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賯乇亘丕賳蹖
賯乇亘丕賳蹖 讴鬲丕亘蹖 丕爻鬲孬賳丕蹖蹖 丕爻鬲貨 乇賵丕蹖鬲蹖 丕夭 丌賳鈥屫迟堐� 噩亘賴賴鈥屰� 噩賳诏 噩賴丕賳蹖 丿賵賲貙 乇賵丕蹖鬲蹖 丕夭 丕賵囟丕毓 讴卮賵乇賴丕蹖 鬲丨鬲 丕卮睾丕賱 噩亘賴賴 賲鬲丨丿蹖賳 丌賱賲丕賳 賵 丕蹖鬲丕賱蹖丕 丕夭 丿賱 丕乇丿賵诏丕賴 賮丕鬲丨丕賳 爻丕賱鈥屬囏й� 丕賵賱 噩賳诏. 讴賵乇鬲夭蹖賵 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 禺亘乇賳诏丕乇蹖 丕蹖鬲丕賱蹖丕蹖蹖 亘賵丿 讴賴 亘丕 爻賲鬲 爻乇賵丕賳蹖 丿乇 讴卮賵乇賴丕蹖 賲禺鬲賱賮 噩亘賴賴 賲鬲丨丿蹖賳 賲蹖鈥屭簇� 賵 禺丕胤乇丕鬲卮 乇丕 賲禺賮蹖丕賳賴 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堌簇�. 丕賵 亘賱丕賮丕氐賱賴 亘毓丿 丕夭 倬丕蹖丕賳 噩賳诏 丕蹖賳 禺丕胤乇丕鬲 乇丕 丿乇 賯丕賱亘 讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 賲賳鬲卮乇 讴乇丿貙 讴鬲丕亘蹖 讴賴 禺蹖賱蹖 夭賵丿 亘賴 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 倬乇賮乇賵卮鈥屫臂屬� 丌孬丕乇 丌賳 丿賵乇賴 鬲亘丿蹖賱 卮丿./ 賲毓乇賮賷 丕夭 賳卮乇 賲丕賴蹖
531 pages, Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 1944
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9,811 people want to read
About the author
Curzio Malaparte
108听books231听followersBorn Kurt Erich Suckert, he was an Italian journalist, dramatist, short-story writer, novelist and diplomat.
Born in Prato, Tuscany, he was a son of a German father and his Lombard wife, the former Evelina Perelli. He studied in Rome and then, in 1918, he started his career as a journalist. He fought in the First World War, and later, in 1922, he took part in the March on Rome.
He later saw he was wrong in supporting fascism. That is proved by reading Technique du coup d`etat (1931), where Malaparte attacked both Adolf Hitler and Mussolini. This book was the origin of his downfall inside the National Fascist Party. He was sent to internal exile from 1933 to 1938 on the island of Lipari.
He was freed on the personal intervention of Mussolini's son-in-law and heir apparent Galeazzo Ciano. Mussolini's regime arrested Malaparte again in 1938, 1939, 1941, and 1943 and imprisoned him in Rome's infamous jail Regina Coeli. His remarkable knowledge of Europe and its leaders is based upon his own experiences as a correspondent and in the Italian diplomatic service.
In 1941 he was sent to cover the Eastern Front as a correspondent for Corriere della Sera. He wrote articles about the front in Ukrania, but the fascist dictatorship of Mussollini censored it. But later, in 1943, they were collected and brought out under the title Il Volga nasce in Europa (The Volga Rises in Europe). Also, this experience provided the basis for his two most famous books, Kaputt (1944) and The Skin (1949).
Born in Prato, Tuscany, he was a son of a German father and his Lombard wife, the former Evelina Perelli. He studied in Rome and then, in 1918, he started his career as a journalist. He fought in the First World War, and later, in 1922, he took part in the March on Rome.
He later saw he was wrong in supporting fascism. That is proved by reading Technique du coup d`etat (1931), where Malaparte attacked both Adolf Hitler and Mussolini. This book was the origin of his downfall inside the National Fascist Party. He was sent to internal exile from 1933 to 1938 on the island of Lipari.
He was freed on the personal intervention of Mussolini's son-in-law and heir apparent Galeazzo Ciano. Mussolini's regime arrested Malaparte again in 1938, 1939, 1941, and 1943 and imprisoned him in Rome's infamous jail Regina Coeli. His remarkable knowledge of Europe and its leaders is based upon his own experiences as a correspondent and in the Italian diplomatic service.
In 1941 he was sent to cover the Eastern Front as a correspondent for Corriere della Sera. He wrote articles about the front in Ukrania, but the fascist dictatorship of Mussollini censored it. But later, in 1943, they were collected and brought out under the title Il Volga nasce in Europa (The Volga Rises in Europe). Also, this experience provided the basis for his two most famous books, Kaputt (1944) and The Skin (1949).
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 375 reviews
July 11, 2021
Kaputt is a book of opposites: high society and cabals of murderers, rude naturalism and celestial ideals, filthy squalor and divine art, brutal cruelty and abstract humanism 鈥� all these become interconnected and interchangeable.
The narration is sanguinarily metaphoric and tenebrously imaginative:
So it is with war. War is nurtured with death and pain.
And everything that happens has a morbid aura of irreality鈥� War is delirium of a sick mind.
The narration is sanguinarily metaphoric and tenebrously imaginative:
Twisted tree roots broke through the crystal sheet like frozen serpents, 鈥� it seemed as if the trees drew sustenance from the ice, that the young leaves of a more tender green took their sap from that dead, glassy matter.
So it is with war. War is nurtured with death and pain.
Suddenly the rain ceased; the moon appeared through a rent in the clouds; it looked like a landscape painted by Chagall: A Jewish Chagall sky, crowded with Jewish angels, with Jewish clouds, with Jewish horses and dogs dangling in their flight over the town. Jewish fiddlers sat on the roofs of the houses or floated in a pale sky above the streets, where old Jews lay dead in the gutter between the lighted ritual candelabra. Jewish lovers were stretched out in mid-air on the edge of a cloud as green as a meadow. And under that Jewish Chagall sky, in that Chagall landscape illuminated by a round transparent moon, from the Nicolina, Socola, and Pacurari districts, rose a confused din, a rattle of machine guns and the dull thud of hand grenades.
And everything that happens has a morbid aura of irreality鈥� War is delirium of a sick mind.
May 29, 2019
鈥漀aked Germans are wonderfully defenseless. They are bereft of secrecy. They are no longer frightening. The secret of their strength is not in their skin or in their bones, or in their blood, it is in their uniforms. Their real skin is their uniform. If the peoples of Europe were aware of the flabby, defenseless, and dead nudity concealed by the Feldgrau of the German uniform, the German Army could not frighten even the weakest and most defenseless people.鈥�
If you have ever worn a costume, you will have experienced some of the freedom of being someone else. Masquerade balls and the famous Carnevale di Venezia are fun because people feel released from their normal lives, their personas, and even in some cases their morals. Adolf Hitler liked the pageantry of those impressive uniforms, many of which he designed personally. He was a starving artist before he decided to become an evil dictator. (The film Max with John Cusack explores the life of Hitler when he was still a normal mensch.) A man in a uniform becomes a different person. They can be emboldened and dehumanized and capable of committing great atrocities. It is almost as if the crimes against humanity are perpetrated by the uniform.
Curzio Malaparte was born Kurt Erich Suckert, but changed his name to Malaparte as a pun on Buonaparte, meaning 鈥漢e of the bad place.鈥� As you read this book, he is going to take you to some very bad places. You will see through his eyes the ghettos in Poland, a close encounter with Heinrich Himmler, firing squads, and dinner parties with people out of their frilling minds. His descriptions of scenes of destruction and horror are vivid.
鈥滲y the roadside, and here and there in the cornfields, were overturned cars, burned trucks, disemboweled armored cars, abandoned guns, all twisted by explosions. But nowhere a man, nothing living, not even a corpse, not even any carrion. For miles and miles around there was only dead iron. Dead bodies of machines, hundreds upon hundreds of miserable steel carcasses. The stench of putrefying iron rose from the fields and the lagoons. The smell of rotting iron won over the smell of men and horses--that smell of old wars, even the smell of grain and the penetrating, sweet scent of sunflowers vanished amid the sour stench of scorched iron, rotting steel, and dead machinery.鈥�
This book was published in 1944 while the war was still going on. It is a tribute to his charm and ability to make friends in high places that he was not shot long before this book was ever published. The odyssey of this manuscript actually making it to print is harrowing and related in the intro to this edition.
Malaparte was a fascist, and then he wasn鈥檛.
He disagreed with Il Duce on tactics that he found abhorrent. In 1933, he was stripped of his membership and exiled to the island of Lipari. I would say it is a mystery why he wasn鈥檛 shot, hanged, and drawn and quartered at this point; the vitriol of his pen was very annoying to Mussolini, but then I discovered that he was friends with Galeazzo Ciano, the son-in-law and heir apparent of Mussolini. Ciano eventually saved him from his island of exile, and he came back to the mainland of Italy in 1938. He was then jailed in 1938, 1939, 1941, and 1943.
He refused to be quiet.
Two boys playing dress up. It would be cute if they weren鈥檛 psychopaths!
Mussolini should have had him shipped out to the nearest war zone with a target painted on his face, but instead, I can only believe with the intercession of Ciano, he was assigned to the diplomatic corp as a correspondent and sent to cover the action in the Ukraine. In the course of his new duties, he visited all of the central European countries as he chased down stories and observed with such a discerning eye the very worst of war. His perspectives of the conflict are unlike anything I鈥檝e ever read before. 鈥�Kaputt does something unique in the literature of the war; it crosses the lines of battle. Malaparte鈥檚 essentially treacherous mentality enabled him imaginatively and at times even physically to look at conflict simultaneously from the vantage points of opposing camps.鈥�
And he shares scenes like this:
鈥漈he lake looked like a vast sheet of white marble on which rested hundreds upon hundreds of horses鈥� heads. They appeared to have been chopped off cleanly with an ax. Only the heads stuck out of the crust of ice. And they were all facing the shore. The white flame of terror still burnt in their wide-open eyes. Close to the shore a tangle of wildly rearing horses rose from the prison of ice.鈥�
These Soviet horses were stampeded by a barrage of artillery fire into the water at the very moment the water was beginning to freeze. A tragic scene, but at the same time, how can we not be struck by the beauty of it? Ice sculptures of hundreds of the most exquisite creatures on the planet, preserved until the spring thaw as works of art.
There are dinner scenes where friends of the Axis Alliance were gorging themselves on a rich banquet of food while postulating about the Jews living like rats, starving to death mere miles from their table. Malaparte visited the Jewish girls who have been forced into whore houses for the pleasure of German soldiers. He was sitting and holding one girl鈥檚 hand as she told him that she had to submit to forty-three soldiers and six officers that day. Why she distinguished the officers from the regular enlistment was a bit baffling? She was counting down the days when she would be released. They only used them for twenty some days, then fresh girls were brought in. She was looking forward to when she would be allowed to go home, but what Malaparte did not have the heart to tell her was that she would not be going home.
Malaparte in uniform, not looking very menacing in THAT hat!
I鈥檝e always heard good things about Curzio Malaparte鈥檚 writing, but I had no idea how compelling his writing was going to be. I would pick this book up intending to read a chapter or two, and the next thing I know, I鈥檝e blown through 100 pages. Even when he is relating tragedy, he does so with alluring and, at times, stunning prose. For those who feel they know all there is to know about World War II, you are still missing some insights if you haven鈥檛 seen the war through Curzio Malaparte鈥檚 eyes.
I鈥檝e been accused of being an intellectual before, so I particularly enjoyed this exchange.
鈥濃€橧 often ask myself,鈥� said de Foxa, 鈥榳hat the function of the intellectuals will be in a new medieval period. I bet they would take advantage of the opportunity to try again to save European civilization.鈥欌€�
Yes, yes, we will!
If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit
I also have a Facebook blogger page at:
Menacing isn鈥檛 it?
If you have ever worn a costume, you will have experienced some of the freedom of being someone else. Masquerade balls and the famous Carnevale di Venezia are fun because people feel released from their normal lives, their personas, and even in some cases their morals. Adolf Hitler liked the pageantry of those impressive uniforms, many of which he designed personally. He was a starving artist before he decided to become an evil dictator. (The film Max with John Cusack explores the life of Hitler when he was still a normal mensch.) A man in a uniform becomes a different person. They can be emboldened and dehumanized and capable of committing great atrocities. It is almost as if the crimes against humanity are perpetrated by the uniform.
Curzio Malaparte was born Kurt Erich Suckert, but changed his name to Malaparte as a pun on Buonaparte, meaning 鈥漢e of the bad place.鈥� As you read this book, he is going to take you to some very bad places. You will see through his eyes the ghettos in Poland, a close encounter with Heinrich Himmler, firing squads, and dinner parties with people out of their frilling minds. His descriptions of scenes of destruction and horror are vivid.
鈥滲y the roadside, and here and there in the cornfields, were overturned cars, burned trucks, disemboweled armored cars, abandoned guns, all twisted by explosions. But nowhere a man, nothing living, not even a corpse, not even any carrion. For miles and miles around there was only dead iron. Dead bodies of machines, hundreds upon hundreds of miserable steel carcasses. The stench of putrefying iron rose from the fields and the lagoons. The smell of rotting iron won over the smell of men and horses--that smell of old wars, even the smell of grain and the penetrating, sweet scent of sunflowers vanished amid the sour stench of scorched iron, rotting steel, and dead machinery.鈥�
This book was published in 1944 while the war was still going on. It is a tribute to his charm and ability to make friends in high places that he was not shot long before this book was ever published. The odyssey of this manuscript actually making it to print is harrowing and related in the intro to this edition.
Malaparte was a fascist, and then he wasn鈥檛.
He disagreed with Il Duce on tactics that he found abhorrent. In 1933, he was stripped of his membership and exiled to the island of Lipari. I would say it is a mystery why he wasn鈥檛 shot, hanged, and drawn and quartered at this point; the vitriol of his pen was very annoying to Mussolini, but then I discovered that he was friends with Galeazzo Ciano, the son-in-law and heir apparent of Mussolini. Ciano eventually saved him from his island of exile, and he came back to the mainland of Italy in 1938. He was then jailed in 1938, 1939, 1941, and 1943.
He refused to be quiet.
Two boys playing dress up. It would be cute if they weren鈥檛 psychopaths!
Mussolini should have had him shipped out to the nearest war zone with a target painted on his face, but instead, I can only believe with the intercession of Ciano, he was assigned to the diplomatic corp as a correspondent and sent to cover the action in the Ukraine. In the course of his new duties, he visited all of the central European countries as he chased down stories and observed with such a discerning eye the very worst of war. His perspectives of the conflict are unlike anything I鈥檝e ever read before. 鈥�Kaputt does something unique in the literature of the war; it crosses the lines of battle. Malaparte鈥檚 essentially treacherous mentality enabled him imaginatively and at times even physically to look at conflict simultaneously from the vantage points of opposing camps.鈥�
And he shares scenes like this:
鈥漈he lake looked like a vast sheet of white marble on which rested hundreds upon hundreds of horses鈥� heads. They appeared to have been chopped off cleanly with an ax. Only the heads stuck out of the crust of ice. And they were all facing the shore. The white flame of terror still burnt in their wide-open eyes. Close to the shore a tangle of wildly rearing horses rose from the prison of ice.鈥�
These Soviet horses were stampeded by a barrage of artillery fire into the water at the very moment the water was beginning to freeze. A tragic scene, but at the same time, how can we not be struck by the beauty of it? Ice sculptures of hundreds of the most exquisite creatures on the planet, preserved until the spring thaw as works of art.
There are dinner scenes where friends of the Axis Alliance were gorging themselves on a rich banquet of food while postulating about the Jews living like rats, starving to death mere miles from their table. Malaparte visited the Jewish girls who have been forced into whore houses for the pleasure of German soldiers. He was sitting and holding one girl鈥檚 hand as she told him that she had to submit to forty-three soldiers and six officers that day. Why she distinguished the officers from the regular enlistment was a bit baffling? She was counting down the days when she would be released. They only used them for twenty some days, then fresh girls were brought in. She was looking forward to when she would be allowed to go home, but what Malaparte did not have the heart to tell her was that she would not be going home.
Malaparte in uniform, not looking very menacing in THAT hat!
I鈥檝e always heard good things about Curzio Malaparte鈥檚 writing, but I had no idea how compelling his writing was going to be. I would pick this book up intending to read a chapter or two, and the next thing I know, I鈥檝e blown through 100 pages. Even when he is relating tragedy, he does so with alluring and, at times, stunning prose. For those who feel they know all there is to know about World War II, you are still missing some insights if you haven鈥檛 seen the war through Curzio Malaparte鈥檚 eyes.
I鈥檝e been accused of being an intellectual before, so I particularly enjoyed this exchange.
鈥濃€橧 often ask myself,鈥� said de Foxa, 鈥榳hat the function of the intellectuals will be in a new medieval period. I bet they would take advantage of the opportunity to try again to save European civilization.鈥欌€�
Yes, yes, we will!
If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit
I also have a Facebook blogger page at:
May 13, 2024
The manuscript for Malaparte's 'Kaputt' has a tale all of it's own. And I feel it's worth mentioning. It started life in a Ukrainian village in 1941, whilst he stayed with a Russian peasant. He had some unwanted neighbours, a detachment of S.S. men occupied the adjoining house. Whenever a trooper neared whilst Malaparte wrote, his friend, Suchena, gave a warning cough, and by the time Malaparte was called to the Eastern Front his manuscript was hidden in secret hole, in the wall of a pig-sty. Parts of it were also sewn into the lining of his uniform. He returned from Finland with pages hidden in the double soles of his shoes, whilst the rest was divided into three parts, being left in the hands of those he obviously trusted. The Spanish minister in Helsinki, the secretary of the Romanian Legation, and the press attach茅 who was returning to Bucharest. After a bit of an odyssey, the manuscript finally made it's way back to Italy, before Malaparte hid it close to his Capri home. So whilst reading Kaputt, I fully appreciated the effort put in just to get it out there. It's an important work, that made me gasp, cringe, laugh and almost cry. It was filled with so many brilliant sentences that were not always pleasant, and featured some ridiculously bizarre and funny moments involving those he acquainted with. I don't like the idea of laughing whilst reading a book based on WW2, but I couldn't help it, in places it's damn right hilarious as he pokes fun and winds up, manly the Germans. When Malaparte does get serious though it's emotionally draining stuff, taking in the horrors which he bore witness to. Like him or loathe him (as a supporter of mussolini) the guy could write impeccable well.
Kaputt, on the whole is a monstrous and gruesome book, not gruesome in describing the death and carnage of war, but gruesome in that of the people Malaparte spends a lot of his time in the company of. On his travels he would take in, Russia, Finland, Sweden, Romania, Croatia, at ease with dignitaries, soldiers and peasants alike, and even Lapland, were he runs into Himmler who appears to be melting whilst in a sauna. Among the characters in this book war could be seen as of second importance, most of the time the war doesn't even get mentioned. This could be looked at in a way that serves only as a pretext, but pretexts inevitably belong to the sphere of destiny. In Kaputt, war is destiny. War is not so much a protagonist as a spectator, in the same sense that the landscape is spectating. Kaputt - which literally means 'broken, finished, gone to ruin, torn to pieces' a pile of rubble', is the gay and grotesque monster.
For a book surrounded by much controversy, Malaparte opens proceedings in a most serene manner, involving Prince Eugene of Sweden. Sweden was neutral during war, and Malaparte, or his alter ego, is an Italian officer with the anomalous task of writing war dispatches for 'Corriere della Sera', for which the gestapo had him expelled from Ukraine. He spends a lot of Time in freezingly cold climates, and it seems most characters he comes across look about twenty years older than they are, weary, tired, fearful, and already half dead. Apart from the Nazis, who dine in lavish and grandeur surroundings. Malaparte recounts he was in the foyer of the Pohjanhovi hotel in Rovaniemi, the capital of Lapland, the northernmost province of Finland, and there on the threshold of the elevator cage was a man in a Nazi uniform who looked, Malaparte says, like Stravinsky. He would later realise it was Himmler, who invited him for a drink, he hadn't recognized him, he declined. This seemed a neat allegory of Malaparte's cool - the changes in his politics show how much of an opportunist he was. His shifts demonstrate his indifference to political parties, his fundamentally aesthetic disinterest.
There were some moving moments also, one involving some Romania prostitutes at a brothel, some only young girls, who believed they will be set free after a few weeks, but were eventually marched off and shot. Some things remain clear, but a large part of the appeal of Kaputt for me lies with the uncertainty, the ambiguity, of and within many of the scenes. It is a literary work whose aesthetic intention is so strong, so apparent, that the sensitive reader automatically excludes it from the context of accounts brought to bear by historians, journalists, political analysts and memoirists. Malaparte writes with much interest, and World War II was such a monumental event鈥攚hy dress either one up beyond reality? Part of the answer lies in what Malaparte was trying to achieve, both personally and in his book. In 'dressing up' history, Malaparte has shown what happened in a completely different light. For many, It would be easy to criticize him, his fictional memoirs or gothic fantasies go way over the top at times, turning into the surreal and deranged. This does at times become tedious. And the vast amount of dialogue used whilst banqueting as a guest gets too long-winded, but it's all part of his set up. Malaparte seems to be playing fast and loose with facts in order to delve into the truth.
His denunciation of Italy and Germany in Kaputt are firm, how much of that comes from his conviction at the time of his writing the book is uncertain. Underlying his extended tropes of animals for facets or aspects of the war resides a metaphor that civilization in general, and Europe in particular, was committing suicide in the war. After four years spent throughout Europe, a ravaged, tired and empty Malaparte returns to Naples, where only the poor and crippled remain, the city has declared a new war, a war on flies, they are everywhere, devouring the city like a plague, in the stinking rotten heat. All he wants is to get back to his villa on the cliffs of Capri and sleep for a month.
After already having read his other major work 'la pelle' (The Skin), I knew what to expect and it didn't disappoint, both are a class apart, and although I preferred 'The Skin', Kaputt was still an exceptional read, with moments I will simply never forget.
April 25, 2025
Now here鈥檚 a thing. If you want to learn about the events that led to the murder of 14 million civilians at the hands of both Josef Stalin and Adolf Hitler in the 1930/40鈥檚, then read Timothy Snyder鈥檚 magnificent . 14 million civilians, just take a moment to think about that.
If you want to understand the madness, then read Kaputt. Curzio Malaparte鈥檚 wartime dispatches are partially based on true events. A book of contrasts, it consists of several conversations the author has with the elite of Europe. It鈥檚 their savage indifference to the atrocities that makes Kaputt so bewitching.
One of Malaparte鈥檚 theories is that the Germans acted out of fear -
鈥淭hat which drives the Germans to cruelty, to deeds most coldly, methodically and scientifically cruel, is fear. Fear of the oppressed, the defenseless, the weak, the sick; fear of women and of children, fear of the Jews鈥�
Part fiction, part fact, it鈥檚 an eye-witness account of WW2. The chapters about the pogrom in Jassy, the frozen horses in Lake Ladoga, and the forced prostitution of Jewish girls in Soroca are savage, barbaric and unforgettable. What makes Kaputt so utterly brilliant is the writing. I gave up underlining quotes about a third of the way in. The writing is beautiful. For instance, talking to Prince Eugene of Sweden:
鈥淲e went into the park. It was getting cold. The eastern sky looked like filmed silver. The slow death of the light, the return of darkness after the endless summer day, gave me a feeling of peace and calm鈥�
Kaputt is both mesmorising and hypnotic. In the hands of a less skilled writer it could be considered pretentious. It鈥檚 not the sort of book I鈥檇 normally read, so a big thanks to my friend Helen for alerting me to it.
Curzio Malaparte was a fascinating character, but not necessarily a likeable one. He was egotistical, vainglorious, capricious and elitist. But he could write. Reading Kaputt is like being taken through the darkest days of Europe by a ballerina with the voice of a deathless angel.
If you want to understand the madness, then read Kaputt. Curzio Malaparte鈥檚 wartime dispatches are partially based on true events. A book of contrasts, it consists of several conversations the author has with the elite of Europe. It鈥檚 their savage indifference to the atrocities that makes Kaputt so bewitching.
One of Malaparte鈥檚 theories is that the Germans acted out of fear -
鈥淭hat which drives the Germans to cruelty, to deeds most coldly, methodically and scientifically cruel, is fear. Fear of the oppressed, the defenseless, the weak, the sick; fear of women and of children, fear of the Jews鈥�
Part fiction, part fact, it鈥檚 an eye-witness account of WW2. The chapters about the pogrom in Jassy, the frozen horses in Lake Ladoga, and the forced prostitution of Jewish girls in Soroca are savage, barbaric and unforgettable. What makes Kaputt so utterly brilliant is the writing. I gave up underlining quotes about a third of the way in. The writing is beautiful. For instance, talking to Prince Eugene of Sweden:
鈥淲e went into the park. It was getting cold. The eastern sky looked like filmed silver. The slow death of the light, the return of darkness after the endless summer day, gave me a feeling of peace and calm鈥�
Kaputt is both mesmorising and hypnotic. In the hands of a less skilled writer it could be considered pretentious. It鈥檚 not the sort of book I鈥檇 normally read, so a big thanks to my friend Helen for alerting me to it.
Curzio Malaparte was a fascinating character, but not necessarily a likeable one. He was egotistical, vainglorious, capricious and elitist. But he could write. Reading Kaputt is like being taken through the darkest days of Europe by a ballerina with the voice of a deathless angel.
April 17, 2021
Grotesque. Is that not the only realistic way to describe the ravages of war? Curzio Malaparte is clearly just the man to provide us with an abundance of the grotesque as observed by him during his travels as a war correspondent in the war zones of Poland and Eastern Europe. His tone of voice is sharp and cynical, yet I feel his observations on the folly of war and the countries and men participating in it are very appropriate and often sensitive, even if it offended people greatly at the time. He was loved as well as loathed for his harsh, yet often humorous observations. Still today, his rather sick sense of humor is darkly comic. I feel that Malaparte gives us the real emotion of how it feels to experience war as an observer on the sideline as he was, the noise, the dead, the bombing, people on the run, the louting, people strung up on trees, the senseless hate. Malaparte himself describes his experiences as 鈥榗ruel gaiety鈥�. Well, yes, the man was a total cynic and I think that is exactly why his reports are feeling so truly realistic and precisely correct because of their absurdity and brutality. As far as I am concerned, the same applies to his other war novel, 鈥楾he Skin鈥�, about the liberation of Naples.
Malaparte travelled extensively over the battle fields during the years 1941 through 1943. He observed the war from both the German as well as the Russian front. As a born and raised bon vivant and obviously a member of high class, he was apparently very welcome to stay at Italian embassies where he dined and wined out of harm鈥檚 way, notably in Finland and Sweden. He was apparently very welcome at other embassies as well. He was, after all, a dandy with great wit and I have no doubt that he was very pleasant company. The fact that Mussolini had jailed him for his criticism of the Italian fascist movement in the 1930鈥檚 was apparently no reason not to welcome him and perhaps even a recommendation. Apparently, the German fascist regime in Warsaw loved to have him as a guest and Malaparte has quite some hilarious observations on all those pompous German men and their ladies when dining at the Embassy. He even met Himmler a few times at an Embassy dinner in Warsaw and he always referred to him afterwards as 鈥榯he human Himmler鈥�, thus as a specimen of another species. Very good classification in my view.
The last chapter of the book provides a horrendous description of the apocalyptic destruction of Naples. Malaparte arrived there in 1943 after another stay in prison. Although he does not go into details, I assume Mussolini鈥檚 son-in-law arranged for his release. Malaparte hurried off between all the rubble and thongs of roaming people to the harbor to try to catch a boat to take him to Capri where his house was. This house is quite a landmark till this day.
The book ends in a very Malapartian anecdote with a conversation at the harbour with an old man. I鈥檒l translate it because it is such an appropriate ending:
鈥楧amn flies!鈥� I said.
鈥楾hat鈥檚 right鈥� says the man, waving his newspaper, 鈥榙amn flies鈥�.
鈥榃hy don鈥檛 you people of Naples start a fight against the flies? With us in Northern Italy, in Milan, Torino, Florence and even Rome, the municipalities organised the fight against flies. There鈥檚 no fly to be found there anymore.鈥�
鈥楾here鈥檚 even no fly anymore in Milan?鈥�
鈥楴o, not a single one. We have put them all to death. It is a question of hygiene, you prevent infections and illness.鈥�
鈥極h well, but we have taken up the fight against flies in Naples too, better even, we have started a downright war against the flies. Already for three years we have combated the flies.鈥�
鈥楽o how it is possible then that there are still so many flies in Naples?鈥�
鈥極h well, Sir, what do you want: the flies have won.鈥�
Malaparte travelled extensively over the battle fields during the years 1941 through 1943. He observed the war from both the German as well as the Russian front. As a born and raised bon vivant and obviously a member of high class, he was apparently very welcome to stay at Italian embassies where he dined and wined out of harm鈥檚 way, notably in Finland and Sweden. He was apparently very welcome at other embassies as well. He was, after all, a dandy with great wit and I have no doubt that he was very pleasant company. The fact that Mussolini had jailed him for his criticism of the Italian fascist movement in the 1930鈥檚 was apparently no reason not to welcome him and perhaps even a recommendation. Apparently, the German fascist regime in Warsaw loved to have him as a guest and Malaparte has quite some hilarious observations on all those pompous German men and their ladies when dining at the Embassy. He even met Himmler a few times at an Embassy dinner in Warsaw and he always referred to him afterwards as 鈥榯he human Himmler鈥�, thus as a specimen of another species. Very good classification in my view.
The last chapter of the book provides a horrendous description of the apocalyptic destruction of Naples. Malaparte arrived there in 1943 after another stay in prison. Although he does not go into details, I assume Mussolini鈥檚 son-in-law arranged for his release. Malaparte hurried off between all the rubble and thongs of roaming people to the harbor to try to catch a boat to take him to Capri where his house was. This house is quite a landmark till this day.
The book ends in a very Malapartian anecdote with a conversation at the harbour with an old man. I鈥檒l translate it because it is such an appropriate ending:
鈥楧amn flies!鈥� I said.
鈥楾hat鈥檚 right鈥� says the man, waving his newspaper, 鈥榙amn flies鈥�.
鈥榃hy don鈥檛 you people of Naples start a fight against the flies? With us in Northern Italy, in Milan, Torino, Florence and even Rome, the municipalities organised the fight against flies. There鈥檚 no fly to be found there anymore.鈥�
鈥楾here鈥檚 even no fly anymore in Milan?鈥�
鈥楴o, not a single one. We have put them all to death. It is a question of hygiene, you prevent infections and illness.鈥�
鈥極h well, but we have taken up the fight against flies in Naples too, better even, we have started a downright war against the flies. Already for three years we have combated the flies.鈥�
鈥楽o how it is possible then that there are still so many flies in Naples?鈥�
鈥極h well, Sir, what do you want: the flies have won.鈥�
February 9, 2017
A tour de force in description that is both grotesque and horrifying, Kaputt brings us a candid view of the war behind the Axis lines from Finland to Naples and from Russia to Poland to Romania to Croatia. No bullets are spared, no scene is too extreme not to portray. Like if Proust was writing The Walking Dead and Catch-22 while drinking with Dostoyevsky and Himmler. That may sound like an absurd comparison, but everything in this book is terrifyingly absurd. Buckets of eyes, lakes of frozen horses, clouds of flies, dogs used as bombs and the careless doomed vaunting of Kultur from the Germans and the looks of doom in the vanquished people they subjugated and murdered. It is a work that reveals the animal nature humans as each chapter is named after an animal that becomes a leitmotif for the ensuing narrative: horses (representing the past?), mice (representing the Jews and other victims of the Holocaust), dogs (representing the resistance), the reindeer (representing the corruption and meltdown of the European order and aristocracy) and the flies (representing death who took its victims indiscriminately from both sides, from civilians as well as soldiers.)
Having read this on the heels of Catch-22, I found the writing of Malaparte more exquisite than Heller's albeit with far less humor. Where Heller tries to show Yossarian as being horrified at the war and running from it, Malaparte's character sometimes seeks out the slaughter and has a schizophrenic relationship to the violence which belies the character of the author in real life. A difficult and trying read but an essential view of the horrors we must never repeat, and yet inevitably like the clouds of flies on the golf course near the end, we are doomed by our nature to do so.
My apologies for a downer note at the end of the year, but with Trump coming and Marine on the rise, I think that keeping the past in mind, perhaps we will not in fact be doomed to repeat. I guess I would rather side with Yossarian's paranoiac insanity that the coldly observant but unfeeling eyes of Malaparte.
Having read this on the heels of Catch-22, I found the writing of Malaparte more exquisite than Heller's albeit with far less humor. Where Heller tries to show Yossarian as being horrified at the war and running from it, Malaparte's character sometimes seeks out the slaughter and has a schizophrenic relationship to the violence which belies the character of the author in real life. A difficult and trying read but an essential view of the horrors we must never repeat, and yet inevitably like the clouds of flies on the golf course near the end, we are doomed by our nature to do so.
My apologies for a downer note at the end of the year, but with Trump coming and Marine on the rise, I think that keeping the past in mind, perhaps we will not in fact be doomed to repeat. I guess I would rather side with Yossarian's paranoiac insanity that the coldly observant but unfeeling eyes of Malaparte.
February 2, 2021
賯乇亘丕賳蹖 蹖丕 讴丕倬賵鬲 丨丕氐賱 賲卮丕賴丿丕鬲 丌賯丕蹖 讴賵乇鬲夭蹖賵 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 乇賵夭賳丕賲賴 賳诏丕乇 卮賴蹖乇 丕蹖鬲丕賱蹖丕蹖蹖 丿乇 夭賲丕賳 噩賳诏 噩賴丕賳蹖 丿賵賲 丕夭 噩亘賴賴 賴丕蹖 噩賳诏 亘賴 禺氐賵氐 乇賵爻蹖賴 賵 丕賵讴乇丕蹖賳 賲蹖 亘丕卮丿 . 丕賵 丿乇 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮鬲賴 賴丕 亘丕 丕賮乇丕丿 亘乇噩爻鬲賴 夭蹖丕丿蹖 賴賲 囟蹖丕賮鬲 卮丕賲蹖 丿丕卮鬲賴 賵 丨乇賮賴丕蹖 丌賳賴丕 乇丕 賴賲 亘賴 賳诏丕乇卮 丿乇 丌賵乇丿賴 ( 丕夭 噩賲賱賴 賴丕賳鬲爻 賮乇丕賳讴 - 噩賱丕丿 賱賴爻鬲丕賳 賵 賴丕蹖賳乇蹖卮 賴蹖賲賱乇 賲毓乇賵賮 賮乇賲丕賳丿賴 丕爻 丕爻 ) 賵 亘賴 丕蹖賳 鬲乇鬲蹖亘 亘賴 禺賵丕賳賳丿賴 丕賲讴丕賳 卮賳丕禺鬲賳 丕賮讴丕乇 賵 毓賯丕蹖丿 匕賴賳 賴丕蹖 亘蹖賲丕乇 丌賳賴丕 乇丕 賲蹖 丿賴丿 .
賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 禺丕胤乇丕鬲 賵丨卮鬲賳丕讴蹖 丕夭 賲卮丕賴丿丕鬲 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘丕夭诏賵 賲蹖 讴賳丿 貙 丕賵 賳诏丕賴 禺丕氐蹖 丿丕乇丿 賵 丿賳亘丕賱 賲賳丕馗乇 亘賴 禺氐賵氐蹖 賲蹖 诏乇丿丿 賵 丌賳賴丕 乇丕 賲蹖 蹖丕亘丿 :
丿乇 卮賲丕賱 賮賳賱丕賳丿 貙 賴賳诏丕賲蹖 讴賴 丕爻亘賴丕蹖 賵丨卮蹖 亘乇丕孬乇 亘賲亘丕乇丕賳 乇賲 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 賵 亘賴 丿丕禺賱 蹖讴 丿乇蹖丕趩賴 賲蹖 乇賵賳丿 貙 夭賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 賴乇 趩賴 賯丿乇 鬲賱丕卮 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 賳賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳賳丿 丕夭 丿乇蹖丕趩賴 賱毓賳鬲蹖 禺丕乇噩 卮賵賳丿 貙 卮亘 賮乇丕 賲蹖 乇爻丿 賵 亘丕丿 賵丨卮鬲賳丕讴 夭賲爻鬲丕賳 . 鬲丕 趩賳丿 賲丕賴 乇賵爻鬲丕蹖蹖丕賳 賮賳賱丕賳丿蹖 賲賳馗乇賴 賵丨卮鬲賳丕讴蹖 賲蹖 亘蹖賳賳丿 : 賲噩爻賲賴 賴丕蹖 蹖禺蹖 丕爻亘賴丕蹖 丿乇 丨丕賱 賮乇丕乇 賵 丿乇蹖丕趩賴 蹖禺 夭丿賴
賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 噩賳诏 乇丕 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖 蹖丕亘丿 貙 丿乇 賲蹖丕賳 賲噩乇賵丨蹖賳 噩賳诏蹖 貙 讴爻丕賳蹖 讴賴 倬賱讴 趩卮賲 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘乇 丕孬乇 爻乇賲丕蹖 乇賵爻蹖賴 丕夭 丿爻鬲 丿丕丿賴 丕賳丿 貙 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 亘丕 禺賵丿 賮讴乇 賲蹖 讴賳丿 讴賴 丌賳賴丕 趩诏賵賳賴 賲蹖 禺賵丕亘賳丿 貙 丕賵 賲蹖 賮賴賲丿 讴賴 賲卮丕賴丿賴 禺賵丕亘 丿賴丕 賳賮乇 讴賴 倬賱讴 賳丿丕乇賳丿 賵 卮亘 亘丕 趩卮賲 賴丕蹖 亘丕夭 夭賱 賲蹖 夭賳賳丿 亘賴 丌爻賲丕賳 趩賴 鬲噩乇亘賴 丿賴卮鬲賳丕讴蹖 丕蹖爻鬲 .
賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 亘賴 乇賵爻鬲丕賴丕 賵 卮賴乇賴丕蹖 乇賵賲丕賳蹖 賲蹖 乇賵丿 貙 噩丕蹖蹖 讴賴 蹖賴賵丿蹖丕賳 乇丕 丕夭 诏鬲賵 禺丕乇噩 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 ( 賲丕賳賳丿 爻讴丕賳爻 賮賵賯 丕賱毓丕丿賴 丿禺鬲乇亘趩賴 賯乇賲夭 倬賵卮 丿乇 賮蹖賱賲 賮賴乇爻鬲 卮蹖賳丿賱乇 ) 丌賳賴丕 乇丕 亘賴 夭賵乇 丿乇 賯胤丕乇 賲蹖 趩倬丕賳賳丿 鬲丕 夭賳丿賴 亘賴 诏賵乇 卮賵賳丿 貙 亘丿賵賳 賴賵丕貙 丌亘 賵 丕讴爻蹖跇賳
賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 亘丕 爻乇亘丕夭丕賳 丌賱賲丕賳蹖 賲氐丕丨亘賴 賲蹖 讴賳丿 貙 丌賳賴丕 亘賴 丕賵 丕夭 卮讴丕乇 賲賵卮 賲蹖 诏賵蹖賳丿 貙 賲賵卮賴丕 丿乇 丨賯蹖賯鬲 亘趩賴 賴丕蹖 蹖賴賵丿蹖 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 诏賵丿丕賱 丿乇 夭蹖乇 丿蹖賵丕乇 诏鬲賵 賲蹖 爻丕夭賳丿 鬲丕 亘賴 卮賴乇亘乇賵賳丿 賵 睾匕丕 亘乇丕蹖 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 禺賵丿 亘蹖丕賵乇賳丿 . ( 丕蹖賳 爻讴丕賳爻 賴賲 亘賴 夭蹖亘丕蹖蹖 丿乇 賮蹖賱賲 倬蹖丕賳蹖爻鬲 亘賴 鬲氐賵蹖乇 讴卮蹖丿賴 卮丿賴 貙 噩丕蹖蹖 讴賴 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 丕蹖賳 賯賴乇賲丕賳丕賳 讴賵趩讴 诏蹖乇 賲蹖 丕賮鬲丿 賵 亘丕 囟乇亘丕鬲 賱诏丿 賵 賯賳丿丕賯 鬲賮賳诏 丕夭 倬丕 丿乇 賲蹖 丌蹖丿 貙 亘丕 鬲讴賴 賳丕賳蹖 丿乇 丿爻鬲 ).
讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 卮亘丕賴鬲 夭蹖丕丿蹖 亘賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 噩賳诏 賵 丿蹖诏乇 賴蹖趩 丕孬乇 乇賵夭賳丕賲賴 賳诏丕乇 卮賴蹖乇 丕蹖鬲丕賱蹖丕蹖蹖 丕賵乇蹖丕賳丕 賮丕賱丕趩蹖 丿丕乇丿 丕賲丕 讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 禺丕賱蹖 丕夭 賲毓賳丕爻鬲 貙 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 亘乇 毓讴爻 禺丕賳賲 賮丕賱丕趩蹖 丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 倬丕爻禺 賴蹖趩 爻賵丕賱蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 貙 亘賴 丿賳亘丕賱 賲毓賳丕 賵 賲賮賴賵賲蹖 賴賲 賳蹖爻鬲 貙 丕賵 賮賯胤 丕夭 賮噩丕蹖毓 噩賳诏 賲蹖 诏賵蹖丿 . 诏賵蹖蹖 讴賴 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 噩賳诏 乇丕 賮賯胤 丕夭 丿乇蹖趩賴 丿賵乇亘蹖賳 丿蹖丿賴 貙 趩蹖夭蹖 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 賲蹖丕賳 睾丕蹖亘 丕爻鬲 賵 丿乇 卮丕賴讴丕乇 禺丕賳賲 賮丕賱丕趩蹖 亘賴 卮丿鬲 丨丕囟乇 乇賵丨 丕賳爻丕賳蹖 丕蹖爻鬲 貙 讴鬲丕亘 乇賵丨 賳丿丕乇丿
亘蹖卮鬲乇 氐賮丨丕鬲 讴鬲丕亘 亘丕 囟蹖丕賮鬲賴丕蹖 卮丕賲 丿乇 丨囟賵乇 爻乇丕賳 丌賱賲丕賳 倬乇 卮丿賴 貙 賳丕夭蹖賴丕 丕賳爻丕賳 賴丕蹖 禺卮讴蹖 賳卮丕賳 丿丕丿賴 卮丿賴 丕賳丿 讴賴 賲鬲賱讴 诏賵蹖蹖 賵 鬲讴賴 丕賳丿丕禺鬲賳 賵 亘夭賱賴 诏賵蹖蹖 賴丕蹖 丌賯丕蹖 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 乇丕 賲鬲賵噩賴 賳賲蹖 卮賵賳丿 . 诏賵蹖蹖 亘丕乇 賮丕卮蹖爻鬲 亘賵丿賳 亘乇 噩爻賲 禺爻鬲賴 丌賯丕蹖 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 爻賳诏蹖賳蹖 賲蹖 讴賳丿 诏賵蹖丕 賲蹖 禺賵丕賴丿 孬丕亘鬲 讴賳丿 讴賴 亘丕 賳丕夭蹖賴丕 賮乇賯 丿丕乇丿 .
卮丕蹖丿 亘鬲賵丕賳 乇诏賴 賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 倬卮蹖賲丕賳蹖 蹖丕 卮乇賲爻丕乇蹖 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 亘賴 禺丕胤乇 蹖讴 賮丕卮蹖爻鬲 爻丕亘賯 亘賵丿賳 賵 蹖丕 賴賲讴丕乇蹖 丕蹖鬲丕賱蹖丕 亘丕 丌賱賲丕賳 賳丕夭蹖 亘賴 禺氐賵氐 丿乇 亘丕賱讴丕賳 乇丕 亘鬲賵丕賳 丿乇 讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 丿蹖丿 .
賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 禺丕胤乇丕鬲 賵丨卮鬲賳丕讴蹖 丕夭 賲卮丕賴丿丕鬲 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘丕夭诏賵 賲蹖 讴賳丿 貙 丕賵 賳诏丕賴 禺丕氐蹖 丿丕乇丿 賵 丿賳亘丕賱 賲賳丕馗乇 亘賴 禺氐賵氐蹖 賲蹖 诏乇丿丿 賵 丌賳賴丕 乇丕 賲蹖 蹖丕亘丿 :
丿乇 卮賲丕賱 賮賳賱丕賳丿 貙 賴賳诏丕賲蹖 讴賴 丕爻亘賴丕蹖 賵丨卮蹖 亘乇丕孬乇 亘賲亘丕乇丕賳 乇賲 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 賵 亘賴 丿丕禺賱 蹖讴 丿乇蹖丕趩賴 賲蹖 乇賵賳丿 貙 夭賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 賴乇 趩賴 賯丿乇 鬲賱丕卮 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 賳賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳賳丿 丕夭 丿乇蹖丕趩賴 賱毓賳鬲蹖 禺丕乇噩 卮賵賳丿 貙 卮亘 賮乇丕 賲蹖 乇爻丿 賵 亘丕丿 賵丨卮鬲賳丕讴 夭賲爻鬲丕賳 . 鬲丕 趩賳丿 賲丕賴 乇賵爻鬲丕蹖蹖丕賳 賮賳賱丕賳丿蹖 賲賳馗乇賴 賵丨卮鬲賳丕讴蹖 賲蹖 亘蹖賳賳丿 : 賲噩爻賲賴 賴丕蹖 蹖禺蹖 丕爻亘賴丕蹖 丿乇 丨丕賱 賮乇丕乇 賵 丿乇蹖丕趩賴 蹖禺 夭丿賴
賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 噩賳诏 乇丕 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖 蹖丕亘丿 貙 丿乇 賲蹖丕賳 賲噩乇賵丨蹖賳 噩賳诏蹖 貙 讴爻丕賳蹖 讴賴 倬賱讴 趩卮賲 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘乇 丕孬乇 爻乇賲丕蹖 乇賵爻蹖賴 丕夭 丿爻鬲 丿丕丿賴 丕賳丿 貙 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 亘丕 禺賵丿 賮讴乇 賲蹖 讴賳丿 讴賴 丌賳賴丕 趩诏賵賳賴 賲蹖 禺賵丕亘賳丿 貙 丕賵 賲蹖 賮賴賲丿 讴賴 賲卮丕賴丿賴 禺賵丕亘 丿賴丕 賳賮乇 讴賴 倬賱讴 賳丿丕乇賳丿 賵 卮亘 亘丕 趩卮賲 賴丕蹖 亘丕夭 夭賱 賲蹖 夭賳賳丿 亘賴 丌爻賲丕賳 趩賴 鬲噩乇亘賴 丿賴卮鬲賳丕讴蹖 丕蹖爻鬲 .
賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 亘賴 乇賵爻鬲丕賴丕 賵 卮賴乇賴丕蹖 乇賵賲丕賳蹖 賲蹖 乇賵丿 貙 噩丕蹖蹖 讴賴 蹖賴賵丿蹖丕賳 乇丕 丕夭 诏鬲賵 禺丕乇噩 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 ( 賲丕賳賳丿 爻讴丕賳爻 賮賵賯 丕賱毓丕丿賴 丿禺鬲乇亘趩賴 賯乇賲夭 倬賵卮 丿乇 賮蹖賱賲 賮賴乇爻鬲 卮蹖賳丿賱乇 ) 丌賳賴丕 乇丕 亘賴 夭賵乇 丿乇 賯胤丕乇 賲蹖 趩倬丕賳賳丿 鬲丕 夭賳丿賴 亘賴 诏賵乇 卮賵賳丿 貙 亘丿賵賳 賴賵丕貙 丌亘 賵 丕讴爻蹖跇賳
賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 亘丕 爻乇亘丕夭丕賳 丌賱賲丕賳蹖 賲氐丕丨亘賴 賲蹖 讴賳丿 貙 丌賳賴丕 亘賴 丕賵 丕夭 卮讴丕乇 賲賵卮 賲蹖 诏賵蹖賳丿 貙 賲賵卮賴丕 丿乇 丨賯蹖賯鬲 亘趩賴 賴丕蹖 蹖賴賵丿蹖 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 诏賵丿丕賱 丿乇 夭蹖乇 丿蹖賵丕乇 诏鬲賵 賲蹖 爻丕夭賳丿 鬲丕 亘賴 卮賴乇亘乇賵賳丿 賵 睾匕丕 亘乇丕蹖 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 禺賵丿 亘蹖丕賵乇賳丿 . ( 丕蹖賳 爻讴丕賳爻 賴賲 亘賴 夭蹖亘丕蹖蹖 丿乇 賮蹖賱賲 倬蹖丕賳蹖爻鬲 亘賴 鬲氐賵蹖乇 讴卮蹖丿賴 卮丿賴 貙 噩丕蹖蹖 讴賴 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 丕蹖賳 賯賴乇賲丕賳丕賳 讴賵趩讴 诏蹖乇 賲蹖 丕賮鬲丿 賵 亘丕 囟乇亘丕鬲 賱诏丿 賵 賯賳丿丕賯 鬲賮賳诏 丕夭 倬丕 丿乇 賲蹖 丌蹖丿 貙 亘丕 鬲讴賴 賳丕賳蹖 丿乇 丿爻鬲 ).
讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 卮亘丕賴鬲 夭蹖丕丿蹖 亘賴 夭賳丿诏蹖 噩賳诏 賵 丿蹖诏乇 賴蹖趩 丕孬乇 乇賵夭賳丕賲賴 賳诏丕乇 卮賴蹖乇 丕蹖鬲丕賱蹖丕蹖蹖 丕賵乇蹖丕賳丕 賮丕賱丕趩蹖 丿丕乇丿 丕賲丕 讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 禺丕賱蹖 丕夭 賲毓賳丕爻鬲 貙 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 亘乇 毓讴爻 禺丕賳賲 賮丕賱丕趩蹖 丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 倬丕爻禺 賴蹖趩 爻賵丕賱蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 貙 亘賴 丿賳亘丕賱 賲毓賳丕 賵 賲賮賴賵賲蹖 賴賲 賳蹖爻鬲 貙 丕賵 賮賯胤 丕夭 賮噩丕蹖毓 噩賳诏 賲蹖 诏賵蹖丿 . 诏賵蹖蹖 讴賴 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 噩賳诏 乇丕 賮賯胤 丕夭 丿乇蹖趩賴 丿賵乇亘蹖賳 丿蹖丿賴 貙 趩蹖夭蹖 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 賲蹖丕賳 睾丕蹖亘 丕爻鬲 賵 丿乇 卮丕賴讴丕乇 禺丕賳賲 賮丕賱丕趩蹖 亘賴 卮丿鬲 丨丕囟乇 乇賵丨 丕賳爻丕賳蹖 丕蹖爻鬲 貙 讴鬲丕亘 乇賵丨 賳丿丕乇丿
亘蹖卮鬲乇 氐賮丨丕鬲 讴鬲丕亘 亘丕 囟蹖丕賮鬲賴丕蹖 卮丕賲 丿乇 丨囟賵乇 爻乇丕賳 丌賱賲丕賳 倬乇 卮丿賴 貙 賳丕夭蹖賴丕 丕賳爻丕賳 賴丕蹖 禺卮讴蹖 賳卮丕賳 丿丕丿賴 卮丿賴 丕賳丿 讴賴 賲鬲賱讴 诏賵蹖蹖 賵 鬲讴賴 丕賳丿丕禺鬲賳 賵 亘夭賱賴 诏賵蹖蹖 賴丕蹖 丌賯丕蹖 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 乇丕 賲鬲賵噩賴 賳賲蹖 卮賵賳丿 . 诏賵蹖蹖 亘丕乇 賮丕卮蹖爻鬲 亘賵丿賳 亘乇 噩爻賲 禺爻鬲賴 丌賯丕蹖 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 爻賳诏蹖賳蹖 賲蹖 讴賳丿 诏賵蹖丕 賲蹖 禺賵丕賴丿 孬丕亘鬲 讴賳丿 讴賴 亘丕 賳丕夭蹖賴丕 賮乇賯 丿丕乇丿 .
卮丕蹖丿 亘鬲賵丕賳 乇诏賴 賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 倬卮蹖賲丕賳蹖 蹖丕 卮乇賲爻丕乇蹖 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 亘賴 禺丕胤乇 蹖讴 賮丕卮蹖爻鬲 爻丕亘賯 亘賵丿賳 賵 蹖丕 賴賲讴丕乇蹖 丕蹖鬲丕賱蹖丕 亘丕 丌賱賲丕賳 賳丕夭蹖 亘賴 禺氐賵氐 丿乇 亘丕賱讴丕賳 乇丕 亘鬲賵丕賳 丿乇 讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 丿蹖丿 .
January 5, 2018
A word.
Read this title to a child. KA-putt. It's okay to show them the title. KAAA-putt. Their attention almost there, I say: Ka-PUUUUUUUTTTT. I say it again and again, inflection shifting, which is not illegal outside Germany. Ka-PUUTT. Ka-PUUUUTTT. KAAAAAAAA-PUUUUUUUUTTTTTT. It's not long before they are saying it with me and we are having a moment. It's a German word I tell them, not caring that they have no clue what a Germany is. It means broken, I tell them, but it can mean more: over, done with, obsolete. History.
It was a fun few moments for the pups. But it made me think about the power of a single word, and how there was that single, carnival word to name this book.
So I was on alert.
Then, far along, I heard this: Trrraaauuurrriiig!
"Trrraaauuurrriiig!" General Dietl was shouting in a very loud voice, imitating the horrible hiss of the Stuka, until Air General Mensch screamed, "Boom!" imitating the terrible crash of an exploding bomb. . . . "Trrraaauuurrriiig!" shouted Dietl. "Boom!" howled Mensch. . . .
. . ."Halt!" suddenly shouted General Mensch raising a hand. Turning toward de Foxa he asked him rudely, "How do you say traurig in Spanish?"
"We say triste, I think," replied de Foxa.
"Let's try with triste," Mensch said.
"Trrriiisssteee!" shouted General Dietle.
"Boom!" howled Mensch. Then he raised his hand and said, "No, trieste is no good. Spanish is not a warlike language."
"Spanish is a Christian language," said de Foxa. "It is Christ's language."
"Ah, Cristo!" shouted General Dietl.
"Boom!" General Mensch howled. Then he raised a hand, and said,"No, Cristo is no good."
"Cristo is not a German word," de Foxa said with a smile.
No, I might have added if I was there, but KA-PUUUUUTTTTTT is.
_________________ ___________________ _________________
The author, named Kurt Eric Suckert, was an Italian and loyal to Mussolini, until he wasn't. The exact epiphany may have been conscientious or existential, but is just as likely to have been political and wind-shifting. That cynicism aside, Curzio Malaparte (his pen name) was a stinker enough that he was imprisoned for years at a time, having written some unflattering things about Il Duce. He was banned from being a war correspondent because of those utterances, but then became a soldier and was ordered to be a war correspondent. Yes, I don't know either. This enabled him to dine with Nazi leaders, even take a steambath with Himmler. Unusual access, what they call it.
And so, we ask, as we always do when an author intrudes himself into the narrative: what is it?
Novel? History? Memoir? Journalism?
My sense is that Malaparte understood the evil. And he understood it early. Yet he was no martyr. Those that invaded countries, laughed at killing Jews, lined up outside 'brothels' -- these men did not fear Malaparte.
The war turned. And so did Malaparte. What we read here, then, sounded to me like what I wish I would have said. But I won't judge. Because what he would have said was pretty spectacular. But it comes down to words: pliable, elastic words.
"Before taking a crucial decision, or when he is very weary or depressed, sometimes in the midst of an important meeting," said Frau Brigitte Frank, "he shuts himself up in the cell, sits before the piano and seeks rest or inspiration from Schumann, Brahms, Chopin or Beethoven. Do you know what I call this cell? I call it the Eagle's Nest."
I bowed in silence.
"He is an extraordinary man, isn't he?" she added, gazing at me with a look of proud affection. "He is an artist, a great artist, with a pure and delicious soul. Only such an artist as he can rule over Poland."
"Yes," I said, "a great artist, and it is with this piano that he rules the Polish people."
"Oh, you understand so well!" said Frau Brigitte Frank in a voice full of emotion.
No, I won't judge.
_________________ _________________________ _______________
And a rhetorical question, once: Can you imagine what Madame Bovary would have been like if she were the daughter of Mussolini?
_________________ _________________________ _______________
Only someone who has been in prison can write this:
The sight of the sea moved me and I began to weep. A river, a plain, a mountain, not even a tree or a cloud--nothing has in it the feeling of freedom like the sea. A prisoner in jail stares hour after hour, day after day, month after month, year after year at the walls of his cell. They are always the same white smooth walls, and when he gazes at those walls, at the sea, he cannot imagine it blue; he can only imagine the sea's being white, smooth, bare, without waves, without storms--a squalid sea illuminated by the flat light penetrating through the bars of his window. That is his sea, that is his freedom--a white, smooth bare sea, a squalid and cold freedom.
_________________ _________________________ _______________
And so, perhaps, we should not be so harsh. If a man changes, let him change for the better. And if he amends a conversation, let him do it like this:
"See this wall?" said (Governor-General) Frank to me. "Does it look to you like the terrible concrete wall bristling with machine guns that the British and American papers write about?" And he added, smiling, "The wretched Jews all have weak chests. At any rate this wall protects them against the wind." . . .
"The atrocious immorality of this wall," I replied, "doesn't lie in the fact that it prevents the Jews from leaving the ghetto but in the fact that it does not prevent them from entering it."
______________________ ___________________ ________________
This is a book where both Max Schmeling and the Black Madonna of Cz臋stochowa are heroes.
Read this title to a child. KA-putt. It's okay to show them the title. KAAA-putt. Their attention almost there, I say: Ka-PUUUUUUUTTTT. I say it again and again, inflection shifting, which is not illegal outside Germany. Ka-PUUTT. Ka-PUUUUTTT. KAAAAAAAA-PUUUUUUUUTTTTTT. It's not long before they are saying it with me and we are having a moment. It's a German word I tell them, not caring that they have no clue what a Germany is. It means broken, I tell them, but it can mean more: over, done with, obsolete. History.
It was a fun few moments for the pups. But it made me think about the power of a single word, and how there was that single, carnival word to name this book.
So I was on alert.
Then, far along, I heard this: Trrraaauuurrriiig!
"Trrraaauuurrriiig!" General Dietl was shouting in a very loud voice, imitating the horrible hiss of the Stuka, until Air General Mensch screamed, "Boom!" imitating the terrible crash of an exploding bomb. . . . "Trrraaauuurrriiig!" shouted Dietl. "Boom!" howled Mensch. . . .
. . ."Halt!" suddenly shouted General Mensch raising a hand. Turning toward de Foxa he asked him rudely, "How do you say traurig in Spanish?"
"We say triste, I think," replied de Foxa.
"Let's try with triste," Mensch said.
"Trrriiisssteee!" shouted General Dietle.
"Boom!" howled Mensch. Then he raised his hand and said, "No, trieste is no good. Spanish is not a warlike language."
"Spanish is a Christian language," said de Foxa. "It is Christ's language."
"Ah, Cristo!" shouted General Dietl.
"Boom!" General Mensch howled. Then he raised a hand, and said,"No, Cristo is no good."
"Cristo is not a German word," de Foxa said with a smile.
No, I might have added if I was there, but KA-PUUUUUTTTTTT is.
_________________ ___________________ _________________
The author, named Kurt Eric Suckert, was an Italian and loyal to Mussolini, until he wasn't. The exact epiphany may have been conscientious or existential, but is just as likely to have been political and wind-shifting. That cynicism aside, Curzio Malaparte (his pen name) was a stinker enough that he was imprisoned for years at a time, having written some unflattering things about Il Duce. He was banned from being a war correspondent because of those utterances, but then became a soldier and was ordered to be a war correspondent. Yes, I don't know either. This enabled him to dine with Nazi leaders, even take a steambath with Himmler. Unusual access, what they call it.
And so, we ask, as we always do when an author intrudes himself into the narrative: what is it?
Novel? History? Memoir? Journalism?
My sense is that Malaparte understood the evil. And he understood it early. Yet he was no martyr. Those that invaded countries, laughed at killing Jews, lined up outside 'brothels' -- these men did not fear Malaparte.
The war turned. And so did Malaparte. What we read here, then, sounded to me like what I wish I would have said. But I won't judge. Because what he would have said was pretty spectacular. But it comes down to words: pliable, elastic words.
"Before taking a crucial decision, or when he is very weary or depressed, sometimes in the midst of an important meeting," said Frau Brigitte Frank, "he shuts himself up in the cell, sits before the piano and seeks rest or inspiration from Schumann, Brahms, Chopin or Beethoven. Do you know what I call this cell? I call it the Eagle's Nest."
I bowed in silence.
"He is an extraordinary man, isn't he?" she added, gazing at me with a look of proud affection. "He is an artist, a great artist, with a pure and delicious soul. Only such an artist as he can rule over Poland."
"Yes," I said, "a great artist, and it is with this piano that he rules the Polish people."
"Oh, you understand so well!" said Frau Brigitte Frank in a voice full of emotion.
No, I won't judge.
_________________ _________________________ _______________
And a rhetorical question, once: Can you imagine what Madame Bovary would have been like if she were the daughter of Mussolini?
_________________ _________________________ _______________
Only someone who has been in prison can write this:
The sight of the sea moved me and I began to weep. A river, a plain, a mountain, not even a tree or a cloud--nothing has in it the feeling of freedom like the sea. A prisoner in jail stares hour after hour, day after day, month after month, year after year at the walls of his cell. They are always the same white smooth walls, and when he gazes at those walls, at the sea, he cannot imagine it blue; he can only imagine the sea's being white, smooth, bare, without waves, without storms--a squalid sea illuminated by the flat light penetrating through the bars of his window. That is his sea, that is his freedom--a white, smooth bare sea, a squalid and cold freedom.
_________________ _________________________ _______________
And so, perhaps, we should not be so harsh. If a man changes, let him change for the better. And if he amends a conversation, let him do it like this:
"See this wall?" said (Governor-General) Frank to me. "Does it look to you like the terrible concrete wall bristling with machine guns that the British and American papers write about?" And he added, smiling, "The wretched Jews all have weak chests. At any rate this wall protects them against the wind." . . .
"The atrocious immorality of this wall," I replied, "doesn't lie in the fact that it prevents the Jews from leaving the ghetto but in the fact that it does not prevent them from entering it."
______________________ ___________________ ________________
This is a book where both Max Schmeling and the Black Madonna of Cz臋stochowa are heroes.
June 23, 2021
丕賱賰丕鬲亘 " 賰賵乇夭賷賵 賲丕賱丕亘丕乇鬲賴" 毓賲賱 賲乇丕爻賱丕賸 氐丨賮賷丕賸 賮賷 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷丞 丕賱孬丕賳賷丞 亘氐賮賵賮 丕賱噩賷卮 丕賱兀賱賲丕賳賷 賮賷 丕賱噩亘賴丞 丕賱兀賵乇賵亘賷丞 丕賱卮乇賯賷丞 賵賲賳 孬賲 丕賱噩亘賴丞 丕賱乇賵爻賷丞..丿丕賲鬲 丕賱乇丨賱丞 兀乇亘毓丞 爻賳賵丕鬲 貙 禺丕囟 賮賷賴丕 賲賷丕丿賷賳 丕賱丨乇亘 ..卮丕賴丿丕賸 毓賱賶 丕賱噩孬孬 丕賱賲鬲毓賮賳丞...丕賱兀噩爻丕丿 丕賱賲賱胤禺丞 亘丕賱丿賲丕亍...賵丕賱賲孬賯賵亘丞 亘胤賱賯丕鬲 丕賱乇氐丕氐...丕賱賵噩賵賴 丕賱夭乇賯丕亍 賵丕賱毓馗丕賲 丕賱賳丕鬲卅丞 賵丕賱兀毓賷賳 丕賱賲賮鬲賵丨丞 丕賱鬲賷 賲丕夭丕賱鬲 鬲乇丕賯亘...賵鬲鬲乇氐丿...賵兀禺賷乇丕賸 鬲賵丿毓 丕賱賯乇賶 丕賱賲丨鬲乇賯丞..賵丕賱賲丿賳 丕賱賲丨胤賲丞...
賲丕匕丕 毓賳 丕賱兀丨賷丕亍..責責...
鬲乇賶 丕賱賵噩賵賴 丕賱卮丕丨亘丞...丕賱丕亘鬲爻丕賲丕鬲 丕賱亘丕賴鬲丞..丕賱賳馗乇丕鬲 丕賱禺丕賵賷丞 賱兀毓賷賳 鬲丨賵賲 丨賵賱賴丕 馗賱丕賱 丕賱禺賵賮 丕賱賲乇賵毓丞...
乇兀賷鬲購 乇丐賵爻 丕賱氐睾丕乇 賵賴賶 鬲胤賱 禺賱爻丞 賲賳 兀賮賵丕賴 丕賱兀賳賮丕賯 丕賱囟賷賯丞 賱毓賱 賰爻乇丞 禺亘夭 鬲賯毓 賮賷 兀賷丿賷賴賲...
乇兀賷鬲購 兀卮亘丕丨丕購 鬲購爻賱賲 廿賱賶 丕賱賲賵鬲..!!
兀賱賲 賷賰賳 賮賷 禺囟賲 鬲賱賰 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱亘卮毓丞 亘乇賷賯 禺丕胤賮 賱賱廿賳爻丕賳賷丞... 責..亘賱賶 賰丕賳 賴賳丕賰 ...鬲賵丿 賱賵 鬲鬲卮亘孬 亘賴 賵鬲賴賲爻 賱賴 賲鬲賵爻賱丕賸...亘兀賱丕 賷賳匕賵賷...賱丕 賷賳胤賮賷亍 賵賷丿毓賳丕 賮賷 馗賱賲丞 丿丕賲爻丞 賲乇賷乇丞....
賵丕賳鬲賴鬲 丕賱乇丨賱丞 毓賳丿 兀賯丿丕賲 "賳丕亘賵賱賷" 丕賱賲丨胤賲丞 丌賳匕丕賰...
兀禺賷乇丕賸...亘丕賱乇睾賲 賲賳 亘卮丕毓丞 賰賱 賲丕 賰丕賳..賮賱賷爻 賴賳丕賱賰 兀亘卮毓 賲賳 丨賷丕丞 賴丐賱丕亍 丕賱匕賷賳 毓丕丿賵丕 賲賳 噩亘賴丞 丕賱賯鬲丕賱...賱丕亘丿 賵兀賳賴賲 睾丿賵丕 噩孬孬丕賸 鬲爻賷乇 毓賱賶 賯丿賲賷賳....
賲丕匕丕 毓賳 丕賱兀丨賷丕亍..責責...
鬲乇賶 丕賱賵噩賵賴 丕賱卮丕丨亘丞...丕賱丕亘鬲爻丕賲丕鬲 丕賱亘丕賴鬲丞..丕賱賳馗乇丕鬲 丕賱禺丕賵賷丞 賱兀毓賷賳 鬲丨賵賲 丨賵賱賴丕 馗賱丕賱 丕賱禺賵賮 丕賱賲乇賵毓丞...
乇兀賷鬲購 乇丐賵爻 丕賱氐睾丕乇 賵賴賶 鬲胤賱 禺賱爻丞 賲賳 兀賮賵丕賴 丕賱兀賳賮丕賯 丕賱囟賷賯丞 賱毓賱 賰爻乇丞 禺亘夭 鬲賯毓 賮賷 兀賷丿賷賴賲...
乇兀賷鬲購 兀卮亘丕丨丕購 鬲購爻賱賲 廿賱賶 丕賱賲賵鬲..!!
兀賱賲 賷賰賳 賮賷 禺囟賲 鬲賱賰 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱亘卮毓丞 亘乇賷賯 禺丕胤賮 賱賱廿賳爻丕賳賷丞... 責..亘賱賶 賰丕賳 賴賳丕賰 ...鬲賵丿 賱賵 鬲鬲卮亘孬 亘賴 賵鬲賴賲爻 賱賴 賲鬲賵爻賱丕賸...亘兀賱丕 賷賳匕賵賷...賱丕 賷賳胤賮賷亍 賵賷丿毓賳丕 賮賷 馗賱賲丞 丿丕賲爻丞 賲乇賷乇丞....
賵丕賳鬲賴鬲 丕賱乇丨賱丞 毓賳丿 兀賯丿丕賲 "賳丕亘賵賱賷" 丕賱賲丨胤賲丞 丌賳匕丕賰...
兀禺賷乇丕賸...亘丕賱乇睾賲 賲賳 亘卮丕毓丞 賰賱 賲丕 賰丕賳..賮賱賷爻 賴賳丕賱賰 兀亘卮毓 賲賳 丨賷丕丞 賴丐賱丕亍 丕賱匕賷賳 毓丕丿賵丕 賲賳 噩亘賴丞 丕賱賯鬲丕賱...賱丕亘丿 賵兀賳賴賲 睾丿賵丕 噩孬孬丕賸 鬲爻賷乇 毓賱賶 賯丿賲賷賳....
March 26, 2011
I've written two prior reviews of this strange, revolting, macabre, beautiful book: some initial musings about fifty pages into it; a singularly outraged review at the midway point when I was all but ready to pack Malaparte and his sleazy manipulations in; and now this鈥攆inal鈥攐ne, in which that previous fire of ire has been reduced to a bed of barely smoldering embers, quenched by Malaparte's less morally reprehensible second half of the book and, frankly, his wizardry with the written word, which goes a long way towards appeasing this reader.
Although Malaparte earned a living as a polemical political writer and a journalist, he was also a poet, and he merged these differing styles into the narrative tone of Kaputt; the result is writing that is simply gorgeous, rife with sugarplum similes and meteoric metaphors blossoming throughout a series of eerie, haunting vignettes about everyday life under the suzerainty of total war in such places as Warsaw, Cracow, Romania, the Ukraine, Stockholm, Leningrad, Helsinki, Lapland, and, finally, Italy itself. Even accepting that Malaparte was freely mixing his own subjective experiences as a roving Italian pseudo-Fascist plenipotentiary with a good measure of lurid invention drawn from the febrile-but-fertile bounty of his imagination, much that is contained within just seems wrong. Appalled by Malaparte's self-serving suggestion that the endless suffering of the Jews in the filthy, starved, disease- and death-ridden nightmare of the Warsaw Ghetto was ameliorated by the fact that he smiled at them and sotto voce muttered Excuse me, please whilst wandering aimlessly to drink his fill of their wretched misery鈥攚hich, mind you, he describes with heartbreakingly stark imagery鈥擨 began to suspect that this was but another of the highly implausible events鈥攚hich painted him in an at least tolerable, at best sympathetic light鈥攐f which he wrote about so stunningly and yet, to me, so falsely; and so I skipped forward to the book's excellent afterword by Dan Hofstadter, which confirmed pretty much all of the suspicions that had been building within me.
Now, it's not the fictionalization of such chaotic and tumultuous and murderous events as were enacted and carried out across the various theaters of the Second World War that bothers me鈥擨 tend to be willing to give the author a great deal of leeway in working out how he wishes to depict his story. Malaparte, however, as I quickly discovered, is a different case: a self-identified Fascist and lifelong opportunist seemingly in it only for the power and the glory, perfectly willing to insincerely spout abusive and violent rhetoric if it helped him achieve as much and, apparently, having had to go back and rewrite the entire first half of Kaputt once he realized that the Germans were going to lose鈥攁nd thus that those whom he had buffed and polished through encomium now had to be battered and bruised through indictment. That this was the case can actually be discerned by reading Kaputt, as much that is most objectionable about Malaparte's story arises in the first half, when he presumably had to scramble to insert justifications or create rehabilitations for brutal and pitiless acts that he originally had planned to defend or justify鈥攁s well as finding a way to make his own disinterested non-involvement seem more heroic or upright than it actually was.
Yet I could even deal with that鈥攊t was the way in which, even whilst admitting to possessing neither the courage nor the conviction to intervene in the horrors he was (allegedly) experiencing first-hand, he still wrote himself into the script such that, with a few righteous moves here and an outburst of anger there, he wrapped himself with the moral armor of the disapproving, civilized man forced to negotiate his way amidst warring tribes of bloodthirsty barbarians whilst dispensing what little justice he could that really frosted my cookies. It may be entirely true that he hated the Fascists and their violent incompetences and excesses, their giving free reign to all the black demons from the soul's deepest recesses; that he loathed the Nazi apparatchiks and hierarchs and their crude manners and gross appetites; even that, at heart, he was appalled by the systematic decimation of European Jewry; yet, for me, to keep all of this vituperation bottled up inside, to be unleashed only when it was safe to do so鈥攁nd knowing that there existed a Western audience hungry for such lurid affirmations of their deepest-held suspicions鈥攕trikes all of the wrong notes for the tune he is trying to play.
Still, the man can write, and this is a lyrical and truly beautiful work of literature, with images that will stay with the reader forever鈥攖he regiment of stricken horse's heads in various strained postures spread about the merciless, imprisoning ice of a Lake Ladoga; a purplish steppe thunderstorm serving as the backdrop to a purposefully-crazed pogrom and a hallucinatory parachute drop by Soviet special forces; a train stuffed to bursting with human cattle who, having suffocated to death en route, tumble outwards like timber; a march of the crippled and the malformed through the rubbled streets of Naples. Malaparte has his weaknesses鈥攁 tendency towards repetition and revisiting select themes; a belief that within catty gossip he was inscribing subtle truths; an overbearing tendency to (improbably) place himself at the center of events; but, in the end, his fucking luscious pen, his inflamed imagination, his ability to stare at the bounty of death and ruin produced by the Second World War鈥攖hrough Nazi and Fascist and Falangist eyes鈥攁nd capture its essence in a variety of vignettes that are spread across the Eastern European continent, including such little-visited theaters as Lapland and Moldavia, more than amend for these imperfections. At times, Malaparte also (seemingly) honestly mines his own personality and choices to discover just how he wound up where he did. What's more, he gives the impression of nailing many of the incidental details, the feel of the brutality of a Karelian winter, the colors of the boundless plains of the Ukraine, the sea-mist cityscapes of autumnal Stockholm, and, especially, the malicious banter between the new party-member and older lineage-based aristocracies, feasting and exchanging quips and bon mots and insulating themselves from both what was occurring out in the real world and their guilt for overseeing and orchestrating such ruthless and inhuman severity; Malaparte really wields the stiletto with a flourish in such urbane settings.
In the afterword, a plaint of Hofstadter's is that too many of Malaparte's chapters relate naught but anecdotal minutiae鈥擨 can entirely see where he is coming from, but cannot share his dissatisfaction with these; this book held me captive, even when disgusted, and fascinated me from start to finish. After writing my irascible review at the midpoint, I was quite prepared to abandon Kaputt, though such actions always prove easier for me to proclaim than to actually carry through with; but this time I meant it. When I got home, I convinced myself I would flip through a mere two or three pages鈥攇ive him the briefest of chances for redemption鈥攁nd then move on to better things on those overloaded shelves. Yet after opening to the bookmark, I was plunged into Malaparte's mesmerizing tale of an elevator-riding ghost that haunted the shimmery nocturnal sunlight of Helsinki in the summer鈥攁nd before I knew it, I was settled comfortably upon the couch and all thoughts of abandonment, well, abandoned. It is true that the second half carries itself less objectionably, can be stomached more readily, than the first, perhaps because the author wisely discarded any further embellishments of his humane relief efforts in the midst of extirpation; this part focuses upon Finland, Germany, and Italy, upon nations wearied and exhausted by the endless demands of total war, upon the dignitaries and military commanders of the Axis nations who effect to support each other with a forced bonhomie and witty banter, heavily fueled by a wide variety of strong alcohol, that cannot conceal the fact that they all, to a man, comprehend that their nations have bitten off far more than they can chew; that everything will, in fact, end very badly indeed. Still, it is hard for the reader to feel any sympathy for them, and least of all for Malaparte himself, even though the final chapters present an elegiac tone to his character, freshly sprung from a nasty prison in Rome, and his shattered native land. At one point, Malaparte upbraids his erstwhile boss鈥攁nd reliable protector鈥擟ount Galeazzo Ciano, Mussolini's son-in-law and a man who has tasted his closing doom, with the admonition You should have done something, risked something! Though he would likely be oblivious of the fact, these are words that cannot help but rebound back into their speaker's face.
Although Malaparte earned a living as a polemical political writer and a journalist, he was also a poet, and he merged these differing styles into the narrative tone of Kaputt; the result is writing that is simply gorgeous, rife with sugarplum similes and meteoric metaphors blossoming throughout a series of eerie, haunting vignettes about everyday life under the suzerainty of total war in such places as Warsaw, Cracow, Romania, the Ukraine, Stockholm, Leningrad, Helsinki, Lapland, and, finally, Italy itself. Even accepting that Malaparte was freely mixing his own subjective experiences as a roving Italian pseudo-Fascist plenipotentiary with a good measure of lurid invention drawn from the febrile-but-fertile bounty of his imagination, much that is contained within just seems wrong. Appalled by Malaparte's self-serving suggestion that the endless suffering of the Jews in the filthy, starved, disease- and death-ridden nightmare of the Warsaw Ghetto was ameliorated by the fact that he smiled at them and sotto voce muttered Excuse me, please whilst wandering aimlessly to drink his fill of their wretched misery鈥攚hich, mind you, he describes with heartbreakingly stark imagery鈥擨 began to suspect that this was but another of the highly implausible events鈥攚hich painted him in an at least tolerable, at best sympathetic light鈥攐f which he wrote about so stunningly and yet, to me, so falsely; and so I skipped forward to the book's excellent afterword by Dan Hofstadter, which confirmed pretty much all of the suspicions that had been building within me.
Now, it's not the fictionalization of such chaotic and tumultuous and murderous events as were enacted and carried out across the various theaters of the Second World War that bothers me鈥擨 tend to be willing to give the author a great deal of leeway in working out how he wishes to depict his story. Malaparte, however, as I quickly discovered, is a different case: a self-identified Fascist and lifelong opportunist seemingly in it only for the power and the glory, perfectly willing to insincerely spout abusive and violent rhetoric if it helped him achieve as much and, apparently, having had to go back and rewrite the entire first half of Kaputt once he realized that the Germans were going to lose鈥攁nd thus that those whom he had buffed and polished through encomium now had to be battered and bruised through indictment. That this was the case can actually be discerned by reading Kaputt, as much that is most objectionable about Malaparte's story arises in the first half, when he presumably had to scramble to insert justifications or create rehabilitations for brutal and pitiless acts that he originally had planned to defend or justify鈥攁s well as finding a way to make his own disinterested non-involvement seem more heroic or upright than it actually was.
Yet I could even deal with that鈥攊t was the way in which, even whilst admitting to possessing neither the courage nor the conviction to intervene in the horrors he was (allegedly) experiencing first-hand, he still wrote himself into the script such that, with a few righteous moves here and an outburst of anger there, he wrapped himself with the moral armor of the disapproving, civilized man forced to negotiate his way amidst warring tribes of bloodthirsty barbarians whilst dispensing what little justice he could that really frosted my cookies. It may be entirely true that he hated the Fascists and their violent incompetences and excesses, their giving free reign to all the black demons from the soul's deepest recesses; that he loathed the Nazi apparatchiks and hierarchs and their crude manners and gross appetites; even that, at heart, he was appalled by the systematic decimation of European Jewry; yet, for me, to keep all of this vituperation bottled up inside, to be unleashed only when it was safe to do so鈥攁nd knowing that there existed a Western audience hungry for such lurid affirmations of their deepest-held suspicions鈥攕trikes all of the wrong notes for the tune he is trying to play.
Still, the man can write, and this is a lyrical and truly beautiful work of literature, with images that will stay with the reader forever鈥攖he regiment of stricken horse's heads in various strained postures spread about the merciless, imprisoning ice of a Lake Ladoga; a purplish steppe thunderstorm serving as the backdrop to a purposefully-crazed pogrom and a hallucinatory parachute drop by Soviet special forces; a train stuffed to bursting with human cattle who, having suffocated to death en route, tumble outwards like timber; a march of the crippled and the malformed through the rubbled streets of Naples. Malaparte has his weaknesses鈥攁 tendency towards repetition and revisiting select themes; a belief that within catty gossip he was inscribing subtle truths; an overbearing tendency to (improbably) place himself at the center of events; but, in the end, his fucking luscious pen, his inflamed imagination, his ability to stare at the bounty of death and ruin produced by the Second World War鈥攖hrough Nazi and Fascist and Falangist eyes鈥攁nd capture its essence in a variety of vignettes that are spread across the Eastern European continent, including such little-visited theaters as Lapland and Moldavia, more than amend for these imperfections. At times, Malaparte also (seemingly) honestly mines his own personality and choices to discover just how he wound up where he did. What's more, he gives the impression of nailing many of the incidental details, the feel of the brutality of a Karelian winter, the colors of the boundless plains of the Ukraine, the sea-mist cityscapes of autumnal Stockholm, and, especially, the malicious banter between the new party-member and older lineage-based aristocracies, feasting and exchanging quips and bon mots and insulating themselves from both what was occurring out in the real world and their guilt for overseeing and orchestrating such ruthless and inhuman severity; Malaparte really wields the stiletto with a flourish in such urbane settings.
In the afterword, a plaint of Hofstadter's is that too many of Malaparte's chapters relate naught but anecdotal minutiae鈥擨 can entirely see where he is coming from, but cannot share his dissatisfaction with these; this book held me captive, even when disgusted, and fascinated me from start to finish. After writing my irascible review at the midpoint, I was quite prepared to abandon Kaputt, though such actions always prove easier for me to proclaim than to actually carry through with; but this time I meant it. When I got home, I convinced myself I would flip through a mere two or three pages鈥攇ive him the briefest of chances for redemption鈥攁nd then move on to better things on those overloaded shelves. Yet after opening to the bookmark, I was plunged into Malaparte's mesmerizing tale of an elevator-riding ghost that haunted the shimmery nocturnal sunlight of Helsinki in the summer鈥攁nd before I knew it, I was settled comfortably upon the couch and all thoughts of abandonment, well, abandoned. It is true that the second half carries itself less objectionably, can be stomached more readily, than the first, perhaps because the author wisely discarded any further embellishments of his humane relief efforts in the midst of extirpation; this part focuses upon Finland, Germany, and Italy, upon nations wearied and exhausted by the endless demands of total war, upon the dignitaries and military commanders of the Axis nations who effect to support each other with a forced bonhomie and witty banter, heavily fueled by a wide variety of strong alcohol, that cannot conceal the fact that they all, to a man, comprehend that their nations have bitten off far more than they can chew; that everything will, in fact, end very badly indeed. Still, it is hard for the reader to feel any sympathy for them, and least of all for Malaparte himself, even though the final chapters present an elegiac tone to his character, freshly sprung from a nasty prison in Rome, and his shattered native land. At one point, Malaparte upbraids his erstwhile boss鈥攁nd reliable protector鈥擟ount Galeazzo Ciano, Mussolini's son-in-law and a man who has tasted his closing doom, with the admonition You should have done something, risked something! Though he would likely be oblivious of the fact, these are words that cannot help but rebound back into their speaker's face.
July 7, 2014
Somewhere in the meaty middle of Jacques Rivette's superb film Va Savoir two characters discuss the proper pronunciation of Curzio Malaparte's name. Apparently one character wasn't sufficiently stressing the Italianate swagger of such.
My wife bought me this book per my request. Kaputt is WWII war journalism from various fronts filtered through Malaparte's artistic eye. I found it startling. Herr Vollmann never formerly acknowledged a debt to this work, but it may have slipped his mind. The scenes from The Winter War provide images on par with Goya. The interview with the Usta拧e may lean towards propaganda. Certainly the historical record condemns the NDH without these flourishes.
I give this my highest recommendation.
My wife bought me this book per my request. Kaputt is WWII war journalism from various fronts filtered through Malaparte's artistic eye. I found it startling. Herr Vollmann never formerly acknowledged a debt to this work, but it may have slipped his mind. The scenes from The Winter War provide images on par with Goya. The interview with the Usta拧e may lean towards propaganda. Certainly the historical record condemns the NDH without these flourishes.
I give this my highest recommendation.
February 1, 2021
DI CAVALLI, TOPI, CANI, UCCELLI, RENNE E MOSCHE
Malaparte, capitano dell'esercito italiano e inviato del Corriere della Sera, attraversa l'Europa - Finlandia, Svezia, Romania, Ucraina, Polonia, Germania - in piena seconda guerra mondiale, tra il 1941 e il 1943. Kaputt ci racconta queste esperienze.
Non 猫 un saggio storico n茅 un resoconto giornalistico. E' un romanzo basato su vicende vissute in prima persona, 猫 auto-fiction. Una scrittura raffinata, con una sua musica e ritmo. Una descrizione di scorci, citt脿 paesaggi, a tratti poetica. Scene forti, per alcuni troppo forti, troppo artefatte, per me credibili e necessarie. Un capolavoro del novecento italiano.
L鈥檃utore-narratore frequenta i circoli diplomatici e militari, fitti di titoli nobiliari, lingua ufficiale il francese, location sfarzose, vestiti eleganti, gioielli e profumi, grandi libagioni e bevute. Ove si discute chiaramente di questioni politico-militari oltrech茅 di gossip. Poi di tanto in tanto i piani luogo-temporali si sfalsano, Malaparte inserisce ricordando vicende, aneddoti, incontri, personaggi catapultandoci da quelle oasi alle macerie di un鈥橢uropa kaputt.
L'incontro con i gerarchi nazisti e fascisti di tutta Europa - Frank, governatore della Polonia occupata, il capo delle SS Himler, Antonescu maresciallo della Romania, Ante Pavelic capo degli ustascia Croati, Mussolini, Galeazzo Ciano - 猫 spiazzante per il realismo con cui entrano nel romanzo e per come ci sono presentati, in maniera da tratteggiarne in alcuni casi i tratti pi霉 umani, in altri gli aspetti, anche fisicamente, pi霉 grotteschi - memorabile la scena di Himmler nella sauna del Comando supremo del fronte Nord - demolendoli a volte con qualche battuta ironica ed in fondo generando un senso di piet脿. E' quindi implicitamente e per contrasto che viene esaltato il giudizio morale sugli orrori e sofferenze che questi mostri/carnefici hanno provocato.
Orrori e sofferenze che non ci vengono risparmiati e ci colpiscono al cuore e fanno male, come forse mai nonostante i tanti libri letti in argomento. La descrizione della vita nel ghetto di Varsavia, il pogrom di Jassy, le ragazze-prostitute di Soroca.
Ogni tanto mi toccava scavalcare un morto: camminavo in mezzo alla folla senza vedere dove mettevo i piedi, e ogni tanto inciampavo in un cadavere disteso sul marciapiede tra i rituali candelabri ebraici. I morti giacevano abbandonati sulla neve, in attesa che il carro dei monatti passasse a portarli via: ma la moria era grande, i carri erano scarsi, non si faceva in tempo a portarli via tutti, e i cadaveri restavano l矛 giorni e giorni, distesi nella neve tra i candelabri spenti. Molti giacevano sul pavimento negli 脿nditi delle case, nei corridoi, sui pianerottoli delle scale, o sui letti nelle stanze affollate di gente pallida e silenziosa. Avevano la barba sporca di nevischio e di fango. Alcuni avevano gli occhi spalancati, ci seguivano a lungo con lo sguardo bianco, guardavan la folla passare. Erano rigidi e duri, parevano statue di legno. Simili ai morti ebrei di Chagall. Le barbe sembravano azzurre negli scarni visi illividiti dal gelo e dalla morte. Di un azzurro cos矛 puro, che ricordava quello di certe alghe marine. Di un azzurro cos矛 misterioso, che ricordava il mare, quell鈥檃zzurro misterioso del mare in certe ore misteriose del giorno.
E poi tutti quegli animali, innocenti senza colpa, a cui sono intestate le sei sezioni di cui si compone il libro, sterminati anche loro, in scene di grande impatto (i cavalli di ghiaccio, il cimitero delle renne, i cani anticarro sovietici, l'omicidio dell'ultimo salmone finlandese), metafora dell'uomo contro l'uomo.
芦Ci son molti salmoni, nel fiume?禄.
芦Ce n鈥檈rano moltissimi, prima che i tedeschi iniziassero la costruzione del ponte sull鈥橨uutuanjoki. I carpentieri fanno un grande strepito di seghe, di martelli, e di scuri, e lo strepito disturba i salmoni. Anche a Ivalo i tedeschi costruiscono un ponte, e i salmoni hanno abbandonato l鈥橧valojoki. E non 猫 tutto. I tedeschi vanno a pesca con le bombe a mano. Un vero massacro. Distruggono non soltanto i salmoni, ma ogni specie di pesce. Credono forse di poter trattare i salmoni come trattano gli ebrei? Noi non lo permetteremo mai. L鈥檃ltro giorno ho detto al generale von Heunert: se i tedeschi invece di far la guerra ai russi, continueranno a far la guerra ai salmoni, noi difenderemo i salmoni禄.
芦脠 pi霉 facile禄 dissi 芦far la guerra ai salmoni che ai russi禄.
芦Vi sbagliate,禄 disse Juho Nyk盲nen 芦i salmoni sono coraggiosissimi, e non 猫 facile vincerli. A parer mio, i tedeschi, facendo la guerra ai salmoni, hanno commesso un grosso sbaglio. Verr脿 un giorno in cui i tedeschi avranno paura perfino dei salmoni. Finir脿 cos矛. Anche l鈥檃ltra guerra 猫 finita cos矛禄.
Il libro si chiude in una Napoli ancora non liberata. Sotto le bombe degli Alleati, nei rifugi sotterranei, si ricreano il colore, gli odori, le voci, i canti, la vita della citt脿. Anche la guerra finir脿 e verr脿 il tempo della ricostruzione. 鈥�... Non c鈥櫭� che aver pazienza. Si vedr脿 chi ha pi霉 pazienza, la guerra o Napoli.鈥� A Napoli O鈥� Sangue di San Gennaro 猫 salvo, neppure una goccia 猫 stata versata. A Napoli hanno fatto la guerra alle mosche e hanno vinto le mosche.
Marc Chagall, Crocifissione bianca
Malaparte, capitano dell'esercito italiano e inviato del Corriere della Sera, attraversa l'Europa - Finlandia, Svezia, Romania, Ucraina, Polonia, Germania - in piena seconda guerra mondiale, tra il 1941 e il 1943. Kaputt ci racconta queste esperienze.
Non 猫 un saggio storico n茅 un resoconto giornalistico. E' un romanzo basato su vicende vissute in prima persona, 猫 auto-fiction. Una scrittura raffinata, con una sua musica e ritmo. Una descrizione di scorci, citt脿 paesaggi, a tratti poetica. Scene forti, per alcuni troppo forti, troppo artefatte, per me credibili e necessarie. Un capolavoro del novecento italiano.
L鈥檃utore-narratore frequenta i circoli diplomatici e militari, fitti di titoli nobiliari, lingua ufficiale il francese, location sfarzose, vestiti eleganti, gioielli e profumi, grandi libagioni e bevute. Ove si discute chiaramente di questioni politico-militari oltrech茅 di gossip. Poi di tanto in tanto i piani luogo-temporali si sfalsano, Malaparte inserisce ricordando vicende, aneddoti, incontri, personaggi catapultandoci da quelle oasi alle macerie di un鈥橢uropa kaputt.
L'incontro con i gerarchi nazisti e fascisti di tutta Europa - Frank, governatore della Polonia occupata, il capo delle SS Himler, Antonescu maresciallo della Romania, Ante Pavelic capo degli ustascia Croati, Mussolini, Galeazzo Ciano - 猫 spiazzante per il realismo con cui entrano nel romanzo e per come ci sono presentati, in maniera da tratteggiarne in alcuni casi i tratti pi霉 umani, in altri gli aspetti, anche fisicamente, pi霉 grotteschi - memorabile la scena di Himmler nella sauna del Comando supremo del fronte Nord - demolendoli a volte con qualche battuta ironica ed in fondo generando un senso di piet脿. E' quindi implicitamente e per contrasto che viene esaltato il giudizio morale sugli orrori e sofferenze che questi mostri/carnefici hanno provocato.
Orrori e sofferenze che non ci vengono risparmiati e ci colpiscono al cuore e fanno male, come forse mai nonostante i tanti libri letti in argomento. La descrizione della vita nel ghetto di Varsavia, il pogrom di Jassy, le ragazze-prostitute di Soroca.
Ogni tanto mi toccava scavalcare un morto: camminavo in mezzo alla folla senza vedere dove mettevo i piedi, e ogni tanto inciampavo in un cadavere disteso sul marciapiede tra i rituali candelabri ebraici. I morti giacevano abbandonati sulla neve, in attesa che il carro dei monatti passasse a portarli via: ma la moria era grande, i carri erano scarsi, non si faceva in tempo a portarli via tutti, e i cadaveri restavano l矛 giorni e giorni, distesi nella neve tra i candelabri spenti. Molti giacevano sul pavimento negli 脿nditi delle case, nei corridoi, sui pianerottoli delle scale, o sui letti nelle stanze affollate di gente pallida e silenziosa. Avevano la barba sporca di nevischio e di fango. Alcuni avevano gli occhi spalancati, ci seguivano a lungo con lo sguardo bianco, guardavan la folla passare. Erano rigidi e duri, parevano statue di legno. Simili ai morti ebrei di Chagall. Le barbe sembravano azzurre negli scarni visi illividiti dal gelo e dalla morte. Di un azzurro cos矛 puro, che ricordava quello di certe alghe marine. Di un azzurro cos矛 misterioso, che ricordava il mare, quell鈥檃zzurro misterioso del mare in certe ore misteriose del giorno.
E poi tutti quegli animali, innocenti senza colpa, a cui sono intestate le sei sezioni di cui si compone il libro, sterminati anche loro, in scene di grande impatto (i cavalli di ghiaccio, il cimitero delle renne, i cani anticarro sovietici, l'omicidio dell'ultimo salmone finlandese), metafora dell'uomo contro l'uomo.
芦Ci son molti salmoni, nel fiume?禄.
芦Ce n鈥檈rano moltissimi, prima che i tedeschi iniziassero la costruzione del ponte sull鈥橨uutuanjoki. I carpentieri fanno un grande strepito di seghe, di martelli, e di scuri, e lo strepito disturba i salmoni. Anche a Ivalo i tedeschi costruiscono un ponte, e i salmoni hanno abbandonato l鈥橧valojoki. E non 猫 tutto. I tedeschi vanno a pesca con le bombe a mano. Un vero massacro. Distruggono non soltanto i salmoni, ma ogni specie di pesce. Credono forse di poter trattare i salmoni come trattano gli ebrei? Noi non lo permetteremo mai. L鈥檃ltro giorno ho detto al generale von Heunert: se i tedeschi invece di far la guerra ai russi, continueranno a far la guerra ai salmoni, noi difenderemo i salmoni禄.
芦脠 pi霉 facile禄 dissi 芦far la guerra ai salmoni che ai russi禄.
芦Vi sbagliate,禄 disse Juho Nyk盲nen 芦i salmoni sono coraggiosissimi, e non 猫 facile vincerli. A parer mio, i tedeschi, facendo la guerra ai salmoni, hanno commesso un grosso sbaglio. Verr脿 un giorno in cui i tedeschi avranno paura perfino dei salmoni. Finir脿 cos矛. Anche l鈥檃ltra guerra 猫 finita cos矛禄.
Il libro si chiude in una Napoli ancora non liberata. Sotto le bombe degli Alleati, nei rifugi sotterranei, si ricreano il colore, gli odori, le voci, i canti, la vita della citt脿. Anche la guerra finir脿 e verr脿 il tempo della ricostruzione. 鈥�... Non c鈥櫭� che aver pazienza. Si vedr脿 chi ha pi霉 pazienza, la guerra o Napoli.鈥� A Napoli O鈥� Sangue di San Gennaro 猫 salvo, neppure una goccia 猫 stata versata. A Napoli hanno fatto la guerra alle mosche e hanno vinto le mosche.
Marc Chagall, Crocifissione bianca
April 2, 2018
L鈥檌mbeccata per leggere Kaputt, mi 猫 venuta da Benioff quando, alla fine de La citt脿 dei ladri ringrazia Harrison Salisbury per il libro "I 900 giorni" e Malaparte per quest鈥檕pera che definisce 鈥渂izzarra e geniale鈥�, e questi termini mmi hanno incuriosito. Avevo letto La pelle non ancora maggiorenne e mi era piaciuto, ma poi ricordavo vagamente sue vicissitudini strampalate, le accuse di fascismo e voltagabbana che lo inseguirono fino alla morte.
All鈥檌nizio sono andata a rilento, ma il libro, impostato come una serie di capitoli/racconti a se stanti, si prestava ad una lettura che mi ha permesso nel frattempo di leggere altro. E poi le prime 100 pagine cominciavano a irritarmi. Scritto in prima persona le vicende narrate da Curzio Malaparte che, corrispondente di guerra viaggia in lungo e in largo per l鈥橢uropa distrutta dalla guerra, siede in banchetti di ufficiali, invitato da principi, Ministri, Consoli, pu貌 entrare e uscire col permesso dei gerarchi tedeschi da ghetti devastati dalla fame, si permette di dare una mano a salvare ebrei durante i pogrom, di rifiutare l鈥檌nvito di Himmler, frequenta bordelli, registrandone impressioni, vicende umane, e raccontandone gli orrori mi dava l鈥檌dea di avere a che fare con un narciso un po鈥� troppo pieno di se. Poi tutti i suoi racconti di prigionia, cinque anni al confino da parte dei fascisti鈥�. mi tornavano male con i conti. Ci貌 che stava descrivendo era realt脿 o fantasia? Era lui un cronista, o un romanziere?
Prima di farmelo diventare antipatico dovevo saperne di pi霉, cos矛 sono andato a spulciare il libro di Serra Malaparte: vite e leggende che, da quel punto in poi, ha progredito parallelamente all鈥檃ltro. E ho scoperto un sacco di cose interessanti, che mi hanno non solo fatto finire in fretta il libro, ma anche permesso di apprezzarne lo scrittore.
E di scrittore qui voglio parlare, perch茅 sull鈥檜omo Malaparte il discorso sarebbe diverso. Per capire Kaputt bisogna quindi comprendere la realt脿 di quell鈥橢uropa del fronte orientale sconvolto dalla distruzione di una guerra tremenda: Malaparte capisce che la descrizione della realt脿 non basta, che deve essere trasfigurata per poter guardare in faccia l鈥檕rrore e comprenderne la misura e il tracollo che ne determiner脿 la caduta finale.
E鈥� seguendo questi labirinti che mi sono imbattuta in articoli come questo su di lui, scritto da Tarabbia:
e da altri , che mi hanno permesso di comprendere come quest鈥檕pera non sia un vero reportage, ma un鈥檃llegoria. Lui stesso dir脿 di Kaputt, che 芦dentro non c鈥櫭� altro che soldati, cadaveri, cani, girasoli, cavalli e nuvole禄. Con una lingua elegante, che ricorda D鈥橝nnunzio, Malaparte racconta di ceste piene di occhi umani, bambini napoletani venduti ai soldati, cavalli imprigionati nel ghiaccio, sirene (o bambine?) servite come portata principale in casa dei generali. Ci sbatte in faccia una distruzione morale per farci comprendere che l鈥檕rrore e la crudelt脿 e il disastro di quella guerra non avevano precedenti, e cos矛 facendo si distingue perch猫 pochi intellettuali della sua epoca hanno predetto con tanta precisione e denunciato con pi霉 vigore il declino dell鈥橭ccidente. Alcuni episodi li ho ritrovati pari pari nel libro di Benioff, specie quello del Kolcotz dove i prigionieri russi vengono decimati a sfavore di quelli che sanno leggere, ma anche altri.
Vi si possono trovare personaggi che ritaglia con le cesoie del buon scrittore, parole che raccontano con la voce suadente dell鈥檃ffabulatore che sa trascinarti dietro il suo flauto magico per narrare efferatezze crudeli, pogrom che avvengono sotto gli occhi indifferenti di chi sta tornando ubriaco da una festa, acque di laghi finnici grigi come l鈥檃cciaio degli occhi degli ufficiali tedeschi, ebrei impiccati in ogni villaggio, ragazze ebree ridotte a schiave del sesso.
脠 solo guardando negli occhi queste allegorie che Malaparte riesce a provare, e a farci provare, dolore e compassione. E questo conta alla fine.
Dell鈥檜omo, invece c鈥櫭� altro da dire. Ma di questo dir貌 a commento del libro sulla sua vita. Per ora accontentatevi: Kaputt 猫 si, un libro 鈥渂izzarro鈥�, ma 猫 valsa la pena leggerlo.
All鈥檌nizio sono andata a rilento, ma il libro, impostato come una serie di capitoli/racconti a se stanti, si prestava ad una lettura che mi ha permesso nel frattempo di leggere altro. E poi le prime 100 pagine cominciavano a irritarmi. Scritto in prima persona le vicende narrate da Curzio Malaparte che, corrispondente di guerra viaggia in lungo e in largo per l鈥橢uropa distrutta dalla guerra, siede in banchetti di ufficiali, invitato da principi, Ministri, Consoli, pu貌 entrare e uscire col permesso dei gerarchi tedeschi da ghetti devastati dalla fame, si permette di dare una mano a salvare ebrei durante i pogrom, di rifiutare l鈥檌nvito di Himmler, frequenta bordelli, registrandone impressioni, vicende umane, e raccontandone gli orrori mi dava l鈥檌dea di avere a che fare con un narciso un po鈥� troppo pieno di se. Poi tutti i suoi racconti di prigionia, cinque anni al confino da parte dei fascisti鈥�. mi tornavano male con i conti. Ci貌 che stava descrivendo era realt脿 o fantasia? Era lui un cronista, o un romanziere?
Prima di farmelo diventare antipatico dovevo saperne di pi霉, cos矛 sono andato a spulciare il libro di Serra Malaparte: vite e leggende che, da quel punto in poi, ha progredito parallelamente all鈥檃ltro. E ho scoperto un sacco di cose interessanti, che mi hanno non solo fatto finire in fretta il libro, ma anche permesso di apprezzarne lo scrittore.
E di scrittore qui voglio parlare, perch茅 sull鈥檜omo Malaparte il discorso sarebbe diverso. Per capire Kaputt bisogna quindi comprendere la realt脿 di quell鈥橢uropa del fronte orientale sconvolto dalla distruzione di una guerra tremenda: Malaparte capisce che la descrizione della realt脿 non basta, che deve essere trasfigurata per poter guardare in faccia l鈥檕rrore e comprenderne la misura e il tracollo che ne determiner脿 la caduta finale.
E鈥� seguendo questi labirinti che mi sono imbattuta in articoli come questo su di lui, scritto da Tarabbia:
e da altri , che mi hanno permesso di comprendere come quest鈥檕pera non sia un vero reportage, ma un鈥檃llegoria. Lui stesso dir脿 di Kaputt, che 芦dentro non c鈥櫭� altro che soldati, cadaveri, cani, girasoli, cavalli e nuvole禄. Con una lingua elegante, che ricorda D鈥橝nnunzio, Malaparte racconta di ceste piene di occhi umani, bambini napoletani venduti ai soldati, cavalli imprigionati nel ghiaccio, sirene (o bambine?) servite come portata principale in casa dei generali. Ci sbatte in faccia una distruzione morale per farci comprendere che l鈥檕rrore e la crudelt脿 e il disastro di quella guerra non avevano precedenti, e cos矛 facendo si distingue perch猫 pochi intellettuali della sua epoca hanno predetto con tanta precisione e denunciato con pi霉 vigore il declino dell鈥橭ccidente. Alcuni episodi li ho ritrovati pari pari nel libro di Benioff, specie quello del Kolcotz dove i prigionieri russi vengono decimati a sfavore di quelli che sanno leggere, ma anche altri.
Vi si possono trovare personaggi che ritaglia con le cesoie del buon scrittore, parole che raccontano con la voce suadente dell鈥檃ffabulatore che sa trascinarti dietro il suo flauto magico per narrare efferatezze crudeli, pogrom che avvengono sotto gli occhi indifferenti di chi sta tornando ubriaco da una festa, acque di laghi finnici grigi come l鈥檃cciaio degli occhi degli ufficiali tedeschi, ebrei impiccati in ogni villaggio, ragazze ebree ridotte a schiave del sesso.
脠 solo guardando negli occhi queste allegorie che Malaparte riesce a provare, e a farci provare, dolore e compassione. E questo conta alla fine.
Dell鈥檜omo, invece c鈥櫭� altro da dire. Ma di questo dir貌 a commento del libro sulla sua vita. Per ora accontentatevi: Kaputt 猫 si, un libro 鈥渂izzarro鈥�, ma 猫 valsa la pena leggerlo.
July 21, 2023
Sconcertante questo romanzo, come singolare 猫 stato lo scrittore, un personaggio ambiguo, camaleontico. Come prima cosa voglio dire che vi sono troppe parti scritte in francese, che mi hanno dato fastidio costringendomi ad interrompere la lettura (il francese era la lingua dei diplomatici negli anni 鈥�40 del novecento?).
A parte questo disguido, il libro mi ha colpito proprio per la sua poliedricit脿, perch茅 non si incasella in una categoria, non 猫 un saggio, non 猫 un reportage giornalistico, non 猫 un diario, non 猫 una biografia, non 猫 un鈥檕pera storica, non 猫 un romanzo in senso stretto, ma alla fine pu貌 dirsi che 猫 anche tutto quanto sopra. E鈥� un鈥檕pera complessa, difficile da entrarci dentro, che meriterebbe le cinque stelle (se non fosse per il 鈥減roblema鈥� di cui sopra).
A cene eleganti con principi, ministri, diplomatici europei e generali nazisti, che sembrano non finire mai perch茅 la notte non scende nella interminabile estate finlandese, in soggiorni di fortuna nelle zone di guerra dell鈥橢uropa dell鈥橢st, tra soldati tedeschi, rumeni o ucraini, sotto i bombardamenti di Belgrado, ed in mille altre situazioni in cui la guerra fa da padrona, il camaleontico Malaparte si aggira come un funambolo, o meglio con l鈥檃mbiguit脿 che ha contraddistinto la sua vita, si muove tra la condanna (sempre con ironia) di coloro che sono causa degli orrori narrati e la complicit脿 con quegli stessi potenti che gli sono amici e lo riconoscono come uno di loro, quale l鈥檕rrido generale Himmler, il Generalgoverneur di Polonia, Hans Frank (poi condannato a morte a Norimberga) o il crudele dittatore croato Ante Pavelic, fino all鈥檌taliano conte Galeazzo Ciano e la sua 鈥渃orte鈥� di nobili.
Pi霉 volte ho pensato a Celine mentre leggevo: quello di Malaparte 猫 stato un Viaggio al termine della notte in una cornice storica precisa, gli orrori della seconda guerra mondiale in una Europa oramai 鈥渒aputt鈥�, in rovina, dove tutti gli esseri viventi, uomini e animali (ai quali sono intitolati i sei capitoli del libro, i cavalli, i topi, i cani, gli uccelli, le renne e le mosche) sono accomunati da un tragico e crudele destino.
A parte questo disguido, il libro mi ha colpito proprio per la sua poliedricit脿, perch茅 non si incasella in una categoria, non 猫 un saggio, non 猫 un reportage giornalistico, non 猫 un diario, non 猫 una biografia, non 猫 un鈥檕pera storica, non 猫 un romanzo in senso stretto, ma alla fine pu貌 dirsi che 猫 anche tutto quanto sopra. E鈥� un鈥檕pera complessa, difficile da entrarci dentro, che meriterebbe le cinque stelle (se non fosse per il 鈥減roblema鈥� di cui sopra).
A cene eleganti con principi, ministri, diplomatici europei e generali nazisti, che sembrano non finire mai perch茅 la notte non scende nella interminabile estate finlandese, in soggiorni di fortuna nelle zone di guerra dell鈥橢uropa dell鈥橢st, tra soldati tedeschi, rumeni o ucraini, sotto i bombardamenti di Belgrado, ed in mille altre situazioni in cui la guerra fa da padrona, il camaleontico Malaparte si aggira come un funambolo, o meglio con l鈥檃mbiguit脿 che ha contraddistinto la sua vita, si muove tra la condanna (sempre con ironia) di coloro che sono causa degli orrori narrati e la complicit脿 con quegli stessi potenti che gli sono amici e lo riconoscono come uno di loro, quale l鈥檕rrido generale Himmler, il Generalgoverneur di Polonia, Hans Frank (poi condannato a morte a Norimberga) o il crudele dittatore croato Ante Pavelic, fino all鈥檌taliano conte Galeazzo Ciano e la sua 鈥渃orte鈥� di nobili.
Pi霉 volte ho pensato a Celine mentre leggevo: quello di Malaparte 猫 stato un Viaggio al termine della notte in una cornice storica precisa, gli orrori della seconda guerra mondiale in una Europa oramai 鈥渒aputt鈥�, in rovina, dove tutti gli esseri viventi, uomini e animali (ai quali sono intitolati i sei capitoli del libro, i cavalli, i topi, i cani, gli uccelli, le renne e le mosche) sono accomunati da un tragico e crudele destino.
October 20, 2018
Se il giudizio arrivasse fino a 6 stelle, meriterebbe 6 stelle; se arrivasse a 10, ne meriterebbe 10. In poche parole un romanzo, nella sua complessit脿, di livello assoluto. Direi enorme, per quanto tale aggettivo mal si presti a un libro.
Ridondante, ricercata, cinica, 猫 la cronaca del declino e dell'abisso in cui 猫 sprofondata l'intera Europa durante la Seconda Guerra Mondiale raccontata in una maniera unica, che spazia dal pi霉 spietato neorealismo al raffinato lirismo di certe descrizioni al grottesco quasi allucinatorio all'afflato sublime, in stile romantico (con annesso gusto dell'horror). Malaparte si mostra per quello che 猫, ossia uno scrittore semplicemente straordinario, capace in maniera superba di dare corpo all'apocalisse in corso. E quando dico "dare corpo", intendo letteralmente: credo non mi sia mai capitato di leggere un testo che riesce a trasmettere sensazioni a tutti e cinque i sensi del lettore in questo modo, attraverso descrizioni che trasmutano in maniera tangibile e immediatamente comprensibili le cose (odori, suoni, visioni che diventano masse concrete e informi, incubi vivi e materici).
La cronaca 猫 figlia evidente dello scrittore, e come lui esagerata, raffinata, barocca, contraddittoria: tutto si pu貌 dire dell'uomo (e del personaggio) Malaparte, ma non che non avesse uno stile letterario proprio, unico e perfettamente riconoscibile.
Cos矛 come in generale non si pu貌 nemmeno negarne l'immenso talento.
Il viaggio narrato comincia in Ucraina, prosegue in Romania e Finlandia e finisce in Italia. Malaparte, diplomatico e ufficiale del Regio Esercito, addentro i circoli che contano, galleggia sulla superficie del colossale sfacelo della guerra europea, sostenuto da una curiosa miscela di cinismo, tristezza, rassegnazione, indifferenza e piet脿. Nel suo galleggiamento, quel curioso uomo che 猫 stato Curzio Malaparte segue la corrente, pur con scarti evidente alla stregua dei salmoni (pesce a cui, forse non a caso, dedica uno dei pi霉 divertenti brani del libro). Il comune denominatore di tutto quello che 猫 raccontato nel libro sono, ovviamente, i tedeschi. Tedeschi intesi come popolo, non come nazionalsocialisti. Tedeschi da cui Malaparte - il cui vero nome era peraltro Kurt Erich Suckert, ed era figlio di un sassone - fugge, di cui ha profondamente paura e della cui profonda e oscura anima ha somma piet脿 (sarebbe meglio dire umana compassione).
E' forse una delle migliori analisi sociologiche di un intero popolo mai scritte su carta, e rimane sempre attuale, ieri come oggi.
Malaparte rifugge le spiegazioni al lettore, e molto accenna o lascia intendere o lascia sospeso nell'aria: gli stretti dialoghi inframezzati da numerose battute in francese (la lingua della diplomazia europea, fino alla Seconda Guerra Mondiale) non aiutano. Il libro tuttavia, nei suoi episodi - cruenti o divertenti - nelle sue immaginifiche descrizioni, nei suoi riuscitissimi ritratti, si legge che 猫 un piacere, e la prosa densa non appesantisce, miracolosamente. In definitiva posso solo consigliarlo.
Per quel che ho letto e che conosco, siamo di fronte a uno dei dieci migliori romanzi del Novecento. Europeo, non solo italiano.
Edizione Adelphi, peraltro e come sempre, superba.
Ridondante, ricercata, cinica, 猫 la cronaca del declino e dell'abisso in cui 猫 sprofondata l'intera Europa durante la Seconda Guerra Mondiale raccontata in una maniera unica, che spazia dal pi霉 spietato neorealismo al raffinato lirismo di certe descrizioni al grottesco quasi allucinatorio all'afflato sublime, in stile romantico (con annesso gusto dell'horror). Malaparte si mostra per quello che 猫, ossia uno scrittore semplicemente straordinario, capace in maniera superba di dare corpo all'apocalisse in corso. E quando dico "dare corpo", intendo letteralmente: credo non mi sia mai capitato di leggere un testo che riesce a trasmettere sensazioni a tutti e cinque i sensi del lettore in questo modo, attraverso descrizioni che trasmutano in maniera tangibile e immediatamente comprensibili le cose (odori, suoni, visioni che diventano masse concrete e informi, incubi vivi e materici).
La cronaca 猫 figlia evidente dello scrittore, e come lui esagerata, raffinata, barocca, contraddittoria: tutto si pu貌 dire dell'uomo (e del personaggio) Malaparte, ma non che non avesse uno stile letterario proprio, unico e perfettamente riconoscibile.
Cos矛 come in generale non si pu貌 nemmeno negarne l'immenso talento.
Il viaggio narrato comincia in Ucraina, prosegue in Romania e Finlandia e finisce in Italia. Malaparte, diplomatico e ufficiale del Regio Esercito, addentro i circoli che contano, galleggia sulla superficie del colossale sfacelo della guerra europea, sostenuto da una curiosa miscela di cinismo, tristezza, rassegnazione, indifferenza e piet脿. Nel suo galleggiamento, quel curioso uomo che 猫 stato Curzio Malaparte segue la corrente, pur con scarti evidente alla stregua dei salmoni (pesce a cui, forse non a caso, dedica uno dei pi霉 divertenti brani del libro). Il comune denominatore di tutto quello che 猫 raccontato nel libro sono, ovviamente, i tedeschi. Tedeschi intesi come popolo, non come nazionalsocialisti. Tedeschi da cui Malaparte - il cui vero nome era peraltro Kurt Erich Suckert, ed era figlio di un sassone - fugge, di cui ha profondamente paura e della cui profonda e oscura anima ha somma piet脿 (sarebbe meglio dire umana compassione).
E' forse una delle migliori analisi sociologiche di un intero popolo mai scritte su carta, e rimane sempre attuale, ieri come oggi.
Malaparte rifugge le spiegazioni al lettore, e molto accenna o lascia intendere o lascia sospeso nell'aria: gli stretti dialoghi inframezzati da numerose battute in francese (la lingua della diplomazia europea, fino alla Seconda Guerra Mondiale) non aiutano. Il libro tuttavia, nei suoi episodi - cruenti o divertenti - nelle sue immaginifiche descrizioni, nei suoi riuscitissimi ritratti, si legge che 猫 un piacere, e la prosa densa non appesantisce, miracolosamente. In definitiva posso solo consigliarlo.
Per quel che ho letto e che conosco, siamo di fronte a uno dei dieci migliori romanzi del Novecento. Europeo, non solo italiano.
Edizione Adelphi, peraltro e come sempre, superba.
June 29, 2021
In questo periodo di rigurgito del cretinismo censorio tanto pi霉 becero in quanto con pretese progressiste, mentre si manda al macero la biografia di uno dei massimi scrittori americani e ci si accapiglia su un gesto, una parola, il nome di una via, una statua, con una vacuit脿 salottiera febbricitante che sfonda d鈥檌mpeto il muro del ridicolo, ho deciso di dedicare le letture estive a uno dei grandi scrittori che stavano dalla parte sbagliata.
Ho pensato subito a Malaparte (che 猫 stato da tutte le parti, non solo geograficamente parlando). La sua prosa ha pochi confronti in fatto di eleganza, esattezza e carica di suggestione. 鈥滾a Pelle鈥� 茅 probabilmente il pi霉 bel romanzo sulla seconda guerra mondiale in Italia (libri sulla Resistenza compresi). Kaputt 茅 il romanzo della fine di una certa idea dell鈥橢uropa, dell鈥檌llusione positivista, della scommessa sulla cultura come vaccino contro la violenza e la sopraffazione. E la scelta di strutturarlo attorno al filo conduttore degli animali assunti come simboli di dolcezza, come paradigma delle vittime e insieme come portatori di una sapienza pre-umana, l鈥檜nica sopravvissuta a quella catastrofe della Ragione, 猫 il colpo di genio di un grande romanziere.
E poi ci sono pagine indimenticabili: l鈥檃lba in un campo di girasoli, i cavalli prigionieri nel lago ghiacciato, il governatore nazista della Polonia occupata che suona Chopin e poi va a caccia di 鈥渢opi鈥� nel ghetto, Himmler nella sauna, il generale tedesco che fa la caccia al salmone, il serraglio della buona societ脿 romana al golf dell鈥橝cquasanta, le ragazze ebree del postribolo di guerra e si potrebbe continuare.
Una lettura che 猫 un bagno rinfrescante nell鈥檌ntelligenza e nella classe pi霉 pura. Altro che i sacerdioti del politicamente corretto!
Ho pensato subito a Malaparte (che 猫 stato da tutte le parti, non solo geograficamente parlando). La sua prosa ha pochi confronti in fatto di eleganza, esattezza e carica di suggestione. 鈥滾a Pelle鈥� 茅 probabilmente il pi霉 bel romanzo sulla seconda guerra mondiale in Italia (libri sulla Resistenza compresi). Kaputt 茅 il romanzo della fine di una certa idea dell鈥橢uropa, dell鈥檌llusione positivista, della scommessa sulla cultura come vaccino contro la violenza e la sopraffazione. E la scelta di strutturarlo attorno al filo conduttore degli animali assunti come simboli di dolcezza, come paradigma delle vittime e insieme come portatori di una sapienza pre-umana, l鈥檜nica sopravvissuta a quella catastrofe della Ragione, 猫 il colpo di genio di un grande romanziere.
E poi ci sono pagine indimenticabili: l鈥檃lba in un campo di girasoli, i cavalli prigionieri nel lago ghiacciato, il governatore nazista della Polonia occupata che suona Chopin e poi va a caccia di 鈥渢opi鈥� nel ghetto, Himmler nella sauna, il generale tedesco che fa la caccia al salmone, il serraglio della buona societ脿 romana al golf dell鈥橝cquasanta, le ragazze ebree del postribolo di guerra e si potrebbe continuare.
Una lettura che 猫 un bagno rinfrescante nell鈥檌ntelligenza e nella classe pi霉 pura. Altro che i sacerdioti del politicamente corretto!
June 5, 2017
In a million years, I would not have picked up this obscure book published in the 40s had it not been listed by David Benioff as a source of information for "City of Thieves." In describing the narration of various novels, people will often use the term "unreliable narrator." Malaparte is THE poster child for that!
He may likely have been pro-German before realizing that Hitler's defeat was around the corner (when he rewrote portions of the book to denigrate the Germans), but regardless, he was an Italian war correspondent who traveled throughout Europe. Malaparte wrote this book describing various scenes he happened upon first hand and others he may only have heard about from others. There are horrors and atrocities here that most of us have never heard of.
In a surreal chapter, he describes a frozen lake, with a beach full of the carcasses of horses that froze standing upright before they could make it ashore. Im not sure that buoyancy and the laws of physics would support this, but Ive no doubt that the army did try to herd them across the lake to either use as mounts or for meals. As spring time comes, the sun gradually melts the top layer of ice revealing the sparkling upright heads of these equine statues still locked in the lake. Very bizarre.
If you are interested in the history of World War II, this is definitely worth the read. The outlandish opulence of German dinner parties and extravagance compared to the slaughter of entire villages of innocents is mind boggling. Malaparte certainly was a sly tiger who changed his political stripes, but his writing was gorgeous.
He may likely have been pro-German before realizing that Hitler's defeat was around the corner (when he rewrote portions of the book to denigrate the Germans), but regardless, he was an Italian war correspondent who traveled throughout Europe. Malaparte wrote this book describing various scenes he happened upon first hand and others he may only have heard about from others. There are horrors and atrocities here that most of us have never heard of.
In a surreal chapter, he describes a frozen lake, with a beach full of the carcasses of horses that froze standing upright before they could make it ashore. Im not sure that buoyancy and the laws of physics would support this, but Ive no doubt that the army did try to herd them across the lake to either use as mounts or for meals. As spring time comes, the sun gradually melts the top layer of ice revealing the sparkling upright heads of these equine statues still locked in the lake. Very bizarre.
If you are interested in the history of World War II, this is definitely worth the read. The outlandish opulence of German dinner parties and extravagance compared to the slaughter of entire villages of innocents is mind boggling. Malaparte certainly was a sly tiger who changed his political stripes, but his writing was gorgeous.
December 15, 2024
It only took me a few pages to feel like I wanted to give up on this overwritten monster. I was like 鈥渆nough with all these flowery descriptions and excessive name dropping鈥�. However, as much as I thought about throwing it across the room, the truth is I couldn鈥檛 stop reading, and after twenty pages I knew, not only that it was going to be hard work, but also that I had no choice but to finish it - the beast was in control.
It was also around the twenty page mark that I first thought about Bola帽o, another author who, I鈥檓 sure, was completely aware of his tendency to overwrite. Because, for me, ironically, the beauty of their writing lies exactly on the fact that it can only be found among all the 鈥渦nnecessary鈥� and quite ordinary ramblings. Sounds relatable, hey鈥�?
I鈥檓 so glad I鈥檝e found this book at this exact point of my life; a point where I鈥檓 simply not interested in reading about a topic as mind boggling as war (or slavery, by the way) in the exploitative way I鈥檝e been seeing in recent years.
Just like Malaparte did with this book, I think it鈥檚 time to shift the focus a bit from the victims to the perpetrators.
We should all ask ourselves what have we been doing to prevent all this miserable shit from happening again? Well, considering that I鈥檓 not a spring chicken, and I鈥檝e never lived through a time without wars, I鈥檇 say that WE have not learned a single thing, and all those bestselling books and blockbusters about children in bombarded places have done absolutely nothing to stop history from repeating itself.
Apparently, crying can be quite distracting.
I think it鈥檚 well past the time to start seeing all this for what it really is: a 鈥減roblem鈥� entirely caused by elected politicians obsessed with power who refuse to see a thing that doesn鈥檛 suit their personal agendas, and 鈥減ay鈥� the media to brainwash the exact same people who have put them in charge in the first place.
You know I鈥檓 talking about all the bullshit that used to be called propaganda, but these days, for some reason, people prefer to call it information, right?
My brain hurts.
鈥漌hat is more horrible in war (鈥�) is precisely what is gentle in it. I cannot bear to see smiling monsters鈥�
It was also around the twenty page mark that I first thought about Bola帽o, another author who, I鈥檓 sure, was completely aware of his tendency to overwrite. Because, for me, ironically, the beauty of their writing lies exactly on the fact that it can only be found among all the 鈥渦nnecessary鈥� and quite ordinary ramblings. Sounds relatable, hey鈥�?
I鈥檓 so glad I鈥檝e found this book at this exact point of my life; a point where I鈥檓 simply not interested in reading about a topic as mind boggling as war (or slavery, by the way) in the exploitative way I鈥檝e been seeing in recent years.
Just like Malaparte did with this book, I think it鈥檚 time to shift the focus a bit from the victims to the perpetrators.
We should all ask ourselves what have we been doing to prevent all this miserable shit from happening again? Well, considering that I鈥檓 not a spring chicken, and I鈥檝e never lived through a time without wars, I鈥檇 say that WE have not learned a single thing, and all those bestselling books and blockbusters about children in bombarded places have done absolutely nothing to stop history from repeating itself.
Apparently, crying can be quite distracting.
I think it鈥檚 well past the time to start seeing all this for what it really is: a 鈥減roblem鈥� entirely caused by elected politicians obsessed with power who refuse to see a thing that doesn鈥檛 suit their personal agendas, and 鈥減ay鈥� the media to brainwash the exact same people who have put them in charge in the first place.
You know I鈥檓 talking about all the bullshit that used to be called propaganda, but these days, for some reason, people prefer to call it information, right?
My brain hurts.
鈥漌hat is more horrible in war (鈥�) is precisely what is gentle in it. I cannot bear to see smiling monsters鈥�
February 4, 2023
賲丕 亘乇丕蹖 丿賮丕毓 丕夭 鬲賲丿賳 亘丕 鬲賵丨卮 賲蹖鈥屫嗂屬�.
賵 丿乇賵丕賯毓 芦讴丕倬賵鬲禄 讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖丕賳 丕爻鬲 賵 賯亘賱 丕夭 賴賲賴 丕蹖賳 丨蹖賵丕賳丕鬲 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 丕賳丿 賵 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 賴乇 讴丿丕賲 卮丕賳 亘賴 賮氐賱 賴丕蹖 乇賲丕賳 賳丕賲 賲蹖 丿賴賳丿: 丕爻亘 賴丕貙 賲賵卮 賴丕貙 爻诏 賴丕貙 倬乇賳丿诏丕賳貙 诏賵夭賳 賴丕 賵 賲诏爻 賴丕.
丕蹖賳 丕丨爻丕爻 賳爻亘鬲 亘賴 賲禺賱賵賯丕鬲 噩賳亘賴 丕蹖 睾蹖乇賯丕亘賱 趩卮賲 倬賵卮蹖 丿乇 丕蹖賳 乇賲丕賳 賵 亘賴 胤賵乇 讴賱蹖 丿乇 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 爻乇丕蹖蹖 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 丕爻鬲 賵 乇丕亘胤賴 氐賲蹖賲蹖 賵 鬲賳诏丕鬲賳诏 丕賵 乇丕 亘丕 胤亘蹖毓鬲 乇賵卮賳 賲蹖 讴賳丿. 賮亘賵貙 爻诏 賲丨亘賵亘蹖 讴賴 乇賵蹖 賲蹖夭 鬲卮乇蹖丨 噩丕賳丿丕乇丕賳 夭賳丿賴 亘乇丕蹖卮 诏乇蹖賴 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 丨囟賵乇蹖 賲賳賯賱亘 讴賳賳丿賴 丿乇 讴鬲丕亘 芦倬賵爻鬲禄 丿丕乇丿 賵 賲噩賲賵毓賴 芦禺賵賳禄 丨丿丕賯賱 丿賵 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 丿丕乇丿 讴賴 丿乇 丌賳賴丕 丨蹖賵丕賳丕鬲 鬲氐賵蹖乇 賵 鬲噩爻賲 賲毓氐賵賲蹖鬲蹖 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 亘賴 賳丕丨賯 賲賵乇丿 鬲噩丕賵夭 賯乇丕乇 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕賳丿. 賯爻丕賵鬲 亘蹖 丿賱蹖賱 亘卮乇貙 賯爻丕賵鬲 賵 亘蹖 乇丨賲蹖 丌賱賲丕賳蹖 賴丕貙 丿乇 芦賯乇亘丕賳蹖禄 丕夭 鬲乇爻 賳丕卮蹖 賲蹖 卮賵丿貨 鬲乇爻蹖 讴賴 賲賵噩賵丿蹖 賲毓氐賵賲貙 亘乇賴賳賴 丿乇鬲丕乇蹖禺 賵 夭賳丿诏蹖 丕蹖噩丕丿 賲蹖 讴賳丿.
倬爻 丕蹖賳 丨蹖賵丕賳丕鬲 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 亘丕 丿乇丿 賵 乇賳噩 賵 賲乇诏 卮丕賳 丌賴 賵 賮乇蹖丕丿 鬲爻讴蹖賳 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 丕夭 賳賴丕丿 禺賵丕賳賳丿賴 賵 讴爻丕賳蹖 讴賴 賲蹖 賳诏乇賳丿 賵 賲蹖 亘蹖賳賳丿 亘乇 賲蹖 丌賵乇賳丿: 丕爻亘 賴丕蹖 爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴丕蹖 賮賳賱丕賳丿蹖 讴賴 丿乇 蹖禺 诏蹖乇 讴乇丿賴 賵 爻乇卮丕賳 乇丕 丿乇丕夭 讴乇丿賴 丕賳丿 鬲丕 賳賮爻 亘讴卮賳丿. 賲賵卮 賴丕 讴賴 丿乇 賲丨賱賴 讴賱蹖賲蹖丕賳 賵乇卮賵 亘趩賴 賴丕蹖蹖 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 丿乇 噩爻鬲 賵 噩賵蹖 睾匕丕 丕夭 爻賵乇丕禺 賴丕蹖 爻賳诏賮乇卮 亘蹖乇賵賳 賲蹖 丌蹖賳丿. 丿乇 乇賵夭賴丕蹖 诏乇賮鬲賴 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 夭賲爻鬲丕賳貙 丨賵丕賱蹖 馗賴乇貙 賵賯鬲蹖 賳賵乇 禺賮蹖賮 丕夭 丌爻賲丕賳 賲蹖 亘丕乇丿貙 爻乇亘丕夭丕賳 爻乇賴賳诏 賲乇蹖讴丕賱蹖賵 賲蹖 乇賮鬲賳丿 乇賵蹖 爻乇 丕爻亘 賴丕 亘賳卮蹖賳賳丿.
芦賮乇丕賵賵 亘乇蹖跇蹖鬲 賮乇丕賳讴 倬乇爻蹖丿: 芦賲賵卮 讴噩丕爻鬲責禄 爻乇亘丕夭 丿乇 丨丕賱蹖 讴賴 賳卮丕賳賴 賲蹖 诏乇賮鬲貙 诏賮鬲: 芦鬲賵噩賴!禄 丕夭 爻賵乇丕禺蹖 丨賮乇 卮丿賴 丿乇 倬丕蹖 丿蹖賵丕乇 賲卮鬲蹖 賲賵蹖 爻蹖丕賴 跇賵賱蹖丿賴 爻乇讴 讴卮蹖丿貙 爻倬爻 丿賵 丿爻鬲 丕夭 爻賵乇丕禺 亘蹖乇賵賳 丌賲丿賳丿貙 乇賵蹖 亘乇賮 賯乇丕乇 诏乇賮鬲賳丿. 蹖讴 亘趩賴 亘賵丿. 鬲蹖乇 丨乇讴鬲 讴乇丿貙 丕賲丕 丕蹖賳 亘丕乇 賴賲 亘丕 丕賳丿讴蹖 禺胤丕 亘賴 賴丿賮 賳禺賵乇丿. 爻乇 亘趩賴 賳丕倬丿蹖丿 卮丿.
賮乇丕賳讴 亘丕 氐丿丕蹖 賲囟胤乇亘 诏賮鬲: 芦亘賱丿 賳蹖爻鬲蹖 丨鬲蹖 鬲賮賳诏蹖 乇丕 亘賴 丿爻鬲 亘诏蹖乇蹖.禄 鬲賮賳诏 爻乇亘丕夭 乇丕 賯丕倬蹖丿 賵 賳卮丕賳賴 乇賮鬲. 丿乇 爻讴賵鬲 亘乇賮 賲蹖 亘丕乇蹖丿.禄
亘丕 賵噩賵丿 丕蹖賳貙 賴賲丕賳 胤賵乇 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 鬲讴賴 丕夭 乇賲丕賳 亘賴 賵囟賵丨 丌賲丿賴貙 丕诏乇 囟毓賮丕 丕賵賱蹖賳 賯乇亘丕賳蹖丕賳 丕噩鬲賳丕亘 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賴爻鬲賳丿貙 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 噩賱丕丿丕賳 乇丕 讴賴 賲賯丿乇賳丿 賵丕乇賵賳賴 卮丿賳 賳賯卮 賯丿乇鬲卮丕賳 乇丕 亘亘蹖賳賳丿 賵 丿乇 賳賴丕蹖鬲 賴乇 丕賳爻丕賳蹖 乇丕 丿乇 丕蹖賳 丿爻鬲賴 賲蹖 诏賳噩丕賳丿. 胤賳夭 亘賴 毓賳丕賵蹖賳 賲禺鬲賱賮 丿乇 賲鬲賳 賵噩賵丿 丿丕乇丿. 賵丕跇賴 賴丕蹖 禺丕乇噩蹖 芦賳丕亘禄 賵 鬲賮爻蹖乇卮丕賳 讴賴 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 禺氐賵氐蹖丕鬲 讴鬲丕亘 丕爻鬲 丿乇 噩丕蹖 噩丕蹖 乇賲丕賳 诏賳噩丕賳丿賴 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲. 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賳诏丕賴蹖 鬲乇丕跇蹖讴 賵 賴卮丿丕乇丿賴賳丿賴 亘賴 丌蹖賳丿賴 賴丕蹖 丕乇賵倬丕蹖蹖 賲蹖 丕賳丿丕夭丿 讴賴 賲賯丿乇 亘賴 賳丕亘賵丿蹖 賵 賮乇賵倬丕卮蹖 丕爻鬲貨 賳诏丕賴蹖 讴賴 丕夭 丕賳鬲賯丕丿賴丕 亘賴 卮蹖賵賴 賴丕蹖 賲禺鬲賱賮 爻蹖丕爻蹖 賳丕卮蹖 賲蹖 卮賵丿.
亘丕 趩賳蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮蹖 芦賯乇亘丕賳蹖禄 讴賵乇鬲夭蹖賵 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 讴賴 鬲丨鬲 鬲丕孬蹖乇 賯乇丕乇 賲蹖 丿賴丿 賵 賲鬲丕孬乇 賵 賲賳賯賱亘 賲蹖 诏乇丿丕賳丿 丕夭 賱匕鬲 夭蹖亘丕卮賳丕爻蹖 賵丨卮鬲 讴賴 睾丕賱亘丕 亘賴 禺丕胤乇卮 亘乇 丌賳 禺乇丿賴 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕賳丿 讴丕賲賱丕 亘賴 丿賵乇 賲蹖 賲丕賳丿. 芦賯乇亘丕賳蹖禄 亘蹖卮鬲乇 讴鬲丕亘蹖 胤賳夭 丕爻鬲 亘賴 賲賮賴賵賲蹖 讴賴 亘蹖丕賳 卮丿貨 鬲乇丕跇丿蹖 丕胤賲蹖賳丕賳 亘賴 賳賮爻 馗丕賴乇 賵 賯丿乇鬲 丕爻鬲 讴賴 爻乇丕賳噩丕賲卮 卮讴爻鬲 丕爻鬲 賵 丿乇 賲賳丕馗乇 噩賳诏 亘賴 禺丕讴爻鬲乇 亘丿賱 賲蹖 卮賵丿. 乇賲丕賳 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 丕夭 乇賵丨蹖賴 丕蹖 賯賵蹖 賵 丌夭丕丿 丿乇 鬲賯丕亘賱 亘丕 毓匕丕亘 賵 爻賵丿丕夭丿诏蹖 亘乇禺賵乇丿丕乇 丕爻鬲貨 爻賵丿丕夭丿诏蹖 丕蹖 讴賴 卮賵乇 賲丿蹖鬲乇丕賳賴 丕蹖 賵 爻乇丿蹖 卮賲丕賱 丕乇賵倬丕 乇丕 丿乇 丿乇賵賳 禺賵蹖卮 丿丕乇丿. 讴賳丕蹖賴 丕蹖 爻爻鬲 鬲賵丕賲 亘丕 睾乇賵乇 賵 倬乇蹖卮丕賳蹖. 讴賱丕賲 賲乇丿蹖 爻鬲 讴賴 鬲禺鬲賴 爻賳诏蹖 賲賳夭賵蹖 乇賵 亘賴 丿乇蹖丕蹖 讴丕倬乇蹖 乇丕 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 丕賯丕賲鬲诏丕賴 禺賵蹖卮 亘乇诏夭蹖丿 賵 丿乇 卮讴賱 蹖讴 禺丕賳賴 丕爻胤賵乇賴 丕蹖 爻賵丿丕蹖 毓氐蹖丕賳诏乇 禺賵蹖卮 乇丕 乇賵丕蹖鬲 讴乇丿.
賵 丿乇賵丕賯毓 芦讴丕倬賵鬲禄 讴鬲丕亘 賯乇亘丕賳蹖丕賳 丕爻鬲 賵 賯亘賱 丕夭 賴賲賴 丕蹖賳 丨蹖賵丕賳丕鬲 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 賯乇亘丕賳蹖 丕賳丿 賵 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 賴乇 讴丿丕賲 卮丕賳 亘賴 賮氐賱 賴丕蹖 乇賲丕賳 賳丕賲 賲蹖 丿賴賳丿: 丕爻亘 賴丕貙 賲賵卮 賴丕貙 爻诏 賴丕貙 倬乇賳丿诏丕賳貙 诏賵夭賳 賴丕 賵 賲诏爻 賴丕.
丕蹖賳 丕丨爻丕爻 賳爻亘鬲 亘賴 賲禺賱賵賯丕鬲 噩賳亘賴 丕蹖 睾蹖乇賯丕亘賱 趩卮賲 倬賵卮蹖 丿乇 丕蹖賳 乇賲丕賳 賵 亘賴 胤賵乇 讴賱蹖 丿乇 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 爻乇丕蹖蹖 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 丕爻鬲 賵 乇丕亘胤賴 氐賲蹖賲蹖 賵 鬲賳诏丕鬲賳诏 丕賵 乇丕 亘丕 胤亘蹖毓鬲 乇賵卮賳 賲蹖 讴賳丿. 賮亘賵貙 爻诏 賲丨亘賵亘蹖 讴賴 乇賵蹖 賲蹖夭 鬲卮乇蹖丨 噩丕賳丿丕乇丕賳 夭賳丿賴 亘乇丕蹖卮 诏乇蹖賴 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 丨囟賵乇蹖 賲賳賯賱亘 讴賳賳丿賴 丿乇 讴鬲丕亘 芦倬賵爻鬲禄 丿丕乇丿 賵 賲噩賲賵毓賴 芦禺賵賳禄 丨丿丕賯賱 丿賵 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 丿丕乇丿 讴賴 丿乇 丌賳賴丕 丨蹖賵丕賳丕鬲 鬲氐賵蹖乇 賵 鬲噩爻賲 賲毓氐賵賲蹖鬲蹖 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 亘賴 賳丕丨賯 賲賵乇丿 鬲噩丕賵夭 賯乇丕乇 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕賳丿. 賯爻丕賵鬲 亘蹖 丿賱蹖賱 亘卮乇貙 賯爻丕賵鬲 賵 亘蹖 乇丨賲蹖 丌賱賲丕賳蹖 賴丕貙 丿乇 芦賯乇亘丕賳蹖禄 丕夭 鬲乇爻 賳丕卮蹖 賲蹖 卮賵丿貨 鬲乇爻蹖 讴賴 賲賵噩賵丿蹖 賲毓氐賵賲貙 亘乇賴賳賴 丿乇鬲丕乇蹖禺 賵 夭賳丿诏蹖 丕蹖噩丕丿 賲蹖 讴賳丿.
倬爻 丕蹖賳 丨蹖賵丕賳丕鬲 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 亘丕 丿乇丿 賵 乇賳噩 賵 賲乇诏 卮丕賳 丌賴 賵 賮乇蹖丕丿 鬲爻讴蹖賳 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 丕夭 賳賴丕丿 禺賵丕賳賳丿賴 賵 讴爻丕賳蹖 讴賴 賲蹖 賳诏乇賳丿 賵 賲蹖 亘蹖賳賳丿 亘乇 賲蹖 丌賵乇賳丿: 丕爻亘 賴丕蹖 爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴丕蹖 賮賳賱丕賳丿蹖 讴賴 丿乇 蹖禺 诏蹖乇 讴乇丿賴 賵 爻乇卮丕賳 乇丕 丿乇丕夭 讴乇丿賴 丕賳丿 鬲丕 賳賮爻 亘讴卮賳丿. 賲賵卮 賴丕 讴賴 丿乇 賲丨賱賴 讴賱蹖賲蹖丕賳 賵乇卮賵 亘趩賴 賴丕蹖蹖 賴爻鬲賳丿 讴賴 丿乇 噩爻鬲 賵 噩賵蹖 睾匕丕 丕夭 爻賵乇丕禺 賴丕蹖 爻賳诏賮乇卮 亘蹖乇賵賳 賲蹖 丌蹖賳丿. 丿乇 乇賵夭賴丕蹖 诏乇賮鬲賴 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 夭賲爻鬲丕賳貙 丨賵丕賱蹖 馗賴乇貙 賵賯鬲蹖 賳賵乇 禺賮蹖賮 丕夭 丌爻賲丕賳 賲蹖 亘丕乇丿貙 爻乇亘丕夭丕賳 爻乇賴賳诏 賲乇蹖讴丕賱蹖賵 賲蹖 乇賮鬲賳丿 乇賵蹖 爻乇 丕爻亘 賴丕 亘賳卮蹖賳賳丿.
芦賮乇丕賵賵 亘乇蹖跇蹖鬲 賮乇丕賳讴 倬乇爻蹖丿: 芦賲賵卮 讴噩丕爻鬲責禄 爻乇亘丕夭 丿乇 丨丕賱蹖 讴賴 賳卮丕賳賴 賲蹖 诏乇賮鬲貙 诏賮鬲: 芦鬲賵噩賴!禄 丕夭 爻賵乇丕禺蹖 丨賮乇 卮丿賴 丿乇 倬丕蹖 丿蹖賵丕乇 賲卮鬲蹖 賲賵蹖 爻蹖丕賴 跇賵賱蹖丿賴 爻乇讴 讴卮蹖丿貙 爻倬爻 丿賵 丿爻鬲 丕夭 爻賵乇丕禺 亘蹖乇賵賳 丌賲丿賳丿貙 乇賵蹖 亘乇賮 賯乇丕乇 诏乇賮鬲賳丿. 蹖讴 亘趩賴 亘賵丿. 鬲蹖乇 丨乇讴鬲 讴乇丿貙 丕賲丕 丕蹖賳 亘丕乇 賴賲 亘丕 丕賳丿讴蹖 禺胤丕 亘賴 賴丿賮 賳禺賵乇丿. 爻乇 亘趩賴 賳丕倬丿蹖丿 卮丿.
賮乇丕賳讴 亘丕 氐丿丕蹖 賲囟胤乇亘 诏賮鬲: 芦亘賱丿 賳蹖爻鬲蹖 丨鬲蹖 鬲賮賳诏蹖 乇丕 亘賴 丿爻鬲 亘诏蹖乇蹖.禄 鬲賮賳诏 爻乇亘丕夭 乇丕 賯丕倬蹖丿 賵 賳卮丕賳賴 乇賮鬲. 丿乇 爻讴賵鬲 亘乇賮 賲蹖 亘丕乇蹖丿.禄
亘丕 賵噩賵丿 丕蹖賳貙 賴賲丕賳 胤賵乇 讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 鬲讴賴 丕夭 乇賲丕賳 亘賴 賵囟賵丨 丌賲丿賴貙 丕诏乇 囟毓賮丕 丕賵賱蹖賳 賯乇亘丕賳蹖丕賳 丕噩鬲賳丕亘 賳丕倬匕蹖乇 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賴爻鬲賳丿貙 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 噩賱丕丿丕賳 乇丕 讴賴 賲賯丿乇賳丿 賵丕乇賵賳賴 卮丿賳 賳賯卮 賯丿乇鬲卮丕賳 乇丕 亘亘蹖賳賳丿 賵 丿乇 賳賴丕蹖鬲 賴乇 丕賳爻丕賳蹖 乇丕 丿乇 丕蹖賳 丿爻鬲賴 賲蹖 诏賳噩丕賳丿. 胤賳夭 亘賴 毓賳丕賵蹖賳 賲禺鬲賱賮 丿乇 賲鬲賳 賵噩賵丿 丿丕乇丿. 賵丕跇賴 賴丕蹖 禺丕乇噩蹖 芦賳丕亘禄 賵 鬲賮爻蹖乇卮丕賳 讴賴 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 禺氐賵氐蹖丕鬲 讴鬲丕亘 丕爻鬲 丿乇 噩丕蹖 噩丕蹖 乇賲丕賳 诏賳噩丕賳丿賴 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲. 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賳诏丕賴蹖 鬲乇丕跇蹖讴 賵 賴卮丿丕乇丿賴賳丿賴 亘賴 丌蹖賳丿賴 賴丕蹖 丕乇賵倬丕蹖蹖 賲蹖 丕賳丿丕夭丿 讴賴 賲賯丿乇 亘賴 賳丕亘賵丿蹖 賵 賮乇賵倬丕卮蹖 丕爻鬲貨 賳诏丕賴蹖 讴賴 丕夭 丕賳鬲賯丕丿賴丕 亘賴 卮蹖賵賴 賴丕蹖 賲禺鬲賱賮 爻蹖丕爻蹖 賳丕卮蹖 賲蹖 卮賵丿.
亘丕 趩賳蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮蹖 芦賯乇亘丕賳蹖禄 讴賵乇鬲夭蹖賵 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 讴賴 鬲丨鬲 鬲丕孬蹖乇 賯乇丕乇 賲蹖 丿賴丿 賵 賲鬲丕孬乇 賵 賲賳賯賱亘 賲蹖 诏乇丿丕賳丿 丕夭 賱匕鬲 夭蹖亘丕卮賳丕爻蹖 賵丨卮鬲 讴賴 睾丕賱亘丕 亘賴 禺丕胤乇卮 亘乇 丌賳 禺乇丿賴 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕賳丿 讴丕賲賱丕 亘賴 丿賵乇 賲蹖 賲丕賳丿. 芦賯乇亘丕賳蹖禄 亘蹖卮鬲乇 讴鬲丕亘蹖 胤賳夭 丕爻鬲 亘賴 賲賮賴賵賲蹖 讴賴 亘蹖丕賳 卮丿貨 鬲乇丕跇丿蹖 丕胤賲蹖賳丕賳 亘賴 賳賮爻 馗丕賴乇 賵 賯丿乇鬲 丕爻鬲 讴賴 爻乇丕賳噩丕賲卮 卮讴爻鬲 丕爻鬲 賵 丿乇 賲賳丕馗乇 噩賳诏 亘賴 禺丕讴爻鬲乇 亘丿賱 賲蹖 卮賵丿. 乇賲丕賳 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 丕夭 乇賵丨蹖賴 丕蹖 賯賵蹖 賵 丌夭丕丿 丿乇 鬲賯丕亘賱 亘丕 毓匕丕亘 賵 爻賵丿丕夭丿诏蹖 亘乇禺賵乇丿丕乇 丕爻鬲貨 爻賵丿丕夭丿诏蹖 丕蹖 讴賴 卮賵乇 賲丿蹖鬲乇丕賳賴 丕蹖 賵 爻乇丿蹖 卮賲丕賱 丕乇賵倬丕 乇丕 丿乇 丿乇賵賳 禺賵蹖卮 丿丕乇丿. 讴賳丕蹖賴 丕蹖 爻爻鬲 鬲賵丕賲 亘丕 睾乇賵乇 賵 倬乇蹖卮丕賳蹖. 讴賱丕賲 賲乇丿蹖 爻鬲 讴賴 鬲禺鬲賴 爻賳诏蹖 賲賳夭賵蹖 乇賵 亘賴 丿乇蹖丕蹖 讴丕倬乇蹖 乇丕 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 丕賯丕賲鬲诏丕賴 禺賵蹖卮 亘乇诏夭蹖丿 賵 丿乇 卮讴賱 蹖讴 禺丕賳賴 丕爻胤賵乇賴 丕蹖 爻賵丿丕蹖 毓氐蹖丕賳诏乇 禺賵蹖卮 乇丕 乇賵丕蹖鬲 讴乇丿.
August 27, 2023
Come una Sherazad con il gusto del macabro Curzio Malaparte snocciola fatti di cui 猫 stato testimone, o che gli sono stati raccontati mentre girava l'Europa come corrispondente di guerra. Leggendo altre opinioni ho notato che in tanti ne mettono in dubbio la veridicit脿, ma penso che lo scopo del romanzo non sia la semplice cronaca. La mia idea 猫 che Malaparte abbia inserito nei suoi romanzi storie inverosimili, magari inventate di sana pianta, non per sensazionalismo ma in virt霉 di un鈥檈fficace espediente narrativo: il fatto che durante la lettura io possa anche solo credere alle sue storie, che ci sia questo dubbio, dice tanto sull鈥檕rrore della Seconda Guerra Mondiale - molto pi霉 di altri resoconti pi霉 aderenti alla realt脿. C鈥櫭� chi critica il romanzo per questo suo aspetto quando invece 猫 proprio la sua forza.
"A un certo punto l'ufficiale si ferma davanti al ragazzo, lo fissa a lungo, in silenzio, poi gli dice con voce lenta, stanca, piena di noia: "Ascolta, non ti voglio far del male. Sei un bambino, io non fo la guerra ai bambini. Hai sparato sui miei soldati, ma io non fo la guerra ai bambini. Lieber Gott, non l'ho inventata io la guerra". L'ufficiale s'interrompe, poi dice al ragazzo con una voce stranamente dolce: "Ascolta, io ho un occhio di vetro. 脠 difficile riconoscerlo da quello vero. Se mi sai dire subito, senza pensarci su, quale dei due occhi 猫 l'occhio di vetro, ti lascio andar via, ti lascio libero".
"L'occhio sinistro" risponde pronto il ragazzo.
"Come hai fatto ad accorgertene?"
"Perch茅 dei due 猫 l'unico che abbia qualcosa di umano"."
"A un certo punto l'ufficiale si ferma davanti al ragazzo, lo fissa a lungo, in silenzio, poi gli dice con voce lenta, stanca, piena di noia: "Ascolta, non ti voglio far del male. Sei un bambino, io non fo la guerra ai bambini. Hai sparato sui miei soldati, ma io non fo la guerra ai bambini. Lieber Gott, non l'ho inventata io la guerra". L'ufficiale s'interrompe, poi dice al ragazzo con una voce stranamente dolce: "Ascolta, io ho un occhio di vetro. 脠 difficile riconoscerlo da quello vero. Se mi sai dire subito, senza pensarci su, quale dei due occhi 猫 l'occhio di vetro, ti lascio andar via, ti lascio libero".
"L'occhio sinistro" risponde pronto il ragazzo.
"Come hai fatto ad accorgertene?"
"Perch茅 dei due 猫 l'unico che abbia qualcosa di umano"."
March 16, 2020
The sun was setting. For many months I had not seen a sunset. After the long northern summer, after the endless unbroken day without dawn or sunset, the sky at last began to fade above the woods, above the sea and the roofs of the city; and something like a shadow (it was perhaps only the reflection of a shadow鈥攖he shadow of a shadow) was gathering in the east. Little by little, night was being born, a night loving and delicate; and in the west, the sky was blazing above the woods and the lakes, curling itself up within the glow of sunset like an oak leaf in the fragile light of autumn.
*
[...] he spent his nights in tortured wakefulness, listening to the call of the wind through the trees, to the distant voice of the sea.
*
By degrees, something bitter was arising in me, something like a sad anger; bitter words came to my lips, and my effort to choke them back was useless.
*
Look at the sun," I said, "when it rises above the blue pine woods, on the light birch groves, on the old silver of the water, on the greeny blue of the meadows,- look at the sun," I said, "when it rises on the horizon lighting up the landscape with the liquid splendor of a large, staring equine eye. There is something unreal in Swedish nature, full of fancies and whims, of that tender and lyrical madness that shines from the eye of a horse. The Swedish landscape is a galloping horse. Listen," I said, "to the neighing of the wind through the trees. Listen to the neighing of the wind among the leaves and the grass."
*
Night had fallen and the large, black, golden-lashed eyes of the sunflowers shone in the faint light. They gazed at me swaying their heads in the wind, already damp with the far-off rain.
*
I inhaled the stench of the dead mare with a strange enjoyment. The prisoner also seemed to breathe with a delicate, sad pleasure. His nostrils quivered, they throbbed strangely. And I became aware only then that all the life in that pale, ashen face in which the untroubled, slanting eyes had the fixed glassy stare of a corpse, had gathered about his nostrils. His old homeland, the homeland he had found again, was in the odor of the dead mare. We looked into each other's eyes, in silence, and inhaled with a delicate and sad enjoyment that sweetish smell. That carrion odor was his homeland, his ageless and living homeland, and now nothing stood between us any longer. We were brothers living in the ageless odor of the dead mare.
*
Soon the moon became entangled in the branches of the trees, it hung for a moment on a branch, dangled like the head of a man from the gallows, and sank to the bottom of an abyss of black stormy clouds.
*
I threw myself onto the bed and closed my eyes. I felt abased. All was over by now. The dead were dead. There was nothing more to do. La dracu, I thought. It was ghastly not to be able to do something.
*
I, too, was certainly a ghost, a dull ghost of a remote age鈥攑erhaps of a happy age, perhaps of a dead age, perhaps of a very happy age鈥�
I was a shadow, uneasy and saddened, standing by that window, gazing on that landscape of my youthful years. Out of the depths of my memory rose the gentle shadows of that far-off age, and I laughed sweetly. I closed my eyes and looked again at those pale phantoms.
*
We looked smiling at one another as if those unexpected memories of the soil were freeing us from the sad spell of the northern night. We were lost in that desert of snow and ice, in that watery land of a hundred thousand lakes, in that sweet stern Finland where the smell of the sea penetrates the inmost depths of the most remote forests of Karelia and Lapland, where the glitter of water may be traced in the blue and gray eyes of man and beast and in the slow and distracted manner, not unlike the movements of swimmers, with which people walk along streets ablaze with the white fire of the snow, or wander in the summer night through parks, raising their eyes to the blue-green, watery glow over the roofs in the endless day without dawn or sunset of the white northern summer. The unexpected memories of the soil made us feel earthy deep down within our bones, and we looked at one another smiling, as if we had escaped from a shipwreck.
*
What horizons of white snow, deserted water and limitless forests are in these blue eyes of a man of the North! What serene boredom in that clear, almost white gaze鈥攖he noble and ancient boredom of the modern world, already aware of its death! What loneliness on that pale brow!
*
We sat like that, in silence, in the twilight of the room, and I was filled with bitter sadness. I no longer trusted my own words. My words were false and evil. Our silence also seemed to me false and evil.
*
I was running away from the war, the slaughter, typhus and hunger; I was running away from the prison, from the stinking, dark, airless cell, the filthy straw mattress, the loathsome soup, bugs, lice and the pail full of excrement. I wanted to go home, I wanted to go to Capri, to my lonely house high above the sea.
*
The sight of the sea moved me and I began to weep. A river, a plain, a mountain, not even a tree or a cloud鈥攏othing has in it the feeling of freedom like the sea.
[...]
But there, before me, was the warm and delicate sea, the Neapolitan sea, the free blue sea of Naples鈥攁ll crumpled into little waves that rippled after one another with a gentle sound under the caress of a wind scented with brine and rosemary. There, before me, was the blue sea, the free and limitless sea rippling in the wind; not the white, cold, smooth bare sea of the prison but the warm, deep blue sea. There, before me, was the sea, there was freedom, and I wept gazing at it from a distance, from the road that descended to the sea across a large square. I did not dare to come any closer. I even did not dare to stretch out my hand toward it lest it flee, lest it disappear beyond the skyline, lest it retreat in disgust from my dirty, greasy hand with its cracked nails.
*
[...] he spent his nights in tortured wakefulness, listening to the call of the wind through the trees, to the distant voice of the sea.
*
By degrees, something bitter was arising in me, something like a sad anger; bitter words came to my lips, and my effort to choke them back was useless.
*
Look at the sun," I said, "when it rises above the blue pine woods, on the light birch groves, on the old silver of the water, on the greeny blue of the meadows,- look at the sun," I said, "when it rises on the horizon lighting up the landscape with the liquid splendor of a large, staring equine eye. There is something unreal in Swedish nature, full of fancies and whims, of that tender and lyrical madness that shines from the eye of a horse. The Swedish landscape is a galloping horse. Listen," I said, "to the neighing of the wind through the trees. Listen to the neighing of the wind among the leaves and the grass."
*
Night had fallen and the large, black, golden-lashed eyes of the sunflowers shone in the faint light. They gazed at me swaying their heads in the wind, already damp with the far-off rain.
*
I inhaled the stench of the dead mare with a strange enjoyment. The prisoner also seemed to breathe with a delicate, sad pleasure. His nostrils quivered, they throbbed strangely. And I became aware only then that all the life in that pale, ashen face in which the untroubled, slanting eyes had the fixed glassy stare of a corpse, had gathered about his nostrils. His old homeland, the homeland he had found again, was in the odor of the dead mare. We looked into each other's eyes, in silence, and inhaled with a delicate and sad enjoyment that sweetish smell. That carrion odor was his homeland, his ageless and living homeland, and now nothing stood between us any longer. We were brothers living in the ageless odor of the dead mare.
*
Soon the moon became entangled in the branches of the trees, it hung for a moment on a branch, dangled like the head of a man from the gallows, and sank to the bottom of an abyss of black stormy clouds.
*
I threw myself onto the bed and closed my eyes. I felt abased. All was over by now. The dead were dead. There was nothing more to do. La dracu, I thought. It was ghastly not to be able to do something.
*
I, too, was certainly a ghost, a dull ghost of a remote age鈥攑erhaps of a happy age, perhaps of a dead age, perhaps of a very happy age鈥�
I was a shadow, uneasy and saddened, standing by that window, gazing on that landscape of my youthful years. Out of the depths of my memory rose the gentle shadows of that far-off age, and I laughed sweetly. I closed my eyes and looked again at those pale phantoms.
*
We looked smiling at one another as if those unexpected memories of the soil were freeing us from the sad spell of the northern night. We were lost in that desert of snow and ice, in that watery land of a hundred thousand lakes, in that sweet stern Finland where the smell of the sea penetrates the inmost depths of the most remote forests of Karelia and Lapland, where the glitter of water may be traced in the blue and gray eyes of man and beast and in the slow and distracted manner, not unlike the movements of swimmers, with which people walk along streets ablaze with the white fire of the snow, or wander in the summer night through parks, raising their eyes to the blue-green, watery glow over the roofs in the endless day without dawn or sunset of the white northern summer. The unexpected memories of the soil made us feel earthy deep down within our bones, and we looked at one another smiling, as if we had escaped from a shipwreck.
*
What horizons of white snow, deserted water and limitless forests are in these blue eyes of a man of the North! What serene boredom in that clear, almost white gaze鈥攖he noble and ancient boredom of the modern world, already aware of its death! What loneliness on that pale brow!
*
We sat like that, in silence, in the twilight of the room, and I was filled with bitter sadness. I no longer trusted my own words. My words were false and evil. Our silence also seemed to me false and evil.
*
I was running away from the war, the slaughter, typhus and hunger; I was running away from the prison, from the stinking, dark, airless cell, the filthy straw mattress, the loathsome soup, bugs, lice and the pail full of excrement. I wanted to go home, I wanted to go to Capri, to my lonely house high above the sea.
*
The sight of the sea moved me and I began to weep. A river, a plain, a mountain, not even a tree or a cloud鈥攏othing has in it the feeling of freedom like the sea.
[...]
But there, before me, was the warm and delicate sea, the Neapolitan sea, the free blue sea of Naples鈥攁ll crumpled into little waves that rippled after one another with a gentle sound under the caress of a wind scented with brine and rosemary. There, before me, was the blue sea, the free and limitless sea rippling in the wind; not the white, cold, smooth bare sea of the prison but the warm, deep blue sea. There, before me, was the sea, there was freedom, and I wept gazing at it from a distance, from the road that descended to the sea across a large square. I did not dare to come any closer. I even did not dare to stretch out my hand toward it lest it flee, lest it disappear beyond the skyline, lest it retreat in disgust from my dirty, greasy hand with its cracked nails.
September 29, 2023
賰鬲丕亘 賲乇毓亘 賷氐賮 亘卮丕毓丞 丕賱丨乇亘 賵鬲賵丨卮 丕賱廿賳爻丕賳貙 毓賳丿賲丕 賷賰賵賳 丕賱鬲睾賳賷 亘丨氐丿 丕賱乇丐賵爻 丕賳鬲氐丕乇丕賸貙 賵丕賯鬲賱丕毓 丕賱毓賷賵賳 賵乇氐 丕賱噩孬孬 賲丿毓丕丞賸 賱乇賮毓 丕賱兀賳禺丕亘. 賷賲孬賱 賴匕丕 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 卮賴丕丿丕鬲 賲賳 賯亘賱 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 丕賱匕賷 毓賲賱 氐丨賮賷丕賸 賮賷 氐賮賵賮 丕賱兀賱賲丕賳 賮賷 噩亘賴丞 兀賵乇賵亘丕 丕賱卮乇賯賷丞 賵丕賱噩亘賴丞 丕賱乇賵爻賷丞.
噩丨馗鬲 毓賷賳丕賷 賲乇丕鬲賺 賰孬賷乇丞 賵賴賵 賷氐賮 兀賮毓丕賱 丕賱賯鬲賱貙 丕賱噩孬孬 丕賱賲夭乇賯賾丞 丕賱鬲賷 賱賲 鬲噩丿 賲賳 賷賵丕乇賷賴丕 丕賱孬乇賶貙 丕賱賮鬲賷丕鬲 丕賱賱賵丕鬲賷 鬲賲 鬲爻禺賷乇賴賳 賱賱毓賲賱 賮賷 丕賱丿毓丕乇丞 賱氐丕賱丨 丕賱噩賳賵丿 丕賱兀賱賲丕賳 賵賲賳 孬賲 廿毓丿丕賲賴賳 賵丕爻鬲亘丿丕賱賴賳 亘兀禺乇賷丕鬲貙 賵睾賷乇賴丕 賲賳 丕賱賲賲丕乇爻丕鬲 丕賱亘卮毓丞.
賰丿鬲購 兀鬲賯賷兀 賯賱亘賷 毓賳丿賲丕 匕賰乇 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 賯氐丞 丕賱囟丕亘胤 丕賱兀賱賲丕賳賷 丕賱匕賷 乇爻賲 丕亘鬲爻丕賲丞 毓賱賶 賵噩賴賴 毓賳丿賲丕 毓乇囟 毓賱賷賴 孬賱丕孬賷賳 乇胤賱丕賸 賲賳 丕賱毓賷賵賳 丕賱鬲賷 鬲賲 丕賯鬲賱丕毓賴丕 賲賳 賲丨丕噩乇 丕賱噩孬孬 賵鬲賲 廿乇爻丕賱賴丕 賱賴 賰賴丿賷丞 賲賳 賯亘賱 噩賳賵丿賴 賮賷 丕賱噩亘賴丞.
爻兀賯鬲亘爻 賯賵賱 丕賱賰賵賳賷 賮賷 乇亘丕毓賷丞 丕賱禺爻賵賮:" 賵賱賰賳 兀賱丕 鬲爻丕毓丿 丕賱丨乇亘 賮賷 丕賱賰卮賮 毓賳 賲毓丿賳 丕賱亘卮乇 丕賱兀氐賱賷責 兀賱賷爻鬲 賴匕賴 丕賱乇匕丕卅賱 噩夭亍丕賸 賰丕賲賳丕賸 賮賷 胤亘賷毓丞 丕賱賳丕爻 賷丨丕賵賱賵賳 兀賳 賷禺賮賵賴丕 賮賷 丕賱馗乇賵賮 丕賱毓丕丿賷丞責"
噩丨馗鬲 毓賷賳丕賷 賲乇丕鬲賺 賰孬賷乇丞 賵賴賵 賷氐賮 兀賮毓丕賱 丕賱賯鬲賱貙 丕賱噩孬孬 丕賱賲夭乇賯賾丞 丕賱鬲賷 賱賲 鬲噩丿 賲賳 賷賵丕乇賷賴丕 丕賱孬乇賶貙 丕賱賮鬲賷丕鬲 丕賱賱賵丕鬲賷 鬲賲 鬲爻禺賷乇賴賳 賱賱毓賲賱 賮賷 丕賱丿毓丕乇丞 賱氐丕賱丨 丕賱噩賳賵丿 丕賱兀賱賲丕賳 賵賲賳 孬賲 廿毓丿丕賲賴賳 賵丕爻鬲亘丿丕賱賴賳 亘兀禺乇賷丕鬲貙 賵睾賷乇賴丕 賲賳 丕賱賲賲丕乇爻丕鬲 丕賱亘卮毓丞.
賰丿鬲購 兀鬲賯賷兀 賯賱亘賷 毓賳丿賲丕 匕賰乇 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 賯氐丞 丕賱囟丕亘胤 丕賱兀賱賲丕賳賷 丕賱匕賷 乇爻賲 丕亘鬲爻丕賲丞 毓賱賶 賵噩賴賴 毓賳丿賲丕 毓乇囟 毓賱賷賴 孬賱丕孬賷賳 乇胤賱丕賸 賲賳 丕賱毓賷賵賳 丕賱鬲賷 鬲賲 丕賯鬲賱丕毓賴丕 賲賳 賲丨丕噩乇 丕賱噩孬孬 賵鬲賲 廿乇爻丕賱賴丕 賱賴 賰賴丿賷丞 賲賳 賯亘賱 噩賳賵丿賴 賮賷 丕賱噩亘賴丞.
爻兀賯鬲亘爻 賯賵賱 丕賱賰賵賳賷 賮賷 乇亘丕毓賷丞 丕賱禺爻賵賮:" 賵賱賰賳 兀賱丕 鬲爻丕毓丿 丕賱丨乇亘 賮賷 丕賱賰卮賮 毓賳 賲毓丿賳 丕賱亘卮乇 丕賱兀氐賱賷責 兀賱賷爻鬲 賴匕賴 丕賱乇匕丕卅賱 噩夭亍丕賸 賰丕賲賳丕賸 賮賷 胤亘賷毓丞 丕賱賳丕爻 賷丨丕賵賱賵賳 兀賳 賷禺賮賵賴丕 賮賷 丕賱馗乇賵賮 丕賱毓丕丿賷丞責"
July 30, 2019
For the ice horses, the rats of Jassy, the dinner parties in Poland, the glass eye, the salmon, and the flies. But especially for the unforgettable Soroca Girls.
This savage slab of literature shouldn't be so timely, but reading it feels like encountering today's attitudes while reading tomorrow's headlines. Chilling and essential.
This savage slab of literature shouldn't be so timely, but reading it feels like encountering today's attitudes while reading tomorrow's headlines. Chilling and essential.
June 29, 2020
Durante la seconda guerra mondiale, Malaparte che aveva gi脿 vissuto giovanissimo la guerra come volontario, a soli sedici anni, durante il primo conflitto ( si ricordi che morir脿 alla soglia dei sessanta anni in seguito alle lesioni polmonari da iprite) e che ne aveva criticato aspramente la conduzione con 鈥淰iva Caporetto鈥� poi divenuto 鈥淟a rivolta dei santi maledetti鈥�, 猫 un personaggio scomodo al regime. Dopo l鈥檈ntusiastica adesione in prima linea, con la partecipazione alla Marcia su Roma, dopo l鈥檃ccettazione dello squadrismo pi霉 bieco, dopo l鈥檃ssassinio Matteotti - fu testimone a processo a favore dell鈥檌mputato principale 鈥� il colpevole materiale, non quello ideologico, dopo la rottura con Mussolini e la sua estromissione dal partito nel 1933 in seguito alla sua critica a fascismo e nazismo, lo ritroviamo corrispondente di guerra per varie testate giornalistiche, testimone diretto nei principali fronti, soprattutto quelli del nord Europa e dell鈥檈st pi霉 prossimo alla Russia: Finlandia, Polonia, Ucraina. Questo lavoro 猫 la sintesi di quella esperienza, traslata in carta per i giornali e per una sua rivisitazione pi霉 letteraria in un manoscritto poi smembrato in tre parti consegnate al ministro di Spagna ad Helsinki, al segretario della legazione di Romania a Hensinki e all鈥檃ddetto stampa della legazione romena nella capitale di Finlandia per poi giungere 鈥渄opo una lunga odissea鈥� a Roma. A detta del suo autore 猫 un libro crudele per il fatto che la grande tragedia della guerra offre uno spettacolo unico che la sua penna non esita a cesellare e a rendere ancor pi霉 crudele con l鈥檕biettivo di fare protagonista della scrittura non gi脿 la guerra, utilizzata come sfondo integratore, ma l鈥檌dea di disfatta , di rottura, di schianto secco che 猫 quello prodotto dalla morte dell鈥橢uropa. Un鈥檃raba fenice che si spera risorga dalle sue ceneri. Quelle ceneri descrive il testo ma non come nel successivo 鈥淟a pelle鈥� , a posteriori, nell鈥檕nda lunga del passaggio dello tsunami bellico devastante, ma in divenire, negli anni compresi tra il 1941 e il 1943 quando, caduto il regime, Malaparte far脿 rientro nella sua villa a Capri per concludere l鈥檜ltimo capitolo dello scritto, il pi霉 simile a 鈥淟a pelle鈥�. Le altre pagine in realt脿 non lo sono, manca il lirismo, manca la teatralit脿, emerge invece un disperato bisogno di raccontare che ha la meglio su tutto. Malaparte si rappresenta infatti alle prese con conversazioni che intrattiene con personaggi eminenti: ambasciatori, principi, funzionari, e l鈥檕ggetto del suo narrare 猫 sempre una crudele e disturbante galleria di impressioni, visioni, fermo immagini che restituiscono un complicato insieme di cui per貌 non riesce a superare la frammentariet脿. Sono quadri singoli, feroci, oggettivi e al tempo stesso visionari, comprendere dove termini la realt脿, nuda e cruda, e dove intervenga il surrealismo visionario non 猫 semplice. Pu貌 trattarsi di un canestro contenente ventimila occhi umani scambiati per ostriche prive di guscio, o di busti di soldati emergenti da una landa immensa e innevata posizionati col braccio teso, congelato, a mo鈥� di segnaletica o ancora cavalli anch鈥檈ssi congelati nel Ladoga le cui acque ghiacciate restituiscono solo la testa, in superficie, in attesa di un disgelo che li restituir脿 come sfatte e marcescenti carcasse. Ci sono poi le condizioni disperate del ghetto di Varsavia, le notizie dei pogrom, i tentativi di aiutare qualcuno, se possibile. In realt脿 proprio questo aspetto 猫 particolare perch茅 Malaparte 猫 dentro le stanze degli ufficiali tedeschi e conversa con loro o si intrattiene con l鈥檌nvasore nelle residenze pi霉 ricche delle terre conquistate e contemporaneamente accoglie e riporta le storie dei vinti, dei conquistati, dei piegati e in modo, rappresentato sempre come fosse un fatto del tutto fortuito e occasionali, diretto li aiuta. Difficile capire, difficile trovare una collocazione al bene, in questo caso. Tutto 猫 passeggero, irreale e tremendamente vero; la scorza narrativa non chiarisce, lascia perplessi, attoniti; restituisce probabilmente le contraddizioni implicite al fenomeno bellico. Tutto 猫 secco, schiantato, kaputt.
July 22, 2013
搁辞驳辞锄办颈苍鈥檚 razzledazzled me by taking magical realism up a notch: making it situational rather than transactional concept. A Finn, Lapp and Russian end up cloistered together in Finland during WWII, communicating with each other in their own languages. An amicable, collaborative existence dawns, eloquent conversations ensue, despite the fact that there is no verbal understanding between the three, who are perfectly normal as standalone executors and surreal in combo. Its mesmerising, and this, in fact, is what happens in Kaputt ubiquitously. Malaparte, as a war correspondent, attends high command German parties and bluntly denigrates his German hosts, whilst they go on pontificating obliviously, presumably too punch drunk on the legends they are in their own minds, and I sighed with pleasure at this surrealistic overture. But then I found out Malaparte didn鈥檛 mean it. A consummate turn face, and ex Fascist he wrote the book initially under the supposition Germany would win the war: once the writing was on the wall, he went back and 鈥榝ixed鈥� a few things here and there. Most of the 鈥榝ixing鈥� of course he would have reserved for his own participation in these style, pan-Roman dinner do-s, where he emerges as an exalted Lone Ranger in defending the victimised populations of Europe against German Kultur. Bashful, Malaparte is not. And the German guests? Here the artist鈥檚 quilt falters: as it always does in these circumstances. I remember admiring Queen Hatshepsuts temple in Egypt where her furious nephew Thutmoses III sought to have her annihilated from public memory by altering her statues to look like him. The grotesque outcome only served to reinstate her, IMO. Similarly here, Malaparte revisits his montage of figures and starts painting by numbers. The end result: polyphemic Beryl Cook-esque caricatures of self delusional grandeur coupled with an odd, emphemeral dreaminess and sensitivity. Like bloated pigs who eat truffles rather than trough.
I鈥檓 tempted to say very stereotypical, except given the novel was published 1946, perhaps it was the van guard which yielded the sterotypes later on: the cultured but cruel Aryana. I鈥檓 less appalled than accepting. It doesn鈥檛 matter which Culture you belong to: its always better than the rest. In the Jordanian nomads claimed supremacy over the invading English: and so it goes. As Malaparte would say here, Bittania may rule the waves, but even she can鈥檛 waive the rules. Which are, that we are all legends in our own minds.
So, Malaparte scurries hither and thither across the European map, extolling the virtues of every nation apart from the Germans, singlehandedly saving scores of Jews and other prisoners from a gruesome end some of the time, and recording the macabre details of death and destruction the rest of the time. The pace is frenetic, the man seemingly ubiquitous, the atrocities a cotillion of Boschean strokes with no end in sight, til we get to a passage concerning the execution of a group of Russian prisoners when the proverbial light bulb finally clicks over my head and I realise Malaparte is a cheat and a phantasmagorist. Now, the man is extremely erudite and well educated: he pepers his ccounts with all sorts of posh references. Jews are not just jews: they are Chagall鈥檚 jews. Dinner parties spring right out of Lucas Cranach paintings, and Ante Pavelic鈥檚 ears arouse in him the same impression of deformity as is produced by listening to musical compositions by Eric Satie and Darius Milhaud. Well hum dee dum. I have had a very good listen to both of these subsequently: there could be nothing, btw, deformed in any of their compositions. Milhaud I found average, Satie is mesmerising: very tonally centred and melodic. Anyway that鈥檚 by the by. My point is to set the background here apropos Malaparte鈥檚 enormous general knowledge.
Now the execution scene. He saw, Malaparte says, a group of Russian peasant POWs who were executed in a most brutal manner: horrific really. But just prior, they were laughing and 鈥榮lapped each other on their backs with the simple minded gaiety of the Russian peasant鈥�. Whoooa. Now, on the back of a steady diet of Russian classics (Gogol, Lermontov, Turgenev and Goncharev), I happen to know that Russian intelligentsia is very fond of the simple peasant moniker; its like a Russian trademark, the calling card issued to their peasant classes. But how the deuce does Malaparte, who has come as close to Russian peasantry as I have to an orange butt baboon (read: never), identify this group as simple buffoons in the space of 5 minutes? He can鈥檛, can he? He can only be paraphrasing and making it up as he goes along. Quick flip to the afterword, and sure enough: Kaputt is only partially real, it seems. A very small part, perhaps. The rest: well, we all have imaginations, right? Now, Jerzy Kosinksi was lambasted for using his in the Painted Bird to similar effect in the 1960s, the effect being of embellishing and exaggerating grotesquerie for brownie points, not unlike David Madsen鈥檚 approach . Here, it is Germanic bezobrazan in the klieglight, a compilation of the macabre and deconstructed, a peisage of decomposition and ontological breakdown 鈥� well apart from Malaparte. He never breaks down.
For a more authentic experience, I鈥檇 go with
I鈥檓 tempted to say very stereotypical, except given the novel was published 1946, perhaps it was the van guard which yielded the sterotypes later on: the cultured but cruel Aryana. I鈥檓 less appalled than accepting. It doesn鈥檛 matter which Culture you belong to: its always better than the rest. In the Jordanian nomads claimed supremacy over the invading English: and so it goes. As Malaparte would say here, Bittania may rule the waves, but even she can鈥檛 waive the rules. Which are, that we are all legends in our own minds.
So, Malaparte scurries hither and thither across the European map, extolling the virtues of every nation apart from the Germans, singlehandedly saving scores of Jews and other prisoners from a gruesome end some of the time, and recording the macabre details of death and destruction the rest of the time. The pace is frenetic, the man seemingly ubiquitous, the atrocities a cotillion of Boschean strokes with no end in sight, til we get to a passage concerning the execution of a group of Russian prisoners when the proverbial light bulb finally clicks over my head and I realise Malaparte is a cheat and a phantasmagorist. Now, the man is extremely erudite and well educated: he pepers his ccounts with all sorts of posh references. Jews are not just jews: they are Chagall鈥檚 jews. Dinner parties spring right out of Lucas Cranach paintings, and Ante Pavelic鈥檚 ears arouse in him the same impression of deformity as is produced by listening to musical compositions by Eric Satie and Darius Milhaud. Well hum dee dum. I have had a very good listen to both of these subsequently: there could be nothing, btw, deformed in any of their compositions. Milhaud I found average, Satie is mesmerising: very tonally centred and melodic. Anyway that鈥檚 by the by. My point is to set the background here apropos Malaparte鈥檚 enormous general knowledge.
Now the execution scene. He saw, Malaparte says, a group of Russian peasant POWs who were executed in a most brutal manner: horrific really. But just prior, they were laughing and 鈥榮lapped each other on their backs with the simple minded gaiety of the Russian peasant鈥�. Whoooa. Now, on the back of a steady diet of Russian classics (Gogol, Lermontov, Turgenev and Goncharev), I happen to know that Russian intelligentsia is very fond of the simple peasant moniker; its like a Russian trademark, the calling card issued to their peasant classes. But how the deuce does Malaparte, who has come as close to Russian peasantry as I have to an orange butt baboon (read: never), identify this group as simple buffoons in the space of 5 minutes? He can鈥檛, can he? He can only be paraphrasing and making it up as he goes along. Quick flip to the afterword, and sure enough: Kaputt is only partially real, it seems. A very small part, perhaps. The rest: well, we all have imaginations, right? Now, Jerzy Kosinksi was lambasted for using his in the Painted Bird to similar effect in the 1960s, the effect being of embellishing and exaggerating grotesquerie for brownie points, not unlike David Madsen鈥檚 approach . Here, it is Germanic bezobrazan in the klieglight, a compilation of the macabre and deconstructed, a peisage of decomposition and ontological breakdown 鈥� well apart from Malaparte. He never breaks down.
For a more authentic experience, I鈥檇 go with
September 5, 2020
4 陆 *.
螣 蟺蠈位蔚渭慰蟼 蟿蠅谓 渭蔚蟿蠈蟺喂蟽胃蔚谓, 畏 蠀蟺慰魏蟻喂蟽委伪, 蔚纬魏伪蟿维位蔚喂蠄畏 魏伪喂 伪未喂伪蠁慰蟻委伪 蟿蠅谓 萎未畏 蠂伪渭苇谓蠅谓, 慰喂 纬魏蟻慰蟿苇蟽魏蔚蟼 蠁喂纬慰蠉蟻蔚蟼 魏伪喂 蟽魏畏谓苇蟼 慰喂 慰蟺慰委蔚蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿蠈蟽慰 蟽慰蠀蟻蟻蔚伪位喂蟽蟿喂魏苇蟼 蟺慰蠀, 蟽蟿伪 未喂魏维 渭慰蠀 渭维蟿喂伪 蟿慰蠀位维蠂喂蟽蟿慰谓, 蠁伪谓蟿维味慰蠀谓 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿伪 伪位畏胃喂谓苇蟼. 螖蔚谓 胃苇位蠅 谓伪 伪谓伪蠁蔚蟻胃蠋 蟽蔚 蟽蠀纬魏蔚魏蟻喂渭苇谓蔚蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁苇蟼, 胃伪 伪蠁伪喂蟻慰蠉蟽伪 蟺慰位位维 伪蟺蠈 蟿畏谓 慰渭慰蟻蠁委伪 蟿畏蟼 伪蟺蠈未慰蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿慰谓 蟺位慰蠉蟿慰 蟿畏蟼 纬位蠋蟽蟽伪蟼 伪位位维 魏伪喂 蟿慰蠀 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 渭蔚位慰未蟻伪渭伪蟿喂蟽渭慰蠉蟼 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃萎渭伪蟿慰蟼. 螣 螠伪位伪蟺维蟻蟿蔚 萎蟿伪谓, 伪蟺蠈 蠈,蟿喂 未喂伪尾维味蠅, 苇谓伪 味蠅谓蟿伪谓蠈 蔚魏魏蟻蔚渭苇蟼 魏伪喂 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰谓 魏伪胃喂蟽蟿维 纬萎喂谓慰 魏伪喂 蠈蠂喂 位慰纬慰蟿蔚蠂谓喂魏蠈, 伪位位维 魏伪喂 未喂伪蠀纬萎 蟽蔚 蠈,蟿喂 伪蠁慰蟻维 蟿畏谓 魏蟻委蟽畏 蟿慰蠀, 魏伪胃蠋蟼 蟽蟿慰 渭蠈谓慰 蟽蟿慰 慰蟺慰委慰 未蔚委蠂谓蔚喂 谓伪 蟺喂蟽蟿蔚蠉蔚喂 蔚委谓伪喂 渭委伪 喂未喂蠈蟿蠀蟺畏 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂维, 伪渭蔚位畏蟿苇伪 蟺慰蟽蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟽蔚 苇谓伪谓 魏蠈蟽渭慰 未喂伪尾蟻蠅渭苇谓慰, 蠂蟻蔚蠅魏慰蟺畏渭苇谓慰, 蟽蔚 渭委伪 螘蠀蟻蠋蟺畏 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 蔚委蠂蔚, 未蔚谓 苇蠂蔚喂 魏伪喂 维纬谓蠅蟽蟿慰 伪谓 蟺慰蟿苇 胃伪 伪蟺慰魏蟿萎蟽蔚喂, 蠈蟻伪渭伪 魏伪喂 萎胃慰蟼.
韦慰 螝伪蟺慰蠉蟿 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 蠂蟻慰谓喂魏蠈 蟺慰位苇渭慰蠀, 魏伪喂 未蔚谓 未喂伪胃苇蟿蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻伪渭喂魏蟻萎 纬蟻伪渭渭喂魏萎 未慰渭萎. 螘委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 蠂蟻慰谓慰纬蟻维蠁畏渭伪 蟽蟿喂纬渭蠋谓, 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 蟽蔚 维位位伪, 蔚魏蟿蠈蟼 尾喂尾位委慰蠀, 纬蔚纬慰谓蠈蟿伪 苇蠂慰蠀谓 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿萎蟽蔚喂, 伪位位维 蔚未蠋 未蔚委蠂谓慰蠀谓 渭蠈谓慰 蟿慰谓 畏胃喂魏蠈 魏伪喂 未喂伪谓慰畏蟿喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀蟼 尉蔚蟺蔚蟽渭蠈. 螚 桅喂谓位伪谓未委伪, 畏 螣蠀魏蟻伪谓委伪, 畏 巍蠅蟽委伪, 委未喂伪 畏 螜蟿伪位委伪, 蠈位伪, 蠈位慰喂 尾蟻蠅渭维谓蔚 魏伪喂 尉蔚蠂谓维谓蔚 渭蔚 蟿慰 蟺慰蟿蠈, 蟿畏谓 蟽蠀魏慰蠁伪谓蟿委伪 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏萎 魏伪蟿伪未委魏畏. 螣 蟺蠈位蔚渭慰蟼 伪蠀蟿蠈蟼, 畏 渭蔚位苇蟿畏 魏伪喂 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 慰蟺慰委慰蠀 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委味蔚喂 谓伪 渭伪蟼 未喂蔚纬蔚委蟻蔚喂, 魏维蟺蠅蟼 未喂伪蟽蟿蟻慰蠁喂魏维 谓慰渭委味蠅 魏伪喂 蠈蠂喂 渭蠈谓慰 蠂维蟻喂谓 蟿畏蟼 喂蟽蟿慰蟻喂魏萎蟼 渭谓萎渭畏蟼, 蟺伪蟻慰蠀蟽喂维味蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿慰 螝伪蟺慰蠉蟿 蠈蠂喂 蠅蟼 渭委伪 伪苇谓伪畏 渭维蠂畏 伪位位维 蠅蟼 渭委伪 未喂伪蟻魏萎蟼 蟺蟿蠋蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓慰蠀 蟺慰位喂蟿喂蟽渭慰蠉. 惟蟼 慰 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿慰蟼, 蟽蠉纬蠂蟻慰谓慰蟼, 尉蔚蟺蔚蟽渭蠈蟼.
螠慰谓伪未喂魏萎, 渭喂魏蟻萎 委蟽蠅蟼,苇谓蟽蟿伪蟽畏, 伪位位维 魏伪喂 伪蠀蟿蠈渭伪蟿畏 伪谓蟿委未蟻伪蟽畏, 萎蟿伪谓 畏 蟽蠂蔚蟿喂魏萎 伪未喂伪蠁慰蟻委伪 渭慰蠀 蟽蟿喂蟼 蠀蟺苇蟻 蟿慰蠀 蟺蟻慰蟿喂渭畏蟿苇慰蠀 位蠀蟻喂魏苇蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁苇蟼, 慰喂 慰蟺慰委蔚蟼 伪谓 魏伪喂 蔚尉蠀蟺畏蟻蔚蟿慰蠉谓 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠈未慰蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 蔚喂蟻蠅谓蔚委伪蟼 渭蔚蟿伪尉蠉 蟺慰位蔚渭喂魏萎蟼 蠁蟻委魏畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟺伪谓苇渭慰蟻蠁畏蟼 蠁蠉蟽畏蟼, 未喂伪蟻魏慰蠉蟽伪谓 蟽蔚 慰蟻喂蟽渭苇谓伪 蟽畏渭蔚委伪 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蟽蠈蟿蔚蟻慰 伪蟺蠈 蠈,蟿喂 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏维 蟺蟻慰蟿喂渭蠋. Call a spade a spade, 蟿慰 蟺蟻慰蟿喂渭蠋, 蟿慰 委未喂慰 蔚蟺苇位蔚尉蔚, 蟽蟿伪 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蟽蠈蟿蔚蟻伪 蟽畏渭蔚委伪 魏伪喂 慰 螠伪位伪蟺维蟻蟿蔚, 伪位位维 萎蟿伪谓 螜蟿伪位蠈蟼, 魏喂 苇蟿蟽喂 未蔚谓 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉蟽蔚 谓伪 伪蟺慰蠁蠉纬蔚喂 蟿畏谓 魏维蟺蠅蟼 蔚魏蟿蔚谓苇蟽蟿蔚蟻畏 蠁喂位慰蟽慰蠁喂魏萎 伪谓维位蠀蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 魏蠈位伪蟽畏蟼 蟺慰蠀 苇味畏蟽蔚, 魏喂 伪蟼 渭畏谓 蟺慰位苇渭畏蟽蔚 蟺慰蟿苇.
螤慰位蠉 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏蠈 魏伪喂 伪蟺蟻蠈蟽渭蔚谓伪 蟺蟻蠅蟿蠈蟿蠀蟺慰, 蟽蟿畏谓 纬蟻伪蠁萎 魏伪喂 伪蟿渭蠈蟽蠁伪喂蟻伪, 苇蟻纬慰, 苇谓蟿慰谓畏 伪蟺蠈未慰蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 (蠀蟺慰未蠈蟻喂伪蟼 萎 渭畏) 尾委伪蟼, 伪魏蠈渭伪 魏伪喂 蟽蟿喂蟼 蠅渭蠈蟿蔚蟻蔚蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁苇蟼 蟿慰蠀, 魏伪喂 蟿慰 芦螖苇蟻渭伪禄 蔚委谓伪喂 蟽蟿喂蟼 维渭蔚蟽蔚蟼 蔚蟺蠈渭蔚谓蔚蟼 蟺蟻慰蟿蔚蟻伪喂蠈蟿畏蟿苇蟼 渭慰蠀.
螣 蟺蠈位蔚渭慰蟼 蟿蠅谓 渭蔚蟿蠈蟺喂蟽胃蔚谓, 畏 蠀蟺慰魏蟻喂蟽委伪, 蔚纬魏伪蟿维位蔚喂蠄畏 魏伪喂 伪未喂伪蠁慰蟻委伪 蟿蠅谓 萎未畏 蠂伪渭苇谓蠅谓, 慰喂 纬魏蟻慰蟿苇蟽魏蔚蟼 蠁喂纬慰蠉蟻蔚蟼 魏伪喂 蟽魏畏谓苇蟼 慰喂 慰蟺慰委蔚蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿蠈蟽慰 蟽慰蠀蟻蟻蔚伪位喂蟽蟿喂魏苇蟼 蟺慰蠀, 蟽蟿伪 未喂魏维 渭慰蠀 渭维蟿喂伪 蟿慰蠀位维蠂喂蟽蟿慰谓, 蠁伪谓蟿维味慰蠀谓 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿伪 伪位畏胃喂谓苇蟼. 螖蔚谓 胃苇位蠅 谓伪 伪谓伪蠁蔚蟻胃蠋 蟽蔚 蟽蠀纬魏蔚魏蟻喂渭苇谓蔚蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁苇蟼, 胃伪 伪蠁伪喂蟻慰蠉蟽伪 蟺慰位位维 伪蟺蠈 蟿畏谓 慰渭慰蟻蠁委伪 蟿畏蟼 伪蟺蠈未慰蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿慰谓 蟺位慰蠉蟿慰 蟿畏蟼 纬位蠋蟽蟽伪蟼 伪位位维 魏伪喂 蟿慰蠀 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 渭蔚位慰未蟻伪渭伪蟿喂蟽渭慰蠉蟼 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃萎渭伪蟿慰蟼. 螣 螠伪位伪蟺维蟻蟿蔚 萎蟿伪谓, 伪蟺蠈 蠈,蟿喂 未喂伪尾维味蠅, 苇谓伪 味蠅谓蟿伪谓蠈 蔚魏魏蟻蔚渭苇蟼 魏伪喂 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰谓 魏伪胃喂蟽蟿维 纬萎喂谓慰 魏伪喂 蠈蠂喂 位慰纬慰蟿蔚蠂谓喂魏蠈, 伪位位维 魏伪喂 未喂伪蠀纬萎 蟽蔚 蠈,蟿喂 伪蠁慰蟻维 蟿畏谓 魏蟻委蟽畏 蟿慰蠀, 魏伪胃蠋蟼 蟽蟿慰 渭蠈谓慰 蟽蟿慰 慰蟺慰委慰 未蔚委蠂谓蔚喂 谓伪 蟺喂蟽蟿蔚蠉蔚喂 蔚委谓伪喂 渭委伪 喂未喂蠈蟿蠀蟺畏 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂维, 伪渭蔚位畏蟿苇伪 蟺慰蟽蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟽蔚 苇谓伪谓 魏蠈蟽渭慰 未喂伪尾蟻蠅渭苇谓慰, 蠂蟻蔚蠅魏慰蟺畏渭苇谓慰, 蟽蔚 渭委伪 螘蠀蟻蠋蟺畏 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 蔚委蠂蔚, 未蔚谓 苇蠂蔚喂 魏伪喂 维纬谓蠅蟽蟿慰 伪谓 蟺慰蟿苇 胃伪 伪蟺慰魏蟿萎蟽蔚喂, 蠈蟻伪渭伪 魏伪喂 萎胃慰蟼.
韦慰 螝伪蟺慰蠉蟿 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 蠂蟻慰谓喂魏蠈 蟺慰位苇渭慰蠀, 魏伪喂 未蔚谓 未喂伪胃苇蟿蔚喂 蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻伪渭喂魏蟻萎 纬蟻伪渭渭喂魏萎 未慰渭萎. 螘委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 蠂蟻慰谓慰纬蟻维蠁畏渭伪 蟽蟿喂纬渭蠋谓, 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 蟽蔚 维位位伪, 蔚魏蟿蠈蟼 尾喂尾位委慰蠀, 纬蔚纬慰谓蠈蟿伪 苇蠂慰蠀谓 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿萎蟽蔚喂, 伪位位维 蔚未蠋 未蔚委蠂谓慰蠀谓 渭蠈谓慰 蟿慰谓 畏胃喂魏蠈 魏伪喂 未喂伪谓慰畏蟿喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀蟼 尉蔚蟺蔚蟽渭蠈. 螚 桅喂谓位伪谓未委伪, 畏 螣蠀魏蟻伪谓委伪, 畏 巍蠅蟽委伪, 委未喂伪 畏 螜蟿伪位委伪, 蠈位伪, 蠈位慰喂 尾蟻蠅渭维谓蔚 魏伪喂 尉蔚蠂谓维谓蔚 渭蔚 蟿慰 蟺慰蟿蠈, 蟿畏谓 蟽蠀魏慰蠁伪谓蟿委伪 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏萎 魏伪蟿伪未委魏畏. 螣 蟺蠈位蔚渭慰蟼 伪蠀蟿蠈蟼, 畏 渭蔚位苇蟿畏 魏伪喂 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 慰蟺慰委慰蠀 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂委味蔚喂 谓伪 渭伪蟼 未喂蔚纬蔚委蟻蔚喂, 魏维蟺蠅蟼 未喂伪蟽蟿蟻慰蠁喂魏维 谓慰渭委味蠅 魏伪喂 蠈蠂喂 渭蠈谓慰 蠂维蟻喂谓 蟿畏蟼 喂蟽蟿慰蟻喂魏萎蟼 渭谓萎渭畏蟼, 蟺伪蟻慰蠀蟽喂维味蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿慰 螝伪蟺慰蠉蟿 蠈蠂喂 蠅蟼 渭委伪 伪苇谓伪畏 渭维蠂畏 伪位位维 蠅蟼 渭委伪 未喂伪蟻魏萎蟼 蟺蟿蠋蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓慰蠀 蟺慰位喂蟿喂蟽渭慰蠉. 惟蟼 慰 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿慰蟼, 蟽蠉纬蠂蟻慰谓慰蟼, 尉蔚蟺蔚蟽渭蠈蟼.
螠慰谓伪未喂魏萎, 渭喂魏蟻萎 委蟽蠅蟼,苇谓蟽蟿伪蟽畏, 伪位位维 魏伪喂 伪蠀蟿蠈渭伪蟿畏 伪谓蟿委未蟻伪蟽畏, 萎蟿伪谓 畏 蟽蠂蔚蟿喂魏萎 伪未喂伪蠁慰蟻委伪 渭慰蠀 蟽蟿喂蟼 蠀蟺苇蟻 蟿慰蠀 蟺蟻慰蟿喂渭畏蟿苇慰蠀 位蠀蟻喂魏苇蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁苇蟼, 慰喂 慰蟺慰委蔚蟼 伪谓 魏伪喂 蔚尉蠀蟺畏蟻蔚蟿慰蠉谓 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蠈未慰蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 蔚喂蟻蠅谓蔚委伪蟼 渭蔚蟿伪尉蠉 蟺慰位蔚渭喂魏萎蟼 蠁蟻委魏畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟺伪谓苇渭慰蟻蠁畏蟼 蠁蠉蟽畏蟼, 未喂伪蟻魏慰蠉蟽伪谓 蟽蔚 慰蟻喂蟽渭苇谓伪 蟽畏渭蔚委伪 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蟽蠈蟿蔚蟻慰 伪蟺蠈 蠈,蟿喂 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏维 蟺蟻慰蟿喂渭蠋. Call a spade a spade, 蟿慰 蟺蟻慰蟿喂渭蠋, 蟿慰 委未喂慰 蔚蟺苇位蔚尉蔚, 蟽蟿伪 蟺蔚蟻喂蟽蟽蠈蟿蔚蟻伪 蟽畏渭蔚委伪 魏伪喂 慰 螠伪位伪蟺维蟻蟿蔚, 伪位位维 萎蟿伪谓 螜蟿伪位蠈蟼, 魏喂 苇蟿蟽喂 未蔚谓 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉蟽蔚 谓伪 伪蟺慰蠁蠉纬蔚喂 蟿畏谓 魏维蟺蠅蟼 蔚魏蟿蔚谓苇蟽蟿蔚蟻畏 蠁喂位慰蟽慰蠁喂魏萎 伪谓维位蠀蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 魏蠈位伪蟽畏蟼 蟺慰蠀 苇味畏蟽蔚, 魏喂 伪蟼 渭畏谓 蟺慰位苇渭畏蟽蔚 蟺慰蟿苇.
螤慰位蠉 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏蠈 魏伪喂 伪蟺蟻蠈蟽渭蔚谓伪 蟺蟻蠅蟿蠈蟿蠀蟺慰, 蟽蟿畏谓 纬蟻伪蠁萎 魏伪喂 伪蟿渭蠈蟽蠁伪喂蟻伪, 苇蟻纬慰, 苇谓蟿慰谓畏 伪蟺蠈未慰蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 (蠀蟺慰未蠈蟻喂伪蟼 萎 渭畏) 尾委伪蟼, 伪魏蠈渭伪 魏伪喂 蟽蟿喂蟼 蠅渭蠈蟿蔚蟻蔚蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂纬蟻伪蠁苇蟼 蟿慰蠀, 魏伪喂 蟿慰 芦螖苇蟻渭伪禄 蔚委谓伪喂 蟽蟿喂蟼 维渭蔚蟽蔚蟼 蔚蟺蠈渭蔚谓蔚蟼 蟺蟻慰蟿蔚蟻伪喂蠈蟿畏蟿苇蟼 渭慰蠀.
September 3, 2023
丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘乇丕蹖 賲賳 蹖讴 賲毓賳丕蹖 賵蹖跇賴 丿丕乇丿貙 丿賵爻鬲 毓夭蹖夭 亘賴 賳丕趩丕乇 賲卮賴賵乇蹖 讴賴 丿蹖诏乇 賳蹖爻鬲 爻丕賱賴丕 倬蹖卮 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 乇丕 丌賵乇丿 讴賴 賲賳 亘禺賵丕賳賲 賵賲賳 亘禺卮蹖 乇丕 禺賵丕賳丿賲 賵亘丕蹖丿 讴鬲丕亘 乇丕 賲蹖 亘購乇丿 亘賴 卮賴乇蹖 丿蹖诏乇 讴賴 丿丕賳卮噩賵 亘賵丿. 賲丿鬲賴丕 亘賵丿 讴賴 丿賵爻鬲 丿丕卮鬲賲 亘禺賵丕賳賲卮 賵丕賲爻丕賱 趩丕倬 趩賴丕乇賲卮 乇丕 亘丕 鬲乇噩賲賴 丿乇禺卮丕賳 丕爻鬲丕丿 賯丕囟蹖 诏乇賮鬲賲 丕夭 賴賲丕賳 氐賮丨丕鬲 賳禺爻鬲 賵賮氐賱蹖 亘賴 賳丕賲 禺丕賳踿 诏乇賲丕賳鬲 賲鬲賵噩賴 丕孬乇 倬匕蹖乇蹖 丕卮 丕夭 噩爻鬲 賵噩賵蹖 倬乇賵爻鬲 卮丿賲 賵亘毓丿 讴賴 禺賵丕賳丿賲 丿蹖丿賲 丕蹖賳 诏賵賳賴 丕爻鬲 賵丕賵 亘賴 氐乇丕丨鬲 丕夭 倬乇賵爻鬲 蹖丕丿 賲蹖 讴賳丿 丕賲丕 诏乇趩賴 亘賴 亘蹖丕賳 倬乇賵爻鬲 賳夭丿蹖讴 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲 賵亘禺卮 丕爻丕爻蹖 賲丕噩乇丕賴丕 丿乇 噩賲毓 賴丕蹖 禺丕氐 賵丨蹖賳 诏賮鬲 賵诏賵 亘賴 爻亘讴 噩爻鬲 賵噩賵 倬蹖卮 賲蹖 乇賵丿 丕賲丕 賲賵囟賵毓 鬲賱禺 讴鬲丕亘 賵爻禺賳 丕夭 噩賳诏 噩賴丕賳蹖 丿賵賲 鬲賮丕賵鬲 丿賳蹖丕賴丕蹖 賲丕賱丕倬丕乇鬲賴 賵倬乇賵爻鬲 乇丕 亘賴 賳蹖讴蹖 賳卮丕賳 賲蹖 丿賴丿 丕賱丨賯 丕夭 禺賵丕賳丿賳 丕孬乇 賱匕鬲 亘乇丿賲 賵亘賴乇賴 賲賳丿 卮丿賲
October 21, 2018
Im polnischen K枚nigspalast, dem Wawel zu Krakau, delektieren sich Generalgouverneur Hans Frank, auch bekannt als 禄Schl盲chter von Polen芦, und seine Vasallen nebst Gattinnen bei Kerzenlicht an 眉ppig gedeckter Tafel und ergehen sich in affektierter Konversation. Wenige Seiten sp盲ter ziehen in der Ukraine dreckstarrende Milit盲rkonvois durch brennende D枚rfer, an den B盲umen baumeln die nackten Leichen ermordeter Juden.
Curzio Malaparte hatte 1940 bis 43 als Offizier der italienischen Streitkr盲fte und offizieller Kriegsberichterstatter des Corriere della Sera Zugang zu den h枚chsten Kreisen der Achsenm盲chte und zum Kriegsgeschehen an der Nord- und Ostfront. Seine Aufzeichnungen bilden die Basis f眉r dieses ersch眉tternde Buch.
Es erzielt seine ungeheuerliche Wirkung durch die Gegen眉berstellung von Grausamkeit, Elend und Tod an der Front und in den zerst枚rten St盲dten und der Dekadenz, der Selbstherrlichkeit und dem Zynismus in den Pal盲sten der Machthaber. Es dokumentiert die unterschiedlichsten Facetten dieser dunklen Epoche Europas und stellt den Irrsinn von Totalitarismus, Krieg und Gr枚脽enwahn mit allen Mitteln blo脽. Es entsteht ein Riesenrundgem盲lde aus schockierendem Realismus, Groteske, Reportage, Ironie, Reflexionen z.B. 眉ber 禄German Angst芦, aber auch aus erstaunlichen Bildern von Menschen, Stimmungen und Landschaften - und nicht zuletzt von Pferden, Ratten, Hunden, V枚geln und Fliegen - die jeweils einen Teil des Buches als Leitmotiv begleiten.
Zwangsarbeiterinnen aus den besetzten Gebieten gehen abends heim, m眉de, verschmutzt, schwarz von Maschinen枚l, das Haar verru脽t von fliegendem Eisenstaub, die Haut an Gesicht und H盲nden von S盲uren ge盲tzt, die Augen fahl umr盲ndert mit Ringen der M眉digkeit, der Angst und der Sorge, und kurz darauf parlieren an der G盲stetafel der italienischen Botschaft die jungen deutschen Damen, ihre Toiletten kamen aus Paris, aus Rom, aus Stockholm, aus Madrid, sie wurden in den Koffern der diplomatischen Kuriere eingeschmuggelt, zusammen mit Parf眉ms, Puder, Schuhen, Handschuhen und W盲sche und in ihren Gesichtern die gleiche Beklemmung, die gleiche Angst, nur beschmutzt und getr眉bt von anma脽ender Sinnlichkeit, von schamlosem Hochmut, von einer traurigen moralischen Gleichg眉ltigkeit.
Aber nicht nur die Heftigkeit dieser Szenerien fasziniert, Malaparte beschreibt Landschaften und Stimmungen, Architektur und Interieurs 眉beraus detailliert und auch in poetischen T枚nen und schafft so zwischen aufw眉hlenden Momenten immer wieder beschauliche Ruhepunkte. Die Schilderungen der Charaktere, deren Habitus, Physiognomie und Psychologie sind sprachlich originell, sehr detailliert ausgearbeitet und zeugen von Gesp眉r und Menschenkenntnis.
Ein ausgepr盲gter Sinn f眉r Humor ist vielleicht die st盲rkste Waffe gegen die Unmenschlichkeit. Der Autor setzt die gesamte Palette der Satire ein, mit Witz, Hohn und Spott wird die ganze Absurdit盲t der Barbarei erst richtig sichtbar. Besonders gelungen sind seine Dialoge mit den befehlshabenden Eliten, die er mit subtiler Ironie vorf眉hrt.
Malaparte berichtet als Ich-Erz盲hler von seinen Missionen in Skandinavien, Polen, Deutschland, der Ukraine und dem Balkan, wo er meist bei honorablen Pers枚nlichkeiten zu Gast ist und seinen Gespr盲chspartnern wiederum Episoden und Anekdoten von seinen Reisen zum Besten gibt. Diese Form des Geschichtenerz盲hlens innerhalb der Geschichten erinnert an Klassiker wie Boccaccios Decamerone oder Tausendundeine Nacht. Der damit erzeugte Eindruck des Fabulierens steht im Widerspruch zur Form der journalistischen Reportage und wirft die berechtigte Frage nach der tats盲chlichen Authentizit盲t der Episoden auf.
Alle erw盲hnten Personen sind jedenfalls historisch gesichert und auch einige besonders abartig erscheinende Kriegsereignisse sind belastbar dokumentiert. Viele Anekdoten d眉rften jedoch geflunkert sein, wie der nackte Himmler, der in der finnischen Sauna mit Birkenzweigen traktiert wird oder die Anwesenheit des legend盲ren Max Schmeling am Tisch von Hans Frank, zumindest gibt es daf眉r keinerlei Hinweise in historischen Dokumenten.
In , seinem zweiten Roman (den ich, nebenbei bemerkt, noch besser finde), gibt Malaparte selbst einen anschaulichen Hinweis auf seinen Umgang mit Fakt und Fiktion: Beim Essen mit amerikanischen und franz枚sischen Offizieren schockiert er diese mit der Behauptung, die abgetrennte Hand eines am selben Tag schwer verletzten Marokkaners sei in die Hammelsuppe gefallen. Zum Beweis fischt er (Hammel-)Kn枚chelchen aus seinem Teller und ordnet sie als glaubhaftes Skelett einer menschlichen Hand auf dem Tisch an.
War Curzio Malaparte der eigentliche Begr眉nder des New Journalism, lange vor Truman Capote und Tom Wolfe? Er vermischt jedenfalls erfolgreich journalistische und literarische Formen, Reportage und Roman. Was tats盲chlich so stattgefunden haben k枚nnte und was tats盲chlich so stattgefunden hat, bilden zusammen oft einen stimmigeren Eindruck der Wirklichkeit als n眉chterne Dokumentation und sind zugleich Ausdruck k眉nstlerischer Kreativit盲t. Das M盲andern zwischen Tatsache und Dichtung entspricht auch Malapartes widerspr眉chlich schillernder Pers枚nlichkeit und ist die eigentliche St盲rke seiner Kunst.
Kaputt wurde in 15 Sprachen 眉bersetzt und war ein internationaler Bestseller (in Deutschland ein Skandal). Malaparte war in seiner Zeit nicht nur als Autor und Journalist, auch als Salonl枚we, extravaganter Querkopf und Enfant terrible bekannt wie ein bunter Hund.
Schade, dass seine von ihm selbst entworfene Villa auf Capri, die von der NYT als gek眉rt wurde und in Jean Luc Godards Le M茅pris (Die Verachtung) mit Brigitte Bardot als Kulisse diente, heute noch ber眉hmt ist, Malaparte selbst und seine B眉cher aber fast vergessen sind.
Curzio Malaparte hatte 1940 bis 43 als Offizier der italienischen Streitkr盲fte und offizieller Kriegsberichterstatter des Corriere della Sera Zugang zu den h枚chsten Kreisen der Achsenm盲chte und zum Kriegsgeschehen an der Nord- und Ostfront. Seine Aufzeichnungen bilden die Basis f眉r dieses ersch眉tternde Buch.
Es erzielt seine ungeheuerliche Wirkung durch die Gegen眉berstellung von Grausamkeit, Elend und Tod an der Front und in den zerst枚rten St盲dten und der Dekadenz, der Selbstherrlichkeit und dem Zynismus in den Pal盲sten der Machthaber. Es dokumentiert die unterschiedlichsten Facetten dieser dunklen Epoche Europas und stellt den Irrsinn von Totalitarismus, Krieg und Gr枚脽enwahn mit allen Mitteln blo脽. Es entsteht ein Riesenrundgem盲lde aus schockierendem Realismus, Groteske, Reportage, Ironie, Reflexionen z.B. 眉ber 禄German Angst芦, aber auch aus erstaunlichen Bildern von Menschen, Stimmungen und Landschaften - und nicht zuletzt von Pferden, Ratten, Hunden, V枚geln und Fliegen - die jeweils einen Teil des Buches als Leitmotiv begleiten.
Zwangsarbeiterinnen aus den besetzten Gebieten gehen abends heim, m眉de, verschmutzt, schwarz von Maschinen枚l, das Haar verru脽t von fliegendem Eisenstaub, die Haut an Gesicht und H盲nden von S盲uren ge盲tzt, die Augen fahl umr盲ndert mit Ringen der M眉digkeit, der Angst und der Sorge, und kurz darauf parlieren an der G盲stetafel der italienischen Botschaft die jungen deutschen Damen, ihre Toiletten kamen aus Paris, aus Rom, aus Stockholm, aus Madrid, sie wurden in den Koffern der diplomatischen Kuriere eingeschmuggelt, zusammen mit Parf眉ms, Puder, Schuhen, Handschuhen und W盲sche und in ihren Gesichtern die gleiche Beklemmung, die gleiche Angst, nur beschmutzt und getr眉bt von anma脽ender Sinnlichkeit, von schamlosem Hochmut, von einer traurigen moralischen Gleichg眉ltigkeit.
Aber nicht nur die Heftigkeit dieser Szenerien fasziniert, Malaparte beschreibt Landschaften und Stimmungen, Architektur und Interieurs 眉beraus detailliert und auch in poetischen T枚nen und schafft so zwischen aufw眉hlenden Momenten immer wieder beschauliche Ruhepunkte. Die Schilderungen der Charaktere, deren Habitus, Physiognomie und Psychologie sind sprachlich originell, sehr detailliert ausgearbeitet und zeugen von Gesp眉r und Menschenkenntnis.
Ein ausgepr盲gter Sinn f眉r Humor ist vielleicht die st盲rkste Waffe gegen die Unmenschlichkeit. Der Autor setzt die gesamte Palette der Satire ein, mit Witz, Hohn und Spott wird die ganze Absurdit盲t der Barbarei erst richtig sichtbar. Besonders gelungen sind seine Dialoge mit den befehlshabenden Eliten, die er mit subtiler Ironie vorf眉hrt.
Malaparte berichtet als Ich-Erz盲hler von seinen Missionen in Skandinavien, Polen, Deutschland, der Ukraine und dem Balkan, wo er meist bei honorablen Pers枚nlichkeiten zu Gast ist und seinen Gespr盲chspartnern wiederum Episoden und Anekdoten von seinen Reisen zum Besten gibt. Diese Form des Geschichtenerz盲hlens innerhalb der Geschichten erinnert an Klassiker wie Boccaccios Decamerone oder Tausendundeine Nacht. Der damit erzeugte Eindruck des Fabulierens steht im Widerspruch zur Form der journalistischen Reportage und wirft die berechtigte Frage nach der tats盲chlichen Authentizit盲t der Episoden auf.
Alle erw盲hnten Personen sind jedenfalls historisch gesichert und auch einige besonders abartig erscheinende Kriegsereignisse sind belastbar dokumentiert. Viele Anekdoten d眉rften jedoch geflunkert sein, wie der nackte Himmler, der in der finnischen Sauna mit Birkenzweigen traktiert wird oder die Anwesenheit des legend盲ren Max Schmeling am Tisch von Hans Frank, zumindest gibt es daf眉r keinerlei Hinweise in historischen Dokumenten.
In , seinem zweiten Roman (den ich, nebenbei bemerkt, noch besser finde), gibt Malaparte selbst einen anschaulichen Hinweis auf seinen Umgang mit Fakt und Fiktion: Beim Essen mit amerikanischen und franz枚sischen Offizieren schockiert er diese mit der Behauptung, die abgetrennte Hand eines am selben Tag schwer verletzten Marokkaners sei in die Hammelsuppe gefallen. Zum Beweis fischt er (Hammel-)Kn枚chelchen aus seinem Teller und ordnet sie als glaubhaftes Skelett einer menschlichen Hand auf dem Tisch an.
War Curzio Malaparte der eigentliche Begr眉nder des New Journalism, lange vor Truman Capote und Tom Wolfe? Er vermischt jedenfalls erfolgreich journalistische und literarische Formen, Reportage und Roman. Was tats盲chlich so stattgefunden haben k枚nnte und was tats盲chlich so stattgefunden hat, bilden zusammen oft einen stimmigeren Eindruck der Wirklichkeit als n眉chterne Dokumentation und sind zugleich Ausdruck k眉nstlerischer Kreativit盲t. Das M盲andern zwischen Tatsache und Dichtung entspricht auch Malapartes widerspr眉chlich schillernder Pers枚nlichkeit und ist die eigentliche St盲rke seiner Kunst.
Kaputt wurde in 15 Sprachen 眉bersetzt und war ein internationaler Bestseller (in Deutschland ein Skandal). Malaparte war in seiner Zeit nicht nur als Autor und Journalist, auch als Salonl枚we, extravaganter Querkopf und Enfant terrible bekannt wie ein bunter Hund.
Schade, dass seine von ihm selbst entworfene Villa auf Capri, die von der NYT als gek眉rt wurde und in Jean Luc Godards Le M茅pris (Die Verachtung) mit Brigitte Bardot als Kulisse diente, heute noch ber眉hmt ist, Malaparte selbst und seine B眉cher aber fast vergessen sind.
May 11, 2024
Curzio Malaparte travelled around Europe during World War 2 in service of the Italian government and as a journalist, witnessing the Eastern front, Poland, Finland, Romania, Ukraine. Here he creates a (mostly) fictional account of what he had seen and experienced. As such, the content is grim and brutal revealing a diseased continent in turmoil and decay, grasping at ideology and destiny, all while the bodies pile up. It is an account which is honest in its descriptions of the horrors of war but somewhat less convincing in its moral stance.
Firstly, it should be noted that Malaparte's writing can often be truly exquisite. It is descriptive and romantic all while being engaging and entertaining. There are moments of levity and decadence (which I disliked and we will get to that) but when he's being serious, describing the dead suffocated Jews falling out of the train, the frozen bodies, the prostitutes, when he's setting the scene and exposing the moral poison in the veins of his (often) caricatured characters, he is at his best and conjures up language that is fluid, creative, and mesmerising.
Ultimately the combination of his prose and the war content makes for a fascinating reading experience. But then we come to the issue of Malaparte's complicity. Italians have always had a tendency to pretend they were always with the allies and Malaparte is no different. As he dines on succulent meals with high ranking Nazis, he is keen to impart his superior opinion that these people are indeed monsters and yet if that were so, why does he so readily accept their invitations and glasses of wine? There is a distinct feeling when reading the book that Malaparte is waiting to see which way the wind will blow before making any firm commitment. One suspects had the Nazis won the war he would have tweaked a few chapters here and there but ultimately published the same book. There is something unquestionably distasteful and inauthentic about his putative sense of grief and shame. It stinks of being sorry... because you got caught.
That being said, the book is still magnificent. He so desperately wants to be Proust but doesn't quite have what it takes. There are moments when he comes close but certainly not enough of them. And then there are too many chapters where rich people have self-indulgent and condescending conversations. A good editor could have done wonders for Malaparte. It's close to being something glorious but never quite gets there.
Firstly, it should be noted that Malaparte's writing can often be truly exquisite. It is descriptive and romantic all while being engaging and entertaining. There are moments of levity and decadence (which I disliked and we will get to that) but when he's being serious, describing the dead suffocated Jews falling out of the train, the frozen bodies, the prostitutes, when he's setting the scene and exposing the moral poison in the veins of his (often) caricatured characters, he is at his best and conjures up language that is fluid, creative, and mesmerising.
Hearing Alesi's voice the prisoners saw opening before their eyes that free, limitless view, lit by a clear, even, mellow light which, falling from above, tinged the valleys with transparent half shadows, pierced the secret of the woods, revealed the mystery of the shining silvery rivers and lakes at the end of the plain and the delicate tremor of the sea.
In the warm dining room the light of two large, silver candelabra standing in the centre of the table, delicate and warm, melted into the reflection of the ice-bound sea and of the snow covered square, breaking on the frosty windowpanes with a harsh violence.
That the wheels of his "Stork" gliding over the grass of the landing field would touch off a mine, and he would disappear among a cluster of red flowers in a sudden explosion, and only his blue linen handkerchief with his white embroidered initials would drop intact on the grass of the airport.
Ultimately the combination of his prose and the war content makes for a fascinating reading experience. But then we come to the issue of Malaparte's complicity. Italians have always had a tendency to pretend they were always with the allies and Malaparte is no different. As he dines on succulent meals with high ranking Nazis, he is keen to impart his superior opinion that these people are indeed monsters and yet if that were so, why does he so readily accept their invitations and glasses of wine? There is a distinct feeling when reading the book that Malaparte is waiting to see which way the wind will blow before making any firm commitment. One suspects had the Nazis won the war he would have tweaked a few chapters here and there but ultimately published the same book. There is something unquestionably distasteful and inauthentic about his putative sense of grief and shame. It stinks of being sorry... because you got caught.
That being said, the book is still magnificent. He so desperately wants to be Proust but doesn't quite have what it takes. There are moments when he comes close but certainly not enough of them. And then there are too many chapters where rich people have self-indulgent and condescending conversations. A good editor could have done wonders for Malaparte. It's close to being something glorious but never quite gets there.
April 26, 2025
After reading Malaparte's Kaputt, I felt like I'd never come across a writer so compelled to explain the dark side of the human spirit to us.
Primo Levi鈥檚 account of his time in Auschwitz 'If this is a Man' is a masterpiece, but he was a victim: he could dismiss the Germans as merely evil. In Kaputt, Malaparte, although a lifelong anti-German, is compromised by being an officer in the Italian army and a former enthusiast of fascism. He knows what it鈥檚 like to be on the wrong side of history. He visits the Jewish ghettos of Warsaw, Krakow and other Polish cities 鈥� wishing to go alone, but always trailed by a Gestapo officer. He sees ragged and starving bodies lying on the streets, waiting to be loaded onto carts and be taken away. But there are not enough carts. He dines with the German Governor General of Poland, Hans Frank, the very man who is in charge of these ghettos. Malaparte wants to see inside Frank鈥檚 soul 鈥� to explain the evil to us:
"I knew enough of him to detest him, but I felt honor bound not to stop there. 鈥� I hoped to catch a gesture, a word, an involuntary action that might reveal to me Frank鈥檚 real face, his inner face, that would suddenly break away from the dark, deep region of his mind where, I instinctively felt, the roots of his cruel intelligence and fine musical sensitiveness were anchored in a morbid and, in a certain sense, criminal subsoil of character."
Malaparte brings us beautiful tragic images - such as horses that jump into Lake Ladoga in Finland to escape a forest fire created by an aerial bombardment. Tragically the lake suddenly freezes and the horses with it. They create macabre statues, the terror can be seen in their eyes - we wouldn't want to be there for the thawing. Malaparte loves giving life to corpses, the corpse of Mussolini speaks to him in his novel "The Skin" as does a dead Russian soldier in "The Volga Rises in Europe". The horse story is undoubtedly untrue - this is a book where bending and changing the truth leads to a work of art that reflects the follies of war even better than a well-written blow by blow account such as "All Quiet on the Western Front".
Malaparte has a baroque style which in other writers would be pretentious but he pulls it off, he references a lot of high European culture - as in the following landscape sketch in which he references a Swedish painter:
鈥淒aylight was beginning to lose its youth after the ghostlike endlessness of a pellucid summer day, without dawn or sunset. Already the face of the day was growing wrinkled, and little by little the evening was darkening the first, still-luminous shadows. Trees, rocks, houses and clouds sweeter and more intense in their foreboding of the coming night were slowly melting into the mellow autumnal landscape, as in those landscapes of Elias Martin.鈥�
Scenes of natural beauty like this one contrast bitterly with the horrors Malaparte witnesses on the Eastern Front. He is distraught, maybe not for the loss of those close to him - but for the willful destruction of a great civilization by those, like Hans Frank, who make a great show of being sophisticated and educated. Malaparte is also adept at using surrealism and Christian imagery. I would be tempted to give this 6 stars.
Primo Levi鈥檚 account of his time in Auschwitz 'If this is a Man' is a masterpiece, but he was a victim: he could dismiss the Germans as merely evil. In Kaputt, Malaparte, although a lifelong anti-German, is compromised by being an officer in the Italian army and a former enthusiast of fascism. He knows what it鈥檚 like to be on the wrong side of history. He visits the Jewish ghettos of Warsaw, Krakow and other Polish cities 鈥� wishing to go alone, but always trailed by a Gestapo officer. He sees ragged and starving bodies lying on the streets, waiting to be loaded onto carts and be taken away. But there are not enough carts. He dines with the German Governor General of Poland, Hans Frank, the very man who is in charge of these ghettos. Malaparte wants to see inside Frank鈥檚 soul 鈥� to explain the evil to us:
"I knew enough of him to detest him, but I felt honor bound not to stop there. 鈥� I hoped to catch a gesture, a word, an involuntary action that might reveal to me Frank鈥檚 real face, his inner face, that would suddenly break away from the dark, deep region of his mind where, I instinctively felt, the roots of his cruel intelligence and fine musical sensitiveness were anchored in a morbid and, in a certain sense, criminal subsoil of character."
Malaparte brings us beautiful tragic images - such as horses that jump into Lake Ladoga in Finland to escape a forest fire created by an aerial bombardment. Tragically the lake suddenly freezes and the horses with it. They create macabre statues, the terror can be seen in their eyes - we wouldn't want to be there for the thawing. Malaparte loves giving life to corpses, the corpse of Mussolini speaks to him in his novel "The Skin" as does a dead Russian soldier in "The Volga Rises in Europe". The horse story is undoubtedly untrue - this is a book where bending and changing the truth leads to a work of art that reflects the follies of war even better than a well-written blow by blow account such as "All Quiet on the Western Front".
Malaparte has a baroque style which in other writers would be pretentious but he pulls it off, he references a lot of high European culture - as in the following landscape sketch in which he references a Swedish painter:
鈥淒aylight was beginning to lose its youth after the ghostlike endlessness of a pellucid summer day, without dawn or sunset. Already the face of the day was growing wrinkled, and little by little the evening was darkening the first, still-luminous shadows. Trees, rocks, houses and clouds sweeter and more intense in their foreboding of the coming night were slowly melting into the mellow autumnal landscape, as in those landscapes of Elias Martin.鈥�
Scenes of natural beauty like this one contrast bitterly with the horrors Malaparte witnesses on the Eastern Front. He is distraught, maybe not for the loss of those close to him - but for the willful destruction of a great civilization by those, like Hans Frank, who make a great show of being sophisticated and educated. Malaparte is also adept at using surrealism and Christian imagery. I would be tempted to give this 6 stars.
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