Three short works executed like philosophical slapstick but delivered with monastic control.

The voice is expelled (funnily enough), wandering, narrating from the gutter of consciousness — no “plot”, more, what is left in ones wake.

If the big novels are Beckett building an empty stage and refusing to furnish it, these novellas are him turning the lights slightly and letting you see the shadows inside. A foundational modernist text for people who like their comedy existential and their existentialism unsentimental.