Molloy is trying to reach his mother's room. Moran is sent to find Molloy. Both narrators dissolve into uncertainty, into decay, into the peculiar comedy of existence without ground. Beckett wrote this in French, his second language, to escape the habits of English, and the trilogy it begins stripped fiction to its essentials. The prose circles and contradicts itself; the body fails; the journey has no clear destination. Beckett published it after years of silence, and it established the voice that would define his career. Nothing happens, twice, and somehow that nothing contains everything. I can't go on, I'll go on.