Samuel Beckett's Molloy is in no particular hurry. He is at the doorstep of his mother(hood) and his journey towards death and bearing more shit in the process has just begun. He now also knows that death is only a beginning and that it always leaves behind a path that can be retraced back to several origins, but all necessarily smacking of the pain and valour of the maternal. He no longer can afford to be averse to narratives and senseless loitering, although he never seemed to be so ‒ more or less. ‘What I need now is stories, it took me a long time to know that, and I’m not sure of it’, he says (Beckett, Three Novels, 2009: 9). And yet, it is interesting to note how he also must part with them (just like his pages), one by one ‒ forcingly or voluntarily ‒ in order to retain his sanity (3). He must move into a withdrawal into the omnipotent space of his mother where she has remained confined for an unspecified amount of time ‒ possibly, years. Her alienated place is convincingly strange and unsettling, both spatially as well as temporally.

Her convulsions back and forth in time ‒ for she is a woman and she is a mother ‒ rake up the core vitality of life and its circular causality. She who has been through birth and death, hell and heaven knows that living is an accident, that the wreck of time smothers everyone who lives within a narrow conception of it.