MORAN
MOLLOY
"I lived in the garden. I have spoken of a voice
telling me things. I was getting to know it better
now, to understand what it wanted. It did not
use the words that Moran had been taught
when he was little and that he in his turn had
taught to his little one. So that at first I did not
know what it wanted. But in the end I understood
this language. I understood it, I understood it,
all wrong perhaps. That is not what matters.
It told me to write the report. Does this mean
I am freer now than I was? I do not know.
I shall learn. Then I went back into the house
and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on
the windows. It was not midnight. It was not
raining."
— Molloy , by Samuel Beckett
The above excerpts are in memory of some wordplay
in this journal on March 2, of a sneering joke in the
Daily Princetonian on March 11, and of a possible saint
who reportedly died around midnight on the night of
March 13-14.
See also the morning of March 13.
Note, at the end of the Princetonian piece, a comment
worthy of Beckett—