Mercier and Camier, by Samuel Beckett
Mercier and Camier, by Samuel Beckett
Even as shepherd, cowherd, goatherd, pigherd, it was in vain I strained every nerve. I could never give satisfaction. For the animals strayed, unnoticed by me, into the neighboring properties and there ate their bellyful of vegetables, fruit and flowers. I pass over in silence the combats between rutting males, when I fled in terror to take shelter in the nearest outhouse. Add to this that the flock or herd, because of my inability to count beyond ten, seldom came home at full muster, and with this too I was deservedly reproached. The only branches in which I may boast of having, if not excelled, at least succeeded, were the slaughter of little lambs, calves, kids and porklings and the emasculation of little bullocks, rams, billy goats and piglets, on condition of course that they were still unspoiled, all innocence and trustingness. It was therefore to these specialties that I confined myself, from the age of fifteen. I have still at home some charming little-well, comparatively little-ram’s testes dating from that happy time.
Beckett is supposed to be darkly witty; I find that he just sucks the life out of me and that whatever he has to say about the human condition is, if anything close to accurate, deeply depressing. Mercier and Camier is, mercifully brief. It has a lot in common with Waiting for Godot in that the two almost interchangeable protagonists meander aimlessly through a threadbare plot, talking in non sequiturs with a lot of subtext, occasionally meeting disturbing people, and being fatalistic about it all, because what’s the point? Of life? Of reading Beckett? Why don’t we just kill ourselves?
When I read, I read for entertainment or for enlightenment. I either want to be enthralled by a wonderful story, or I want to learn something that will help me make sense out of the world around me, the better to enjoy it. Beckett’s constant bleakness and the argument-at least I think it’s what he’s saying-that there is NO sense to be made out the world around us-does neither for me.
Bottom Line: If you loved Waiting for Godot and think it’s a profound work of genius, you will also like Mercier and Camier almost as a companion piece (these guys do a lot of traveling, mostly going back to where they started from, while Vladimir and Estrogen mostly hang out in the same spot, but it’s still essentially the same tale). If Godot made you feel like slitting your wrists might be a good idea, so will this book.
Even as shepherd, cowherd, goatherd, pigherd, it was in vain I strained every nerve. I could never give satisfaction. For the animals strayed, unnoticed by me, into the neighboring properties and there ate their bellyful of vegetables, fruit and flowers. I pass over in silence the combats between rutting males, when I fled in terror to take shelter in the nearest outhouse. Add to this that the flock or herd, because of my inability to count beyond ten, seldom came home at full muster, and with this too I was deservedly reproached. The only branches in which I may boast of having, if not excelled, at least succeeded, were the slaughter of little lambs, calves, kids and porklings and the emasculation of little bullocks, rams, billy goats and piglets, on condition of course that they were still unspoiled, all innocence and trustingness. It was therefore to these specialties that I confined myself, from the age of fifteen. I have still at home some charming little-well, comparatively little-ram’s testes dating from that happy time.
Beckett is supposed to be darkly witty; I find that he just sucks the life out of me and that whatever he has to say about the human condition is, if anything close to accurate, deeply depressing. Mercier and Camier is, mercifully brief. It has a lot in common with Waiting for Godot in that the two almost interchangeable protagonists meander aimlessly through a threadbare plot, talking in non sequiturs with a lot of subtext, occasionally meeting disturbing people, and being fatalistic about it all, because what’s the point? Of life? Of reading Beckett? Why don’t we just kill ourselves?
When I read, I read for entertainment or for enlightenment. I either want to be enthralled by a wonderful story, or I want to learn something that will help me make sense out of the world around me, the better to enjoy it. Beckett’s constant bleakness and the argument-at least I think it’s what he’s saying-that there is NO sense to be made out the world around us-does neither for me.
Bottom Line: If you loved Waiting for Godot and think it’s a profound work of genius, you will also like Mercier and Camier almost as a companion piece (these guys do a lot of traveling, mostly going back to where they started from, while Vladimir and Estrogen mostly hang out in the same spot, but it’s still essentially the same tale). If Godot made you feel like slitting your wrists might be a good idea, so will this book.