I’m reading Samuel Beckett’s Molloy, a book I would call extremely putdownable. In today’s world, where the word unputdownable makes books fly off shelves, I am talking about quite the opposite. I read Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl which you literally cannot put down. Although I enjoyed Flynn’s scrumptiously honest prose, once I put it down, that was the end of it. Nothing lingered. Nothing touched. But every time I pick up Molloy – and I pick it up again and again, because I put it down again and again – it touches me. Strikingly unconventional, both in characterisation and narrative with a paragraph that goes on for 80 pages, it messes with my head in the same manner as Godot or Endgame. And I wonder what we are moving towards in this new age of ours. Whatever happened to good old fashioned avant-gardism?