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Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass
This is the second and final work of Bruno Schulz, the acclaimed Polish writer killed by the Nazis during World War II. In the words of Isaac Bashevis Singer, "What he did in his short life was enough to make him one of the most remarkable writers who ever lived." Weaving myth, fantasy, and reality, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, is, to quote Schulz, "an attempt at eliciting the history of a certain family . . . by a search for the mythical sense, the essential core of that history."
200 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1937
162 people are currently reading
5,950 people want to read
About the author
Bruno Schulz
116books701followersBruno Schulz was a Polish writer, fine artist, literary critic and art teacher of Jewish descent. He was regarded as one of the great Polish-language prose stylists of the 20th century.
At a very early age, Schulz developed an interest in the arts. He studied at a gymnasium in Drohobycz from 1902 to 1910, and proceeded to study architecture at Lwów University. In 1917 he briefly studied architecture in Vienna. After World War I, the region of Galicia which included Drohobycz became a Polish territory. In the postwar period, Schulz came to teach drawing in a Polish gymnasium, from 1924 to 1941. His employment kept him in his hometown, although he disliked his profession as a schoolteacher, apparently maintaining it only because it was his sole means of income.
The author nurtured his extraordinary imagination in a swarm of identities and nationalities: a Jew who thought and wrote in Polish, was fluent in German, and immersed in Jewish culture though unfamiliar with the Yiddish language. Yet there was nothing cosmopolitan about him; his genius fed in solitude on specific local and ethnic sources. He preferred not to leave his provincial hometown, which over the course of his life belonged to four countries. His adult life was often perceived by outsiders as that of a hermit: uneventful and enclosed.
Schulz seems to have become a writer by chance, as he was discouraged by influential colleagues from publishing his first short stories. His aspirations were refreshed, however, when several letters that he wrote to a friend, in which he gave highly original accounts of his solitary life and the details of the lives of his fellow citizens, were brought to the attention of the novelist Zofia Nałkowska. She encouraged Schulz to have them published as short fiction, and The Cinnamon Shops (Sklepy Cynamonowe) was published in 1934; in English-speaking countries, it is most often referred to as The Street of Crocodiles, a title derived from one of the chapters. This novel-memoir was followed three years later by Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass (Sanatorium Pod Klepsydrą). The original publications were fully illustrated by Schulz himself; in later editions of his works, however, these illustrations are often left out or are poorly reproduced. He also helped his fiancée translate Franz Kafka's The Trial into Polish, in 1936. In 1938, he was awarded the Polish Academy of Literature's prestigious Golden Laurel award.
The outbreak of World War II in 1939 caught Schulz living in Drohobycz, which was occupied by the Soviet Union. There are reports that he worked on a novel called The Messiah, but no trace of this manuscript survived his death. Following the German invasion of the Soviet Union, as a Jew he was forced to live in the ghetto of Drohobycz, but he was temporarily protected by Felix Landau, a Gestapo officer who admired his drawings. During the last weeks of his life, Schulz painted a mural in Landau's home in Drohobycz, in the style with which he is identified. Shortly after completing the work, Schulz was bringing home a loaf of bread when he was shot and killed by a German officer, Karl Günther, a rival of his protector (Landau had killed Günther's "personal Jew," a dentist). Over the years his mural was covered with paint and forgotten.
Source: wikipedia.com
At a very early age, Schulz developed an interest in the arts. He studied at a gymnasium in Drohobycz from 1902 to 1910, and proceeded to study architecture at Lwów University. In 1917 he briefly studied architecture in Vienna. After World War I, the region of Galicia which included Drohobycz became a Polish territory. In the postwar period, Schulz came to teach drawing in a Polish gymnasium, from 1924 to 1941. His employment kept him in his hometown, although he disliked his profession as a schoolteacher, apparently maintaining it only because it was his sole means of income.
The author nurtured his extraordinary imagination in a swarm of identities and nationalities: a Jew who thought and wrote in Polish, was fluent in German, and immersed in Jewish culture though unfamiliar with the Yiddish language. Yet there was nothing cosmopolitan about him; his genius fed in solitude on specific local and ethnic sources. He preferred not to leave his provincial hometown, which over the course of his life belonged to four countries. His adult life was often perceived by outsiders as that of a hermit: uneventful and enclosed.
Schulz seems to have become a writer by chance, as he was discouraged by influential colleagues from publishing his first short stories. His aspirations were refreshed, however, when several letters that he wrote to a friend, in which he gave highly original accounts of his solitary life and the details of the lives of his fellow citizens, were brought to the attention of the novelist Zofia Nałkowska. She encouraged Schulz to have them published as short fiction, and The Cinnamon Shops (Sklepy Cynamonowe) was published in 1934; in English-speaking countries, it is most often referred to as The Street of Crocodiles, a title derived from one of the chapters. This novel-memoir was followed three years later by Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass (Sanatorium Pod Klepsydrą). The original publications were fully illustrated by Schulz himself; in later editions of his works, however, these illustrations are often left out or are poorly reproduced. He also helped his fiancée translate Franz Kafka's The Trial into Polish, in 1936. In 1938, he was awarded the Polish Academy of Literature's prestigious Golden Laurel award.
The outbreak of World War II in 1939 caught Schulz living in Drohobycz, which was occupied by the Soviet Union. There are reports that he worked on a novel called The Messiah, but no trace of this manuscript survived his death. Following the German invasion of the Soviet Union, as a Jew he was forced to live in the ghetto of Drohobycz, but he was temporarily protected by Felix Landau, a Gestapo officer who admired his drawings. During the last weeks of his life, Schulz painted a mural in Landau's home in Drohobycz, in the style with which he is identified. Shortly after completing the work, Schulz was bringing home a loaf of bread when he was shot and killed by a German officer, Karl Günther, a rival of his protector (Landau had killed Günther's "personal Jew," a dentist). Over the years his mural was covered with paint and forgotten.
Source: wikipedia.com
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August 8, 2024
I first read Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass at the turn of the millennium and now I just wanted to reread a single story but couldn’t stop till the last page � such is the magic of this book.
I believe every reader has one such book that is dearest to him and is closest to his heart.
The world is beautiful but one must just have a proper eye to make out all the beauty of the world� And for those who can’t see the world in the right light beauty is useless and doomed.
The world is surreal but one must just have a proper mind to appreciate all the surrealness of the world� And for the down-to-earth ones the world is a grey and common place.
And Bruno Schulz just had both a proper eye and an apt mind to tell his miraculously surreal stories.
Travelling beyond the horizon keep your eyes wide open.
I am simply calling it The Book without any epithets or qualifications, and in this sobriety there is a shade of helplessness, a silent capitulation before the vastness of the transcendental, for no word, no allusion, can adequately suggest the shiver of fear, the presentiment of a thing without name that exceeds all our capacity for wonder. How could an accumulation of adjectives or a richness of epithets help when one is faced with that splendiferous thing? Besides, any true reader � and this story is only addressed to him � will understand me anyway when I look him straight in the eye and try to communicate my meaning. A short sharp look or a light clasp of his hand will stir him into awareness, and he will blink in rapture at the brilliance of The Book.
I believe every reader has one such book that is dearest to him and is closest to his heart.
The world is beautiful but one must just have a proper eye to make out all the beauty of the world� And for those who can’t see the world in the right light beauty is useless and doomed.
Can you understand the despair of that condemned beauty, of its days and nights? Over and over again it had to rouse itself to fictitious auctions, stage successful sales and noisy, crowded exhibitions, become inflamed with wild gambling passions, await a slump, scatter riches, squander them like a maniac, only to realize on sobering up that all this was in vain, that it could not get anywhere beyond a self-centered perfection, that it could not relieve the pain of excess. No wonder that the impatience and helplessness of beauty had at last to find its reflection in our sky, that it therefore glows over our horizon, degenerates into atmospheric displays, into these enormous arrangements of fantastic clouds I call our second or spurious fall.
The world is surreal but one must just have a proper mind to appreciate all the surrealness of the world� And for the down-to-earth ones the world is a grey and common place.
‘Is my father alive?� I asked, staring anxiously into his calm face.
‘Yes, of course,� he answered, calmly meeting my questioning eyes. ‘That is, within the limits imposed by the situation,� he added, half closing his eyes. ‘You know as well as I that from the point of view of your home, from the perspective of your own country, your father is dead. This cannot be entirely remedied. That death throws a certain shadow on his existence here.�
And Bruno Schulz just had both a proper eye and an apt mind to tell his miraculously surreal stories.
Travelling beyond the horizon keep your eyes wide open.
July 21, 2019
The way that this book combines reality and imagination, realism and dreaminess, truth and myth, has something primitive, primordial. It contains the essence of the world, in all its possible and unlikely versions.
On one hand, we experience a vivid imagery (some images seem to be reflecting the light, some others, glowing in the dark), on the other, we get to see black and white expressionistic sketches surrounding the text (figures with oversized heads as a darker, adult version of Alice in Wonderland)
What we have here is a narrative with two distinct themes: the everyday life of a family living in a small town among other people, each with their own special character and personality, and the surrealistic, magical version of the same persons and surroundings.This is how I can describe the "Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass" in a nutshell.
Ο τρόπος που δένει την πραγματικότητα με τη φαντασία, τον ρεαλισμό με το όνειρο, την αλήθεια με τον μύθο, έχει κάτι το αρχέγονο, το πρωτεϊκό. Εμπεριέχει την ουσία του κόσμου, σε όλες τις πιθανές και απίθανες εκδοχές του.
Από τη μια, οι χρωματιστές, πλούσιες λεκτικές πινελιές (ένα ουράνιο τόξο από εικόνες που αντανακλούν το φως ή φωσφορίζουν στο σκοτάδι) από την άλλη τα ασπρόμαυρα εξπρεσιονιστικά σκίτσα του που πλαισιώνουν το κείμενο (με τα υπερμεγέθη κεφάλια, σαν μια σκοτεινότερη, ενήλικη εκδοχή της Αλίκης στην χώρα των θαυμάτων) και στο κέντρο ένας πυρήνας με δύο πόλους: η καθημερινότητα μιας οικογένειας που ζει σε μια μικρή πόλη ανάμεσα σε άλλους ανθρώπους, ο καθένας με τον ιδιαίτερο χαρακτήρα του, και η σουρεαλιστική, μαγική εκδοχή των ίδιων προσώπων και πραγμάτων.
Κάπως έτσι θα περιέγραφα το "Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass", ωστόσο είναι πολλά περισσότερα που μένουν ανείπωτα στην άκρη της γλώσσας μου, η οποία είναι πολύ φτωχή για μπορέσει να τα εκφράσει.
Δεν πρόλαβε να γράψει πολλά πράγματα ο Bruno Schulz...
Ετοίμαζε ένα μυθιστορημα με τίτλο ο "Μεσσίας" αλλά στα 1942 τον εκτέλεσαν εν ψυχρώ στη μέση ενός δρόμου για ασήμαντη αιτία και αφορμή. Στα χέρια του, καθώς έπεφτε στο χώμα, δεν κρατούσε τα πινέλα του ούτε τα χαρτιά του. Μόνο ένα καρβέλι ψωμί... Αλλά καμία σφαίρα δεν θα μπορέσει ποτέ να σκοτώσει την ομορφιά αυτού του κόσμου. Τα λίγα κείμενα που σώθηκαν από αυτόν, δυο μικρά βιβλία που πρόλαβε να δημοσιεύσει πριν τον θάνατό του, είναι η απόδειξη πως μια σφαίρα είναι ικανή να συντρίψει το σώμα. Αλλά το πνεύμα συνεχίζει ακόμα να υπάρχει, εκεί, μέσα στις σελίδες του έργου του και σφύζει ακόμα από ζωή.
Πόσο ανόητοι είναι, αλήθεια, οι άνθρωποι που νομίζουν πως μπορούν να κατακτήσουν τον κόσμο με τη βία...
Το βιβλίο αυτό θα μπορούσε να χαρακτηριστεί ως προς τη δομή του είτε ως μία συλλογή δεκατριών διηγημάτων που συνδέονται χαλαρά μεταξύ τους είτε ως μια νουβέλα όπου τα πρόσωπα και οι αφηγηματικές τεχνικές αλλάζουν ανάμεσα στα κεφάλαια, δίνοντας σε κάθε τμήμα του έργου έναν ξεχωριστό χαρακτήρα και μια θεματική και υφολογική αυτοτέλεια.
Βασικοί χαρακτήρες είναι ο Γιόζεφ ο νεαρός γιος της οικογένειας, ο Γιακώβ, ο πατέρας ο οποίος συχνά υπόκειται στις πιο καφκικές μεταμορφώσεις που θα μπορούσε να επινοήσει ο ανθρώπινος νους, μια μητέρα που από όσο θυμάμαι παραμένει ανώνυμη αλλά πανταχού παρούσα (ίσως γιατί όπως αναφέρει ο συγγραφέας στην αρχή του έργου "υλοποιήθηκε" σε συνέχεια της ύπαρξης του άνδρα και του αγοριού) η Αντέλα η υπηρέτρια, μια νέα δυναμική και ωραία κοπέλα, και ακολουθούν μέσα στα ξεχωριστικά κεφάλαια πρόσωπα όπως: η νεαρή Μπιάνκα που αποτελεί το αντικείμενο του πόθου του Γιόζεφ, ο Ρούντολφ, φίλος και αντίζηλος του αγοριού, ο παράξενος και αργόστροφος θείος Ντόντο, ο ωραίος, ανάπηρος γείτονας Έντυ, ένας συνταξιούχος που ξαναγίνεται παιδί ονόματι Σάιμον, και άλλοι παράξενοι και ενδιαφέροντες δευτερεύοντες χαρακτήρες.
Τα τέσσερα πρώτα κεφάλαια με τίτλο: "Το βιβλίο", "Η εποχή του Πνεύματος", "Άνοιξη" και "Μια νύχτα του Ιούλη" είναι μια μυητική εισαγωγή σε όσα θα ακολουθήσουν. Είναι δύσκολα. Κρυπτικά. Μυστηριώδη. Με έντονες περιγραφές που μοιάζουν να ξεδιπλώνουν μια κοσμική θεολογία, μια ερμηνευτική του σύμπαντος το οποίο μοιάζει να γεννιέται αλλά και να μεταμορφώνεται μέσα από τις διάφορες εναλλακτικές εκδοχές του. Αν κάποιος κατάφερε να δημιουργήσει ένα λογοτεχνικό καλειδοσκόπιο, αυτός είναι αναμφίβολα ο Bruno Schulz:
"Τα συνηθισμένα γεγονότα είναι διευθετημένα μέσα στον Χρόνο, δεμένα κατά μήκος του λες και είναι περασμένα μέσα από μια κλωστή. Εκεί έχουν τα προηγούμενα και τις συνέχειές τους, όλα μαζί αραδιασμένα και σφιχτοδεμένα χωρίς ενδιάμεσα κενά. Αυτό είναι σημαντικό για κάθε αφήγηση όπου η ακολουθία και η διαδοχικότητα αποτελούν τον κεντρικό της πυρήνα.
Όμως τί γίνεται με τα γεγονότα που δεν έχουν καμία θέση μέσα στον χρόνο; Γεγονότα που συνέβησαν πολύ αργά, αφότου ο χρόνος είχε ήδη μοιραστεί, διαχωριστεί, κατανεμηθεί; Γεγονότα που απέμειναν παγωμένα, αταξινόμητα, να κρέμονται στον αέρα, να πλανώνται χωρίς δική τους θέση; Είμαι μήπως ο χρόνος πολύ στενός για χωρέσει όλα τα γεγονότα; Μήπως δεν υπάρχουν μέσα στον χρόνο πλέον κενές θέσεις; Ανήσυχοι τρέχουμε μέσα στον συρμό των γεγονότων και ετοιμαζόμαστε για το ταξίδι.
Τί στην ευχή δεν υπάρχει λοιπόν κάποιος κανονισμός σχετικά με τη λειτουργία του Χρόνου; Χειριστή που είσαι;
Αλλά ας παραμείνουμε ψύχραιμοι. Ας μην πανικοβαλλόμαστε. Μπορούμε συμβιβάσουμε τα πάντα μέσα από τα δικά μας σημεία αναφοράς.
Ακούσατε ποτέ για τις παράλληλες εκδοχές του χρόνου που ακολουθούν δυο ξεχωριστά μονοπάτια; Ναι υπάρχουν τέτοια χρονικά παρακλάδια, παράτυπα και σκιώδη, όμως όταν κάποιος έχει να αντιμετωπίσει την εισροή τέτοιων πολυάριθμων γεγονότων δεν μπορεί είναι ιδιαίτερα επιλεκτικός. Ας βρούμε μέσα σε κάποιο σημείο της ιστορίας ένα τέτοιο παρακλάδι κι ας τοποθετήσουμε εκεί τα παραστρατημένα γεγονότα. Δεν υπάρχει φόβος. Όλα θα γίνουν με τη μέγιστη διακριτικότητα. Ο αναγνώστης διόλου δεν θα παραξενευτεί. Ποιος ξέρει; Ίσως ακόμα και τώρα που μιλάμε να συμβαίνει ήδη και ίσως ήδη να προχωρούμε μέσα σε ένα αδιέξοδο".
Αυτό το ερμηνευτικό πλαίσιο δίνει ο συγγραφέας και μέσα σε αυτό το κανάλι ρέουν και διαχέονται οι διηγήσεις του, ξεκινούν από ένα πρόσωπο, ένα αντικείμενο, ένα περιστατικό και εξελίσσονται στο άπειρο. Έτσι καταφέρνει να αποκαλύψει εκδοχές του κόσμου που θα ήταν διαφορετικά αόρατες στο ανθώπινο μάτι. Έναν κοσμικό αλμανάκ, μια μαγική συλλογή γραμματοσήμων, το μυστήριο μιας χαμένης πριγκίπισσας, ένα μουσείο κέρινων ομοιωμάτων που ζωντανεύει, μια ιδιότυπη συμφωνία του Πατέρα με τον διάβολο και η επακόλουθη τιμωρία του, η αριστοτεχνικότερη εναλλαγή των εποχών και άλλες γλυκόπικρες και αλλόκοτες ιστορίες.
Από όλες τις μικρές και μεγάλες ιστορίες του βιβλίου η πιο εντυπωσιακή, είναι σαφώς το "Σανατόριο κάτω από το σημείο της Κλεψύδρας". Όπου ο χρόνος καταλύεται μέσα σε ένα επιθανάτιο λυκόφως, ο ύπνος υποκαθιστά τη δράση, η ύπαρξη αιωρείται μεταξύ φθοράς και αφθαρσίας. Ακόμα κι αν κάποιος κουραστεί από τις εκτενείς ποιητικές περιγραφές του συγγραφέα, αξίζει να διαβάσει τουλάχιστον αυτό το κεφάλαιο που στέκεται στην καρδιά του έργου και δίνει τον γενικότερο παλμό.
Από τις πιο σύντομες, σουρεαλιστικές και αστείες, ένα χιουμοριστικό σχόλιο επάνω στην μορφή του πατέρα, είναι το "Ο πατέρας μου κατατάσσεται στο Πυροσβεστικό σώμα". Το "Δεύτερο Φθινόπωρο" αποτελεί την πιο ποιητική και αλλοπρόσαλλη πραγματεία που γράφτηκε ποτέ στην Ιστορία της Τέχνης και δη της ζωγραφικής.
Στην "Νεκρή εποχή"¨περιγράφεται για πρώτη φορά με λεπτομέρειες το επάγγελμα του πατέρα, ένας βασανισμένος έμπορος υφασμάτων, δίνεται η πρώτη μεταμόρφωσή του και η συμφωνία του με το διάβολο (έναν μυστηριώδη επισκέπτη που θα του εξασφαλίσει τα επτά χρόνια ευημερίας που θα βάλουν ένα τέλος στη νεκρή εποχή της ανασφάλειας και της αγωνίας).
Ο "Ντόντο", ο "Έντυ", ο "Γέρος συνταξιούχος", η "Μοναξιά" θα μπορούσαν να χαρακτηριστούν ως υποδιηγήσεις, ως παραλλαγές του κεντρικού θέματος και έχουν να κάνουν με τις ανθρώπινες αδυναμίες και τη μοναξιά.
Και η τελευταία ιστορία, μια σύντομη και βαθύτατα συγκινητική αλλά συνάμα αστεία παραλλαγή της Καφκικής "Μεταμόρφωσης". Ο πιο εντυπωσιακός σπαρακτικός και ξεκαρδιστικός επίλογος σε αυτήν την ιστορία.
Δεν θα ενθαρρύνω κανέναν να ψάξει και να διαβάσει αυτό το βιβλίο. Αν και προσωπικά, αν έπρεπε να θυσιάσω (ο μη γένοιτο) ολάκερη τη βιβλιοθήκη μου, για να κρατήσω δέκα μονάχα βιβλία, αυτό θα έμπαινε σίγουρα στον "Κανόνα των δέκα Αγαπημένων". Είναι βαρύ, δύσκολο και δυσνόητο παρά το μικρό του μέγεθος. Έχει εκτενέστατες εξαντλητικές περιγραφές και κατανοώ πως, ορισμένως, αυτό μπορεί να αποτελέσει τροχοπέδη στην αναγνωστική απόλαυση. Εγώ ξέρω μονάχα αυτό που βίωσα και που αποτελεί πλέον κομμάτι της ψυχής μου.
Και τί με ενδιαφέρει για όλα τα άλλα;
Ο Bruno Schulz υπήρξε άξιο τέκνο του Μέγα Ωρολογοποιού και η αιωνιότητα του ανήκει. Μακάρι μονάχα να είχε μείνει λιγάκι περισσότερο μαζί μας, να είχε προλάβει να μας αφήσει κάτι περισσότερο από το έργο του...
Ένα μικρό απόσπασμα:
"Ο φωτογράφος, ο πατέρας μου κι εγώ πήραμε τον δρόμο για το σπίτι, κάνοντας έναν κύκλο, μέσα από τις πιο απομακρυσμένες γειτονιές. Εκεί τα ελάχιστα σπίτια ήταν μικρά, στο τέλος χάθηκαν κι αυτά τελείως. Περάσαμε σε μια ατμόσφαιρα γλυκειάς και ζεστής άνοιξης. Η ασημένια αντανάκλαση ενός νέου, μενεξεδένιου φεγγαριού που μόλις είχε ανατείλει γλιστρούσε επάνω στο λασπωμένο μονοπάτι. Η νύχτα, που δεν ήταν ακόμα εντελώς ανοιξιάτικη, είχε κάτι από την προσμονή για τις επερχόμενες φάσεις της. Ο αέρας που δεν είχε ακόμα τη συνηθισμένη δριμύτητα αυτής της εποχής του χρόνου είχε μια γλυκερή ανοστιά, γεμάτη από το άρωμα της βροχής, το νοτισμένο γόνιμο χώμα, κι από τις δροσοσταλίδες του χιονιού που έλιωναν, λαμποντας φασματικά κάτω από το λευκό, μαγικό φως.
Και ήταν παράξενο που κάτω από αυτό το καλοκάγαθο φεγγάρι, δεν υπήρχαν γυρίνοι να απλώνονται στην ασημένια λάσπη, και η νύχτα δεν αντηχούσε με τα κοάσματα χιλιάδων φλύαρων στομάτων κάτω στις διάσπαρτες όχθες του ποταμού, τις μουσκεμένες από τις γυαλιστερές σταγόνες του γλυκού νερού. Κι έτσι κάποιος ήταν υποχρεωμένος να φανταστεί τα κοάσματα των βατράχων μέσα στη νύχτα, η οποία ήταν γεμάτη από το μουρμούρισμα των υπόγειων πηγών, έτσι ώστε - μετά από μια στιγμή απόλυτης ακινησίας- το φεγγάρι να μπορέσει να συνεχίσει την ανάβασή του στον ουρανό, να απλώσει την λευκότητά του, ακόμα πιο φωτεινό, πιο μαγικό και υπερφυσικό.
Περπατήσαμε έτσι, κάτω από το φεγγάρι που γέμιζε. Ο πατέρας μου και ο φωτογράφος με κουβαλούσαν σχεδόν ανάμεσά τους, γιατί παραπατούσα από την κούραση και περπατούσα με δυσκολία. Τα βήματά μας έτριζαν πάνω στην νοτισμένη άμμο. Πήγαινε καιρός από την τελευταία φορά που είχα αποκοιμηθεί καθώς περπατούσα και κάτω από τα βλέφαρά μου έβλεπα τώρα ολάκερο τον φωσφορισμό του ουρανού, γεμάτο από φωτεινά σημάδια, λαμπυρίσματα και αστρικά φαινόμενα. Στο τέλος φτάσαμε σε μια ανοιχτωσιά. Ο πατέρας μου με ξάπλωσε επάνω σε ένα παλτό που άπλωσε στο χώμα. Με τα μάτια κλειστά, είδα τον ήλιο, τη σελήνη, και έντεκα αστέρια ευθυγραμμισμένα στον ουρανό, να παρελαύνουν εμπρός μου***.
"Μπράβο Γιόζεφ!" Αναφώνησε ο πατέρας μου και και χτύπησε τα χέρια του με επιδοκιμασία. Έκανα έναν ασυναίσθητο πλαγιαρισμό ενός άλλου Ιωσήφ, κάτω από εντελώς διαφορετικές συνθήκες, αλλά κανένας δεν μου κράτησε κακία γι' αυτό. Ο πατέρας μου, ο Γιακώβ, κούνησε το κεφάλι του και πλατάγισε τα χείλη του και ο φωτογράφος έστησε τον τρίποδά του επάνω στην άμμο έβαλε τη φωτογραφική του μηχανή σαν κοντσερτίνα και κρύφτηκε τελείως κάτω από τις πτυχές του μαύρου υφάσματος. Εκείνος φωτογράφιζε ένα σπάνιο αστρικό φαινόμενο, ένα αστραφτερό ωροσκόπιο στον ουρανό, ενώ εγώ με το κεφάλι μου να πλέει μέσα στο φως, απόμεινα χωρίς να βλέπω στο έδαφος, κρατώντας απαλά το όνειρό μου σαν μέσα από φωτογραφικό φακό".
*** Αναφορά στο αντίστοιχο όνειρο του βιβλικού Ιωσήφ.
On one hand, we experience a vivid imagery (some images seem to be reflecting the light, some others, glowing in the dark), on the other, we get to see black and white expressionistic sketches surrounding the text (figures with oversized heads as a darker, adult version of Alice in Wonderland)
What we have here is a narrative with two distinct themes: the everyday life of a family living in a small town among other people, each with their own special character and personality, and the surrealistic, magical version of the same persons and surroundings.This is how I can describe the "Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass" in a nutshell.
Ο τρόπος που δένει την πραγματικότητα με τη φαντασία, τον ρεαλισμό με το όνειρο, την αλήθεια με τον μύθο, έχει κάτι το αρχέγονο, το πρωτεϊκό. Εμπεριέχει την ουσία του κόσμου, σε όλες τις πιθανές και απίθανες εκδοχές του.
Από τη μια, οι χρωματιστές, πλούσιες λεκτικές πινελιές (ένα ουράνιο τόξο από εικόνες που αντανακλούν το φως ή φωσφορίζουν στο σκοτάδι) από την άλλη τα ασπρόμαυρα εξπρεσιονιστικά σκίτσα του που πλαισιώνουν το κείμενο (με τα υπερμεγέθη κεφάλια, σαν μια σκοτεινότερη, ενήλικη εκδοχή της Αλίκης στην χώρα των θαυμάτων) και στο κέντρο ένας πυρήνας με δύο πόλους: η καθημερινότητα μιας οικογένειας που ζει σε μια μικρή πόλη ανάμεσα σε άλλους ανθρώπους, ο καθένας με τον ιδιαίτερο χαρακτήρα του, και η σουρεαλιστική, μαγική εκδοχή των ίδιων προσώπων και πραγμάτων.
Κάπως έτσι θα περιέγραφα το "Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass", ωστόσο είναι πολλά περισσότερα που μένουν ανείπωτα στην άκρη της γλώσσας μου, η οποία είναι πολύ φτωχή για μπορέσει να τα εκφράσει.
Δεν πρόλαβε να γράψει πολλά πράγματα ο Bruno Schulz...
Ετοίμαζε ένα μυθιστορημα με τίτλο ο "Μεσσίας" αλλά στα 1942 τον εκτέλεσαν εν ψυχρώ στη μέση ενός δρόμου για ασήμαντη αιτία και αφορμή. Στα χέρια του, καθώς έπεφτε στο χώμα, δεν κρατούσε τα πινέλα του ούτε τα χαρτιά του. Μόνο ένα καρβέλι ψωμί... Αλλά καμία σφαίρα δεν θα μπορέσει ποτέ να σκοτώσει την ομορφιά αυτού του κόσμου. Τα λίγα κείμενα που σώθηκαν από αυτόν, δυο μικρά βιβλία που πρόλαβε να δημοσιεύσει πριν τον θάνατό του, είναι η απόδειξη πως μια σφαίρα είναι ικανή να συντρίψει το σώμα. Αλλά το πνεύμα συνεχίζει ακόμα να υπάρχει, εκεί, μέσα στις σελίδες του έργου του και σφύζει ακόμα από ζωή.
Πόσο ανόητοι είναι, αλήθεια, οι άνθρωποι που νομίζουν πως μπορούν να κατακτήσουν τον κόσμο με τη βία...
Το βιβλίο αυτό θα μπορούσε να χαρακτηριστεί ως προς τη δομή του είτε ως μία συλλογή δεκατριών διηγημάτων που συνδέονται χαλαρά μεταξύ τους είτε ως μια νουβέλα όπου τα πρόσωπα και οι αφηγηματικές τεχνικές αλλάζουν ανάμεσα στα κεφάλαια, δίνοντας σε κάθε τμήμα του έργου έναν ξεχωριστό χαρακτήρα και μια θεματική και υφολογική αυτοτέλεια.
Βασικοί χαρακτήρες είναι ο Γιόζεφ ο νεαρός γιος της οικογένειας, ο Γιακώβ, ο πατέρας ο οποίος συχνά υπόκειται στις πιο καφκικές μεταμορφώσεις που θα μπορούσε να επινοήσει ο ανθρώπινος νους, μια μητέρα που από όσο θυμάμαι παραμένει ανώνυμη αλλά πανταχού παρούσα (ίσως γιατί όπως αναφέρει ο συγγραφέας στην αρχή του έργου "υλοποιήθηκε" σε συνέχεια της ύπαρξης του άνδρα και του αγοριού) η Αντέλα η υπηρέτρια, μια νέα δυναμική και ωραία κοπέλα, και ακολουθούν μέσα στα ξεχωριστικά κεφάλαια πρόσωπα όπως: η νεαρή Μπιάνκα που αποτελεί το αντικείμενο του πόθου του Γιόζεφ, ο Ρούντολφ, φίλος και αντίζηλος του αγοριού, ο παράξενος και αργόστροφος θείος Ντόντο, ο ωραίος, ανάπηρος γείτονας Έντυ, ένας συνταξιούχος που ξαναγίνεται παιδί ονόματι Σάιμον, και άλλοι παράξενοι και ενδιαφέροντες δευτερεύοντες χαρακτήρες.
Τα τέσσερα πρώτα κεφάλαια με τίτλο: "Το βιβλίο", "Η εποχή του Πνεύματος", "Άνοιξη" και "Μια νύχτα του Ιούλη" είναι μια μυητική εισαγωγή σε όσα θα ακολουθήσουν. Είναι δύσκολα. Κρυπτικά. Μυστηριώδη. Με έντονες περιγραφές που μοιάζουν να ξεδιπλώνουν μια κοσμική θεολογία, μια ερμηνευτική του σύμπαντος το οποίο μοιάζει να γεννιέται αλλά και να μεταμορφώνεται μέσα από τις διάφορες εναλλακτικές εκδοχές του. Αν κάποιος κατάφερε να δημιουργήσει ένα λογοτεχνικό καλειδοσκόπιο, αυτός είναι αναμφίβολα ο Bruno Schulz:
"Τα συνηθισμένα γεγονότα είναι διευθετημένα μέσα στον Χρόνο, δεμένα κατά μήκος του λες και είναι περασμένα μέσα από μια κλωστή. Εκεί έχουν τα προηγούμενα και τις συνέχειές τους, όλα μαζί αραδιασμένα και σφιχτοδεμένα χωρίς ενδιάμεσα κενά. Αυτό είναι σημαντικό για κάθε αφήγηση όπου η ακολουθία και η διαδοχικότητα αποτελούν τον κεντρικό της πυρήνα.
Όμως τί γίνεται με τα γεγονότα που δεν έχουν καμία θέση μέσα στον χρόνο; Γεγονότα που συνέβησαν πολύ αργά, αφότου ο χρόνος είχε ήδη μοιραστεί, διαχωριστεί, κατανεμηθεί; Γεγονότα που απέμειναν παγωμένα, αταξινόμητα, να κρέμονται στον αέρα, να πλανώνται χωρίς δική τους θέση; Είμαι μήπως ο χρόνος πολύ στενός για χωρέσει όλα τα γεγονότα; Μήπως δεν υπάρχουν μέσα στον χρόνο πλέον κενές θέσεις; Ανήσυχοι τρέχουμε μέσα στον συρμό των γεγονότων και ετοιμαζόμαστε για το ταξίδι.
Τί στην ευχή δεν υπάρχει λοιπόν κάποιος κανονισμός σχετικά με τη λειτουργία του Χρόνου; Χειριστή που είσαι;
Αλλά ας παραμείνουμε ψύχραιμοι. Ας μην πανικοβαλλόμαστε. Μπορούμε συμβιβάσουμε τα πάντα μέσα από τα δικά μας σημεία αναφοράς.
Ακούσατε ποτέ για τις παράλληλες εκδοχές του χρόνου που ακολουθούν δυο ξεχωριστά μονοπάτια; Ναι υπάρχουν τέτοια χρονικά παρακλάδια, παράτυπα και σκιώδη, όμως όταν κάποιος έχει να αντιμετωπίσει την εισροή τέτοιων πολυάριθμων γεγονότων δεν μπορεί είναι ιδιαίτερα επιλεκτικός. Ας βρούμε μέσα σε κάποιο σημείο της ιστορίας ένα τέτοιο παρακλάδι κι ας τοποθετήσουμε εκεί τα παραστρατημένα γεγονότα. Δεν υπάρχει φόβος. Όλα θα γίνουν με τη μέγιστη διακριτικότητα. Ο αναγνώστης διόλου δεν θα παραξενευτεί. Ποιος ξέρει; Ίσως ακόμα και τώρα που μιλάμε να συμβαίνει ήδη και ίσως ήδη να προχωρούμε μέσα σε ένα αδιέξοδο".
Αυτό το ερμηνευτικό πλαίσιο δίνει ο συγγραφέας και μέσα σε αυτό το κανάλι ρέουν και διαχέονται οι διηγήσεις του, ξεκινούν από ένα πρόσωπο, ένα αντικείμενο, ένα περιστατικό και εξελίσσονται στο άπειρο. Έτσι καταφέρνει να αποκαλύψει εκδοχές του κόσμου που θα ήταν διαφορετικά αόρατες στο ανθώπινο μάτι. Έναν κοσμικό αλμανάκ, μια μαγική συλλογή γραμματοσήμων, το μυστήριο μιας χαμένης πριγκίπισσας, ένα μουσείο κέρινων ομοιωμάτων που ζωντανεύει, μια ιδιότυπη συμφωνία του Πατέρα με τον διάβολο και η επακόλουθη τιμωρία του, η αριστοτεχνικότερη εναλλαγή των εποχών και άλλες γλυκόπικρες και αλλόκοτες ιστορίες.
Από όλες τις μικρές και μεγάλες ιστορίες του βιβλίου η πιο εντυπωσιακή, είναι σαφώς το "Σανατόριο κάτω από το σημείο της Κλεψύδρας". Όπου ο χρόνος καταλύεται μέσα σε ένα επιθανάτιο λυκόφως, ο ύπνος υποκαθιστά τη δράση, η ύπαρξη αιωρείται μεταξύ φθοράς και αφθαρσίας. Ακόμα κι αν κάποιος κουραστεί από τις εκτενείς ποιητικές περιγραφές του συγγραφέα, αξίζει να διαβάσει τουλάχιστον αυτό το κεφάλαιο που στέκεται στην καρδιά του έργου και δίνει τον γενικότερο παλμό.
Από τις πιο σύντομες, σουρεαλιστικές και αστείες, ένα χιουμοριστικό σχόλιο επάνω στην μορφή του πατέρα, είναι το "Ο πατέρας μου κατατάσσεται στο Πυροσβεστικό σώμα". Το "Δεύτερο Φθινόπωρο" αποτελεί την πιο ποιητική και αλλοπρόσαλλη πραγματεία που γράφτηκε ποτέ στην Ιστορία της Τέχνης και δη της ζωγραφικής.
Στην "Νεκρή εποχή"¨περιγράφεται για πρώτη φορά με λεπτομέρειες το επάγγελμα του πατέρα, ένας βασανισμένος έμπορος υφασμάτων, δίνεται η πρώτη μεταμόρφωσή του και η συμφωνία του με το διάβολο (έναν μυστηριώδη επισκέπτη που θα του εξασφαλίσει τα επτά χρόνια ευημερίας που θα βάλουν ένα τέλος στη νεκρή εποχή της ανασφάλειας και της αγωνίας).
Ο "Ντόντο", ο "Έντυ", ο "Γέρος συνταξιούχος", η "Μοναξιά" θα μπορούσαν να χαρακτηριστούν ως υποδιηγήσεις, ως παραλλαγές του κεντρικού θέματος και έχουν να κάνουν με τις ανθρώπινες αδυναμίες και τη μοναξιά.
Και η τελευταία ιστορία, μια σύντομη και βαθύτατα συγκινητική αλλά συνάμα αστεία παραλλαγή της Καφκικής "Μεταμόρφωσης". Ο πιο εντυπωσιακός σπαρακτικός και ξεκαρδιστικός επίλογος σε αυτήν την ιστορία.
Δεν θα ενθαρρύνω κανέναν να ψάξει και να διαβάσει αυτό το βιβλίο. Αν και προσωπικά, αν έπρεπε να θυσιάσω (ο μη γένοιτο) ολάκερη τη βιβλιοθήκη μου, για να κρατήσω δέκα μονάχα βιβλία, αυτό θα έμπαινε σίγουρα στον "Κανόνα των δέκα Αγαπημένων". Είναι βαρύ, δύσκολο και δυσνόητο παρά το μικρό του μέγεθος. Έχει εκτενέστατες εξαντλητικές περιγραφές και κατανοώ πως, ορισμένως, αυτό μπορεί να αποτελέσει τροχοπέδη στην αναγνωστική απόλαυση. Εγώ ξέρω μονάχα αυτό που βίωσα και που αποτελεί πλέον κομμάτι της ψυχής μου.
Και τί με ενδιαφέρει για όλα τα άλλα;
Ο Bruno Schulz υπήρξε άξιο τέκνο του Μέγα Ωρολογοποιού και η αιωνιότητα του ανήκει. Μακάρι μονάχα να είχε μείνει λιγάκι περισσότερο μαζί μας, να είχε προλάβει να μας αφήσει κάτι περισσότερο από το έργο του...
Ένα μικρό απόσπασμα:
"Ο φωτογράφος, ο πατέρας μου κι εγώ πήραμε τον δρόμο για το σπίτι, κάνοντας έναν κύκλο, μέσα από τις πιο απομακρυσμένες γειτονιές. Εκεί τα ελάχιστα σπίτια ήταν μικρά, στο τέλος χάθηκαν κι αυτά τελείως. Περάσαμε σε μια ατμόσφαιρα γλυκειάς και ζεστής άνοιξης. Η ασημένια αντανάκλαση ενός νέου, μενεξεδένιου φεγγαριού που μόλις είχε ανατείλει γλιστρούσε επάνω στο λασπωμένο μονοπάτι. Η νύχτα, που δεν ήταν ακόμα εντελώς ανοιξιάτικη, είχε κάτι από την προσμονή για τις επερχόμενες φάσεις της. Ο αέρας που δεν είχε ακόμα τη συνηθισμένη δριμύτητα αυτής της εποχής του χρόνου είχε μια γλυκερή ανοστιά, γεμάτη από το άρωμα της βροχής, το νοτισμένο γόνιμο χώμα, κι από τις δροσοσταλίδες του χιονιού που έλιωναν, λαμποντας φασματικά κάτω από το λευκό, μαγικό φως.
Και ήταν παράξενο που κάτω από αυτό το καλοκάγαθο φεγγάρι, δεν υπήρχαν γυρίνοι να απλώνονται στην ασημένια λάσπη, και η νύχτα δεν αντηχούσε με τα κοάσματα χιλιάδων φλύαρων στομάτων κάτω στις διάσπαρτες όχθες του ποταμού, τις μουσκεμένες από τις γυαλιστερές σταγόνες του γλυκού νερού. Κι έτσι κάποιος ήταν υποχρεωμένος να φανταστεί τα κοάσματα των βατράχων μέσα στη νύχτα, η οποία ήταν γεμάτη από το μουρμούρισμα των υπόγειων πηγών, έτσι ώστε - μετά από μια στιγμή απόλυτης ακινησίας- το φεγγάρι να μπορέσει να συνεχίσει την ανάβασή του στον ουρανό, να απλώσει την λευκότητά του, ακόμα πιο φωτεινό, πιο μαγικό και υπερφυσικό.
Περπατήσαμε έτσι, κάτω από το φεγγάρι που γέμιζε. Ο πατέρας μου και ο φωτογράφος με κουβαλούσαν σχεδόν ανάμεσά τους, γιατί παραπατούσα από την κούραση και περπατούσα με δυσκολία. Τα βήματά μας έτριζαν πάνω στην νοτισμένη άμμο. Πήγαινε καιρός από την τελευταία φορά που είχα αποκοιμηθεί καθώς περπατούσα και κάτω από τα βλέφαρά μου έβλεπα τώρα ολάκερο τον φωσφορισμό του ουρανού, γεμάτο από φωτεινά σημάδια, λαμπυρίσματα και αστρικά φαινόμενα. Στο τέλος φτάσαμε σε μια ανοιχτωσιά. Ο πατέρας μου με ξάπλωσε επάνω σε ένα παλτό που άπλωσε στο χώμα. Με τα μάτια κλειστά, είδα τον ήλιο, τη σελήνη, και έντεκα αστέρια ευθυγραμμισμένα στον ουρανό, να παρελαύνουν εμπρός μου***.
"Μπράβο Γιόζεφ!" Αναφώνησε ο πατέρας μου και και χτύπησε τα χέρια του με επιδοκιμασία. Έκανα έναν ασυναίσθητο πλαγιαρισμό ενός άλλου Ιωσήφ, κάτω από εντελώς διαφορετικές συνθήκες, αλλά κανένας δεν μου κράτησε κακία γι' αυτό. Ο πατέρας μου, ο Γιακώβ, κούνησε το κεφάλι του και πλατάγισε τα χείλη του και ο φωτογράφος έστησε τον τρίποδά του επάνω στην άμμο έβαλε τη φωτογραφική του μηχανή σαν κοντσερτίνα και κρύφτηκε τελείως κάτω από τις πτυχές του μαύρου υφάσματος. Εκείνος φωτογράφιζε ένα σπάνιο αστρικό φαινόμενο, ένα αστραφτερό ωροσκόπιο στον ουρανό, ενώ εγώ με το κεφάλι μου να πλέει μέσα στο φως, απόμεινα χωρίς να βλέπω στο έδαφος, κρατώντας απαλά το όνειρό μου σαν μέσα από φωτογραφικό φακό".
*** Αναφορά στο αντίστοιχο όνειρο του βιβλικού Ιωσήφ.
April 9, 2017
‘It is part of my existence to be the parasite of metaphors� writes the author in the very short story Loneliness. He has a point. This entire collection of short stories is riddled with metaphor. Riddled? For all I know maybe it is all just metaphor. It has also been a challenge for me personally.
This collection, to me anyway, is a heady mix of the metaphor with childlike fantasy and delirious dreaming that seemingly mixes the authors life memories/observations that cover his childhood through to the fear of old age and all the trials and tribulations in between. Something like that anyway.
Did I like this collection? Mostly yes but sometimes no. The highs had me rereading, taking in the dreams and the metaphors, even laughing inside. The final few lines of The Old Age Pensioner were sadly amusing as an example of that inner laugh.
Spring, the longest of the tales is amazingly surreal. It is so compellingly odd I am hardly capable of describing it. Under normal circumstances I would not be that attracted this style of prose but I actually reread it such was that attraction.
My Father Joins the Fire Brigade is weirdly hilarious. Sanatorium under the Sign of the Hourglass is weirdly sad and also very dark for that matter.
The Old Age Pensioner also covers the hilarious. It may also cover the demented sadness of old age and if so that puts my thoughts of hilarity in its place.
Loneliness? The title of that short work speaks for itself.
The interesting part of finishing this book has been my research into the author. Among other things he has little output. Only 2 books and I have apparently read the wrong book first. He was an artist; my copy has some of his really wonderful line drawings. He seemingly received little attention until after his terrible murder at the hands of the Nazis. There now seems a plethora of books, internet sites etc. dedicated to him. Even a couple of eminent writers, Roth for example, have made mention of him in their own work. He has had a film made from his works that is considered a Polish masterpiece of cinema.
So why have I only given him 4 stars (3.5 if I could)? Because at its best this collection is outstanding but when not at its best I have to admit it is a bit above my tiny little mind, I just don’t get it. Also I have wondered at times if Schulz was consuming mind altering substances while writing all this crazy metaphor. On the other hand that thought may say more about me.
This collection, to me anyway, is a heady mix of the metaphor with childlike fantasy and delirious dreaming that seemingly mixes the authors life memories/observations that cover his childhood through to the fear of old age and all the trials and tribulations in between. Something like that anyway.
Did I like this collection? Mostly yes but sometimes no. The highs had me rereading, taking in the dreams and the metaphors, even laughing inside. The final few lines of The Old Age Pensioner were sadly amusing as an example of that inner laugh.
Spring, the longest of the tales is amazingly surreal. It is so compellingly odd I am hardly capable of describing it. Under normal circumstances I would not be that attracted this style of prose but I actually reread it such was that attraction.
My Father Joins the Fire Brigade is weirdly hilarious. Sanatorium under the Sign of the Hourglass is weirdly sad and also very dark for that matter.
The Old Age Pensioner also covers the hilarious. It may also cover the demented sadness of old age and if so that puts my thoughts of hilarity in its place.
Loneliness? The title of that short work speaks for itself.
The interesting part of finishing this book has been my research into the author. Among other things he has little output. Only 2 books and I have apparently read the wrong book first. He was an artist; my copy has some of his really wonderful line drawings. He seemingly received little attention until after his terrible murder at the hands of the Nazis. There now seems a plethora of books, internet sites etc. dedicated to him. Even a couple of eminent writers, Roth for example, have made mention of him in their own work. He has had a film made from his works that is considered a Polish masterpiece of cinema.
So why have I only given him 4 stars (3.5 if I could)? Because at its best this collection is outstanding but when not at its best I have to admit it is a bit above my tiny little mind, I just don’t get it. Also I have wondered at times if Schulz was consuming mind altering substances while writing all this crazy metaphor. On the other hand that thought may say more about me.
July 14, 2015
there are v. few writers I know of today who can project one's psyche onto the physical world in such a dispassionate yet compelling way as Schulz. He cajoles one into taking residence in his mind through a fireworks display of prose that is as unrelenting as it is demanding. Even the slightest phrase can take off as abruptly as a flight of roosting birds: images collide into each other and spark new narrative lines. It is a conjurer's act, one made up of fragmented memories--a walk at dusk, a wax figure exhibition, an erotic sighting of a young girl--that keeps one reading. there is no twisting or turning plot, no character portraits in which to identify, only billows of smoke, enveloping prose. As an undergrad, I read Street of Crocodiles, his more well-known work. This book I bought over ten years ago or more and have packed it with me over the half dozen moves I've made. Its pages if pulled too hard break like rose petals as I read, twice I've had to repair its strained spine with tape. My only regret: I wish I had read it sooner.
July 20, 2017
jestem literacko rozbity
bo wyobraźnia Schulza nie zna granic
zbiór ten jest o wiele trudniejszy od "Sklepów"
dlatego jeszcze nie raz wrócę do tej książki
przykro mi, że to już koniec jego opublikowanej twórczości
a może w jego tekstach jest jeszcze więcej nieznanych mi sekretów�?
April 3, 2017
Following Nabokov’s Pale Fire with this Schulz wonder was a move of genius I did not plan. Such different voices, both masters nonpareil. There is virtually nothing in the way of similarity between the two, save their ability to defy gravity with the written word. With Nabokov, it is density and shadowplay; Schulz, wonderment and flights of joy.
But this isn’t about Nabokov, is it? This is about the one and only Bruno Schulz, a man snubbed out at 50 by fucking Nazi’s. Bastardassholes! Read one of the two extent works by Schulz and I guarantee that you will want to exhume a Nationalsozialist just to throw his bones in the garbage like so much katze scheiße (not that Schulz was exempt by virtue of his genius any more or less than his 6.5 million brothers and sisters were—they were all exempt by a virtue far greater than literature: Life). Sorry, here’s your soapbox—no, I insist. Where was I?
Sanatorium, while not as consistently gaga-inducing as The Street of Crocodiles, is a pretty close second (other notable runner-ups: Robert Hooke, Buzz Aldrin, Hillary Clinton). Schulz’s lyricism is gushingly in love with life; every banality a possible red pill rabbit hole. It tears me up to think of all that the world was deprived of by his death, but ain’t that life? What you all get instead of more Schulz masterpieces are my ejaculative platitudes rendered to you across space and time from the cozy confines of my suburban Shangri-La. Yeah, that seems cosmically fair. Kisses, Bruno. I find your lost grave each time I dream, and we are too far above Drohobych for anyone to hurt us now.
But this isn’t about Nabokov, is it? This is about the one and only Bruno Schulz, a man snubbed out at 50 by fucking Nazi’s. Bastardassholes! Read one of the two extent works by Schulz and I guarantee that you will want to exhume a Nationalsozialist just to throw his bones in the garbage like so much katze scheiße (not that Schulz was exempt by virtue of his genius any more or less than his 6.5 million brothers and sisters were—they were all exempt by a virtue far greater than literature: Life). Sorry, here’s your soapbox—no, I insist. Where was I?
Sanatorium, while not as consistently gaga-inducing as The Street of Crocodiles, is a pretty close second (other notable runner-ups: Robert Hooke, Buzz Aldrin, Hillary Clinton). Schulz’s lyricism is gushingly in love with life; every banality a possible red pill rabbit hole. It tears me up to think of all that the world was deprived of by his death, but ain’t that life? What you all get instead of more Schulz masterpieces are my ejaculative platitudes rendered to you across space and time from the cozy confines of my suburban Shangri-La. Yeah, that seems cosmically fair. Kisses, Bruno. I find your lost grave each time I dream, and we are too far above Drohobych for anyone to hurt us now.
June 9, 2012
12 short stories and one long one linked by the strong voice of the author and illustrated by him with an equally idiosynchronistic flair. BS writes with delicate ferocity, his luminous prose and boundless optimism softening somewhat his acerbic observations. That his evocation of childhood and old age are equally vivid attests to his virtuousity.
The long story, Spring, delves into "the marginal world beyond the limits of a wilting afternoon" with such thorough tenderness that no one need bother to describe that season again. And yet how many people have even heard of Bruno Schultz? And how tragic that he was not able to write the account of his murder by a Nazi officer in a personal vendetta, and that he never got to live out his life as one of the most brilliant writers that ever lived.
To quote the man, his book "left me peculiarly dizzy,filled with a mixture of longing and excitement"
The long story, Spring, delves into "the marginal world beyond the limits of a wilting afternoon" with such thorough tenderness that no one need bother to describe that season again. And yet how many people have even heard of Bruno Schultz? And how tragic that he was not able to write the account of his murder by a Nazi officer in a personal vendetta, and that he never got to live out his life as one of the most brilliant writers that ever lived.
To quote the man, his book "left me peculiarly dizzy,filled with a mixture of longing and excitement"
September 18, 2019
After planning to reread the main title-story today, I opened the book on the morning. Since the title-story is in the middle of the book, it took few seconds for me to locate the chapter, but in between that minute temporal gap, while the pages flipped effortlessly, my eyes and mind caught the black ink of the page and I without any conscious control started reading the first chapter called The Book! That's the problem in him - the mad genius; if one has to describe Schulz writing, which is quite difficult of course, since his style and content being a league of his own, Nevertheless let me try, it is of an unceasing throttle with its wildest of imagination branching and catching, and pouring itself out like the sketches he does in the second chapter - a primordial urgency. So once I started, I was caught in this web of intoxicating words and I ended up reading quite a few chapters including the title-story!
There was a moment I almost got a goosebumps reading his lines. If there is one writer who is so unique in his prose (well, most of it read like poetry really!) it is Schulz!
After getting madly drunk in his language and freeing myself from its caressing hold, while "still the taste of it lingering in my tongue, its cold fire on my palate, the width of its breath fresh like a draught of pure ultramarine", I took my pen and wrote a love story thinking about his Anna Csillag, "who becomes the apostle of hairiness", of whose hair it is said, enough to broom the floor of the earth. She invents a mixture which vitalizes the growth of hair, similar to her, and she goes around the world spreading the gospel. I wrote a love story thinking about his Elsa--- the liquid with a Swan--- a balm that worked wonders.
While contorting the thoughts and twisting the words on to the paper, a potion of herbal mixture of Lawsonia inermis and hair produced a pungent smell, that enveloped the room of mine while I wrote those twisted monsters hurriedly! The imaginary figure or figures in front of mine had to wait for a while to assume their roles.
So here is that love story:
Love blooms while my nerves weep
1.His disheveled hair writhed and moved forward to touch its distant cousins � clumps of mignonette branches.
2. Trying to impress his Botany Girlfriend, our hero produces from his trouser pocket, a clumsy, naked branches of Lawsonia inermis, thinking, by naming Latin name, she will feel connected to him instantly. The disheveled hair and branches of the tree, which are both clutched by him, turn into shenanigans and plan out a plan to spoil his plan. Whispering between themselves by brushing together their rough and silky body, the tuft of hair forms a ring in outstretched hands of branches, and thereby producing an optimal amount of pain and awkward frontal bend of the body of our hero. The lady who understands even the most subtle movements and calls of botanical creatures, awoke to this natural revelation � of him being a tyrant � oppressing the hair in his head and choking the plant, whose feathery leaves were razed under the iron fingers of his, decides a future course of action. So, she snatches away the branches from him and there comes out the oppressed species oppressed for millennia, readily springing forth from his bald head and rushes to hug the branches. And there bloomed a strange love!
The Black silks rolled itself into the meandering; wine green maze body of the branches,
While our hero still stands bent forward with his arms snatching the empty air and his bald head reflecting thousand specks of light! While our girlfriend walks away holding the new couple and averting her gaze out of shyness!
There was a moment I almost got a goosebumps reading his lines. If there is one writer who is so unique in his prose (well, most of it read like poetry really!) it is Schulz!
After getting madly drunk in his language and freeing myself from its caressing hold, while "still the taste of it lingering in my tongue, its cold fire on my palate, the width of its breath fresh like a draught of pure ultramarine", I took my pen and wrote a love story thinking about his Anna Csillag, "who becomes the apostle of hairiness", of whose hair it is said, enough to broom the floor of the earth. She invents a mixture which vitalizes the growth of hair, similar to her, and she goes around the world spreading the gospel. I wrote a love story thinking about his Elsa--- the liquid with a Swan--- a balm that worked wonders.
While contorting the thoughts and twisting the words on to the paper, a potion of herbal mixture of Lawsonia inermis and hair produced a pungent smell, that enveloped the room of mine while I wrote those twisted monsters hurriedly! The imaginary figure or figures in front of mine had to wait for a while to assume their roles.
So here is that love story:
Love blooms while my nerves weep
1.His disheveled hair writhed and moved forward to touch its distant cousins � clumps of mignonette branches.
2. Trying to impress his Botany Girlfriend, our hero produces from his trouser pocket, a clumsy, naked branches of Lawsonia inermis, thinking, by naming Latin name, she will feel connected to him instantly. The disheveled hair and branches of the tree, which are both clutched by him, turn into shenanigans and plan out a plan to spoil his plan. Whispering between themselves by brushing together their rough and silky body, the tuft of hair forms a ring in outstretched hands of branches, and thereby producing an optimal amount of pain and awkward frontal bend of the body of our hero. The lady who understands even the most subtle movements and calls of botanical creatures, awoke to this natural revelation � of him being a tyrant � oppressing the hair in his head and choking the plant, whose feathery leaves were razed under the iron fingers of his, decides a future course of action. So, she snatches away the branches from him and there comes out the oppressed species oppressed for millennia, readily springing forth from his bald head and rushes to hug the branches. And there bloomed a strange love!
The Black silks rolled itself into the meandering; wine green maze body of the branches,
While our hero still stands bent forward with his arms snatching the empty air and his bald head reflecting thousand specks of light! While our girlfriend walks away holding the new couple and averting her gaze out of shyness!
February 14, 2011
If there are any writers out there who managed to establish a voice as distinctive, as potent, or as beautiful as Bruno Schultz's with so small an output, I haven't heard of them. His two tiny, genre-less (sometimes anticipating Allen Ginsberg's incantations, other times evoking the headier films of Guy Maddin) books represent an extraordinary genius and a criminally truncated life.
January 8, 2019
Този път се задавих с безупречно орнаментираната фраза на Шулц.
Разположена на 150 страници тя ме омагьоса изцяло, на 350 обаче ме задуши.
Разположена на 150 страници тя ме омагьоса изцяло, на 350 обаче ме задуши.
July 25, 2020
Niby proza, a czyta sie jak poezje. �
February 26, 2018
His prose swells and brims with a mesmerising ripeness. Words unfold, petal after petal of an infinite flower drowning the reader in delectable, fever-inducing, hallucinations. It is a delirious prism, a paradox, a pandemonium - a labyrinth carved from a cave of rare gems or a forest of rainbows. I just cannot, cannot, get over this book. I have tasted the lines, drunk on the dripping nectar of the trippy verses and there is no coming back. There are some books that transforms the way you read so completely that they become your aesthetic frame of reference against with other books are measured. This is one such book.
"Sometimes my father would wander off and leave me alone with The Book; the wind would rustle through its pages and the pictures would rise. And as the windswept pages were turned, merging the colors and shapes, a shiver ran through the columns of text, freeing from among the letters flocks of swallows and larks. Page after page floated in the air and gently saturated the landscape with brightness. At other times, The Book lay still and the wind opened it softly like a huge cabbage rose; the petals, one by one, eyelid under eyelid, all blind, velvety, and dreamy, slowly disclosed a blue pupil, a colored peacock's heart, or a chattering nest of hummingbirds."
It is not an easy book. It is mostly dreamy, disconnected near-magical and to an impatient reader looking for a straightforward story, it may appear to be exhausting and scattered. It is the purplest of prose - a whimsical Proust, a more child-like Nabokov. I would recommend that you read it on a slow, rainy afternoon or at pre-dawn. Don't look for a plot or a narrative flow - just sit back and drink one sweet sip after another. You will be following the silvery footprints of angels.
"Sometimes my father would wander off and leave me alone with The Book; the wind would rustle through its pages and the pictures would rise. And as the windswept pages were turned, merging the colors and shapes, a shiver ran through the columns of text, freeing from among the letters flocks of swallows and larks. Page after page floated in the air and gently saturated the landscape with brightness. At other times, The Book lay still and the wind opened it softly like a huge cabbage rose; the petals, one by one, eyelid under eyelid, all blind, velvety, and dreamy, slowly disclosed a blue pupil, a colored peacock's heart, or a chattering nest of hummingbirds."
It is not an easy book. It is mostly dreamy, disconnected near-magical and to an impatient reader looking for a straightforward story, it may appear to be exhausting and scattered. It is the purplest of prose - a whimsical Proust, a more child-like Nabokov. I would recommend that you read it on a slow, rainy afternoon or at pre-dawn. Don't look for a plot or a narrative flow - just sit back and drink one sweet sip after another. You will be following the silvery footprints of angels.
May 31, 2020
Grim, decadent, bereaved and majestic story. Adorned with absurd. Informed that his father lingers, a young man takes a long journey by train to the certain sanatorium to him. Yet, the train is quite peculiar, and each coupe is of a mere room-size, floor-covered with straw, with uncanny travellers with rather wax-works resemblance and rather odd conductor � blind vagabond with a lantern which alarms voyagers about their station. Sanatorium itself is desolate, decayed edifice, dilapidated and decrepit as if with no living soul in it, save chambermaid and a certain doctor. And the unfortunate man becomes aware that something is quite awry and peculiar regarding this immense, vast building. The key is in the ability of the (unknown and unseen) personnel and of the edifice itself to turn back time, shifting thus the occurrences and even splitting the person into its doppelganger, where the first is in real time and latter in shifted. The entire city is in constant slumber and the dark never falls, but intermittent scant mist. All inhabitants may lay and sleep in whatever place and nobody will take heed about that. Enshrouded in such eerie atmosphere, young man begins to hallucinate. At length, he became aware that his father is late for a long time, and decided to return home. However, the peculiar train metamorphosed him in current conductor, vagrant and somewhat insane, to spend his days traversing by that bizarre train. A slight reflection of Kafka is more than evident, but the story itself is marvellous and I became infatuated with it on the very first page.
July 4, 2018
Стилът на Шулц е абсолютно несравним с нищо, което съм чела досега - детайлен, сгъстен, буквално всяка дума е метафора, от което ритъмът на четене се накъсва, чете се бавно и изисква паузи. Както казва един негов герой: "Характерна особеност на моето съществуване е, че паразитирам върху метафорите, щом ми хрумне някаква метафора и се забравям". Това са безсюжетни разкази, звучащи като фрагментарен постмодернистичен роман. Обединени са от общи символи, мотиви, атмосфера, елементи и герои. Такива при Шулц са лятото, скуката, самотата, изобилието и излишеството, детството, на което всъщност е посветена цялата книга. Детството като "Великата книга" - мит, в който вярваме и с годините изоставяме, за да се върнем по-късно към него и да осъзнаем, че никога не сме се отдалечавали; детството като "Гениалната епоха" и "Републиката на мечтите", където животът е подчинен на поезията, приключенията и тайнствата на природата.
Обичам книги, в които прикрито (или не съвсем) главен герой е малко, самотно градче, сякаш откъснато от света, но в което се случват вълшебства. При Шулц това е родният Дрохобич, намиращ се в днешна Украйна. Там на пръв поглед нищо не се случва, дните са дълги и прозаични, всекидневието е разтегнато и тромаво. Това обаче отваря пространства за въображението, което обитава време извън времето и надгеографски пространства. Самият Шулц работи като учител по рисуване в местната гимназия и така и никога не напуска родното си място, за да завърши живота си безславно, прострелян заради еврейския си произход от куршум на гестаповец на улицата близо до дома си.Затова и хърватската писателка Дубравка Угрешич казва за него, че е имал една от "най-ироничните писателски съдби".
Санаториум "Клепсидра" е за самотните и неприспособимите, чийто полет на фантазията изгражда по-красив, фикционален свят, където да намерят пристан и убежище.
Благодарности на изд. Аквариус за прекрасната книга, изключителния превод на Магдалена Атанасова и не на последно място за включените текстове на Павел Пл. Петров и Антоан Асенов, които дават много ценен ключ за разбиране на прозата на Шулц и са не по-малко поетични и красиви от самата нея. Любимите ми разкази от книгата са "Пенсионерът", "Самотата", "Додо", "Република на мечтите" и "Родина".
Обичам книги, в които прикрито (или не съвсем) главен герой е малко, самотно градче, сякаш откъснато от света, но в което се случват вълшебства. При Шулц това е родният Дрохобич, намиращ се в днешна Украйна. Там на пръв поглед нищо не се случва, дните са дълги и прозаични, всекидневието е разтегнато и тромаво. Това обаче отваря пространства за въображението, което обитава време извън времето и надгеографски пространства. Самият Шулц работи като учител по рисуване в местната гимназия и така и никога не напуска родното си място, за да завърши живота си безславно, прострелян заради еврейския си произход от куршум на гестаповец на улицата близо до дома си.Затова и хърватската писателка Дубравка Угрешич казва за него, че е имал една от "най-ироничните писателски съдби".
Санаториум "Клепсидра" е за самотните и неприспособимите, чийто полет на фантазията изгражда по-красив, фикционален свят, където да намерят пристан и убежище.
Благодарности на изд. Аквариус за прекрасната книга, изключителния превод на Магдалена Атанасова и не на последно място за включените текстове на Павел Пл. Петров и Антоан Асенов, които дават много ценен ключ за разбиране на прозата на Шулц и са не по-малко поетични и красиви от самата нея. Любимите ми разкази от книгата са "Пенсионерът", "Самотата", "Додо", "Република на мечтите" и "Родина".
July 26, 2019
One of the most amazing Eastern European writers of the 20th century is who was killed by a Gestapo thug in his native Drohobycz, Poland in 1942. Sadly, he has left us only two complete collections of stories, Street of Crocodiles and , plus a few additional fragmentary works.
Despite the paucity of his complete work, the quality places him as one of the masters of European fiction. He has been frequently compared to Kafka, but he has a quality of his own. My favorite work in this collection is the title story, about Joseph's (for which read Bruno's) visit to a strange town where his father is in a sanatorium. Technically, according to the sanatorium's doctor, he is dead; but somehow time has been set back to allow him to live by fits and starts, for the time being anyhow.
At one point, Joseph has second thoughts about the sanatorium:
Despite the paucity of his complete work, the quality places him as one of the masters of European fiction. He has been frequently compared to Kafka, but he has a quality of his own. My favorite work in this collection is the title story, about Joseph's (for which read Bruno's) visit to a strange town where his father is in a sanatorium. Technically, according to the sanatorium's doctor, he is dead; but somehow time has been set back to allow him to live by fits and starts, for the time being anyhow.
At one point, Joseph has second thoughts about the sanatorium:
I begin to regret this whole undertaking. Perhaps we were misled by skillful advertising when we decided to send Father here. Time put back—it sounded good, but what does it come to in reality? Does anyone here get time at its full value, a true time, time cut off from a fresh bolt of cloth, smelling of newness and dye? Quite the contrary. It is used-up time, worn out by other people, a shabby time full of holes, like a sieve.I can foresee a time when Schulz will be seen as one of the greats of 20th century literature—everywhere but in the United States, whose people typically ignore fiction from outside the Anglo world, especially if it is from Eastern Europe.
January 14, 2022
една галактика звезди за този шедьовър, който Бруно Шулц е оставил след себе си за нас, поклонниците на красивото.
съкрушена съм, толкова е прекрасно, набъбнали сълзи мътниха погледа ми не веднъж или два пъти, само за да се скрият обратно, за да дочетат алчно края на изречението.
ех, в такива мигове след затварянето на подобна последна корица обичам живота хиляда пъти по-силно, отколкото в обикновен ден (а за мен всеки ден неизменно таи обещания за магичност и винаги го живея като да е най-страхотният в живота ми).
PS. Умозамайващ превод на Магдалена Атанасова.
[и малко повече от допустимите печатни(?) грешки за качеството на „Аквариус�, но случва се...]
съкрушена съм, толкова е прекрасно, набъбнали сълзи мътниха погледа ми не веднъж или два пъти, само за да се скрият обратно, за да дочетат алчно края на изречението.
ех, в такива мигове след затварянето на подобна последна корица обичам живота хиляда пъти по-силно, отколкото в обикновен ден (а за мен всеки ден неизменно таи обещания за магичност и винаги го живея като да е най-страхотният в живота ми).
PS. Умозамайващ превод на Магдалена Атанасова.
[и малко повече от допустимите печатни(?) грешки за качеството на „Аквариус�, но случва се...]
March 2, 2017
I feel confident in saying that Polish writer Bruno Schulz is an under-appreciated and severely under-read writer. His writing career, reduced mainly to two relatively small books, was cut short with his dead by Nazi hands during World War II. Schulz’s writing style is not easy to describe. For those readers that demand uniformity in plot, this may leave you a little impatient. While not necessarily scattered, the visions he imparts are almost kaleidoscopic in nature. It often feels almost as if Schulz was writing through the lens of a dream. As highlighted by another reviewer, Schulz’s writings are the purplest of prose, he writes like a whimsical Proust or a more child-like Nabokov.
Moreover, he has the uncanny ability to meander into everyday subjects in an enviously poetic manner. Throughout a large portion of the book, the author rarely leaves the comfort of his neighbourhood, but this in no way detracts from the depth or artistic imagination of his prose. In on of the earlier vignettes, Schulz artfully describes an experience of a child encountering another young boy with a fairly appreciable stamp collection. His account of the experience is not so much descriptive but expository, rather than pay dues to the physical aspects of the stamps - the colours, shape or even quantity - Schulz conceptually juxtaposes the collection with his character’s prior-to-then assumed omniscience of his nations leader. The stamps with their diverging patterns and foreign colours are nothing but contradictions to Franz Josef’s rule. This technique is used frequently throughout the collection of stories - Schulz manages to communicate on a whole manner of things without really paying attention to the aspects of those things that the majority of writers would feel compelled to describe in detail. This technique just reinforced the dream-like qualities of his writing style, it almost feels as if you, the reader, are experiencing his dreams through the flurries of visions he reveals. Again like with dreams, once his conceptual analysis has left a fragment of an impression on the readers� minds, he tactfully alludes to them in a completely separate context, masterfully adding the visceral dream-like images to his descriptive toolbox for later use. Not long after the physical idea of the stamps had been branded into my mind, Schulz plucked them out and used them as decorative tools while expressing the beauty of a Spring evening. I was genuinely surprised by how much I enjoyed this work, and I’m not afraid to rank it alongside some of the more established writers of artistic prose, its definitely an under appreciated gem.
Moreover, he has the uncanny ability to meander into everyday subjects in an enviously poetic manner. Throughout a large portion of the book, the author rarely leaves the comfort of his neighbourhood, but this in no way detracts from the depth or artistic imagination of his prose. In on of the earlier vignettes, Schulz artfully describes an experience of a child encountering another young boy with a fairly appreciable stamp collection. His account of the experience is not so much descriptive but expository, rather than pay dues to the physical aspects of the stamps - the colours, shape or even quantity - Schulz conceptually juxtaposes the collection with his character’s prior-to-then assumed omniscience of his nations leader. The stamps with their diverging patterns and foreign colours are nothing but contradictions to Franz Josef’s rule. This technique is used frequently throughout the collection of stories - Schulz manages to communicate on a whole manner of things without really paying attention to the aspects of those things that the majority of writers would feel compelled to describe in detail. This technique just reinforced the dream-like qualities of his writing style, it almost feels as if you, the reader, are experiencing his dreams through the flurries of visions he reveals. Again like with dreams, once his conceptual analysis has left a fragment of an impression on the readers� minds, he tactfully alludes to them in a completely separate context, masterfully adding the visceral dream-like images to his descriptive toolbox for later use. Not long after the physical idea of the stamps had been branded into my mind, Schulz plucked them out and used them as decorative tools while expressing the beauty of a Spring evening. I was genuinely surprised by how much I enjoyed this work, and I’m not afraid to rank it alongside some of the more established writers of artistic prose, its definitely an under appreciated gem.
May 19, 2015
There is a problem in writing fiction that verges towards the highly personal, in that the writer wants to exorcise deepest tragedies or familial burdens but at the same time is conscious of not revealing too much, because any writing that is attempted towards this goal rushes to that dense limbo filled with the scars sustained on the self, and in so doing the struggle becomes to make it readable, to turn it into literature - by "not telling", to revolve around the personal tragedy that has to be liberated but not really touching it, because on its own it is uninteresting. The solution is then, not always but often successfully, found in the surreal. The main character is turned into a bug, for example. The tragedy is than met tangentially, through obscure symbolism. Symbols are entertaining.
This book is filled with such stories, all concerning the father, the central all-important myth of Bruno Schulz's life, all in one way or another a survey into the art of myth-making. Through the symbols, through the beautifully flowing passages a sense of the father emerges, but Schulz is never meeting him at the "actual" level, because there is nothing worth talking about there. In myths a search for the father, his essence, is possible. These stories, especially the brilliant titular story, takes the reader to a sanatorium that can exist only in literature, in the hinterland where memory and fantasy merge to act as a balm on the writer's scars, where time runs in different versions. But none of the stories can work as a stand-alone piece without creating a sense of ambiguity in the reader. Collected together, they gain a sense of direction, their meaning directly corresponding to the reader's imagination and empathy.
Freud disliked surrealism. He found it unnecessary for artists to spend too much time digging the images of the unconscious. If you notice the sketches of Bruno Schultz a striking motif rings out. In most of the sketches there is always a man or a group bowed down and smelling or kissing or touching a woman's feet, which is always stretched out in the same stylish manner, slightly lifted, and in some sketches she is naked. Is she the same woman? Look at the sketches, than read these stories. His art might just be that rare performance where the scandalous images of the "id" are brought into the workshop of the "ego" and carefully molded under the watchful eye of the "superego".
This book is filled with such stories, all concerning the father, the central all-important myth of Bruno Schulz's life, all in one way or another a survey into the art of myth-making. Through the symbols, through the beautifully flowing passages a sense of the father emerges, but Schulz is never meeting him at the "actual" level, because there is nothing worth talking about there. In myths a search for the father, his essence, is possible. These stories, especially the brilliant titular story, takes the reader to a sanatorium that can exist only in literature, in the hinterland where memory and fantasy merge to act as a balm on the writer's scars, where time runs in different versions. But none of the stories can work as a stand-alone piece without creating a sense of ambiguity in the reader. Collected together, they gain a sense of direction, their meaning directly corresponding to the reader's imagination and empathy.
Freud disliked surrealism. He found it unnecessary for artists to spend too much time digging the images of the unconscious. If you notice the sketches of Bruno Schultz a striking motif rings out. In most of the sketches there is always a man or a group bowed down and smelling or kissing or touching a woman's feet, which is always stretched out in the same stylish manner, slightly lifted, and in some sketches she is naked. Is she the same woman? Look at the sketches, than read these stories. His art might just be that rare performance where the scandalous images of the "id" are brought into the workshop of the "ego" and carefully molded under the watchful eye of the "superego".
December 7, 2011
Not until I was more than halfway through the book did its power begin to exert itself, which might simply mean that the stories (and they are stories, which I hadn't realized at first, since the old edition I was reading seemed to present it as a novel with titled chapters) are arranged best last, or that one needs to adjust to the apparently dilatory and whimsical nature of the writing. The story "Loneliness," which is translated also as "Solitude" -- not at all the same thing! -- deserves five stars, as may the last story, though that one is perhaps too evidently influenced by Kafka, whom Schulz admired immensely.
So taken with the stories, eventually, was I that I now have them in another translation along with the Street of Crocodiles story collection and other writings in a single volume, at GoodReads here:
All of this seems to have been put on this site:
by a different translator, though the actual book is nice and the translator for all is listed as Celina Wieniewska, whose translation I found invisible yet attractive.
In summary, Bruno Schulz bears persisting and taking your time.
So taken with the stories, eventually, was I that I now have them in another translation along with the Street of Crocodiles story collection and other writings in a single volume, at GoodReads here:
All of this seems to have been put on this site:
by a different translator, though the actual book is nice and the translator for all is listed as Celina Wieniewska, whose translation I found invisible yet attractive.
In summary, Bruno Schulz bears persisting and taking your time.
September 20, 2009
A feverish stew of metaphor and imagery that simmers in a base of family relationships and seasonal changes. It takes some time to adapt to Schulz's style, which is rich and meandering and despite its deliciousness is sometimes hard to digest. The long story "Spring" revolves around a stamp album that inspires colorful daydreams of foreign lands and historical figures-- of which the daydreamer is one-- but I finished reading it and felt like I had just awakened from a vaguely unpleasant dream. All of these stories have that sort of effect, though some of them are a little less nebulous. Wonderfully moody stuff.
March 2, 2024
4,5
przeczytałam książkę, obejrzałam film pana Wojciecha Has(a) (pls nie wiem czy to się odmienia😭😭)
i ponownie zakochałam się w twórczości Schulza
niesamowite podejście do kreacji świata przedstawionego, kombinacja estetyki surrealistycznej, onirycznej, baśniowej, no wow
przedstawienie bolesnej inicjacji w naturę świata, odkrycia, że niezrozumienie, ból i samotność są wpisane w ludzką egzystencję
akcja na pograniczu snu i jawy, wydarzenia w czasie mitycznym i symboliczne znaczenie księgi
nie poznałam jeszcze drugiej osoby autorskiej, która robi ,to� tak jak Schulz
,,Bo czyż pod stołem, który nas dzieli, nie trzymamy się wszyscy tajnie za ręce?�
przeczytałam książkę, obejrzałam film pana Wojciecha Has(a) (pls nie wiem czy to się odmienia😭😭)
i ponownie zakochałam się w twórczości Schulza
niesamowite podejście do kreacji świata przedstawionego, kombinacja estetyki surrealistycznej, onirycznej, baśniowej, no wow
przedstawienie bolesnej inicjacji w naturę świata, odkrycia, że niezrozumienie, ból i samotność są wpisane w ludzką egzystencję
akcja na pograniczu snu i jawy, wydarzenia w czasie mitycznym i symboliczne znaczenie księgi
nie poznałam jeszcze drugiej osoby autorskiej, która robi ,to� tak jak Schulz
,,Bo czyż pod stołem, który nas dzieli, nie trzymamy się wszyscy tajnie za ręce?�
November 4, 2010
Published later but composed before Schulz's magnificent Street of Crocodiles this is a little diffuser, it's narrative vagueries a little more discernable through its thinner broth of description. Still, it's Schulz, strange and captivating, especially in the title story of a hospital that sustains its patients by removing them from the progression of time entirely, probably his most obviously story-shaped piece. Between that and the long, tangled tale of waxwork intrigues and the coded meanings of stamp albums, "Spring", I think I'm ready to revisit the Wojciech Has film adaptation that brought me here in the first place.
May 20, 2020
Još jedan magični kolaž slika, metafora, atmosfera i stanja ovog genijalno Poljaka. Vidio sam da postoji knjiga U Glavi Brune Schulza, doista, što je bilo u glavi ovom čovjeku pa je ovakve genijalnosati pisao.
Moje najveće književno otkriće ove godine, ali i uopće od kad čitam. Pure Art.
Moje najveće književno otkriće ove godine, ali i uopće od kad čitam. Pure Art.
August 2, 2009
(Rereading this summer for the umpteenth time.)
I will learn Polish, someday, for the sole purpose of reading this in the original.
I will learn Polish, someday, for the sole purpose of reading this in the original.
November 21, 2020
Prije ove knjige bila sam već čitala Schulzov roman "Dućan cimetove boje", pa sam čitanju pristupila kao vatrena obožavateljica. Za zbirku kratkih priča objedinjenih pod naslovom "Sanatorij pod klepsidrom" i za "Republiku mašte" saznala sam slučajno, na Facebooku, dobivši uz to i informaciju da je Schulz bio nastavnik likovne kulture što mi je donekle pojasnilo silnu privrženost koju osjećam spram njega i njegovih izrazito slikovitih rečenica. "Sanatorij" i "Republiku mašte" posudila sam s velikim veseljem i prvih tridesetak stranica Sanatorija bila sam totalno opijena njegovim pisanjem, uvjerena da ću knjigu morati kupiti i zauvijek imati uz sebe. A onda se dogodilo da se čitanje rastegnulo na puna tri mjeseca, što mi se zaista rijetko dešava i što je teško objasniti racionalnim razlozima ali se može razumjeti upravo u relaciji sa naslovnom pričom, „Sanatorij pod klepsidrom�, u kojoj se glavni lik nađe u naizgled realnom prostoru u kojemu vrijeme ne teče linearno već se njegovi nepovezani fragmenti gube, kasne ili se ponavljaju i zbog toga nikada ne dosežu sadašnjost, tvoreći vremenski labirint u kojemu je zbog nepostojanja jednosmjernog kretanja lako izgubiti orijentaciju. U ovoj se priči autor najizrazitije bavi dimenzijom unutarnjeg vremena ali ga tematizira i u drugim pričama poput „Genijalne epohe� u kojoj kaže: „Činjenice su obično poredane u vremenu, nanizane na njegovu tijeku kao na koncu. Tu one posjedjuju svoje antecedencije i svoje konzekvencije koje se tijesno naguravaju, neprestance i bez prekida staju jedne drugima na pete. To ima svoje značenje i za naraciju čija su duša kontinuitet i sukcesivnost. Pa ipak, što da se radi s događajima koji nemaju svoje mjesto u vremenu, s događajima koji su stigli prekasno, kad je čitavo vrijeme bilo rasprodano, razdijeljeno, razgrabljeno, i sada su ostali kao na ledu, bez reda, ovješeni u zraku, bez doma i zalutali.�
S tim u vezi naročitu pozornost pridaje vremenu nastalom u prostoru mašte - jedan od njegovih likova pisanih u prvom licu u svojevrsnom je fantazmagoričnom bunilu posložio niz poštanskih marki u narativni niz kakav je svojstven stripu. Na pustim vedutama svjetskih prijestolnica koje su prikazane u sićušnom kadru poštanske marke glavni lik zamišlja avanture koje povezuje nacrtani državnik što se u stvarnom svijetu na markama našao kao jednako reprezentativni simbol neke države. Autor državniku pripisuje subverzivne osobine i gura ga u anarhističke političke obrate nakon kojih mu u prostranstvima sićušnog svijeta poštanskih marki zatire svaki trag.
Schulz u ostalim pripovijestima vrijeme tretira jednako samoživo i pojedine prizore silno usporava, zaustavlja i pušta da sazriju u činu promatranja kako bi im što preciznije mogao opisati. Sve ovo dozvoljava mi da pisca optužim za to što je čitanje njegove zbirke priča trajalo tako dugo, jer kao da me je uvukao u neki paralelni svijet u kojemu vrijeme teče nekim drugim ritmom.
Schulzov stil je silno poetičan i slikovit pa je i to jedan od razloga zbog kojeg sam ga željela puštati da se slegne kako bih ga mogla što više upiti. Čini mi se da je njegov opus inspiriran stvaralaštvom Franza Kafke, zbog stila i pojedinih motiva (sličnost likova u Kafkinom "Preobražaju" i Schulzovoj pripovijesti „Posljednji očev bijeg�), a i obojica traže silnu koncentraciju i strpljenje, ali je Schulz ipak puno zavodljiviji utoliko što je silno fokusiran na čula � okuse, mirise, zvukove, boje i teksture, što njegove opise čini gotovo putenima.
Best parts:
"Upravo je on, moj otac, položio temelj znanstvenoj analizi klimatskih formacija. Njegove Osnove opće sistematike jeseni jednom su zauvijek protumačile bit toga godišnjeg doba koje u našoj provinciji poprima onu razvučenu, razgranatu, parazitski razraslu formu što se pod nazivom "kineskog ljeta" proteže daleko u dubine naših živopisnih zima. Što reći? On je prvi objasnio drugotno, izvedeno obilježje te kasne formacije koja nije bila ništa drugo doli svojevrsno trovanje klime isparinama prezrele i degenerirane barokne umjetnosti, nagurane u našim muzejima. Ta muzejska umjetnost, što se raspada u dosadi i zaboravu, ušećeruje se, zatvorena, bez ispusta, kao stara marmelada, preslađuje našu klimu i uzrok je one lijepe, malarične groznice, onih šarenih delirija kojima agonizira ta otegnuta jesen. Jer, ljepota je bolest, učio je moj otac, svojevrsni je drhtaj tajanstvene infekcije, mračna nagovijest raspada što se rađa iz dubine savršenstva i koju savršenstvo dočekuje uzdasima najdublje sreće."
"Srpanjska noć. Tajanstveni fluid mraka, živa, osjetljiva i pokretljiva materija tame što iz kaosa neprestance nešto oblikuje i svaki oblik smjesta odbacuje! Crni materijal što oko sanjivog putnika gomila pećine, svodove, udubljenja i niše! Poput nametljivog brbljavca ona prati osamljenog putnika, zatvarajući ga u krugu svojih priviđenja, neumorna u svom izmišljanju, buncanju, fantaziranju - halicinirajući pred njim zvjezdane daljine, mliječne staze, labirinte beskonačnih koloseja i foruma."
"A kad netko, uzevši svjetiljku u ruke, prolazi iz sobe u sobu - na dvorištu se okreću ti golemi četverokuti svjetla, poput stranica kolosalne knjige, i trg kao da putuje zgradama i premeće sjene i kuće, kao da slaže pasijanse iz velikog snopa igraćih karata."
„Jer, fatalnost ne zaobilazi našu svijest i volju, nego ih uključuje u svoj mehanizam tako da dopuštamo i prihvaćamo, kao u letargičnom snu, stvari kojih se u normalnim uvjetima gnušamo.�
S tim u vezi naročitu pozornost pridaje vremenu nastalom u prostoru mašte - jedan od njegovih likova pisanih u prvom licu u svojevrsnom je fantazmagoričnom bunilu posložio niz poštanskih marki u narativni niz kakav je svojstven stripu. Na pustim vedutama svjetskih prijestolnica koje su prikazane u sićušnom kadru poštanske marke glavni lik zamišlja avanture koje povezuje nacrtani državnik što se u stvarnom svijetu na markama našao kao jednako reprezentativni simbol neke države. Autor državniku pripisuje subverzivne osobine i gura ga u anarhističke političke obrate nakon kojih mu u prostranstvima sićušnog svijeta poštanskih marki zatire svaki trag.
Schulz u ostalim pripovijestima vrijeme tretira jednako samoživo i pojedine prizore silno usporava, zaustavlja i pušta da sazriju u činu promatranja kako bi im što preciznije mogao opisati. Sve ovo dozvoljava mi da pisca optužim za to što je čitanje njegove zbirke priča trajalo tako dugo, jer kao da me je uvukao u neki paralelni svijet u kojemu vrijeme teče nekim drugim ritmom.
Schulzov stil je silno poetičan i slikovit pa je i to jedan od razloga zbog kojeg sam ga željela puštati da se slegne kako bih ga mogla što više upiti. Čini mi se da je njegov opus inspiriran stvaralaštvom Franza Kafke, zbog stila i pojedinih motiva (sličnost likova u Kafkinom "Preobražaju" i Schulzovoj pripovijesti „Posljednji očev bijeg�), a i obojica traže silnu koncentraciju i strpljenje, ali je Schulz ipak puno zavodljiviji utoliko što je silno fokusiran na čula � okuse, mirise, zvukove, boje i teksture, što njegove opise čini gotovo putenima.
Best parts:
"Upravo je on, moj otac, položio temelj znanstvenoj analizi klimatskih formacija. Njegove Osnove opće sistematike jeseni jednom su zauvijek protumačile bit toga godišnjeg doba koje u našoj provinciji poprima onu razvučenu, razgranatu, parazitski razraslu formu što se pod nazivom "kineskog ljeta" proteže daleko u dubine naših živopisnih zima. Što reći? On je prvi objasnio drugotno, izvedeno obilježje te kasne formacije koja nije bila ništa drugo doli svojevrsno trovanje klime isparinama prezrele i degenerirane barokne umjetnosti, nagurane u našim muzejima. Ta muzejska umjetnost, što se raspada u dosadi i zaboravu, ušećeruje se, zatvorena, bez ispusta, kao stara marmelada, preslađuje našu klimu i uzrok je one lijepe, malarične groznice, onih šarenih delirija kojima agonizira ta otegnuta jesen. Jer, ljepota je bolest, učio je moj otac, svojevrsni je drhtaj tajanstvene infekcije, mračna nagovijest raspada što se rađa iz dubine savršenstva i koju savršenstvo dočekuje uzdasima najdublje sreće."
"Srpanjska noć. Tajanstveni fluid mraka, živa, osjetljiva i pokretljiva materija tame što iz kaosa neprestance nešto oblikuje i svaki oblik smjesta odbacuje! Crni materijal što oko sanjivog putnika gomila pećine, svodove, udubljenja i niše! Poput nametljivog brbljavca ona prati osamljenog putnika, zatvarajući ga u krugu svojih priviđenja, neumorna u svom izmišljanju, buncanju, fantaziranju - halicinirajući pred njim zvjezdane daljine, mliječne staze, labirinte beskonačnih koloseja i foruma."
"A kad netko, uzevši svjetiljku u ruke, prolazi iz sobe u sobu - na dvorištu se okreću ti golemi četverokuti svjetla, poput stranica kolosalne knjige, i trg kao da putuje zgradama i premeće sjene i kuće, kao da slaže pasijanse iz velikog snopa igraćih karata."
„Jer, fatalnost ne zaobilazi našu svijest i volju, nego ih uključuje u svoj mehanizam tako da dopuštamo i prihvaćamo, kao u letargičnom snu, stvari kojih se u normalnim uvjetima gnušamo.�
January 15, 2023
niesamowita. mimo tego, ze zapewne domyślne przesłanie niezbyt zostało przeze mnie zrozumiane, i tak całokształt pozostaje fantastyczny.
dla innych - ja osobiście przeczytałabym w pierwszej kolejności, przed sklepami.
dla innych - ja osobiście przeczytałabym w pierwszej kolejności, przed sklepami.
July 25, 2017
Reading this book was trully challenging; it's surrealism (reaching absurdity too often), along with the absence of a solid plot in most of its stories and a certain obsess with words, led me to consider abandoning it quite a few times. But then there were ingenious passages of real pleasure like the following and I was giving it a second chance:
All in all, it's a poetic book, suitable for those who love similes and metaphors ("It is part of my existence to be the parasite of metaphors, so easily am I carried away by the first simile that comes along. Having been carried away, I have to find my difficult way back, and slowly return to my senses."); those who want a proper story, should look elsewhere. Being myself somewhere in the middle, I'm giving it 3/5, acknowledging at the same time that Bruno Shulz is a very interesting writer.
“At such a time [at dawn] I would dream of being a baker who delivers bread, a fitter from the electric company, or an insurance man collecting the weekly installments. Or at least a chimney sweep. In the morning, at dawn, I would enter some half-opened gateway, still lighted by the watchman's lantern. I would put two fingers to my hat, crack a joke, and enter the labyrinth to leave late in the evening, at the other end of the city. I would spend all day going from apartment to apartment, conducting one never-ending conversation from one end of the city to the other, divided into parts among the householders; I would ask something in one apartment and receive a reply in another, make a joke in one place and collect the fruits of laughter in the third or fourth. Among the banging of doors I would squeeze through narrow passages, through bedrooms full of furniture, I would upset chamberpots, walk into squeaking perambulators in which babies cry, pick up rattles dropped by infants. I would stop for longer than necessary in kitchens and hallways, where servant girls were tidying up. The girls, busy, would stretch their young legs, tauten their high insteps, play with their cheap shining shoes, or clack around in loose slippers.�
All in all, it's a poetic book, suitable for those who love similes and metaphors ("It is part of my existence to be the parasite of metaphors, so easily am I carried away by the first simile that comes along. Having been carried away, I have to find my difficult way back, and slowly return to my senses."); those who want a proper story, should look elsewhere. Being myself somewhere in the middle, I'm giving it 3/5, acknowledging at the same time that Bruno Shulz is a very interesting writer.
May 17, 2018
„Санаториум „Клепсидра� от Бруно Шулц (Издателство "Аквариус", 2017 г.; превод: Магдалена Атанасова) е една от най-впечатляващите книги, на които съм се натъквала в последните няколко месеца.
Тя е красива творба, цяла една нова, „флуидна� реалност; историята на една меланхолия, която е "по-истинска, по-ослепителна и по-ярка" от другите меланхолии. Манифест, писан с пламенния ентусиазъм на нестихващата тъга по отминалото.
Тя е красива творба, цяла една нова, „флуидна� реалност; историята на една меланхолия, която е "по-истинска, по-ослепителна и по-ярка" от другите меланхолии. Манифест, писан с пламенния ентусиазъм на нестихващата тъга по отминалото.
April 27, 2019
Not as cohesive a collection as The Street of Crocodiles but still unparalleled in vision and style.
June 15, 2021
poezja.
to chyba najlepsze określenie, jakim mogę posłużyć się do opisania tej książki. Schulz był niesamowitym pisarzem, który plótł zdania z metafor i słów tak gładko, tak od niechcenia. Niesamowite płynne przejścia ze świata rzeczywistego do fantazji, jestem zachwycona po stokroć, uwielbiam całym sercem. bogactwo jego języka wprawia mnie w stan uniesienia, ekstazy, euforii. cudo.
to chyba najlepsze określenie, jakim mogę posłużyć się do opisania tej książki. Schulz był niesamowitym pisarzem, który plótł zdania z metafor i słów tak gładko, tak od niechcenia. Niesamowite płynne przejścia ze świata rzeczywistego do fantazji, jestem zachwycona po stokroć, uwielbiam całym sercem. bogactwo jego języka wprawia mnie w stan uniesienia, ekstazy, euforii. cudo.
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