Grotesque Eroticism and the Birth of Death in Malone

REVISION: "It is true love in the rectum." -Skunk G. Wilson 

In both Molloy and Malone Dies, Beckett delightfully delivers us grotesque descriptions of "love making," or perhaps (the Kafka returns) the more appropriate term: fucking. In Molloy, we face a man who has sexual relations with perhaps his androgynous grandmother, Ruth, but we cannot be sure. We can never be sure. In Malone dies, the perhaps fictional character, perhaps semi-autobiographical Macmann, confined to an asylum, begins to take part in some mutual sexual fondling with his caretaker, Moll (oddly similar to "Molloy," is it not, perhaps he may even just be M(alone)). In either case, both spectacles of sexing it up are described in incredibly grotesque manners.

(Enticing, no? AND FOR GOD'S SAKE KEEP  THE SAFE SEARCH ON WHEN YOU LOOK FOR IMAGES OF NASTY GRANDMA)

In Malone Dies, Macmann's partner is described as being utterly repulsive. She is old, ugly, and has gigantic lips that take up half of her face (Selected Works, Vol. II 250). She begins to develop a foul stench, her teeth fall out, and she spends half of her time sitting in Macmann's room vomiting on herself (258). Devilishly sexy, no? Don't be a prude, "the sight of her so diminished did not damp Macmann's desire to take her, all stinking, yellow, bald, and vomiting, in his arms. And he would certainly have done so had she not been opposed to it" (258).  Her sickly appearance begins to remind us of Molloy's grandmother as well (is there a connection here? Perhaps...).

When they do commence to getting in a little wham, bam, thank you ma'am, Beckett, or at least the narrator describes it rather painfully: "The spectacle was then offered to Macmann trying to bundle his sex into his partner's like a pillow into a pillow-slip, folding it in two and stuffing it in with his fingers. But far from losing heart they warmed to their work. And though both were completely impotent they finally succeeded, summoning to their aid all the resources of the skin, the mucus and the imagination" (253). Why does Beckett (or Malone)  give us such a strange and unpleasant description? 

(That's not living, that's living.)

Well, in my opinion, we are given such horrid depictions of the act of sexual intercourse because Beckett is working within the minimalist style. When we strip down the fancy fantasies of "making love" to the very basis of its actions, an erect penis smashing into a slimy vagina until the release of a frothy mixture (okay, perhaps I tried to make that sound a little more repulsive) we are left with something a little less romantic, but still all the more passionate. But more importantly, whence the spluge has been splurged, what is the product of this beastly fucking? A glorious child! Imagine that, life crafted from the confines of a nude ramming festival. 

What we are left with after this, is the fact that life is created out of a rather strange, and at times repulsive, action. And not only is life created, but with each creation of life, comes death. And does not Beckett's work function in the same way? We can say his work is a little unconventional, sure, and that it is often strange and sometimes repulsive. But still, out of the passion comes the life of his art, and often when we reach the end of it, its death. Personally, I believe that through these odd sexual escapades (I know, I know, NO SYMBOLS WHERE NONE INTENDED), comes visions of the creation of art, and the often toils and sufferings one encounters while creating it (or at least the good stuff). And also, from these naughty actions, comes life, but always (100% of time) with the consequence of death. It is also rather absurd isn't it? But oh well, shut up, put out, and enjoy the silence.

Dirty Dustin Hoffman takes a bath.