Жан Марі Ґюстав Ле Клезіо (фото: Jerry Bauer)
Г'ю Кеннер рецензує роман Жана Марі Ґюстава Ле Клезіо "Потоп" порівнюючи його у двох останніх абзацах із Бекетовою прозою (зокрема, з романом "Молой"):
And another ghost beckons: that of Sam Beckett, whose virtuosities of the anticlimactic doubtless helped persuade literary Paris, when "The Flood" appeared there in 1966, that an honorable genre was being served. But Beckett is precisely the anti-virtuoso. His "Molloy" has no such fine passages as "The Flood" offers on every page, no such catholicities of iridescent epithet. ("Rising through light like the length of a drawn sword, passing, joyfully into that agonizing effulgence, he vanishes from sight as the boiling, turbulent mass closes over him.") No, the prose of "Molloy," or of the stories in "No's Knife," is ascetic. It imports its own principle of resistance, that word after word exactly delineates the arc of a man's passion, a passion that includes, along with exactness, fastidious distaste for opulent words.
The arc of a man's passion, exactly that, is what we miss in "The Flood." Through the words, as in Beckett, we discern the airless humdrum. But behind the words, as not in Beckett, we detect not a disciplined sensibility, with a point of view about the airless humdrum and about the nature of the obligation to describe it, but simply a young Midas, a Midas enabled by syntax and by the dictionary to create fashionable vistas inexpensively, at the touch of the pen. Feats of creation, feats of annihilation, ought to be harder than he makes them look.
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