The final volume of Beckett's trilogy ends prose fiction and starts it again from zero. A voice speaks without body, without location, unable to stop, unable to be sure of anything it says. The last pages are a single breathless sentence running for pages. 'I can't go on, I'll go on' is how it ends. Beckett stripped literature down to its essential condition: someone talking, unable to stop, in the dark. Nothing that came after could pretend the old ways still worked. This is where the twentieth century's most uncompromising writer arrived when he had dismantled everything else.