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Traveling on One Leg
Winner, 2009 Nobel Prize in LiteratureÌý
Ìý
Irene is a fragile woman born to a German family in Romania, who has recently emigrated from her native country to West Germany. Politically and socially isolated, Irene moves within the orbit of three troubled men, while simultaneously embarking on an inner exploration of exile, homeland, and identity.
Ìý
Irene is a fragile woman born to a German family in Romania, who has recently emigrated from her native country to West Germany. Politically and socially isolated, Irene moves within the orbit of three troubled men, while simultaneously embarking on an inner exploration of exile, homeland, and identity.
149 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1989
22 people are currently reading
579 people want to read
About the author
Herta Müller
96Ìýbooks1,153ÌýfollowersHerta Müller was born in NiÅ£chidorf, TimiÅŸ County, Romania, the daughter of Swabian farmers. Her family was part of Romania's German minority and her mother was deported to a labour camp in the Soviet Union after World War II.
She read German studies and Romanian literature at Timişoara University. In 1976, Müller began working as a translator for an engineering company, but in 1979 was dismissed for her refusal to cooperate with the Securitate, the Communist regime's secret police. Initially, she made a living by teaching kindergarten and giving private German lessons.
Her first book was published in Romania (in German) in 1982, and appeared only in a censored version, as with most publications of the time.
In 1987, Müller left for Germany with her husband, novelist Richard Wagner. Over the following years she received many lectureships at universities in Germany and abroad.
In 1995 Müller was awarded membership to the German Academy for Writing and Poetry, and other positions followed. In 1997 she withdrew from the PEN centre of Germany in protest of its merge with the former German Democratic Republic branch.
The Swedish Academy awarded the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature to Müller, "who, with the concentration of poetry and the frankness of prose, depicts the landscape of the dispossessed".
She currently resides in Berlin, Germany.
She read German studies and Romanian literature at Timişoara University. In 1976, Müller began working as a translator for an engineering company, but in 1979 was dismissed for her refusal to cooperate with the Securitate, the Communist regime's secret police. Initially, she made a living by teaching kindergarten and giving private German lessons.
Her first book was published in Romania (in German) in 1982, and appeared only in a censored version, as with most publications of the time.
In 1987, Müller left for Germany with her husband, novelist Richard Wagner. Over the following years she received many lectureships at universities in Germany and abroad.
In 1995 Müller was awarded membership to the German Academy for Writing and Poetry, and other positions followed. In 1997 she withdrew from the PEN centre of Germany in protest of its merge with the former German Democratic Republic branch.
The Swedish Academy awarded the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature to Müller, "who, with the concentration of poetry and the frankness of prose, depicts the landscape of the dispossessed".
She currently resides in Berlin, Germany.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 92 reviews
September 21, 2013
To say that Traveling on One Leg was a gloomy novel would definitely not be off the mark. But it is heavy in a good and honest way. It is rooted in the author's own life experiences and those of the Romanian citizens whom she depicts as also having transplanted themselves to other countries. Because truth is the foundation of this novel, it gives this work a heavy-hearted edge, that as a reader, is not all too easy to digest. The other Amazon reviewers, I agree, hit the mark with their assessments of this excellent novel, in essence, that it is extremely personal and that the evocative nature of loneness and disjointedness is thoroughly yet tangibly conveyed. More than a novel, the reader is almost transported into a nightmarish dream sequence, where life and living is the nightmare. It is a novel that is poetically written in a hardened verse format. The language of poetry is short, trenchant, having to pack a wallop with the fewest words available to the author; the writer has to be extremely selective in her word choice, and Herta Muller is selective, evinced by this novel that does thrust a forceful literary punch.
The story revolves around the female protagonist Irene, a transplant from the repressive country of Romania whose presidential figurehead is a ruthless, paranoid and self-absorbed dictator (Ceausescu) who espouses backward, socialist ideologies. Anyone who lives under the unfortunate umbrella of his leadership don't have much hope of living a life of freedom, individuality, prosperity and a go-at-it-alone work ethic. Hence, people try to defect, and Irene is one of those who does. Yet, her homeland is not the enemy; it is the victim. Irene is just an offshoot of the country, a tree branch connected to the trunk (the country). The disease is communism, and it is affecting every fiber of society. But when she emigrates to Germany (as Muller herself did in 1987), she is not greeted into a land of golden opportunity. She is a legalized émigré who has been uprooted from all that is familiar to her. And although she is free from the harm that communism carries, she can not relate to her new homeland, for there is no pride, no connection, nothing. She has her baggage-mentally and physically speaking-and her memories. And nothing else. She is like a newborn babe who has to start anew. However, the contaminated mother's milk of her homeland has infected her development in more ways than one. Being an isolated loner is just a tip of the iceberg.
While in Germany, she befriends three men Franz, Stefan and Thomas, all of whom seem mentally crippled in their own right. And as misery loves company, she is drawn to them for the individuality. And though their individuality is not one of an uplifting nature (individuality Irene never encountered in Romania), she is attracted to that characteristic in them regardless. As people are not automatons, for they are flesh and blood and capable of joys, sorrows and growth, she sticks with them and by them. But it is really pointless. She is like a ping pong ball going back and forth trying to find some measure of concreteness to firmly clasp onto. In a nutshell, it's hopeless with these three guys. She is in a void, a kind of limbo where all she can really do is reflect, remember and analyze: "If you would see the city from the inside, it would be different. Irene is a name of a faraway city, if you get close to it it becomes different. It's one city if you go by and don't enter it, and another if you get moved by it and don't leave it. It's one city if you come to it for the first time and another if you leave it, never to return. A different name for each." Pages 81-82. Irene escapes the daily nightmare of faux cultural, social and political assimilation when on page 144 she states: "Neither dead nor alive...It was almost joy." She literally has to be an empty vessel and not be beholden to anybody or anything in order to feel truly free. But that is next to impossible and only fleeting at best.
Traveling on One leg was a fascinating read whereby no core action (marriage, careerism, childbirth), as taken by Irene, could be specifically defined. The whole work, for me, seemed so dream-oriented. It was like a person was trying to keep the insanity that no one else (except Irene) could see or feel, at arm's length. I could almost visualize Irene waking up form a nightmare while living in Romania about what life in Germany could be like. Overall, the book was very powerful, maybe even more so than than The Appointment and The Land of Green Plums. In any event, it is a hard book that one will not easily forget. It is dreary, and yet, it makes me so grateful for my life and what I have in it. Mission accomplished!
The story revolves around the female protagonist Irene, a transplant from the repressive country of Romania whose presidential figurehead is a ruthless, paranoid and self-absorbed dictator (Ceausescu) who espouses backward, socialist ideologies. Anyone who lives under the unfortunate umbrella of his leadership don't have much hope of living a life of freedom, individuality, prosperity and a go-at-it-alone work ethic. Hence, people try to defect, and Irene is one of those who does. Yet, her homeland is not the enemy; it is the victim. Irene is just an offshoot of the country, a tree branch connected to the trunk (the country). The disease is communism, and it is affecting every fiber of society. But when she emigrates to Germany (as Muller herself did in 1987), she is not greeted into a land of golden opportunity. She is a legalized émigré who has been uprooted from all that is familiar to her. And although she is free from the harm that communism carries, she can not relate to her new homeland, for there is no pride, no connection, nothing. She has her baggage-mentally and physically speaking-and her memories. And nothing else. She is like a newborn babe who has to start anew. However, the contaminated mother's milk of her homeland has infected her development in more ways than one. Being an isolated loner is just a tip of the iceberg.
While in Germany, she befriends three men Franz, Stefan and Thomas, all of whom seem mentally crippled in their own right. And as misery loves company, she is drawn to them for the individuality. And though their individuality is not one of an uplifting nature (individuality Irene never encountered in Romania), she is attracted to that characteristic in them regardless. As people are not automatons, for they are flesh and blood and capable of joys, sorrows and growth, she sticks with them and by them. But it is really pointless. She is like a ping pong ball going back and forth trying to find some measure of concreteness to firmly clasp onto. In a nutshell, it's hopeless with these three guys. She is in a void, a kind of limbo where all she can really do is reflect, remember and analyze: "If you would see the city from the inside, it would be different. Irene is a name of a faraway city, if you get close to it it becomes different. It's one city if you go by and don't enter it, and another if you get moved by it and don't leave it. It's one city if you come to it for the first time and another if you leave it, never to return. A different name for each." Pages 81-82. Irene escapes the daily nightmare of faux cultural, social and political assimilation when on page 144 she states: "Neither dead nor alive...It was almost joy." She literally has to be an empty vessel and not be beholden to anybody or anything in order to feel truly free. But that is next to impossible and only fleeting at best.
Traveling on One leg was a fascinating read whereby no core action (marriage, careerism, childbirth), as taken by Irene, could be specifically defined. The whole work, for me, seemed so dream-oriented. It was like a person was trying to keep the insanity that no one else (except Irene) could see or feel, at arm's length. I could almost visualize Irene waking up form a nightmare while living in Romania about what life in Germany could be like. Overall, the book was very powerful, maybe even more so than than The Appointment and The Land of Green Plums. In any event, it is a hard book that one will not easily forget. It is dreary, and yet, it makes me so grateful for my life and what I have in it. Mission accomplished!
November 6, 2011
Nel 2009 riceve il Premio Nobel per la Letteratura, con la seguente motivazione: «Con la concentrazione della poesia e la franchezza della prosa ha rappresentato il mondo dei diseredati»
Non c’� un modo gentile per dirlo: questo libro non mi è piaciuto, anzi direi che è stato uno dei libri più noiosi che abbia mai letto. L’ho finito perché non mi piace abbandonare i libri e l’ho letto più per rispetto a questo principio che per interesse.
Per prima cosa, un’importante istruzione per l’uso: per poter cogliere il filo conduttore ed entrare nel mondo di Irene (la protagonista) è importante leggere questo libro (breve, per fortuna!) con continuità , invece io l’ho letto in modo frammentario. Di conseguenza ogni volta riprendere il filo, spezzato, dei pensieri di Irene mi costava grande fatica (e non appena avevo intuito qualcosa, dovevo subito interrompere.)
Forse più che un romanzo è una raccolta di poesie che si succedono senza soluzione di continuità e a me le poesie piacciono a piccolissime dosi: una ogni tanto e non troppe tutte insieme.
Il libro ci immerge nel mondo interiore di Irene, una donna rumena che ha lasciato la Romania di Ceauşescu e ha chiesto asilo politico nella Germania Federale. I pensieri di Irene ci comunicano la solitudine di chi ha lasciato il suo mondo per ritrovarsi straniera (anche se cittadina tedesca) in mezzo ad altre persone che, invece, sembrano avere chiaro qual è il loro posto nel mondo. La condizione degli esuli è quelle di
Viaggiatori - pensò Irene � viaggiatori con lo sguardo eccitato sulle città addormentate. Su desideri ormai scaduti. Dietro agli abitanti della città .
Viaggiatori su una gamba sola e sull’altra perduti. Viaggiatori che arrivano troppo tardi
Lo stato d’animo (disorientamento, ambivalenza nei confronti del paese abbandonato, tristezza) della protagonista più che dalle parole, secondo me, viene mediato dallo stile del romanzo:le frasi brevi, i periodi spezzati, il continuo ripetere il nome della protagonista. Però a livello emotivo non ho sentito nulla di tutto ciò, solo una forte senso di noia e, in alcuni casi, di aggressività verso l’atteggiamento passivo della protagonista:
In momenti del genere Irene capiva che la sua vita si era rappresa in un fascio di osservazioni. Le osservazioni la rendevano incapace di agire.
Quando Irene si imponeva di agire, non erano vere azioni. Rimanevano bloccate negli inizi. Erano inizia destinati a fallire. Nemmeno i singoli gesti restavano integri.
Così Irene non viveva nelle cose, ma nelle loro conseguenze. (pag. 142)
La parte che mi è piaciuta di più (forse perché è quella che ho capito) è quella in cui Irene racconta del difficile rapporto con il suo paese: a poco a poco si rende conto che prova , ma questo sentimento arriva alla sua consapevolezza gradatamente, facendosi strada tra le altre emozioni che scandiscono la sua quotidianità :
Irene ebbe anche un altro sospetto. Quello di mantenere in testa una nostalgia piccola e dispersa, per non doverla ammettere. Di tradire la nostalgia nel momento in cui saliva. E per soffocarla di costruire edifici di pensieri sopra i sentimenti. (pag. 66)
March 17, 2023
4.5/5
Herta Müller edebiyatını tek kelimeyle özetlemem gerekse “belirsizlik� derim. Bu kitapta da yine belirsizlik ve belirsizliğin kardeşi tekinsizlik had safhada. Diktatörlüğün hüküm sürdüğü Romanya’dan Almanya’ya göç eden bir kadın ve etkileşime girdiği erkekler, sanki büyük bir sisle sarılmışlar ve yaşamaya çalışıyorlar, biz de okuyucu olarak onların gözlemliyoruz. Arada büyük bir mesafe bırakıyor Müller. Onu aşmak, karakterlere dokunmak istiyoruz ama yapamıyoruz. Anlatım da buna izin vermiyor zaten. Bu yüzden tıpkı karakterler gibi hep diken üstündeyiz, hem uyanık olmak zorundayız. Karakterler kendilerine yabancılaşıp, mekanikleşirken (duygusuzlaşırken) biz de benzer bir süreci deneyimliyoruz. Karakterlerin yolculuğu okurun yolculuğuna dönüşüyor. Çok etkileyici, çok hayranlık uyandırıcı.
Herta Müller edebiyatını tek kelimeyle özetlemem gerekse “belirsizlik� derim. Bu kitapta da yine belirsizlik ve belirsizliğin kardeşi tekinsizlik had safhada. Diktatörlüğün hüküm sürdüğü Romanya’dan Almanya’ya göç eden bir kadın ve etkileşime girdiği erkekler, sanki büyük bir sisle sarılmışlar ve yaşamaya çalışıyorlar, biz de okuyucu olarak onların gözlemliyoruz. Arada büyük bir mesafe bırakıyor Müller. Onu aşmak, karakterlere dokunmak istiyoruz ama yapamıyoruz. Anlatım da buna izin vermiyor zaten. Bu yüzden tıpkı karakterler gibi hep diken üstündeyiz, hem uyanık olmak zorundayız. Karakterler kendilerine yabancılaşıp, mekanikleşirken (duygusuzlaşırken) biz de benzer bir süreci deneyimliyoruz. Karakterlerin yolculuğu okurun yolculuğuna dönüşüyor. Çok etkileyici, çok hayranlık uyandırıcı.
December 5, 2018
This is the third book I've read by Müller in the last week. This one is about a woman in early middle age who has emigrated to West Germany from "the other country" -- presumably Romania, though it is never specified. She lives alone and in isolation. The book, like the previous two, is written in a surreal style with reality and dreams blended so that one is never sure what is actually happening.
Now that I am somewhat accustomed to her style, I can't help comparing it to last year's Nobel prize winner, Le Clezio; there are definite similarities in their writing. Both write in an experimental, surreal style, with disjointed description rather than plot or movement; both can be (are are) described as "bleak", with characters who never form real relationships and whose lives are largely pointless; both are decidedly anti-urban, with images of walking around streets, going into stores without buying anything, etc; and both give the curious impression of being both intensely political and deliberately apolitical at the same time. Of the two, I think I somewhat prefer Müller -- her writing is more concentrated, and never becomes repetitious or boring, as Le Clezio is at times; she also does not have the vague religiousness and nostalgia for the primitive which annoyed me in Le Clezio. I can't help wondering whether this represents a common European style or if the Nobel prize committee is simply attracted to a particular kind of writing; I haven't read enough serious contemporary European fiction to judge.
Now that I am somewhat accustomed to her style, I can't help comparing it to last year's Nobel prize winner, Le Clezio; there are definite similarities in their writing. Both write in an experimental, surreal style, with disjointed description rather than plot or movement; both can be (are are) described as "bleak", with characters who never form real relationships and whose lives are largely pointless; both are decidedly anti-urban, with images of walking around streets, going into stores without buying anything, etc; and both give the curious impression of being both intensely political and deliberately apolitical at the same time. Of the two, I think I somewhat prefer Müller -- her writing is more concentrated, and never becomes repetitious or boring, as Le Clezio is at times; she also does not have the vague religiousness and nostalgia for the primitive which annoyed me in Le Clezio. I can't help wondering whether this represents a common European style or if the Nobel prize committee is simply attracted to a particular kind of writing; I haven't read enough serious contemporary European fiction to judge.
September 18, 2021
Die junge Herta Müller hat noch nicht zu ihrer Sprache gefunden und deswegen schwebt das Werk etwas in der Luft, auch wenn es bereits bemerkenswerte Ansättze zeigt. Ich fand interessanter, was sie in ihrer Autobiographie über die Entstehung dieses semi-autobiographischen Werkes geschrieben hat, als das Werk selbst.
April 24, 2010
Müller is never an easy read, but I find her spare prose and bizarre vision of the world both impressive and deeply disturbing. Some reviewers have described this as a book about madness. Perhaps. The madness, if one can properly call it that, results from political dislocation and alienation. Irene, a Romanian German has fled her homeland to take up residence in West Germany, much like Müller herself. She becomes involved with three different men, none of whom seem particularly fond of her, and she wanders lost in her new, rather barren landscape. But for me it is always Müller's peculiar verbal style that engages. Passages like these appear on every page:
"The distance was in the eyes, too. And also later, when the refugees weren't walking in Flottenstrasse anymore. When they went to the post office, or talked too loudly on the phone from a rough neighborhood. And wrote signs of life on cards to another country" (p. 21).
"Thomas knew this boy with the peaked cap. He lived in every city. He was one of the many you lose track of while they are still alive" (p. 62).
"She opened her mouth as if to yawn. She didn't yawn. It was her way to line up the words in her mouth before she spoke" (p. 65).
Müller is a writer who sends me back to my German textbooks. Is there a greater compliment a reader can pay a writer than to want to read her in the original language?
"The distance was in the eyes, too. And also later, when the refugees weren't walking in Flottenstrasse anymore. When they went to the post office, or talked too loudly on the phone from a rough neighborhood. And wrote signs of life on cards to another country" (p. 21).
"Thomas knew this boy with the peaked cap. He lived in every city. He was one of the many you lose track of while they are still alive" (p. 62).
"She opened her mouth as if to yawn. She didn't yawn. It was her way to line up the words in her mouth before she spoke" (p. 65).
Müller is a writer who sends me back to my German textbooks. Is there a greater compliment a reader can pay a writer than to want to read her in the original language?
April 24, 2023
Her kitabın bir dili olduğu gibi aynı zamanda bir rengi de var Peki Tek Bacaklı Yolcu kitabı ne renk? Vereceğim cevap gri ve bana hissettirdiği duygu üşümek. Evet üşümek çünkü donuk, soğuk ve bulanik bir metin Tek Bacaklı Yolcu. Bir kadın, üç erkek , yolculuklar, kokler ve arkadan gelen geçmiş. Flu mekanlarda kişilerin kendine , topluma yabancilasmasi. Hislerin yitirilisi. Yeni topraklarda kendinden kaçmak isteyip kacamayis. Tıpkı yazarımız Muller'in hayatı gibi. Zıt görüşlere sahip anne ile babanın çocuğu olan Muller, Cavusesku döneminin baskıcı yönetimini yaşamış ve Romanya 'dan Almanya'ya göç etmiştir. Kitapta geçen diğer ülke aslında Romanya'dir. Kitapta tekinsiz, tedirgin edici bir atmosfer var . Bu atmosfer Keşke Bugün Kendimle Karsilasmasaydim isimli kitabında da vardı. Ve oradaki tedirginliği bize en iyi hissettiren cumleler , karakterin sorgulama esnasinda surekli gömleğinin düğmeleri ile oynadığı kısımlardi. İnsan nereye giderse gitsin kendinden ve geçmişinden kaçamaz. Yaşadıklarımız bizim sadık dostlarımızdir. Bu kitabı bitirdiğimde aklima Kavafis'in " başka bir deniz bulamazsin. Bu şehir arkandan gelecektir dediği Şehir isimli şiiri geldi. Ve ardından kulaklarımda Ezginin Günlüğü'nun melodisi . Okuyunuz efendim . İyi okumalar.
April 29, 2015
These two poor stars do not probably reflect the literary quality of the book, but rather my own reaction to it, which was almost nonexistent. Now, to mark so low a Nobel prize winner makes you always feel "somehow" ignorant. I probably did not understand it and most certainly it required a second level in-depth reading I did not gave. Perhaps I should even read it again, it is short after all. But I like books where all this is not necessary, where feelings, emotions, resemblances and reflections of our experiences are immediate and not hidden behind beautiful words (because I have to admit some sentences were real poetry). I do myself live abroad, I do myself miss my country, for personal reasons and not because I was forced to, yet I could not share Irene's nostalgia, alienation, apathy feelings. I must be a more positive person, or better said, I guess life let me be positive so far. Two Herta Muller's books after, it seems that I still have an internal debate about this writer, on whether I don't understand it as I should, or I do understand everything there is to understand, but I simply do not like her.
(This is my first review in English - please forgive my mistakes if any)
(This is my first review in English - please forgive my mistakes if any)
January 15, 2021
3,5
A fost prima mea întâlnire cu Herta, una destul de pretențioasă pentru gusturile mele lumesti. E multă alienare in calatoria asta care se anunta a fi intr-un picior si care nu pare sa se termine vreodata, multa neliniste, multe secvente ireale, mult lirism. Orase mohorate, personaje fara de contur, destinatii la care n-ajungi niciodata, conversatii incepute si neterminate, replici improbabile, un joc nesfarsit de-a scrisul de scrisori, de-a telefonatului, de-a dedublatului. Si multe lipsuri.
Nu m-a deranjat nimic din toate astea, doar ca o asemenea scriitura nu ma poate tine in text prea mult. Nu de putine ori m-am surprins alergand pe strazile Berlinul in timp ce paragrafele se citeau absent.
Auf wiedersehen Herta. Ne mai vedem noi, cel mai probabil tot in cealalta tara.
A fost prima mea întâlnire cu Herta, una destul de pretențioasă pentru gusturile mele lumesti. E multă alienare in calatoria asta care se anunta a fi intr-un picior si care nu pare sa se termine vreodata, multa neliniste, multe secvente ireale, mult lirism. Orase mohorate, personaje fara de contur, destinatii la care n-ajungi niciodata, conversatii incepute si neterminate, replici improbabile, un joc nesfarsit de-a scrisul de scrisori, de-a telefonatului, de-a dedublatului. Si multe lipsuri.
Nu m-a deranjat nimic din toate astea, doar ca o asemenea scriitura nu ma poate tine in text prea mult. Nu de putine ori m-am surprins alergand pe strazile Berlinul in timp ce paragrafele se citeau absent.
Auf wiedersehen Herta. Ne mai vedem noi, cel mai probabil tot in cealalta tara.
October 14, 2022
Neke knjige imaju zanimljivu radnju, neke dobar stil, neke oboje, a neke niti jedno od toga.
March 10, 2018
“Boşluğa düşme tehlikesi�..Batıya gitmek,batıya gidince parçalanmışlığı yaşamak “hatta gülüşlerine doğuyu gizlemek�
İrene bir yolcu,kökleri olan ama bedeniyle köklerinin ait olduğu yerler aynı olmayan..
Herta Müller,taşlı yollardan çıkıp örülmüş duvarların arasına sızıyor..Ensesinde sürekli farklı nefesleri duyumsayan,bedenlerine yabancılık damgası vurulmuş bireylere ait kelimeler bunlar.Derin ve bir o kadar sessiz..
İrene bir yolcu,kökleri olan ama bedeniyle köklerinin ait olduğu yerler aynı olmayan..
Herta Müller,taşlı yollardan çıkıp örülmüş duvarların arasına sızıyor..Ensesinde sürekli farklı nefesleri duyumsayan,bedenlerine yabancılık damgası vurulmuş bireylere ait kelimeler bunlar.Derin ve bir o kadar sessiz..
February 8, 2025
Tek Bacaklı Yolcu: Yabancılaşmanın Ritmi
Herta Müller’in güçlü kalemi daha ilk sayfadan itibaren kendini hissettiriyor. Onun dilinde her kelime, her kırık cümle, her tekrar, hikâyenin ruhuna işlenmiş gibi. Tek Bacaklı Yolcu, okurun gelişigüzel okumasını kabul etmeyen, dikkat isteyen bir roman. Her satırda bir yabancılaşma var; ama her karakterin yabancılaşması farklı. Yoğun olarak kullanılan sembolizm konsantrasyon konusunda çok talepkar.
Ana karakter Irene, Ceaușescu Romanya’sından kaçıp Batı Berlin’de sığınma hakkı almış, ama bir ülkeyi geride bırakmakla o ülkenin içinden çıkmak arasındaki farkı yaşıyor. Kopuk cümleleri, parçalanmış dikkati her an hissettiği ait olmama duygusunu vurguluyor. Bir evin kapısının önünde olmakla birlikte kentin ortasında olduğunu fark ettiği o an, vatandaşlığa kabul edildiği gün yaşanıyor. Müller’in cümleleri, bu tür anlarda bütün ağırlığıyla vuruyor insana.
Kitap boyunca Irene’in ilişki içinde olduğu insanlar da benzer şekilde ‘yerleşememiş� karakterler. Her biri farklı bir şekilde eksik, tam anlamıyla ‘yerinde� değil. Ve bu karakterler, Irene’in kendi yabancılaşmasını anlamasına da yardımcı oluyor, kimsenin tam anlamıyla ‘ait� olmadığı bir dünya kuruyor.
Sonlara doğru Irene, sokaktaki insanlarla daha çok iletişime geçmeye başlıyor, dış dünyayı daha farklı görüyor. Ama bu bir ‘çözüm� değil. Yabancılaşma hissi tamamen kaybolmuyor, sadece dönüşüyor. Kitabın sonunda en vurucu olan da bu zaten: Yabancılaşma bir noktada bitecek bir şey değil, ama insan onunla yaşamayı öğrenebilir.
Çağlar Tanyeri’nin çevirisi bazı yerlerde Müller’in dil oyunlarının yeterince iyi yansıtılmadığını düşündürüyor. Kelime oyunları tam olarak orijinaldeki hissi vermiyor olabilir. Özellikle "Heimat" gibi çok katmanlı kavramların aktarımında belirsizlikler var. Ayrıca bazı yerlerde de çevirinin özensiz yapıldığı hissediliyor. Belki arada birkaç "cevirenin notu" olsa daha iyi olabilirdi.
Sonuç olarak, Tek Bacaklı Yolcu, derinlikli bir iç yolculuk sunan belirsizlik duygusu uyandıran bir roman. Dili yoğun ve dikkat gerektiriyor. Herta Müller’in metnine tam anlamıyla girebilmek için kopuk cümleler, tekrar eden kelimeler ve çağrışımları içselleştirmek gerekiyor. Ama bunu yapınca ortaya çıkan şey, bir göçmenin, bir yabancının, bir başkasının hikâyesinden çok, insanın kendi varoluşunu sorgulamasına yol açan bir deneyim oluyor.
Herta Müller’in güçlü kalemi daha ilk sayfadan itibaren kendini hissettiriyor. Onun dilinde her kelime, her kırık cümle, her tekrar, hikâyenin ruhuna işlenmiş gibi. Tek Bacaklı Yolcu, okurun gelişigüzel okumasını kabul etmeyen, dikkat isteyen bir roman. Her satırda bir yabancılaşma var; ama her karakterin yabancılaşması farklı. Yoğun olarak kullanılan sembolizm konsantrasyon konusunda çok talepkar.
Ana karakter Irene, Ceaușescu Romanya’sından kaçıp Batı Berlin’de sığınma hakkı almış, ama bir ülkeyi geride bırakmakla o ülkenin içinden çıkmak arasındaki farkı yaşıyor. Kopuk cümleleri, parçalanmış dikkati her an hissettiği ait olmama duygusunu vurguluyor. Bir evin kapısının önünde olmakla birlikte kentin ortasında olduğunu fark ettiği o an, vatandaşlığa kabul edildiği gün yaşanıyor. Müller’in cümleleri, bu tür anlarda bütün ağırlığıyla vuruyor insana.
Kitap boyunca Irene’in ilişki içinde olduğu insanlar da benzer şekilde ‘yerleşememiş� karakterler. Her biri farklı bir şekilde eksik, tam anlamıyla ‘yerinde� değil. Ve bu karakterler, Irene’in kendi yabancılaşmasını anlamasına da yardımcı oluyor, kimsenin tam anlamıyla ‘ait� olmadığı bir dünya kuruyor.
Sonlara doğru Irene, sokaktaki insanlarla daha çok iletişime geçmeye başlıyor, dış dünyayı daha farklı görüyor. Ama bu bir ‘çözüm� değil. Yabancılaşma hissi tamamen kaybolmuyor, sadece dönüşüyor. Kitabın sonunda en vurucu olan da bu zaten: Yabancılaşma bir noktada bitecek bir şey değil, ama insan onunla yaşamayı öğrenebilir.
Çağlar Tanyeri’nin çevirisi bazı yerlerde Müller’in dil oyunlarının yeterince iyi yansıtılmadığını düşündürüyor. Kelime oyunları tam olarak orijinaldeki hissi vermiyor olabilir. Özellikle "Heimat" gibi çok katmanlı kavramların aktarımında belirsizlikler var. Ayrıca bazı yerlerde de çevirinin özensiz yapıldığı hissediliyor. Belki arada birkaç "cevirenin notu" olsa daha iyi olabilirdi.
Sonuç olarak, Tek Bacaklı Yolcu, derinlikli bir iç yolculuk sunan belirsizlik duygusu uyandıran bir roman. Dili yoğun ve dikkat gerektiriyor. Herta Müller’in metnine tam anlamıyla girebilmek için kopuk cümleler, tekrar eden kelimeler ve çağrışımları içselleştirmek gerekiyor. Ama bunu yapınca ortaya çıkan şey, bir göçmenin, bir yabancının, bir başkasının hikâyesinden çok, insanın kendi varoluşunu sorgulamasına yol açan bir deneyim oluyor.
May 31, 2022
Nici nu știu cu ce să încep mai exact pentru că, având în vedere faptul că i-am oferit 3 stele, ar trebui să am ceva care mi-a plăcut.
Limbajul a fost unul complex și plin de sensuri ascunse, pe care cel mai probabil nu le-am descoperit, pentru că jumătate din toată cartea stăteam să mă întreb ce înseamnă diverse lucruri și ce relevanță au în desfășurarea acțiunii.
La finalul cărții mi-am dat seama că acest roman experimental nu are, de fapt, nicio acțiune și că poate, căutam ceva ce nu exista.
Pentru mine, este primul roman de acest gen și chiar dacă are Nobelul nu pot să spun că îl consider o capodoperă.
Îl recomand dacă citiți în general literatură experimentală.
Limbajul a fost unul complex și plin de sensuri ascunse, pe care cel mai probabil nu le-am descoperit, pentru că jumătate din toată cartea stăteam să mă întreb ce înseamnă diverse lucruri și ce relevanță au în desfășurarea acțiunii.
La finalul cărții mi-am dat seama că acest roman experimental nu are, de fapt, nicio acțiune și că poate, căutam ceva ce nu exista.
Pentru mine, este primul roman de acest gen și chiar dacă are Nobelul nu pot să spun că îl consider o capodoperă.
Îl recomand dacă citiți în general literatură experimentală.
November 13, 2011
Viaggiatori su una gamba sola e sull'altra perduti. Viaggiatori che arrivano troppo tardi.
Di fronte a questo libro, commentare diventa un onere che si confonde in maniera ineluttabile con l'esperienza, la mia, di aver visto Berlino e il Muro; di aver visto tanti viaggiatori su una gamba sola che zoppicano per ritrovare un'identità geografica e culturale che hanno perso quando la cortina ha diviso cielo e terra mettendo da una parte l'Est e dall'altra l'Ovest come solo l'Onnipotente da millenni a questa parte si era permesso di fare.
I viaggiatori che vanno su una gamba sola, e vanno a stento, e vanno col peso nel cuore di non essere più nessuno non sono solo quelli che si trovavano di fronte al muro, ma sono quelli negli angoli che aspettano una cittadinanza, un posto nel mondo, un'appartenenza. Sentimenti lontani dalla mia culla di protezione che il mondo, le circostanze, la Storia in una congiunzione di coincidenze astrali favorevoli mi hanno offerto.. e che Herta Muller, scrittrice di fronte alla quale si può solo star zitti, atterriti, ed ascoltare, mi ha posto davanti senza mezzi termini.
Se c'era un modo crudo, disagevole di raccontarlo, Herta, donna Nobel, l'ha trovato e l'ha elargito per 169 pagine per raccontare la storia di Irene, che è poi la sua storia, donna che viaggia su una gamba sola dalla Romania alla Germania in cerca di se stessa. Di un perché. Di un amore da amare non di notte, non per soldi, non di sfuggita. Irene ha bisogno di legarsi, ed invece il mondo la tiene slegata, la storia, quella porzione di storia fredda ancora oggi così respirabile a Berlino, nell'Est, la tiene slegata dalla possibilità di un'identità propria.
Lo stile è tagliente. L'esperienza è tagliente. Il romanzo produce ferite che non si possono rimarginare e che, nonostante tutta la buona volontà , anziché avvicinare all'autrice, la rende ancora più lontana, più solitaria.
A Berlino hanno mantenuto in piedi kilometri di muro su cui dal 1989 in poi hanno dipinto murales mani provenienti da tutto il mondo che credono nella pace e hanno voglia di averla, ma in questa lunga fila c'è una breccia. Una breccia nel muro che ti permette di mettere la gamba ad Est, ed una gamba ad Ovest. L'ho fatto anche io, ovviamente. E mi sono sentita come se avessi una gamba sola. Ho sentito scendere su di me l'angoscia del non avere un'identità e di essere priva di un arto.
E se Herta Muller ha voluto scrivere un libro parlando di quanto si sta di merda ad andare da un posto all'altro con un bagaglio di coscienza troppo pesante e in più dovendosi poggiare su una gamba sola, io posso solo approvare la sua scelta mandandole un abbraccio che non riceverà mai. Perché chi si guarda allo specchio e non si vede, non riuscirà nemmeno mai a sentire gli altri.
In finis, grazie ad Herta per tutto il dolore che mi ha messo addosso, perché mi ha restituito ancora maggiore consapevolezza su quel pezzo di storia che sta ancora in piedi alla Est Gallery, e nella mia incancellabile memoria.
Di fronte a questo libro, commentare diventa un onere che si confonde in maniera ineluttabile con l'esperienza, la mia, di aver visto Berlino e il Muro; di aver visto tanti viaggiatori su una gamba sola che zoppicano per ritrovare un'identità geografica e culturale che hanno perso quando la cortina ha diviso cielo e terra mettendo da una parte l'Est e dall'altra l'Ovest come solo l'Onnipotente da millenni a questa parte si era permesso di fare.
I viaggiatori che vanno su una gamba sola, e vanno a stento, e vanno col peso nel cuore di non essere più nessuno non sono solo quelli che si trovavano di fronte al muro, ma sono quelli negli angoli che aspettano una cittadinanza, un posto nel mondo, un'appartenenza. Sentimenti lontani dalla mia culla di protezione che il mondo, le circostanze, la Storia in una congiunzione di coincidenze astrali favorevoli mi hanno offerto.. e che Herta Muller, scrittrice di fronte alla quale si può solo star zitti, atterriti, ed ascoltare, mi ha posto davanti senza mezzi termini.
Se c'era un modo crudo, disagevole di raccontarlo, Herta, donna Nobel, l'ha trovato e l'ha elargito per 169 pagine per raccontare la storia di Irene, che è poi la sua storia, donna che viaggia su una gamba sola dalla Romania alla Germania in cerca di se stessa. Di un perché. Di un amore da amare non di notte, non per soldi, non di sfuggita. Irene ha bisogno di legarsi, ed invece il mondo la tiene slegata, la storia, quella porzione di storia fredda ancora oggi così respirabile a Berlino, nell'Est, la tiene slegata dalla possibilità di un'identità propria.
Lo stile è tagliente. L'esperienza è tagliente. Il romanzo produce ferite che non si possono rimarginare e che, nonostante tutta la buona volontà , anziché avvicinare all'autrice, la rende ancora più lontana, più solitaria.
A Berlino hanno mantenuto in piedi kilometri di muro su cui dal 1989 in poi hanno dipinto murales mani provenienti da tutto il mondo che credono nella pace e hanno voglia di averla, ma in questa lunga fila c'è una breccia. Una breccia nel muro che ti permette di mettere la gamba ad Est, ed una gamba ad Ovest. L'ho fatto anche io, ovviamente. E mi sono sentita come se avessi una gamba sola. Ho sentito scendere su di me l'angoscia del non avere un'identità e di essere priva di un arto.
E se Herta Muller ha voluto scrivere un libro parlando di quanto si sta di merda ad andare da un posto all'altro con un bagaglio di coscienza troppo pesante e in più dovendosi poggiare su una gamba sola, io posso solo approvare la sua scelta mandandole un abbraccio che non riceverà mai. Perché chi si guarda allo specchio e non si vede, non riuscirà nemmeno mai a sentire gli altri.
In finis, grazie ad Herta per tutto il dolore che mi ha messo addosso, perché mi ha restituito ancora maggiore consapevolezza su quel pezzo di storia che sta ancora in piedi alla Est Gallery, e nella mia incancellabile memoria.
September 7, 2015
İrene isimli bir mültecinin Almanya'ya gidip orada çektiği yabancılaşmayı anlatıyor. Ama baskıdan mı çeviriden mi anlamadım kitapta birden başka konuya atlama, anlamsız cümleler vardı ve konuşma çizgileri yoktu. Nadine Gordimer'den sonra Herta Müller'de bitmiştir benim için.
May 28, 2013
Dittature, paesi divisi e muri sono solo un pretesto per dire qualcos'altro. La vera protagonista di questo romanzo è l'alterità . L'abisso quasi insuperabile che circonda gli individui come un fossato, e li segue ovunque, naturale come un'ombra. Ci puoi mettere sopra un bel ponte, ma i ponti, col tempo, si deteriorano. L'abisso rimane lì.
È ingombrante e spietata, l'alterità , come una maledizione. Si insinua nella narrazione fratturandola, ci costringe a vedere la realtà come un insieme di stralci di quadro, una realtà che non scorre nel tempo ma nello sguardo della protagonista, a scatti come solo può procedere l'occhio umano, da un oggetto a un ricordo, da un ricordo a un uomo, da un uomo a un'aspettativa. Si traveste da divergenza di opinioni, di vedute, di orizzonti, da telefoni che squillano e vengono ignorati, da uomini che sbriciolano del pane per il solo gusto di farlo, mentre gli uccelli aspettano in disparte di poter banchettare, felici. Ma il suo travestimento più riuscito è quello da città . Relazionarsi con gli altri è sempre un viaggio. Richiede di sentire il freddo oltre i polpastrelli, come se toccassero la propria finitezza, impone di uscire dai propri limiti per cercare l'altro. Da una città familiare - per quanto anche la familiarità possa risultare odiosa - a un luogo sconosciuto. Quant'è bello il passo che precede la partenza: la città esiste già , ce la siamo inventati bene, dal suo nome abbiamo tratto sapori di frutta esotica e nomi di fiori mai visti. E poi, come la troviamo una volta arrivati? I giardini sono così profumati? I gesti e gli automatismi che guidano i passi dell'altro nella sua città diventeranno anche nostri o ci sarà sempre uno strappo tra noi e lui? Come sarà l'altro, una volta girato l'angolo? Come saremo noi?
Un sognatore vi dirà che sarà tutto bellissimo. Ma Herta Müller no, lei vi farà sentire che rumore fa il legno del ponte quando marcisce.
È ingombrante e spietata, l'alterità , come una maledizione. Si insinua nella narrazione fratturandola, ci costringe a vedere la realtà come un insieme di stralci di quadro, una realtà che non scorre nel tempo ma nello sguardo della protagonista, a scatti come solo può procedere l'occhio umano, da un oggetto a un ricordo, da un ricordo a un uomo, da un uomo a un'aspettativa. Si traveste da divergenza di opinioni, di vedute, di orizzonti, da telefoni che squillano e vengono ignorati, da uomini che sbriciolano del pane per il solo gusto di farlo, mentre gli uccelli aspettano in disparte di poter banchettare, felici. Ma il suo travestimento più riuscito è quello da città . Relazionarsi con gli altri è sempre un viaggio. Richiede di sentire il freddo oltre i polpastrelli, come se toccassero la propria finitezza, impone di uscire dai propri limiti per cercare l'altro. Da una città familiare - per quanto anche la familiarità possa risultare odiosa - a un luogo sconosciuto. Quant'è bello il passo che precede la partenza: la città esiste già , ce la siamo inventati bene, dal suo nome abbiamo tratto sapori di frutta esotica e nomi di fiori mai visti. E poi, come la troviamo una volta arrivati? I giardini sono così profumati? I gesti e gli automatismi che guidano i passi dell'altro nella sua città diventeranno anche nostri o ci sarà sempre uno strappo tra noi e lui? Come sarà l'altro, una volta girato l'angolo? Come saremo noi?
Un sognatore vi dirà che sarà tutto bellissimo. Ma Herta Müller no, lei vi farà sentire che rumore fa il legno del ponte quando marcisce.
August 8, 2021
Molto doloroso e difficile questo libro autobiografico della Muller, costretta a lasciare la sua terra per un luogo straniero, per vivere una nuova vita. Ma non è e non fu per lei, come per altri dissidenti espulsi, così semplice questo trasferimento, questo “camminare su una gamba in un posto e l’altra in un altro�. Tutto diventa precario, confuso, inquieto, i pensieri si rincorrono e si sovrappongono alle immagini veloci, rapide, disordinate con cui la scrittrice vuole rendere il caos, il vortice della precarietà che avvolge la vita. Ma non è solo della sua vita, della sua situazione che si parla. Anche nelle nuove città , in tutti gli ambienti si muove uno stuolo di poveri, uomini, donne, giovani, vecchi confusi, insicuri, esclusi e rassegnati. Irene cerca un legame, che la faccia sentire viva e che le dia la possibilità di avere una identità solida. E questo inseguire, rincorrere, ripetere gesti e scene è resa nella scrittura con periodi spezzati, immagini disordinate in continuo e frenetico muoversi che rendono molto bene la precarietà e l’insicurezza di questa esperienza così drammatica.
December 2, 2014
It is terrible that I'm giving this only three stars, but I cannot say that I "really liked it" mostly because it was so difficult to read and comprehend. The book is about trauma told through the character Irene, a thirtysomething woman who can only perceive the world in fragments, dissolution, and dissociation. Thank goodness for my literature professor and his help in walking us through this book. There is a minimal plot if you hunt for it, about Irene moving out of Romania and to West Berlin. There she finds herself not only suffering from the trauma she experienced in Romania, but unable to form meaningful connections, even with the three men with whom she obliquely forms relationships.
The text is more poetry than prose, and it requires close reading and working through what a mind like Irene's might mean by her fragmented observations and figurative language. Her existence is in a present through which the past often intrudes. Sometimes she seems to observe someone that may not really be there, who may instead be a stand-in for herself, a self she also cannot seem to forge a connection with. Surreal images, imagination, and dreams also intrude into her fragmented reality.
There is no question that this book is depressing. Irene is a character who has suffered terribly. There are, I think, some brief glimpses of hope, but by design the effect of this book on the reader is one of disorientation, an attempt to get the reader to better understand how someone like Irene processes the world. For that, it is no wonder Herta Muller won the Nobel Prize in Literature; she truly tapped into a different way of telling a narrative, of providing point of view, of exploring the inner psyche of traumatized people. For that this is a book to value and to respect. This approach, however, doesn't make the experience all that pleasant. Instead, it reminds us that there are stories to be told that are not pleasant, by people damaged by fascism and violence, isolation and alienation, with little hope for their full recovery.
The text is more poetry than prose, and it requires close reading and working through what a mind like Irene's might mean by her fragmented observations and figurative language. Her existence is in a present through which the past often intrudes. Sometimes she seems to observe someone that may not really be there, who may instead be a stand-in for herself, a self she also cannot seem to forge a connection with. Surreal images, imagination, and dreams also intrude into her fragmented reality.
There is no question that this book is depressing. Irene is a character who has suffered terribly. There are, I think, some brief glimpses of hope, but by design the effect of this book on the reader is one of disorientation, an attempt to get the reader to better understand how someone like Irene processes the world. For that, it is no wonder Herta Muller won the Nobel Prize in Literature; she truly tapped into a different way of telling a narrative, of providing point of view, of exploring the inner psyche of traumatized people. For that this is a book to value and to respect. This approach, however, doesn't make the experience all that pleasant. Instead, it reminds us that there are stories to be told that are not pleasant, by people damaged by fascism and violence, isolation and alienation, with little hope for their full recovery.
November 24, 2012
when there is an author i'm interested in, i frequently FREQUENTLY make the mistake of ignoring the books that friends and the rest of the world recommend to me as his/her "best work" and feel some godawful obligation to go into his/her back catalogue and starting reading them from the earliest work onward - or, in this case, the earliest novel available in translation. what a disaster. this book took me much longer to force myself through than anything in recent memory. above all, i blame the translation. i think i would have had better luck putting the original text through google translate. from what i understand, Mueller writes in a clipped, lyrical, impressionistic/imagistic style that borders on prose poem, but this just felt like a boring nightmare. i'm pretty sure any nuances or double-resonances woven into the original German were completely abandoned here. the result is a a clunky, hideous, needlessly obtuse read. to be honest, i'm quite saddened, because i was really hoping to love the author. though i suppose there's still hope. at some point i'll get to The Land of Green Plums and The Hunger Angel, but i think i need a bit of distance from this slow trauma. note to self: just read the book that the rest of the world tells you to read first.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
August 26, 2018
Ciudatica si misterioasa, plina de subintelesuri si mesaje bine directionate, tipica Hertei Muller. Drama emigrantului roman care a scapat de comunism, dar nu si de umbra acestuia.
De la o relatie love&hate cu Herta Muller, am ajuns la a treia carte scrisa de ea si as zice ca am ajuns sa o citesc cu placere, trecand peste frustrarea maxima avuta la prima lectura.
De la o relatie love&hate cu Herta Muller, am ajuns la a treia carte scrisa de ea si as zice ca am ajuns sa o citesc cu placere, trecand peste frustrarea maxima avuta la prima lectura.
April 12, 2014
Hmph. I wanted to like this one more than I did. Muller clearly has a distinct voice, and I dug the minimalist style. Still, I wanted to feel a little more grounded in the narrative that Muller allowed us to. The stoic, distant tone makes us feel Irene's deep sense of alienation in her new home, but there's just not much else here besides that. I wanted more of Irene's world, more of her struggle, more of her romances. But by definition, minimalism doesn't tend to offer more, so perhaps this one just wasn't for me.
September 3, 2011
Schwerfällig, langweilig mit uninteressanten Protagonisten in einem Stil geschrieben, bei dem einem das Lesen wie Arbeit vorkommt. Nach knapp der Hälfte des Buches habe ich es zur Bibliothek zurückgebracht - bei der Buchbesprechung mit dem Lesekreis werde ich dann voraussichtlich fehlen. Für so etwas ist das Leben einfach zu kurz.
May 26, 2021
3.5* This was my first Herta Müller book and I have no idea how to feel about it (or her). I may need to reread it when I'm in a more peaceful state of mind and capable of devoting an entire day to it, because this book needs, in my opinion, to be read in one session and in a very serene environment that facilitates concentration (aka not in the subway, on the train and when exhausted, like I did).
This novel feels autobiographical, at least in part. It's the first one published by Müller after she left Romania and talks about a 30-something woman who, in turn, flees the dictatorial regime of the unnamed "other country" and moves to Germany - which, of course, parallels Müller's own experience. It's a book about nothing, and it's also a book about many things. Quite obscure, I know, but what I mean to say is that, although it is not plot-driven (literally nothing happens) or even character-driven, it concentrates many themes in a very small package and is an emotional roller-coaster.
It's a book about longing, about isolation, about the struggles to fit into a new society with different rules. I felt loneliness throughout the entire read, it was gloomy and completely nightmarish. In fact, the novel itself is a never-ending sequence of dream and waking state and at times it's hard to discern which is which. As a Romanian, we are taught that there is no word in any other language that can express what we mean by "dor" ("longing" doesn't even begin to describe the intensity of the feeling), and this is exactly what this book is - dor from start to finish. Irene may be free from the dictator, from repression, but she is not truly free, she still belongs to "the other country" in mind and soul, if not in body.
I have mixed feelings about this novel. I both loved and hated the writing style in equal amounts. The language is pure poetry, however I did not resonate with the abstractness of it all (or, as I said before, I was not in the proper state of mind, not concentrated enough in order to be able to become immersed in it). Everything is metaphoric but also told in an unexpectedly simple language; abstract and philosophical, on one side, and absurdly mundane on another, with Irene noticing every single detail around her as she tries to navigate and fit into her new world. The sheer improbability of the dialogues is what makes the cultural differences and Irene's isolation so poignant. She is stuck in an impossible to escape limbo, trying to cling to every small thing, to every person she meets, just to keep herself afloat.
This is definitely a very powerful book and I can understand why Herta Müller is such an acclaimed author. I love her use of words, the almost verse-like construction of the phrases. I will for sure read more of her books and I plan on rereading this one as well, when I'm in a more serene state of mind.
This novel feels autobiographical, at least in part. It's the first one published by Müller after she left Romania and talks about a 30-something woman who, in turn, flees the dictatorial regime of the unnamed "other country" and moves to Germany - which, of course, parallels Müller's own experience. It's a book about nothing, and it's also a book about many things. Quite obscure, I know, but what I mean to say is that, although it is not plot-driven (literally nothing happens) or even character-driven, it concentrates many themes in a very small package and is an emotional roller-coaster.
It's a book about longing, about isolation, about the struggles to fit into a new society with different rules. I felt loneliness throughout the entire read, it was gloomy and completely nightmarish. In fact, the novel itself is a never-ending sequence of dream and waking state and at times it's hard to discern which is which. As a Romanian, we are taught that there is no word in any other language that can express what we mean by "dor" ("longing" doesn't even begin to describe the intensity of the feeling), and this is exactly what this book is - dor from start to finish. Irene may be free from the dictator, from repression, but she is not truly free, she still belongs to "the other country" in mind and soul, if not in body.
I have mixed feelings about this novel. I both loved and hated the writing style in equal amounts. The language is pure poetry, however I did not resonate with the abstractness of it all (or, as I said before, I was not in the proper state of mind, not concentrated enough in order to be able to become immersed in it). Everything is metaphoric but also told in an unexpectedly simple language; abstract and philosophical, on one side, and absurdly mundane on another, with Irene noticing every single detail around her as she tries to navigate and fit into her new world. The sheer improbability of the dialogues is what makes the cultural differences and Irene's isolation so poignant. She is stuck in an impossible to escape limbo, trying to cling to every small thing, to every person she meets, just to keep herself afloat.
This is definitely a very powerful book and I can understand why Herta Müller is such an acclaimed author. I love her use of words, the almost verse-like construction of the phrases. I will for sure read more of her books and I plan on rereading this one as well, when I'm in a more serene state of mind.
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April 1, 2025mhm am inteles ideea cu romanul asta, dar nu-mi place� nu-mi place cum scrie Herta Muller, un pliant Lidl are mai mult entuziasm, nu-mi place ca tot globul nu stie altceva in afara de comunism despre Romania, nu-mi place acest existențialism contemporan si abundența de detalii care nu au legatura cu actiunea� Herta Muller e sigur baba care te ridica de pe scaun cand e autobuzul gol
September 3, 2024
"În lumina soarelui îmi dau seama că nu m-am ocupat prea mult de mine și am uitat mersul pe uscat. Sunt obosită, dar atât de trează în interior, încât nu pot ține ochii închiși. Mi-am scos ciorapii și pantofii: îmi privesc de departe degetele de la picioare. Aș fi vrut să nu fie ale mele.
Apoi Irene stătu în vârfurile degetelor, pe propria-i țeastă."
April 4, 2025
frumos romanul ăsta care e chiar poezie pe alocuri. mi-a plăcut îndeosebi că Irene își dă seama că ea însăși e cealaltă înainte chiar de a-și percepe țara natală drept cealaltă țară. e o carte de citit dintr-o răsuflare, o răsuflare care mie mi-a luat vreo 4 ore și care chiar s-au simțit drept o pauză de respirație.
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March 27, 2020kendime not: ölmeden önce bir kere daha okumak zorundasın bunu.
October 2, 2023
Cümleler o kadar kendine has ve şiirsel ki�
Tekrar tekrar okunabilir bir kitap. Ama bu anlatı tarzını sevenler için geçerli bu söylediğim. Bana hiç hitap etmedi.
Diğer kitapları da böyle bir yazım şeklinde ise başka kitabını okumak istemem.
Tekrar tekrar okunabilir bir kitap. Ama bu anlatı tarzını sevenler için geçerli bu söylediğim. Bana hiç hitap etmedi.
Diğer kitapları da böyle bir yazım şeklinde ise başka kitabını okumak istemem.
June 12, 2016
This book astonishes me for the way in which it is written. Without quotation marks, the words said by the characters of the story seam to merge seamlessly into the narrators voice. I wonder if that is grammatically right or it happens to be just another aesthetic aspect of the book. The plot is hazy, the characters lack any goal or agenda. They just exist among other things. The entire book is about one image : that of isolation. A profound isolation brings along with it a profound chaos. One that can't be tolerated or brought back to equilibrium. Hence, the book aptly starts and ends in chaos.
The characters in this story are distracted by their surroundings. They flit between reality and their imagined words. The story stands out in my memory for its incoherence. There is no plan for the protagonist in this story Irene. Her complex love and self conversations amaze me. The images and comparisons of objects that Muller paints vis-a- vis Irene's moods/ emotions is are brilliant.
"Irene pushed up her sleeve. She looked at her watch. Instead of dials , Irene saw an endless connection on the dial. A jerky movement that distributing itself equally over things that were present and people who were absent."
She is in conflict with her old self and present. Her love for a younger Franz and bisexual Thomas entangle her in a conundrum. The image that Muller creates in the end where Irene is unable to distinguish the two faces and the words spoken created a vivid image inside my head.
I also love the strangers in the background that Muller describes in a quirky way. Strangers are a compass for Irene in the story. At some point she says : "Irene knew that a time would come when the dead and the living would be equally divided." She views herself as a flawed being who is unable to come to terms with the changing world around her.
I would read this book again for its images and chaos. A beautiful chaos with a dark shade of sorrow painted all over it.
July 15, 2018
The writing is poetic, like all HM writings and this is what attracts me to her books. The female character is really someone with no history, we are just immersed into her emotions, thoughts and sensations. It is as if we are transferred behind her eyes and we start seeing the world as Irene. Just as abruptly we leave her, when the book ends. What do we discover? That someone in transition, who just left a communist country for West Berlin, is really suspended between worlds. There is no euphoria of finding freedom or abundance, as we would imagine. Rather she is a hyper - perceiving person, alone, trying to connect with a man or another that she meets by chance, who lives in a dream like state, observing things around her that remain invisible for regular people. You feel like she went through something that really traumatized her, but we are never sure if that really happened or is just her hyper emotional tendencies at play. She is also very non selective in respect to people around her. It looks like she has no family or friends and she can accept whoever comes. But her acceptance is partial: it is like her instincts ask her to connect, but her skills prevent her to. I was never sure, while reading this book, if this was a story about emigration, as it was presented, or actually about mental illness and emotional suffering. Or maybe both.
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