Here he dispenses with all the customary props of contemporary fiction-including exposition, plot, and increasingly, paragraphs-and turns his attention to consciousness itself. But Beckett truly hit his stride with a trilogy of early-1950s masterpieces: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable. His earlier novels, like Murphy or Watt, give us a taste of what was to come. Still, Beckett's instincts would ultimately steer him away from Joyce's delirious play with high and low diction, toward a more concentrated, even compulsive style. As a young man he took dictation (literally) from James Joyce, and absorbed everything that myopic maestro had to offer when it came to Anglo-Irish prosody. Yet he's unmistakably one of the great fiction writers of our century. Samuel Beckett's brilliance as a dramatist-as the creator of Waiting for Godot, Krapp's Last Tape, and that despairing pas de deux Endgame-has tended to overshadow his gifts as a novelist.
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