scenes from his own youth, morbid scenes that I can't even place the time or location of...I was ready to say I don't really care about that guy, that old man in the asylum room.
Yet I kept listening/reading. All the way to the dispiriting, nightmarish end. That there is nothing there is surprisingly gripping. And after having spent time in nursing homes over the last few years, I do think Beckett has the environment right. Day after day, what else can the patients (or inmates) become to the staff other than objects to be moved and washed, like Malone?
And who cares that Beckett wrote the book? When I started writing this post, I was ready to say, "I don't". And now (with a few days pause in between), I'm ready to say that I'm glad he wrote it, and that I heard Malone's story.
