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袩芯泻芯褟褌
Tranquility is a living seismograph of the internal quakes and ruptures of a mother and son trapped within an Oedipal nightmare amidst the suffocating totalitarian embrace of Communist Hungary. Andor We茅r, a thirty-six-year-old writer, lives in a cramped apartment with his shut-in mother, Rebeka, who was once among the most celebrated stage actresses in Budapest. Unable to withstand her maniacal tyranny but afraid to leave her alone, their bitter interdependence spirals into a Sartrian hell of hatred, lies, and appeasement. Then Andor meets the beautiful and nurturing Eszter, a woman who seems to have no past, and they fall wildly in love at first sight. With a fulfilling life seemingly within reach for the first time, Andor decides that he is ready to bring Eszter home to meet Mother. Though Bartis鈥檚 characters are unrepentantly neurotic and dressed in the blackest humor, his empathy for them is profound. A political farce of the highest ironic order, concluding that "freedom is a condition unsuitable for humans," Tranquility is ultimately, at its splanchnic core, a complex psychodrama turned inside out, revealing with visceral splendor the grotesque notion that there鈥檚 nothing funnier than unhappiness.
273 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2001
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About the author
Attila Bartis
14听books97听followersAttila Bartis s-a nascut in 1968 la Tirgu-Mures. In 1984 s-a mutat, impreuna cu familia sa, in Ungaria, iar in prezent traieste la Budapesta. Este un fotograf reputat si, totodata, unul dintre cei mai cunoscuti si mai apreciati scriitori maghiari ai momentului, cartile sale fiind traduse in numeroase limbi. A debutat in 1995 cu romanul A seta (Plimbarea), urmat de volumul de povestiri A keklo para (Ceata albastruie, 1998) si de romanele A nyugalom (Tihna, 2001), adaptat pentru scena si marele ecran si tradus in rom芒neste in 2006, cu un succes considerabil in rindurile cititorilor, si A Lazar Apokrifek (Apocrifele lui Lazar, 2005). Attila Bartis a fost distins cu premiile Tibor Dery (1997), Sandor Marai (2002) si Attila Jozsef (2005)
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January 16, 2023
賰丕賳 賲賳 丕賱賲購賲賰賳 兀賳 鬲賳丕賱 孬賱丕孬丞 賳噩賵賲 賵賱賰賳賴丕 兀賯乇亘 廿賱賶 賳噩賲鬲賷賳 賵賳氐賮.. 賵丕爻鬲賯乇賷鬲 毓賱賶 賳噩賲鬲丕賳 亘爻亘亘 丕賱毓丿丿 丕賱賰亘賷乇 賵丕賱賲購爻鬲賮夭 賲賳 賰賱賲丞 (賮賰乇鬲) 丿丕禺賱 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞.. 賮賰乇鬲.
爻賱爻賱丞 廿亘丿丕毓丕鬲 毓丕賱賲賷丞 賱賴丕 爻丨乇 禺丕氐.. 毓賳丿 氐丿賵乇 毓丿丿 賲賳賴丕 賱丕 兀爻鬲胤賷毓 賲購賯丕賵賲丞 賳賮爻賷 賵兀噩丿 賳賮爻賷 兀賯鬲賳賷 丕賱毓丿丿 賵禺氐賵氐丕賸 亘兀賳 爻毓乇賴 夭賴賷丿 賱賱睾丕賷丞.. 賮賱丕 賷賵噩丿 兀囟乇丕乇.. 氐丨賷丨責
睾賷乇 氐丨賷丨 賱賱丌爻賮 丕賱卮丿賷丿.
禺丿毓鬲賳賷 賳亘匕丞 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 丕賱亘乇丕賯丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲毓丿賰 亘丕賱賰孬賷乇 賵丕賱賰孬賷乇.. 兀賳賴丕 兀賰孬乇 乇賵丕賷丞 卮賴賷乇丞 賮賷 丕賱賲噩乇.. 鬲購乇噩賲鬲 廿賱賶 兀賰孬乇 賲賳 孬賱丕孬賷賳 賱購睾丞.. 孬賲 兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賵賮鬲乇丞 丕爻鬲亘丿丕丿 丕賱丨夭亘 丕賱賵丕丨丿.. 賰購賱 匕賱賰 賷噩毓賱賰 鬲卮毓乇 兀賳賰 爻鬲賯乇兀 乇賵丕賷丞 爻賷丕爻賷丞 丨乇亘賷丞 廿噩鬲賲丕毓賷丞 賲賳 丕賱毓賷丕乇 丕賱孬賯賷賱.. 鬲購乇噩賲鬲 廿賱賶 孬賱丕孬賷賳 賱購睾丞 賷丕 氐丿賷賯賷!
賱兀賰鬲卮賮 丕賱氐丿賲丞 丕賱丨賯賷賯賷丞.. 賱丕 賷賵噩丿 毓賱丕賯丞 亘賷賳 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賵亘賷賳 丕賱爻賷丕爻丞 賵賮鬲乇丞 丕爻鬲亘丿丕丿 丕賱丨夭亘 丕賱賵丕丨丿.. 賮賯胤 賰丕賳鬲 鬲兀鬲賷 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱爻賷丕爻賷丞 賲購賯丨賲丞 毓賳賵丞 丿丕禺賱 兀丨丿丕孬 乇賵丕賷鬲賳丕.. 賰丕賳 賷購賲賰賳 鬲噩賳亘賴丕 亘丕賱胤亘毓.. 賵賱賰賳 乇購亘賲丕 賰丕賳 賱賴丕 鬲丌孬賷乇 兀賰亘乇 毓賳丿 丕賱賲噩乇賷賷賳.
賳毓賲貙 賮丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 亘兀丨丿丕孬賴丕 亘鬲賮丕氐賷賱賴丕 丕賱爻賷丕爻賷丞 丕賱囟卅賷賱丞 賵丕賱廿噩鬲賲丕毓賷丞 丕賱賰孬賷乇丞 賵鬲賮丕氐賷賱 丕賱兀賲丕賰賳 賵丕賱丨賯亘丞 丕賱夭賲賳賷丞 賯丿 鬲賰賵賳 賲丐孬乇丞 噩丿丕賸 賱兀賴賱 丕賱亘賱丿 賳賮爻賴丕.. 賱賰賵賳賴賲 毓丕卮賵丕 賴匕丕 丕賱賲丕囟賷.. 兀賵 爻賲毓賵丕 兀賵 賯乇兀賵丕 毓賳賴..
賮賲丕匕丕 賯丿賲鬲 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賱賯丕乇卅 賲孬賱賷 賱丕 賷毓乇賮 卮賷亍 毓賳 丕賱亘賱丿 廿賱丕 賱賲丕賲丕賸責
賱丕 卮卅.. 賲丕 夭賱鬲 兀噩賴賱 賰賱 卮賷亍.. 賮賯胤 亘毓囟 丕賱賲毓賱賵賲丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 賱丕 鬲卮賮賷 賵賱丕 鬲購爻賲賳 賲賳 噩賵毓.
賵賱賰賳 賲丕 氐亘乇賳賷 毓賱賶 廿賰賲丕賱 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 廿賱賶 丌禺乇 氐賮丨丞.. 亘賰賱 賯賵丞 氐亘乇 賵鬲丨賲賱 賰丕賳鬲 卮禺氐賷丕鬲 乇賵丕賷鬲賳丕.. 賵賮賰乇鬲賴丕 丕賱噩賷丿丞 胤亘毓丕賸.
賮丕賱卮禺氐賷丕鬲 賵丕賱鬲毓賯賷丿丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 乇爻賲賴丕 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 亘乇丕毓丞 賰丕賳鬲 兀賮囟賱 賲丕 賮賷 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞.. (賰丕鬲亘) 賱賲 賳毓乇賮 丕爻賲賴 賷毓賷卮 賲毓 賵丕賱丿鬲賴 丕賱賲購賲孬賱丞 丕賱賲爻乇丨賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲賲 賳賮賷賴丕 禺丕乇噩 丕賱賲噩丕賱 賱爻賮乇 丕亘賳鬲賴丕 禺丕乇噩 丕賱亘賱丕丿 賵廿毓鬲亘丕乇賴丕 賱賷爻鬲 賵胤賳賷丞.
廿賱賶 丕賱丿乇噩丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲噩毓賱 丕賱兀賲 鬲購賯賷賲 噩購孬賲丕賳 賱丕亘賳鬲賴丕.. 賱賰賷 鬲購孬亘鬲 賱賱賰賱.. 兀賳丕 賵胤賳賷丞 賱賱睾丕賷丞.. 兀賳馗乇 賱賯丿 丿賮賳鬲 丕亘賳鬲賷.. 丕亘賳鬲賷 丕賱鬲賷 鬲毓賷卮 賮賷 丕賱禺丕乇噩 丿賮賳鬲賴丕!
毓賱丕賯丞 (丕賱賰丕鬲亘) 亘丨亘賷鬲賴 (丌爻鬲乇) 兀賷囟丕賸 賱賲 鬲禺賱賵 賲賳 丕賱鬲毓賯賷丿 亘爻亘亘 丨丕賱丞 (丌爻鬲乇) 丕賱氐丨賷丞.. 賵禺購亘丕賱 賵丕賱丿丞 (丕賱賰丕鬲亘) 丕賱鬲賷 賰丕賳鬲 鬲賰乇賴 (丌爻鬲乇).. 賮賷 丕賱丨賯賷賯丞.. 賴賷 賰丕賳鬲 鬲賰乇賴 賰購賱 卮卅!
丕爻賲 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賰丕賳 (丕賱爻賰賷賳丞) 賵毓賳丿賲丕 賮賰乇鬲 賯賱賷賱丕賸 賱賲丕匕丕 賴匕丕 丕賱丕爻賲.. 賵噩丿鬲 丕賱廿噩丕亘丞..
賰購賱 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 賰丕賳鬲 鬲購爻乇丿 賰丕賳鬲 賰丕賱爻賰賷賳丞.. 賲賴賲丕 賰丕賳鬲 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 賲購鬲賮噩乇丞 賲賳 賲購卮丕丿丕鬲 賰賱丕賲賷丞 賲孬賱丕賸 賵賱賰賳賰 鬲卮毓乇 亘丕賱賴丿賵亍 乇睾賲 匕賱賰..
丕賱爻賰賷賳丞 丕賱鬲賷 賰丕賳 賲賳 丕賱賲購賮鬲乇囟 兀賳 亘胤賱賳丕 (丕賱賰丕鬲亘) 賵氐賱 廿賱賷賴丕 賮賷 丕賱賳賴丕賷丞.. 亘毓丿賲丕 鬲丨乇乇 賲賳 賯賷賵丿賴 丕賱兀爻乇賷丞 賵丕賱睾乇丕賲賷丞.
賱賱丌爻賮 賰丕賳鬲 鬲噩乇亘丞 睾賷乇 賲購乇囟賷丞 亘丕賱賳爻亘丞 賱賷..
乇購亘賲丕 亘爻亘亘 兀賳賳賷 賯丿 亘丕賱睾鬲 賮賷 鬲賵賯毓丕鬲賷.. 乇購亘賲丕 亘爻亘亘 兀賳 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 賰丕賳鬲 鬲丨鬲丕噩 賲賳賰 賲噩賴賵丿丕賸 賰亘賷乇丕賸 賱兀賳 鬲賯乇兀賴丕 賵鬲購鬲丕亘毓 賲毓賴丕 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬.. 乇購亘賲丕 亘爻亘亘 兀賳 鬲賯爻賷賲 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賱賲 賷賰賳 賲賵噩賵丿丕賸 賮賱賲 鬲賰賳 賮氐賵賱丕賸 賵賱賰賳 賰丕賳 爻乇丿 賲鬲賵丕氐賱 胤賵賷賱 賷鬲禺賱賱賴 亘毓囟 丕賱賲丨丕丿孬丕鬲.. 爻乇丿 兀乇亘賰賰 兀丨賷丕賳丕賸 亘丕賱匕賴丕亘 廿賱賶 丕賱賲丕囟賷 賵丕賱毓賵丿丞 賲賳賴 丿賵賳 兀賷 鬲賳亘賷賴 兀賵 賮氐賱.. 賮賰丕賳 匕賱賰 賰丕賮賷丕賸 賱賷購乇亘賰賰.
賵賱兀賳賳賷 兀賷囟丕賸 賱賲 兀噩丿 賮賷 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 毓賳賵丕賳賴丕.
爻賱爻賱丞 廿亘丿丕毓丕鬲 毓丕賱賲賷丞 賱賴丕 爻丨乇 禺丕氐.. 毓賳丿 氐丿賵乇 毓丿丿 賲賳賴丕 賱丕 兀爻鬲胤賷毓 賲購賯丕賵賲丞 賳賮爻賷 賵兀噩丿 賳賮爻賷 兀賯鬲賳賷 丕賱毓丿丿 賵禺氐賵氐丕賸 亘兀賳 爻毓乇賴 夭賴賷丿 賱賱睾丕賷丞.. 賮賱丕 賷賵噩丿 兀囟乇丕乇.. 氐丨賷丨責
睾賷乇 氐丨賷丨 賱賱丌爻賮 丕賱卮丿賷丿.
禺丿毓鬲賳賷 賳亘匕丞 丕賱賰鬲丕亘 丕賱亘乇丕賯丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲毓丿賰 亘丕賱賰孬賷乇 賵丕賱賰孬賷乇.. 兀賳賴丕 兀賰孬乇 乇賵丕賷丞 卮賴賷乇丞 賮賷 丕賱賲噩乇.. 鬲購乇噩賲鬲 廿賱賶 兀賰孬乇 賲賳 孬賱丕孬賷賳 賱購睾丞.. 孬賲 兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賵賮鬲乇丞 丕爻鬲亘丿丕丿 丕賱丨夭亘 丕賱賵丕丨丿.. 賰購賱 匕賱賰 賷噩毓賱賰 鬲卮毓乇 兀賳賰 爻鬲賯乇兀 乇賵丕賷丞 爻賷丕爻賷丞 丨乇亘賷丞 廿噩鬲賲丕毓賷丞 賲賳 丕賱毓賷丕乇 丕賱孬賯賷賱.. 鬲購乇噩賲鬲 廿賱賶 孬賱丕孬賷賳 賱購睾丞 賷丕 氐丿賷賯賷!
賱兀賰鬲卮賮 丕賱氐丿賲丞 丕賱丨賯賷賯賷丞.. 賱丕 賷賵噩丿 毓賱丕賯丞 亘賷賳 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賵亘賷賳 丕賱爻賷丕爻丞 賵賮鬲乇丞 丕爻鬲亘丿丕丿 丕賱丨夭亘 丕賱賵丕丨丿.. 賮賯胤 賰丕賳鬲 鬲兀鬲賷 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱爻賷丕爻賷丞 賲購賯丨賲丞 毓賳賵丞 丿丕禺賱 兀丨丿丕孬 乇賵丕賷鬲賳丕.. 賰丕賳 賷購賲賰賳 鬲噩賳亘賴丕 亘丕賱胤亘毓.. 賵賱賰賳 乇購亘賲丕 賰丕賳 賱賴丕 鬲丌孬賷乇 兀賰亘乇 毓賳丿 丕賱賲噩乇賷賷賳.
賳毓賲貙 賮丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 亘兀丨丿丕孬賴丕 亘鬲賮丕氐賷賱賴丕 丕賱爻賷丕爻賷丞 丕賱囟卅賷賱丞 賵丕賱廿噩鬲賲丕毓賷丞 丕賱賰孬賷乇丞 賵鬲賮丕氐賷賱 丕賱兀賲丕賰賳 賵丕賱丨賯亘丞 丕賱夭賲賳賷丞 賯丿 鬲賰賵賳 賲丐孬乇丞 噩丿丕賸 賱兀賴賱 丕賱亘賱丿 賳賮爻賴丕.. 賱賰賵賳賴賲 毓丕卮賵丕 賴匕丕 丕賱賲丕囟賷.. 兀賵 爻賲毓賵丕 兀賵 賯乇兀賵丕 毓賳賴..
賮賲丕匕丕 賯丿賲鬲 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賱賯丕乇卅 賲孬賱賷 賱丕 賷毓乇賮 卮賷亍 毓賳 丕賱亘賱丿 廿賱丕 賱賲丕賲丕賸責
賱丕 卮卅.. 賲丕 夭賱鬲 兀噩賴賱 賰賱 卮賷亍.. 賮賯胤 亘毓囟 丕賱賲毓賱賵賲丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 賱丕 鬲卮賮賷 賵賱丕 鬲購爻賲賳 賲賳 噩賵毓.
賵賱賰賳 賲丕 氐亘乇賳賷 毓賱賶 廿賰賲丕賱 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 廿賱賶 丌禺乇 氐賮丨丞.. 亘賰賱 賯賵丞 氐亘乇 賵鬲丨賲賱 賰丕賳鬲 卮禺氐賷丕鬲 乇賵丕賷鬲賳丕.. 賵賮賰乇鬲賴丕 丕賱噩賷丿丞 胤亘毓丕賸.
賮丕賱卮禺氐賷丕鬲 賵丕賱鬲毓賯賷丿丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 乇爻賲賴丕 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 亘乇丕毓丞 賰丕賳鬲 兀賮囟賱 賲丕 賮賷 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞.. (賰丕鬲亘) 賱賲 賳毓乇賮 丕爻賲賴 賷毓賷卮 賲毓 賵丕賱丿鬲賴 丕賱賲購賲孬賱丞 丕賱賲爻乇丨賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲賲 賳賮賷賴丕 禺丕乇噩 丕賱賲噩丕賱 賱爻賮乇 丕亘賳鬲賴丕 禺丕乇噩 丕賱亘賱丕丿 賵廿毓鬲亘丕乇賴丕 賱賷爻鬲 賵胤賳賷丞.
廿賱賶 丕賱丿乇噩丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲噩毓賱 丕賱兀賲 鬲購賯賷賲 噩購孬賲丕賳 賱丕亘賳鬲賴丕.. 賱賰賷 鬲購孬亘鬲 賱賱賰賱.. 兀賳丕 賵胤賳賷丞 賱賱睾丕賷丞.. 兀賳馗乇 賱賯丿 丿賮賳鬲 丕亘賳鬲賷.. 丕亘賳鬲賷 丕賱鬲賷 鬲毓賷卮 賮賷 丕賱禺丕乇噩 丿賮賳鬲賴丕!
毓賱丕賯丞 (丕賱賰丕鬲亘) 亘丨亘賷鬲賴 (丌爻鬲乇) 兀賷囟丕賸 賱賲 鬲禺賱賵 賲賳 丕賱鬲毓賯賷丿 亘爻亘亘 丨丕賱丞 (丌爻鬲乇) 丕賱氐丨賷丞.. 賵禺購亘丕賱 賵丕賱丿丞 (丕賱賰丕鬲亘) 丕賱鬲賷 賰丕賳鬲 鬲賰乇賴 (丌爻鬲乇).. 賮賷 丕賱丨賯賷賯丞.. 賴賷 賰丕賳鬲 鬲賰乇賴 賰購賱 卮卅!
丕爻賲 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賰丕賳 (丕賱爻賰賷賳丞) 賵毓賳丿賲丕 賮賰乇鬲 賯賱賷賱丕賸 賱賲丕匕丕 賴匕丕 丕賱丕爻賲.. 賵噩丿鬲 丕賱廿噩丕亘丞..
賰購賱 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 賰丕賳鬲 鬲購爻乇丿 賰丕賳鬲 賰丕賱爻賰賷賳丞.. 賲賴賲丕 賰丕賳鬲 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬 賲購鬲賮噩乇丞 賲賳 賲購卮丕丿丕鬲 賰賱丕賲賷丞 賲孬賱丕賸 賵賱賰賳賰 鬲卮毓乇 亘丕賱賴丿賵亍 乇睾賲 匕賱賰..
丕賱爻賰賷賳丞 丕賱鬲賷 賰丕賳 賲賳 丕賱賲購賮鬲乇囟 兀賳 亘胤賱賳丕 (丕賱賰丕鬲亘) 賵氐賱 廿賱賷賴丕 賮賷 丕賱賳賴丕賷丞.. 亘毓丿賲丕 鬲丨乇乇 賲賳 賯賷賵丿賴 丕賱兀爻乇賷丞 賵丕賱睾乇丕賲賷丞.
賱賱丌爻賮 賰丕賳鬲 鬲噩乇亘丞 睾賷乇 賲購乇囟賷丞 亘丕賱賳爻亘丞 賱賷..
乇購亘賲丕 亘爻亘亘 兀賳賳賷 賯丿 亘丕賱睾鬲 賮賷 鬲賵賯毓丕鬲賷.. 乇購亘賲丕 亘爻亘亘 兀賳 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 賰丕賳鬲 鬲丨鬲丕噩 賲賳賰 賲噩賴賵丿丕賸 賰亘賷乇丕賸 賱兀賳 鬲賯乇兀賴丕 賵鬲購鬲丕亘毓 賲毓賴丕 丕賱兀丨丿丕孬.. 乇購亘賲丕 亘爻亘亘 兀賳 鬲賯爻賷賲 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賱賲 賷賰賳 賲賵噩賵丿丕賸 賮賱賲 鬲賰賳 賮氐賵賱丕賸 賵賱賰賳 賰丕賳 爻乇丿 賲鬲賵丕氐賱 胤賵賷賱 賷鬲禺賱賱賴 亘毓囟 丕賱賲丨丕丿孬丕鬲.. 爻乇丿 兀乇亘賰賰 兀丨賷丕賳丕賸 亘丕賱匕賴丕亘 廿賱賶 丕賱賲丕囟賷 賵丕賱毓賵丿丞 賲賳賴 丿賵賳 兀賷 鬲賳亘賷賴 兀賵 賮氐賱.. 賮賰丕賳 匕賱賰 賰丕賮賷丕賸 賱賷購乇亘賰賰.
賵賱兀賳賳賷 兀賷囟丕賸 賱賲 兀噩丿 賮賷 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 毓賳賵丕賳賴丕.
April 30, 2024
Cititorul 鈥済eneric鈥� de pe 欧宝娱乐, lesne de oripilat 卯n gusturile sale fade, facile, de milenial (sau Z) corect politic - prin intermediul c膬rora el/ea s-a obi葯nuit s膬 鈥渏udece鈥� literatura, ar spune: 鈥� vai, ce personaje antipatice are 鈥淭ihna鈥�, ac葲iunea nu 鈥渃urge鈥� 卯n nici o direc葲ie, n-am reu葯颈t s膬 deslu葯esc subiectul, iar atunci c芒nd cartea se 卯ncheie ea pare s膬 nu se 卯ncheie cu adev膬rat!
Eu spun: romanul 膬sta e resping膬tor, familiar, profund 葯颈 ispititor ca o boal膬 psihic膬! Prive葯ti 卯n el 葯颈 el - 卯n tine 葯颈 ceva din tine se sf芒葯颈e, 卯mp膬r葲it 卯ntre dezgust 葯颈 fascina葲ie, lipindu-se definitiv de paginile sale. P芒n膬 la proxima lectur膬 - ce, astfel, devine o necesitate! Necesitatea de a te reg膬si 卯n acele mici f芒葯颈i din tine r膬mase ag膬葲ate, uscate & presate, 卯n paginile c膬r葲ii.
Iat膬-m膬 revenind a doua oar膬 la 鈥淭ihna鈥�, 卯n mai bine de zece ani, 葯颈 iat膬 cartea 鈥渞ezist芒nd鈥� magistral!
Scriitorii 鈥渕ei鈥� maghiari, to葲i unul 葯颈 unul: M谩rai, Bartis, Kert茅sz, P茅ter N谩das, P茅ter Esterh谩zy, Gy枚rgy Konr谩d... 脦ntoarcerea la ei este, pentru mine, 卯ntoarcerea la o epoc膬 a lecturilor semnificative (=vremea 卯n care 卯mi selectam cu un mult mai bun fler c膬r葲ile de citit 葯颈 fiecare carte devenea, 卯n felul 膬sta, un eveniment).
Eu spun: romanul 膬sta e resping膬tor, familiar, profund 葯颈 ispititor ca o boal膬 psihic膬! Prive葯ti 卯n el 葯颈 el - 卯n tine 葯颈 ceva din tine se sf芒葯颈e, 卯mp膬r葲it 卯ntre dezgust 葯颈 fascina葲ie, lipindu-se definitiv de paginile sale. P芒n膬 la proxima lectur膬 - ce, astfel, devine o necesitate! Necesitatea de a te reg膬si 卯n acele mici f芒葯颈i din tine r膬mase ag膬葲ate, uscate & presate, 卯n paginile c膬r葲ii.
Iat膬-m膬 revenind a doua oar膬 la 鈥淭ihna鈥�, 卯n mai bine de zece ani, 葯颈 iat膬 cartea 鈥渞ezist芒nd鈥� magistral!
Scriitorii 鈥渕ei鈥� maghiari, to葲i unul 葯颈 unul: M谩rai, Bartis, Kert茅sz, P茅ter N谩das, P茅ter Esterh谩zy, Gy枚rgy Konr谩d... 脦ntoarcerea la ei este, pentru mine, 卯ntoarcerea la o epoc膬 a lecturilor semnificative (=vremea 卯n care 卯mi selectam cu un mult mai bun fler c膬r葲ile de citit 葯颈 fiecare carte devenea, 卯n felul 膬sta, un eveniment).
January 8, 2012
First, a personal story from my childhood that I swear is relevant to this book review. (I know! A CHILDHOOD story on top of everything else.)
Psycho IV is the story of the romantic stirrings between teenaged Norman Bates and his ever consuming mama. The energizer battery of nagging. The boy that bunny cum battery needs to be inserted into the back for it to go and going. Everyone knows this story. It was dirty. We didn't have the good cable channels (in hindsight there was probably no such thing as good cable. For the sake of this story I'll just point out that I was unpopular in middle school because I could not discuss the finer points of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. If I tried to fake it I would be found out, like a nerd mixing up football and baseball. "Carlton isn't the cool one?!"). One month, though, we had a free movie channel. We taped from the tv Psycho IV (and Not Without My Daughter. That was good for knowing what to do if you ever married Alfred Molina and moved to live in Iran with his tyrannical family). We saw Psycho IV many times both because it was one of the movies we had and because it was addicting. And I was a pervert. Norman is in love with his mother! "She secretly wants him to want her and then she is going to use her religious guilt to torture him! This is the best movie ever!" Every agonizing detail. Fast Times at Ridgemont High didn't have this much teen lust. Our mother noticed what was going on and we had to have "the talk". So my mother sat us daughters down (maybe it wasn't all together. This conversation would be repeated in later years) and warned us about the dangers in dating mama's boys. My mother was right about this. Estzer must not have had the talk.
I've got bookshelves for all of this. You can see them at the top of this review. (There's also a teeny tiny hint of twincest but it's not much more than a flavor like the after taste of artificial sweeteners.) My shelves tell the story.
"It's always easier for people above whom the sky is still empty than for those who have already planted their own caricature up there." Someone says this to Ander and it pretty much sums up his whole life, as far as I'm concerned (I'm a painter like the blamed Ace in the Alice cartoon). The caricature in his sky is his mother. If you have ever known someone who has what they call a cult of personality? That's his mother.
Why I liked Tranquility so much: It's not about his mother. I was not cuckoo for her cuckoo puffs. The bitch is crazy. Move aside. No, I mean it! My mom warned me about women like you! And their sons! Her son lives with her in the communist and post communist Hungarian apartment that she never leaves. She's the skeleton in the closet AND the crazy relative in the attic (I'm from the American south and all of this is supposed to be common to us. To this I say I've never committed any acts of incest. There was that cousin that kind of stalked us but that doesn't count). She was an actress, before. Her bouquets were mandatory from the audience and from her children (same thing, really). What do you do when there's a curfew (wherehaveyoubeenson?) and you can't get out of your seat? End credits. Tears are scripted and it doesn't get better on repeat nights. Ander has a twin sister, Judit. Judit is caught in the stage lights. It's a moment before the stage bow and you don't know if there's going to be rotten tomatoes or "Encore!" Ander is standing in the middle of the road and won't get out of the way when it is clear to everyone screaming "Get out of the fucking way!" that a semi truck is coming and going to squash him flat. I was moved by the standing still. Mariel, you shouldn't be heading off into lights analogy land. Tranquility is dark! But it's the you aren't gonna move out of the way dark. That's a different kind of dark, Mariel. I thought it was special for that. The mom wasn't powerful because she was some super glamorous figure. I kind of hate that in books, when some person justifies this because the mom was so good looking or wore good clothes (for an example off the top of my head see The Liar's Club or anything ever written by V.C. Andrews). He shut his eyes and let her paint the sky. Bambi's mother was killed and his lives forever in the headlights (like, um, a deer). Great!
"You won't find a single corpse in this cemetery that hadn't lived his or her life as a potential suicide. All that happened was that some little thing got in the way: cancer or carpet bombing or premature aging. There was simply no time to fill the quota of lying and to get disgusted enough with oneself." (Judit says this.)
Tranquility is the time and space filling of lies. Disgust is on it's heels, always. I found it special how all the catching up was in a sort of time loop in his brain and the narrative. You can look if you can't touch and you can touch if you don't look, sort of. I'm nuts about this what you're afraid to move away from thoughts that I can get a sense of without the author just straight out telling me what it is. I'm really happy when it works as well as this. This guy doesn't want to change the colors of the sky. It's like when you tell someone why the sky is blue and they think you're a hopeless idiot for even bringing it up.
In my head I had this review of this book that was about the other Weers they searched for in phone books. Post marks from the fake letters sent to their mother as Judit but really Ander. I don't remember any of it now. Geographical lines. Communist Hungary. Look, it's an all new country now. Or maybe it's not. Something about a thumbtack on a map and saying this is where I am. We all look like ants! Damn it, I don't remember how it went now. It was going to reflect on the romantic tracing of where everybody else has been. How heavy it feels like when something is too heavy on top of you and you don't mind the pressure as you should.
My head also had this thing about homosexuals living under communism. I get the impression it was really fucking harsh to be gay in Hungary. Take the five years prison sentence in Russia and Hungary raises you likely death. (I'm back to hating Janusz Bardach again. Remember when I reviewed that? He was all like the gays were happy to be in prison 'cause their punishment was to be locked up with sex. What a dick!)
The other reviews say that this is dark dark. Like the Samuel Beckett bleak scale that Paul Bryant made up. I'm gonna go with it being the kind of dark if there's something in you that won't get up and turn on the light. That's not hopeless feeling or balloons of despair dropped down on me from above (blue skies). It's interesting to see why someone wouldn't want to. The hounds of hell are yapping. He doesn't know to run! I didn't feel influenced to do it too. I feel influenced to watch and not scream "Get out of the way!". Oh, wait.
P.s. Bad things happen to twins and birds in this book.
Psycho IV is the story of the romantic stirrings between teenaged Norman Bates and his ever consuming mama. The energizer battery of nagging. The boy that bunny cum battery needs to be inserted into the back for it to go and going. Everyone knows this story. It was dirty. We didn't have the good cable channels (in hindsight there was probably no such thing as good cable. For the sake of this story I'll just point out that I was unpopular in middle school because I could not discuss the finer points of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. If I tried to fake it I would be found out, like a nerd mixing up football and baseball. "Carlton isn't the cool one?!"). One month, though, we had a free movie channel. We taped from the tv Psycho IV (and Not Without My Daughter. That was good for knowing what to do if you ever married Alfred Molina and moved to live in Iran with his tyrannical family). We saw Psycho IV many times both because it was one of the movies we had and because it was addicting. And I was a pervert. Norman is in love with his mother! "She secretly wants him to want her and then she is going to use her religious guilt to torture him! This is the best movie ever!" Every agonizing detail. Fast Times at Ridgemont High didn't have this much teen lust. Our mother noticed what was going on and we had to have "the talk". So my mother sat us daughters down (maybe it wasn't all together. This conversation would be repeated in later years) and warned us about the dangers in dating mama's boys. My mother was right about this. Estzer must not have had the talk.
I've got bookshelves for all of this. You can see them at the top of this review. (There's also a teeny tiny hint of twincest but it's not much more than a flavor like the after taste of artificial sweeteners.) My shelves tell the story.
"It's always easier for people above whom the sky is still empty than for those who have already planted their own caricature up there." Someone says this to Ander and it pretty much sums up his whole life, as far as I'm concerned (I'm a painter like the blamed Ace in the Alice cartoon). The caricature in his sky is his mother. If you have ever known someone who has what they call a cult of personality? That's his mother.
Why I liked Tranquility so much: It's not about his mother. I was not cuckoo for her cuckoo puffs. The bitch is crazy. Move aside. No, I mean it! My mom warned me about women like you! And their sons! Her son lives with her in the communist and post communist Hungarian apartment that she never leaves. She's the skeleton in the closet AND the crazy relative in the attic (I'm from the American south and all of this is supposed to be common to us. To this I say I've never committed any acts of incest. There was that cousin that kind of stalked us but that doesn't count). She was an actress, before. Her bouquets were mandatory from the audience and from her children (same thing, really). What do you do when there's a curfew (wherehaveyoubeenson?) and you can't get out of your seat? End credits. Tears are scripted and it doesn't get better on repeat nights. Ander has a twin sister, Judit. Judit is caught in the stage lights. It's a moment before the stage bow and you don't know if there's going to be rotten tomatoes or "Encore!" Ander is standing in the middle of the road and won't get out of the way when it is clear to everyone screaming "Get out of the fucking way!" that a semi truck is coming and going to squash him flat. I was moved by the standing still. Mariel, you shouldn't be heading off into lights analogy land. Tranquility is dark! But it's the you aren't gonna move out of the way dark. That's a different kind of dark, Mariel. I thought it was special for that. The mom wasn't powerful because she was some super glamorous figure. I kind of hate that in books, when some person justifies this because the mom was so good looking or wore good clothes (for an example off the top of my head see The Liar's Club or anything ever written by V.C. Andrews). He shut his eyes and let her paint the sky. Bambi's mother was killed and his lives forever in the headlights (like, um, a deer). Great!
"You won't find a single corpse in this cemetery that hadn't lived his or her life as a potential suicide. All that happened was that some little thing got in the way: cancer or carpet bombing or premature aging. There was simply no time to fill the quota of lying and to get disgusted enough with oneself." (Judit says this.)
Tranquility is the time and space filling of lies. Disgust is on it's heels, always. I found it special how all the catching up was in a sort of time loop in his brain and the narrative. You can look if you can't touch and you can touch if you don't look, sort of. I'm nuts about this what you're afraid to move away from thoughts that I can get a sense of without the author just straight out telling me what it is. I'm really happy when it works as well as this. This guy doesn't want to change the colors of the sky. It's like when you tell someone why the sky is blue and they think you're a hopeless idiot for even bringing it up.
In my head I had this review of this book that was about the other Weers they searched for in phone books. Post marks from the fake letters sent to their mother as Judit but really Ander. I don't remember any of it now. Geographical lines. Communist Hungary. Look, it's an all new country now. Or maybe it's not. Something about a thumbtack on a map and saying this is where I am. We all look like ants! Damn it, I don't remember how it went now. It was going to reflect on the romantic tracing of where everybody else has been. How heavy it feels like when something is too heavy on top of you and you don't mind the pressure as you should.
My head also had this thing about homosexuals living under communism. I get the impression it was really fucking harsh to be gay in Hungary. Take the five years prison sentence in Russia and Hungary raises you likely death. (I'm back to hating Janusz Bardach again. Remember when I reviewed that? He was all like the gays were happy to be in prison 'cause their punishment was to be locked up with sex. What a dick!)
The other reviews say that this is dark dark. Like the Samuel Beckett bleak scale that Paul Bryant made up. I'm gonna go with it being the kind of dark if there's something in you that won't get up and turn on the light. That's not hopeless feeling or balloons of despair dropped down on me from above (blue skies). It's interesting to see why someone wouldn't want to. The hounds of hell are yapping. He doesn't know to run! I didn't feel influenced to do it too. I feel influenced to watch and not scream "Get out of the way!". Oh, wait.
P.s. Bad things happen to twins and birds in this book.
September 15, 2017
Sunt trei c膬r葲i ungure葯ti care m-au impresionat foarte tare: 鈥漊葯a鈥�. 鈥漅ugul鈥� 葯颈 鈥漈ihna..鈥�
鈥滿ult timp am crezut c膬 am cel pu葲in un vis incert 葯颈 confuz despre o anume frumuse葲e 葯颈 ordine, 葯颈 c膬 acest lucru 卯nseamn膬, totu葯颈, ceva, de葯颈 nu. Am citit undeva c膬 sunt oameni care construiesc labirintul, 葯颈 sunt care se r膬t膬cesc prin el.鈥�
鈥漈ot ce 葯tiu despre libertate am aflat atunci c芒nd mi-am luat r膬mas-bun de la madam Ber茅nyi 葯颈 am pornit spre Pia葲a Kalvin. (...) Nu mai avem dorin葲e, pasiuni 葯颈 spaime. Am putea spune: nici scopuri 葯颈 nici lips膬 de scopuri, 葯颈 nici m膬car nu ne mai g芒ndim c膬 acest vacuum deja nu ne mai deranjeaz膬. Libertatea este o stare ciudat膬, mai ales o stare atipic膬. N-are nici o leg膬tur膬 cu nep膬sarea, pentru c膬 asta-i inevitabil cinic膬, la fel, n-are nici o leg膬tur膬 cu starea c芒nd totul 葲i-e indiferent, pentru c膬 卯nd膬r膬tul acesteia stau, totu葯颈, pitite ru葯颈nea sau speran葲a. Dac膬 totul 葲i-e indiferent e 卯nc膬 foarte uman. A葯 putea s膬 spun 葯颈 altfel: libertatea nu este o stare destinat膬 oamenilor.鈥�
Minunat膬 scriitur膬!
鈥滿ult timp am crezut c膬 am cel pu葲in un vis incert 葯颈 confuz despre o anume frumuse葲e 葯颈 ordine, 葯颈 c膬 acest lucru 卯nseamn膬, totu葯颈, ceva, de葯颈 nu. Am citit undeva c膬 sunt oameni care construiesc labirintul, 葯颈 sunt care se r膬t膬cesc prin el.鈥�
鈥漈ot ce 葯tiu despre libertate am aflat atunci c芒nd mi-am luat r膬mas-bun de la madam Ber茅nyi 葯颈 am pornit spre Pia葲a Kalvin. (...) Nu mai avem dorin葲e, pasiuni 葯颈 spaime. Am putea spune: nici scopuri 葯颈 nici lips膬 de scopuri, 葯颈 nici m膬car nu ne mai g芒ndim c膬 acest vacuum deja nu ne mai deranjeaz膬. Libertatea este o stare ciudat膬, mai ales o stare atipic膬. N-are nici o leg膬tur膬 cu nep膬sarea, pentru c膬 asta-i inevitabil cinic膬, la fel, n-are nici o leg膬tur膬 cu starea c芒nd totul 葲i-e indiferent, pentru c膬 卯nd膬r膬tul acesteia stau, totu葯颈, pitite ru葯颈nea sau speran葲a. Dac膬 totul 葲i-e indiferent e 卯nc膬 foarte uman. A葯 putea s膬 spun 葯颈 altfel: libertatea nu este o stare destinat膬 oamenilor.鈥�
Minunat膬 scriitur膬!
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February 6, 2024> Origins and Limits of Bathos
This is a squalid, obscene, continuously dark story of a disturbed family. There are abyssal moments of perversion, neurosis, psychosis, and delusion that can also be found in many sentimental North American novels of the sort publicized by Oprah, but this book is different. The Romanian-born Hungarian author is very much of his time and place: there is mordant black humor (made familiar in Kundera, but closer to the sharper postmodern humor in more recent Czech writing like Viewegh's); routine admissions of debilitating moral weakness (in the end, an inheritance of Beckett); eastern-European style surrealism (a whore with twenty birds, who also poisons birds in her spare time); compulsively disgusting inventories of bodily fluids (lots of stains, smells, and sticky fingers); a remnant of Soviet-era paranoia and disaffection about government and the church; and a post-structural dedication to a lack of progress or any passing melioration (the character never really tries to understand himself). In short: no American sentimentality, no American moral for self-improvement. In that, Bartis is more like A.L. Kennedy than any best seller.
A lack of momentum fits these themes but weakens the book. It is clear that Bartis had the rudiments of a plot--a priest, introduced near the beginning, comes back in the end, and so forth. But after a while there is not much impetus to turn the page, other than to find the next dead-end epiphany. The character doesn't change, even though his only real love affair is the book's central event; and it's clear Bartis wrote this in a series of dissociated one-page bursts. Some of them read like prose poems, and they are separated by asterisms. So the book keeps starting and stopping. That, and the unrelieved gloom, must be the reasons Rivka Galchen describes it as "even Endgame-ish" on the back cover: it is less like Beckett than Naked Lunch.
Another difficulty is that Bartis apparently counts on his readers to feel a strange elation when he confronts them with horrors. That elation is meant to include a bit of laughter: we are shocked, we shiver and laugh, and then we take some comfort in having looked, at least for a moment, at something lightless. The main character has spent fifteen years living at home with his reclusive mother after his sister abandoned them; his mother had bought a plot in the cemetery and held a mock funeral in which she buried her daughter's things. The son goes on pretending that his sister is sending their mother letters--he writes the letters himself--and the mother gives the son letters to post to the sister. Toward the end of the book it turns out that all the mother's letters were blank: she knew, all along, that the son was writing letters supposedly from the sister. As this story is revealed, we are meant to be both shocked and amused, and to take some small pleasure in knowing we have now experienced, even if only through an undependable narrator in a novel, something truly repellent about human nature.
But what if these effects don't work? What if I don't laugh? What if I'm not shocked? What if I begin to feel that the plot devices are garish, artificial, and too deliberately disturbing? What if I start wishing I were re-reading Molloy instead? What if I begin to wish that Bartis felt he could communicate his depths without spilled fluids, psychotic breaks, and new categories of squalor?
The book is trapped in the twinned heritage of eastern European realism and surrealism. When effects that are supposed to be perceived as natural seem forced, pathos becomes bathos, and communication appears artificial and staged -- as it always is, but must not, in the romantic and modern novel, ever appear to be.
This is a squalid, obscene, continuously dark story of a disturbed family. There are abyssal moments of perversion, neurosis, psychosis, and delusion that can also be found in many sentimental North American novels of the sort publicized by Oprah, but this book is different. The Romanian-born Hungarian author is very much of his time and place: there is mordant black humor (made familiar in Kundera, but closer to the sharper postmodern humor in more recent Czech writing like Viewegh's); routine admissions of debilitating moral weakness (in the end, an inheritance of Beckett); eastern-European style surrealism (a whore with twenty birds, who also poisons birds in her spare time); compulsively disgusting inventories of bodily fluids (lots of stains, smells, and sticky fingers); a remnant of Soviet-era paranoia and disaffection about government and the church; and a post-structural dedication to a lack of progress or any passing melioration (the character never really tries to understand himself). In short: no American sentimentality, no American moral for self-improvement. In that, Bartis is more like A.L. Kennedy than any best seller.
A lack of momentum fits these themes but weakens the book. It is clear that Bartis had the rudiments of a plot--a priest, introduced near the beginning, comes back in the end, and so forth. But after a while there is not much impetus to turn the page, other than to find the next dead-end epiphany. The character doesn't change, even though his only real love affair is the book's central event; and it's clear Bartis wrote this in a series of dissociated one-page bursts. Some of them read like prose poems, and they are separated by asterisms. So the book keeps starting and stopping. That, and the unrelieved gloom, must be the reasons Rivka Galchen describes it as "even Endgame-ish" on the back cover: it is less like Beckett than Naked Lunch.
Another difficulty is that Bartis apparently counts on his readers to feel a strange elation when he confronts them with horrors. That elation is meant to include a bit of laughter: we are shocked, we shiver and laugh, and then we take some comfort in having looked, at least for a moment, at something lightless. The main character has spent fifteen years living at home with his reclusive mother after his sister abandoned them; his mother had bought a plot in the cemetery and held a mock funeral in which she buried her daughter's things. The son goes on pretending that his sister is sending their mother letters--he writes the letters himself--and the mother gives the son letters to post to the sister. Toward the end of the book it turns out that all the mother's letters were blank: she knew, all along, that the son was writing letters supposedly from the sister. As this story is revealed, we are meant to be both shocked and amused, and to take some small pleasure in knowing we have now experienced, even if only through an undependable narrator in a novel, something truly repellent about human nature.
But what if these effects don't work? What if I don't laugh? What if I'm not shocked? What if I begin to feel that the plot devices are garish, artificial, and too deliberately disturbing? What if I start wishing I were re-reading Molloy instead? What if I begin to wish that Bartis felt he could communicate his depths without spilled fluids, psychotic breaks, and new categories of squalor?
The book is trapped in the twinned heritage of eastern European realism and surrealism. When effects that are supposed to be perceived as natural seem forced, pathos becomes bathos, and communication appears artificial and staged -- as it always is, but must not, in the romantic and modern novel, ever appear to be.
May 1, 2024
Tihna - o nebunie (aproape) s膬lbatic膬, uneori diluat膬 卯nc芒t pare c膬 e din joac膬. O sugestie animalic膬, somnoroas膬, lene葯膬, care pare s膬 (te) a葯tepte de pretutindeni.
E acolo de mult膬 vreme, ml膬葯tinoas膬 葯颈 pervers膬, 葯tii c膬 este, dar nu faci nimic ca s膬 o dai deoparte. Firul nimicului cre葯te 葯颈 se 卯ndese葯te, iar 卯n timpane/卯n moalele capului pare s膬 (卯葲i) spun膬: De ce s膬 nu 卯ncerci 葯颈 asta, asa r膬u cum este? S膬 卯ncerci ce este mai r膬u. Aer sufocant, 卯mbibat de sex 葯颈 de sexualitate, unde nu po葲i, nu vrei s膬 separi obscenitatea de franche葲e. Ra葲ional 葯tii c膬 a葯a nu se poate tr膬i, dar raiul nebunilor e realitatea.
#undeaifostb膬iete? / peundeaiumblatb膬iete? deundeviib膬iete? De fapt, de la dumneata, mam膬.
Cred c膬 (卯mi) este necesar膬 o recitire.
E acolo de mult膬 vreme, ml膬葯tinoas膬 葯颈 pervers膬, 葯tii c膬 este, dar nu faci nimic ca s膬 o dai deoparte. Firul nimicului cre葯te 葯颈 se 卯ndese葯te, iar 卯n timpane/卯n moalele capului pare s膬 (卯葲i) spun膬: De ce s膬 nu 卯ncerci 葯颈 asta, asa r膬u cum este? S膬 卯ncerci ce este mai r膬u. Aer sufocant, 卯mbibat de sex 葯颈 de sexualitate, unde nu po葲i, nu vrei s膬 separi obscenitatea de franche葲e. Ra葲ional 葯tii c膬 a葯a nu se poate tr膬i, dar raiul nebunilor e realitatea.
#undeaifostb膬iete? / peundeaiumblatb膬iete? deundeviib膬iete? De fapt, de la dumneata, mam膬.
Cred c膬 (卯mi) este necesar膬 o recitire.
September 12, 2024
There is nothing tranquil within the pages of 'Tranquility'. The characters are deranged and some of the scenes, particularly the sexual ones, tend to trend toward the obscene. So how does one say this is such a human novel as one of the blurbs on the back of the book states? Well, nobody likes to talk about it, but none of us are as stable as we like to pretend. Bartis is interested in showing the delicate nature of human relationships and the human mind, and he does it with beautiful prose and jarring characters. This is a book that I would never recommend to anyone. Plenty of people would find this offensive, or at the very least disgusting. But that's the point. We are all looking for tranquility, but it is not within human nature to grasp it, or at least hold on to it.
In short, it's best if we imagine that freedom is the kind of condition in which nothing ties us to the world around us. We have no desires, passions, or fears, we might say neither aims nor aimlessness, and we even fail to register that this vacuum no longer bothers us. Freedom is an odd, mainly characterless condition. It has nothing to do with indifference, which is inevitably cynical, and it has nothing to do with a state of it-all-comes-to-the-same-thing because behind that state still lurks some shame or hope. If everything comes to the same thing, that's still very human. I might put it this way: freedom is a condition unsuitable for humans."
In short, it's best if we imagine that freedom is the kind of condition in which nothing ties us to the world around us. We have no desires, passions, or fears, we might say neither aims nor aimlessness, and we even fail to register that this vacuum no longer bothers us. Freedom is an odd, mainly characterless condition. It has nothing to do with indifference, which is inevitably cynical, and it has nothing to do with a state of it-all-comes-to-the-same-thing because behind that state still lurks some shame or hope. If everything comes to the same thing, that's still very human. I might put it this way: freedom is a condition unsuitable for humans."
August 26, 2015
"It's good. But you shouldn't confuse sincerity with obscenity," she said.
Eszter is right, but this book is good and needs both. It needs them to express all of the rage and self-loathing and self-destruction in which these characters are trapped. More importantly, it needs them to express the desperate beauty and fragility of human relationships. Which sounds so much like a lame back-blurb stab at universality that I deleted it twice, but ended up putting it back. Somehow, in spite of itself maybe, this is a sad and universal book. Its structure is a convoluted, shifting construction of three decades of memories, but its fractured portrait is decidedly convincing. Its particulars are those of Warsaw Pact Hungary in the time from the failed revolution of '56 to the fall of communism, but this family would surely enact some version of its bitter, tragic trajectory against any backdrop. The historical specifics are just catalysts. And while the family is perhaps an uncommonly nightmarish mess, what they express also find plenty of representations in less extreme scenarios. And the narrator, Andor, is a strange kind of sympathetic/unsympathetic -- he is in some ways unforgiveable, yet I desperately wanted things to work out for him (admittedly, I wanted things to work out for Eszter more, but one thing the story makes burningly clear is that their fates are inextricable. And sometimes, somehow, they are. Maybe. (On the other hand, my sympathy did not actually extend to his mother, maybe that's a failing of the book, but he other principles all had me quite by the throat, so I wasn't concerned)). Of course, he is a guilt-stricken writer, so can we trust the full self-loathing of his account? I hoped that Eszter's quote above suggested that the uglier bits were fictionalized, but maybe I'm just making excuses. In any event, the relationships at the core of this story, harsh as they may be, feel somehow very real and very crucial, and tragic without the sense of manipulation that shuts down my empathy in typical "realistic" melodrama. This is something more and I don't imagine it will fade from memory for a long time.
...
Later: I've been internally scrutinizing my reaction to this story, and especially to my recommendation of it to "paradoxically necessary destructive relationships". Do I actually believe in such a fundamentally problematic construct as this? Shouldn't I be yelling (along with ) that any victim of such a thing need only realize that they can go down for cigarettes (or bread) and never come back? (Of course, various characters in the story do realize this, and act accordingly). Yes, I feel this strongly. But sometimes, in this terrible world, escape is exceedingly complicated and difficult. I re-read big chunks of this book again yesterday, leaping forward and backwards across its fractured chronology and feverishly turning the pages. Not only did this clarify some of the twisty plot points and recurring images (as re-reading this always will, I think -- many questions linger), but it made me realize the above, that escape, from others as from the self, is no easy matter. So while I feel bound to simply revile certain people here, and abandon them to their deserved grim fates, the strength of the novel, its enduring deep tragedy, is that instead I cannot but sympathize.
October 18, 2017
鈥濼ihna鈥� este o carte ca un vulcan pe punctul de a erupe, 卯n care brutalitatea, sexualitatea, poezia 葯颈 nebunia se amestec膬, rezult芒nd un hibrid bizar, cu efecte nocive asupra cititorului sensibil 葯颈 pudibond. Cartea asta e uneori otrav膬, alteori miere, cert este c膬-葲i r膬scole葯te m膬runtaiele 葯颈 joac膬 un joc murdar cu creierii 葯颈 sentimentele tale de om respectabil. 脦葲i face grea葲膬, te oripileaz膬, dar alteori te urc膬 pe culmile frumuse葲ii c芒nd te a葯tep葲i mai pu葲in - 卯ns膬 asta mai rar, pentru c膬, 卯n cea mai mare parte, este o carte sumbr膬, mocirloas膬 葯颈 plin膬 de tenebre.
Sunt straturi peste straturi de 卯nt芒mpl膬ri, g芒nduri 葯颈 observa葲ii, o re葲ea dens膬 葯颈 alambicat膬 卯n care se aud ecourile unor obsedante 颁芒苍诲惫颈颈 葯颈 Undeaifost, 葯颈 卯n care este foarte u葯or s膬 te dezorientezi 葯颈 s膬 r膬t膬ce葯ti drumul. Pe m膬sur膬 ce te ad芒nce葯ti 卯n lectur膬, parc膬 ai cobor卯 卯ntr-un pu葲 secat, unde se face din ce 卯n ce mai 卯ntuneric 葯颈 mai frig, iar c芒nd atingi 卯n sf芒r葯颈t fundul, descoperi c膬 te afunzi 卯ntr-un m芒l fetid, 卯n care dospesc toate sl膬biciunile 葯颈 patimile omene葯ti.
Teribil de incomod膬 葯颈 de 卯ndr膬znea葲膬 (iar pe alocuri 葯颈 indecent膬), cartea lui Bartis este 卯ns膬 foarte uman膬, chiar dac膬 nu este un etalon al omenirii. Este uman膬 pentru c膬 vorbe葯te despre partea 卯ntunecat膬 a firii, cea ascuns膬 葯颈 ferit膬 de ochii iscoditori, cea despre care nimeni nu vorbe葯te aproape niciodat膬 卯n mod deschis, pentru c膬 acolo clocotesc dorin葲a, viciul, ura, violen葲a, atrac葲ia interzis膬, avortul, homosexualitatea.
De葯颈 poate fi un cocktail Molotov pentru starea de spirit a cititorului, am ie葯颈t destul de ne葯颈fonat膬 din 卯nt芒lnirea cu naratorul romanului 葯颈 cu pove葯tile sale ap膬s膬toare, 卯n care speran葲a, fericirea sau lini葯tea p芒lp芒ie slab 葯颈 se sting, mai devreme sau mai t芒rziu. Cartea nu m-a deprimat 葯颈 nici nu am sim葲it c膬 mi-a dep膬葯颈t pragul toleran葲ei - din contr膬, m-a fascinat, 葯颈 trebuie s膬 spun c膬 visele (sau, mai bine zis, co葯marurile) naratorului mi-au pl膬cut 卯n mod deosebit, pentru c膬 m-au purtat pe un t膬r芒m fantastic 葯颈 absurd, 卯nrudit cu cel unde a p膬truns 葯颈 脕d谩m Bodor, 卯n .
Pute葲i citi aici recenzia mai lung膬, scris膬 pentru blog:
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Sunt straturi peste straturi de 卯nt芒mpl膬ri, g芒nduri 葯颈 observa葲ii, o re葲ea dens膬 葯颈 alambicat膬 卯n care se aud ecourile unor obsedante 颁芒苍诲惫颈颈 葯颈 Undeaifost, 葯颈 卯n care este foarte u葯or s膬 te dezorientezi 葯颈 s膬 r膬t膬ce葯ti drumul. Pe m膬sur膬 ce te ad芒nce葯ti 卯n lectur膬, parc膬 ai cobor卯 卯ntr-un pu葲 secat, unde se face din ce 卯n ce mai 卯ntuneric 葯颈 mai frig, iar c芒nd atingi 卯n sf芒r葯颈t fundul, descoperi c膬 te afunzi 卯ntr-un m芒l fetid, 卯n care dospesc toate sl膬biciunile 葯颈 patimile omene葯ti.
Teribil de incomod膬 葯颈 de 卯ndr膬znea葲膬 (iar pe alocuri 葯颈 indecent膬), cartea lui Bartis este 卯ns膬 foarte uman膬, chiar dac膬 nu este un etalon al omenirii. Este uman膬 pentru c膬 vorbe葯te despre partea 卯ntunecat膬 a firii, cea ascuns膬 葯颈 ferit膬 de ochii iscoditori, cea despre care nimeni nu vorbe葯te aproape niciodat膬 卯n mod deschis, pentru c膬 acolo clocotesc dorin葲a, viciul, ura, violen葲a, atrac葲ia interzis膬, avortul, homosexualitatea.
De葯颈 poate fi un cocktail Molotov pentru starea de spirit a cititorului, am ie葯颈t destul de ne葯颈fonat膬 din 卯nt芒lnirea cu naratorul romanului 葯颈 cu pove葯tile sale ap膬s膬toare, 卯n care speran葲a, fericirea sau lini葯tea p芒lp芒ie slab 葯颈 se sting, mai devreme sau mai t芒rziu. Cartea nu m-a deprimat 葯颈 nici nu am sim葲it c膬 mi-a dep膬葯颈t pragul toleran葲ei - din contr膬, m-a fascinat, 葯颈 trebuie s膬 spun c膬 visele (sau, mai bine zis, co葯marurile) naratorului mi-au pl膬cut 卯n mod deosebit, pentru c膬 m-au purtat pe un t膬r芒m fantastic 葯颈 absurd, 卯nrudit cu cel unde a p膬truns 葯颈 脕d谩m Bodor, 卯n .
Pute葲i citi aici recenzia mai lung膬, scris膬 pentru blog:
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January 1, 2020
賲賱丕丨馗丞 氐睾賷乇丞 賮賷賲丕 賷鬲毓賱賯 亘丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞.
Oprah soap=賲爻賱爻賱丕鬲 丕噩鬲賲丕毓賷丞
賵 賱賷爻 兀賵亘乇丕 丕賱氐丕亘賵賳
Oprah soap=賲爻賱爻賱丕鬲 丕噩鬲賲丕毓賷丞
賵 賱賷爻 兀賵亘乇丕 丕賱氐丕亘賵賳
February 12, 2013
If you dream of Jakov Lind peering into your crib, licking his lips and only making the laziest effort to suppress his lustful cackling you're going to find yourself in a similarly vulnerable position reading Attila Bartis. To offend and disturb at a level that would qualify you as a horror writer isn't really much of an achievement at all past the age of eight. But to peel back the layers of calloused skin that reveals the most sensitive nerve endings, then scrape until you're reduced to praying for an end to all sensitivity as sole means to stop the excoriation takes the skill of a sadist more than a writer. Society provides most people with the tools required to avoid the paths of such individuals but we as the modern reader intentionally discard such warnings as we invite such experiences in the name of courage or boredom depending on our current proclivities. So where I might seek to warn a reader about what鈥檚 in store for you considering Tranquility I鈥檓 going to instead trust that you鈥檝e consciously and willfully chosen to fail to defend yourself in the name of intense experience. Where Kafka illustrated the intensity of using a tool to spell out a death sentence in the most intimate terms possible 鈥� Bartis would instead have you draw the .008 gauge violin string across your veins yourself. Those familiar with Bernhard鈥檚 use of repetition and clarity of description to illustrate an Ivan Albright-like portrait of insanity, desiccation and love will find themselves in familiar territory. Perhaps it鈥檚 a bit lazy to suggest that the movie you might have in your head of this Hungarian language book should be filmed by Bela Tarr but lazy isn鈥檛 always wrong. If we take that bit of comparison to a finer point it鈥檚 the early domestic work of Bela Tarr such as Outsiders instead of the Tarkovsky-like film painting of the later Tarr that serves as the best referent. Beautiful failures with rotting teeth and highly refined violin skills lure the willing recipient into a sirens' trap of death initiated by pleasure chasing.
This is a dirty book and When Bartis fucks you it will won鈥檛 be pretty and bookish but much more like being beaten and bled until the relief of conclusion becomes your only coherent pleasure. So you, brave reader of modern depravity, don鈥檛 say I didn鈥檛 warn you. Maybe you like a bit of suffering in your pleasure. Maybe you need catharsis and intensity to validate your attention. Bartis won鈥檛 bore you and be warned: if you invite him into your bedroom you are probably going to end up with his fingers at least in your ass.
This is a dirty book and When Bartis fucks you it will won鈥檛 be pretty and bookish but much more like being beaten and bled until the relief of conclusion becomes your only coherent pleasure. So you, brave reader of modern depravity, don鈥檛 say I didn鈥檛 warn you. Maybe you like a bit of suffering in your pleasure. Maybe you need catharsis and intensity to validate your attention. Bartis won鈥檛 bore you and be warned: if you invite him into your bedroom you are probably going to end up with his fingers at least in your ass.
April 9, 2009
It will take me a few weeks to be able to talk about this book in any detail. (And, since I imagine no one I know actually reads this page, I am not too worried about it.) But, a few brief thoughts - what I did not like about this book was in some ways my own fault. I found the storytelling to be occasionally maddeningly complex - continuous jumps throughout time, flashbacks, midsentence narrator-switches... I think that my occasional inability to follow the storyline is a result of my limited attention span. I've been reading mostly in bed when I am tired, or while on the Metro and listening to music at the same time, and this book really demands 100% attention. There were also myriad cultural references that were totally lost on me - perhaps someone more well-versed in Hungarian culture would be able to place the book in context better than I. And, possibly the most difficult of all to deal with, the narrator is himself terrifying - capable of horrible things, and this made me perpetually uncomfortable, worrying about how he would go on to screw up his life at each turn. Not that this is a horror book, or even a book about crime - it is a book about physical and emotional violence, and it's everywhere.
That said, it is a beautifully told story, and it is translated by someone who has an excellent ear for English poetry. While I wasn't turning pages at the beginning, toward the end all I could think was how much I hoped that these characters would turn out okay. (Not giving anything away here!) I definitely recommend it.
That said, it is a beautifully told story, and it is translated by someone who has an excellent ear for English poetry. While I wasn't turning pages at the beginning, toward the end all I could think was how much I hoped that these characters would turn out okay. (Not giving anything away here!) I definitely recommend it.
September 29, 2012
My neighbor Randy owns the only bookstore in our city. Many would regard this as an asset. First meet him and then hazard a guess. Unctuous and opportunistic, he is leading an involunatry campaign against localism and he doesn't even know. Well he pegged this once correctly. He thought I'd like it and I did. Tranquility doesn't flinch. The sorrows of fractured family float in lasting exhibition.
October 6, 2021
"Uvijek sam bio slabi膰; u meni nema ni trunka upornosti , ali ni religijske vjere. Dugo mi se 膷inilo da imam barem neku nesigurnu i zbrkanu predo膽啪bu o najraznolikijim ljepotama i vrstama reda, ali da to samo po sebi i nije tako malo , makar itekako jest. Negdje sam pro膷itao da jedni grade labirinte, a drugi samo lutaju po njima. E, pa izgleda da se moja iznimna vje拧tina o膷ituje upravo u tome da sam sposoban za obje uloge istodobno. A procijeniti radi li se o gra膽evini ravnoj onoj kretskoj ili o samo vje拧to izvedenom vrtlarskom 拧i拧anju , to mora netko drugi , jer to ipak nije moja obveza. No istra啪iti za拧to sam i kako podigao to prili膷no puritansko zdanje zada膰a je koju ba拧 nitko osim mene ne膰e mo膰i izvr拧iti."
September 9, 2019
惭颈办辞谤箩枚蝉蝉锄丑补锄补?
Nemtudom.
Olyan 10 茅vig, minden nap. Reggel 6-t贸l este 8-ig, b谩rmikor, amikor indul谩shoz k茅sz眉l艖dtem. A gyomorg枚rcs. Az elsz谩molokt铆zig. Ismerem.
Pedig az 茅n any谩m nem is 艖r眉lt, 茅s napi rendszeress茅ggel elhagyja a h谩zat, 茅rdekl艖dik a hogyl茅tem fel艖l, 茅s igaz谩n, semmi baj nincs vele. (Csak ez, ez a k茅rd茅s ne volna!) We茅r Rebeka viszont 艖r眉lt. A fia is 艖r眉lt, a l谩nya is 艖r眉lt, a legjobb bar谩tn艖je is, s艖t, m茅g a fia bar谩tn艖je is, egy谩ltal谩n, itt mindenki 艖r眉lt, 茅s Bartis Attila a legnagyobb 艖r眉lt, hogy ilyenre k茅pes volt, 茅s csak az茅rt nem ki谩ltom ki az 煤j kedvenc 铆r贸mnak, mert k茅t adatpontra nem h煤zunk trendet. (脡n nem vagyok 艖r眉lt.) Pedig van olyan cinikus, mint Vonnegut, 茅s olyan eszement, mint Palahniuk, 茅s k枚zben kb. annyira l谩tja a vil谩got r贸zsasz铆nben, mint Cs谩th G茅za, sz贸val ak谩r. Megl谩tjuk.
Nemtudom.
Olyan 10 茅vig, minden nap. Reggel 6-t贸l este 8-ig, b谩rmikor, amikor indul谩shoz k茅sz眉l艖dtem. A gyomorg枚rcs. Az elsz谩molokt铆zig. Ismerem.
Pedig az 茅n any谩m nem is 艖r眉lt, 茅s napi rendszeress茅ggel elhagyja a h谩zat, 茅rdekl艖dik a hogyl茅tem fel艖l, 茅s igaz谩n, semmi baj nincs vele. (Csak ez, ez a k茅rd茅s ne volna!) We茅r Rebeka viszont 艖r眉lt. A fia is 艖r眉lt, a l谩nya is 艖r眉lt, a legjobb bar谩tn艖je is, s艖t, m茅g a fia bar谩tn艖je is, egy谩ltal谩n, itt mindenki 艖r眉lt, 茅s Bartis Attila a legnagyobb 艖r眉lt, hogy ilyenre k茅pes volt, 茅s csak az茅rt nem ki谩ltom ki az 煤j kedvenc 铆r贸mnak, mert k茅t adatpontra nem h煤zunk trendet. (脡n nem vagyok 艖r眉lt.) Pedig van olyan cinikus, mint Vonnegut, 茅s olyan eszement, mint Palahniuk, 茅s k枚zben kb. annyira l谩tja a vil谩got r贸zsasz铆nben, mint Cs谩th G茅za, sz贸val ak谩r. Megl谩tjuk.
September 13, 2009
Tranquility is the tale of a violently unhappy family, a disconcerting meditation on the possibilities for personal and political freedom, an unpredictably funny book, a fascinating and frightening work of art. The story is so elliptically told as to be often obscure but nonetheless produces a real visceral punch, leaving things out and obliquely returning to them, with the effect of building up their power: it's as if the narrator really does want to communicate but getting close to others can be so difficult, and even dangerous, and the truth so painful, that the whole endeavor has to be approached with circumspection, thoughts denied before they are avowed. Remarkably, the result is less the rant of a Bernhardian obsessive than one might expect: these pathologies are social. So much that these people do is hateful but you can't hate them, can't cynically write them off, can't but ask what we鈥攁s individuals, as a society, as a species鈥攁re doing when we lie, especially when we do so with the idea of protecting others or ourselves.
March 8, 2011
I finished Tranquility a couple of weeks back, and I've been trying to articulate my thoughts about this book ever since--a tough task, as it's quite unlike anything I've read. Sure, it shares a bit of the particular neurosis that Bernhard perfected, but Bartis's text is much more raw, much angrier, and, in parts, so beautifully messy and quite funny. There's a brutal honesty in all that Bartis deals with in Tranquility, and this willingness to lay it all out gives the book an energy that at once propels and engulfs the reader. Perhaps, the most difficult part of reading Tranquility is being forced to acknowledge that we, too, share some of the narrator's less flattering thoughts, feelings, and actions, and this is, I think, Bartis's greatest achievement--forcing us to confront all that we wish to suppress. But Tranquility is not a completely miserable undertaking; in fact, it's from this rawness--this honesty--that a very peculiar beauty springs.
July 28, 2020
A v茅ge ut谩n m谩r nem sz谩m铆tottam idillre, de tal谩n az茅rt erre sem. Beteg minden szempontb贸l, de letehetetlen. Egy ideig lehet Mazsola 茅s T谩d茅t kell olvasnom est茅nk茅nt, hogy helyre谩lljon a lelkem.
August 2, 2023
Attila Bartis wykazuje w tej powie艣ci niezwyk艂y talent pisarski, ale jest to rodzaj talentu, kt贸ry - na razie - rozci膮ga si臋 jedynie na szokuj膮co ekscytuj膮cy opis poszczeg贸lnych w膮tk贸w, postaci i moment贸w, zabarwionych wirtuozeri膮 j臋zykow膮 i jednocze艣nie nadwyr臋偶onych celowymi niedoci膮gni臋ciami. Skonstruowaniu wi臋kszej kompozycji, przez kt贸r膮 rozumiem narracyjn膮 wizj臋 dope艂niaj膮c膮 bardzo skomplikowan膮 (bo intencj臋 autora wyczuwa si臋 przez ca艂膮 ksi膮偶k臋: b膮d藕my jak najbardziej skomplikowani!) ca艂o艣膰 przedstawionego 艣wiata pisarz w moim skromnym odczuciu w tej ksi膮偶ce (jeszcze) nie podo艂a艂. Niemniej jednak, pomimo nieudanego efektu ko艅cowego, jego przedsi臋wzi臋cie jest ca艂kiem godne szacunku: ambicja fabularna, jej skrajno艣膰 i bezgraniczno艣膰, jej nami臋tny, eksperymentalny duch, kt贸ry nie chce uznawa膰 ogranicze艅 i konwencji, g艂臋bia wi臋kszo艣ci analiz narracyjnych, nieokie艂znany temperament w poszukiwaniu syntezy wiele obiecuj膮. Surowa si艂a j臋zykowa - od opisu kawalkady my艣li ludzkiej, przez charakterystyczne zdania zlewaj膮ce si臋 w jedno s艂owo (鈥潍辞濒惫辞濒迟谩濒蹿颈补尘?鈥�), po przejmuj膮ce wydarzenia skompresowane w lekkie anegdoty i wa偶ne kamienie milowe w 偶yciu narratora - zdradza zami艂owanie do paradoks贸w i przez ca艂y czas podtrzymuje ekscytacj臋 lektur膮. Bartis pisze z bolesn膮 szczero艣ci膮 o ideowym i moralnym zam臋cie epoki po zmianie ustroju widz膮c ten 艣wiat oczami m艂odego literata, pe艂nego skrajnych emocji i ambiwalentnych relacji.
Wed艂ug cytatu na nagrobku Kanta, dusza niemieckiego filozofa jest pe艂na podziwu dla dw贸ch rzeczy: gwia藕dzistego nieba nad nim i prawa moralnego w nim. Bohater powie艣ci Bartisa nie widzi tego ostatniego w sobie (cho膰 w powie艣ci kilkakrotnie jego zachowanie zadaje temu za艂o偶eniu k艂am), popada w moralny kryzys i coraz bardziej beznadziejny stan umys艂u z powodu ogranicze艅 i delimitator贸w swojego 偶ycia. Nie mo偶e przewidzie膰 konsekwencji swoich czyn贸w, a mi艂o艣膰 nie mo偶e mu da膰 takiego wyzwolenia i szcz臋艣cia, jakiego by od niej oczekiwa艂. Ogranicza go sprzeczna relacja z matk膮, ale i tragiczny los kochanki w du偶ym stopniu przyczynia si臋 do budowy jego mur贸w, nawet je艣li to ostatnie realizowane jest w zupe艂nie inny spos贸b. W stylu i strukturze tekstu 艂atwo dostrzegalne s膮 zmagania bohatera, kt贸ry odwr贸ci艂 si臋 od siebie. Wbrew tytu艂owi ksi膮偶ki prawie ca艂kowicie brakuje mu spokoju, bardziej charakterystyczny dla艅 staje si臋 niespokojny stan umys艂u, kt贸rego rejestrem s膮 r贸wnie偶 elementy j臋zykowe 鈥� Bartis wykorzystuje tu ca艂y sztafa偶 cech prozy postmodernistycznej.
W linearnym odczytaniu powie艣ci najwi臋kszym zaskoczeniem jest chyba spos贸b, w jaki bardzo silny 艂adunek spo艂eczny na pierwszych stronach powie艣ci, tj. 艣wiatopogl膮d spo艂eczny niepozbawiony polityki i Historii pisanej przez du偶e H coraz bardziej ust臋puje miejsca bardzo rozbudowanej rodzinie psychodramie, celowo pozbawionej wszelkiego znaczenia spo艂ecznego, by nast臋pnie przej艣膰 w tony opowie艣ci przygodowej o seksie. Eliptyczna parafraza zamykaj膮cego powie艣膰 cytatu Kanta jest pi臋kna i uderzaj膮ca, ale imponuj膮cy gest ko艅cowych zda艅 zdaje si臋 wypada膰 z ca艂o艣ci powie艣ci i stanowi niezale偶n膮 lekcj臋 przeciwko historii prze偶ywanej i pisanej, a tak偶e przeciwko czytelnikowi. Cho膰 mog臋 cieszy膰 si臋 z wielu zalet tej powie艣ci i oburza膰 si臋 na nie mniej liczne jej s艂abo艣ci, mog臋 z czystym sumieniem powiedzie膰, 偶e ksi膮偶ka Bartisa to dzie艂o zawrotne, wstrz膮saj膮ce i podszyte g艂臋bok膮 etyk膮 mimo balansowania niekiedy na granicy obsceniczno艣ci.
Wed艂ug cytatu na nagrobku Kanta, dusza niemieckiego filozofa jest pe艂na podziwu dla dw贸ch rzeczy: gwia藕dzistego nieba nad nim i prawa moralnego w nim. Bohater powie艣ci Bartisa nie widzi tego ostatniego w sobie (cho膰 w powie艣ci kilkakrotnie jego zachowanie zadaje temu za艂o偶eniu k艂am), popada w moralny kryzys i coraz bardziej beznadziejny stan umys艂u z powodu ogranicze艅 i delimitator贸w swojego 偶ycia. Nie mo偶e przewidzie膰 konsekwencji swoich czyn贸w, a mi艂o艣膰 nie mo偶e mu da膰 takiego wyzwolenia i szcz臋艣cia, jakiego by od niej oczekiwa艂. Ogranicza go sprzeczna relacja z matk膮, ale i tragiczny los kochanki w du偶ym stopniu przyczynia si臋 do budowy jego mur贸w, nawet je艣li to ostatnie realizowane jest w zupe艂nie inny spos贸b. W stylu i strukturze tekstu 艂atwo dostrzegalne s膮 zmagania bohatera, kt贸ry odwr贸ci艂 si臋 od siebie. Wbrew tytu艂owi ksi膮偶ki prawie ca艂kowicie brakuje mu spokoju, bardziej charakterystyczny dla艅 staje si臋 niespokojny stan umys艂u, kt贸rego rejestrem s膮 r贸wnie偶 elementy j臋zykowe 鈥� Bartis wykorzystuje tu ca艂y sztafa偶 cech prozy postmodernistycznej.
W linearnym odczytaniu powie艣ci najwi臋kszym zaskoczeniem jest chyba spos贸b, w jaki bardzo silny 艂adunek spo艂eczny na pierwszych stronach powie艣ci, tj. 艣wiatopogl膮d spo艂eczny niepozbawiony polityki i Historii pisanej przez du偶e H coraz bardziej ust臋puje miejsca bardzo rozbudowanej rodzinie psychodramie, celowo pozbawionej wszelkiego znaczenia spo艂ecznego, by nast臋pnie przej艣膰 w tony opowie艣ci przygodowej o seksie. Eliptyczna parafraza zamykaj膮cego powie艣膰 cytatu Kanta jest pi臋kna i uderzaj膮ca, ale imponuj膮cy gest ko艅cowych zda艅 zdaje si臋 wypada膰 z ca艂o艣ci powie艣ci i stanowi niezale偶n膮 lekcj臋 przeciwko historii prze偶ywanej i pisanej, a tak偶e przeciwko czytelnikowi. Cho膰 mog臋 cieszy膰 si臋 z wielu zalet tej powie艣ci i oburza膰 si臋 na nie mniej liczne jej s艂abo艣ci, mog臋 z czystym sumieniem powiedzie膰, 偶e ksi膮偶ka Bartisa to dzie艂o zawrotne, wstrz膮saj膮ce i podszyte g艂臋bok膮 etyk膮 mimo balansowania niekiedy na granicy obsceniczno艣ci.
November 24, 2016
驴AttilaBartisd贸ndehab铆asestadotodamivida? En t茅rminos generales estoy bastante cansado de esa narrativa contempor谩nea que se cree experimental pero que de tan com煤n se ha vuelto est茅ril. Se trata de libros casi siempre protagonizados por alg煤n escribidor sedado por la abulia de la posmodernidad, narraciones donde, salvo por algunos encuentros sexuales, no pasa gran cosa. No historias que son alegor铆a de una 茅poca inmanente o bien de la imposibilidad del lenguaje y de la escritura misma. Ruido de fondo en el concierto de la literatura universal. Pero de vez en cuando aparecen una o dos novelas de puta madre. Esta es una de ellas.
February 13, 2010
I should be working on my comic, but instead I'm reading this book, Tranquility, by Attila Bartis, a Romanian, and as I'm writing this I'm wondering why so much interesting art is coming out of Romania? Or wait, is Attila Bartis Hungarian? My Eastern European history is pretty vague, as is my geography, but I do know Ceausescu ran Romania, which is were this novel is set, so Bartis must be Hungarian, or at least a Romanian writing about Hungary. I try to remember if I know anyone from Romania or Hungary. I know a couple of Bulgarian girls, and they're crazy, and I've had crazy times with them, and one is an actress, but that really has nothing to do with Romania or Hungary; only that I am a typical American who probably couldn't distinguish Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria on a map, which is sad, since I really like geography.
But the book. The book is a dark dank scurrying rodent in a dark dank sub-basement. Or it felt like that to me, even if it never grew legs and scurried into my building's basement. And unlike a scurrying rodent, it's almost funny, like an inappropriate cancer joke told at a hospital. The book is about a man-child writer and his relationship with three women who are as fucked up as he is - if not more: his mother, his sister, and his lover. The book seems to decay as you read it; Bartis' language decays, his story decays, everything decays around his words. In my mind, I pictured 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, a recent Romanian film (or was it Hungarian?). Anyway, I pictured the book in similar colors: an odd post-modern drama-tragedy framed by the sickly colors of Communist industrial decay and framed like a horror movie. But the book is set in Hungary, in Budapest, actually, and maybe the author is Hungarian? I don't remember.
So maybe he's not connected to the recent Romanian New Wave? Maybe he's connected to the not-really-existent Hungarian New Wave (or as Bartis would write it "notreallyexistent")? Right now I'm thinking in terms of films, even though I've been reading a lot lately and not watching films, yet I think of Bela Tarr, a Hungarian filmmaker whose film Werckmeister Harmonies is overpowering and whose sickly death-obsessed tone reminds me of Tranquility, but I still picture Tranquility in the lurid (but desaturated) color of the other film, and not in Tarr's stately black and white.
But this book is good. Maybe even great. It's disturbing, sure, but worth your time.
I should get back to my comic. And I suddenly want to get a hold of my Bulgarian girls, even though it's been a few months, and even though they're neither Hungarian nor Romanian, and even though they're crazy, they're crazyfun and not crazy like thedarkcrazyinthisbook. But I should get back to my comic.
Hell, just read the following review instead of mine:
But the book. The book is a dark dank scurrying rodent in a dark dank sub-basement. Or it felt like that to me, even if it never grew legs and scurried into my building's basement. And unlike a scurrying rodent, it's almost funny, like an inappropriate cancer joke told at a hospital. The book is about a man-child writer and his relationship with three women who are as fucked up as he is - if not more: his mother, his sister, and his lover. The book seems to decay as you read it; Bartis' language decays, his story decays, everything decays around his words. In my mind, I pictured 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, a recent Romanian film (or was it Hungarian?). Anyway, I pictured the book in similar colors: an odd post-modern drama-tragedy framed by the sickly colors of Communist industrial decay and framed like a horror movie. But the book is set in Hungary, in Budapest, actually, and maybe the author is Hungarian? I don't remember.
So maybe he's not connected to the recent Romanian New Wave? Maybe he's connected to the not-really-existent Hungarian New Wave (or as Bartis would write it "notreallyexistent")? Right now I'm thinking in terms of films, even though I've been reading a lot lately and not watching films, yet I think of Bela Tarr, a Hungarian filmmaker whose film Werckmeister Harmonies is overpowering and whose sickly death-obsessed tone reminds me of Tranquility, but I still picture Tranquility in the lurid (but desaturated) color of the other film, and not in Tarr's stately black and white.
But this book is good. Maybe even great. It's disturbing, sure, but worth your time.
I should get back to my comic. And I suddenly want to get a hold of my Bulgarian girls, even though it's been a few months, and even though they're neither Hungarian nor Romanian, and even though they're crazy, they're crazyfun and not crazy like thedarkcrazyinthisbook. But I should get back to my comic.
Hell, just read the following review instead of mine:
May 11, 2020
Cartea asta NU este despre tihna. As spune ca te trece prin toate starile mai putin prin tihna.
Asa in mare e un subject simplu. Andor, scriitor la Budapesta, in jur de 30 ani, sta cu maica-sa fosta vedeta de teatru si victima ca comunismului agresiv ungar. Dar e mai mult decat atat. Cine cred ca o simpla nuvela despre ce rau au dus-o ungurii, se insala.
Este o documentare minutiosa despre degradarea nebuniei maicasii, a lui si infectarea tuturor relatiilor cu suspiciune, paranoia, violenta si apoi anxietate constanta.
Pe coperta am citit ca cineva a zis ca are complextul oedipian, Andor, asta.
Astia fac incest. E mai mult decat complex oedipian aici.
Nu i-am dat 5 pentru ca desi temele sunt profunde si Attila Bartis trece fara sa te menajeze prin avort, bataie, sex cu mama, explozie la psihiatru, ratoieli la comunisti si discutii deprimante la birt, nu-mi place forma lui de scris.
Plus ca e prea narcisist romanul asta.
Am citit critici care il lauda ca scrie niste cuvinte impreuna si e nemaivazut [sic], ca povesteste fara semne de punctuatie si ca nu prea iti dai seama cine tine dialogul. Uneori e in regula, alteori m-a obosit. Parea fie ca l-a durut undeva de forma, fie ca s-a straduit prea tare sa para interesant. Oricare ar fi, mi-a venit sa dau cu cartea de pamant. Asa ca e buna, dar.
Asa in mare e un subject simplu. Andor, scriitor la Budapesta, in jur de 30 ani, sta cu maica-sa fosta vedeta de teatru si victima ca comunismului agresiv ungar. Dar e mai mult decat atat. Cine cred ca o simpla nuvela despre ce rau au dus-o ungurii, se insala.
Este o documentare minutiosa despre degradarea nebuniei maicasii, a lui si infectarea tuturor relatiilor cu suspiciune, paranoia, violenta si apoi anxietate constanta.
Pe coperta am citit ca cineva a zis ca are complextul oedipian, Andor, asta.
Astia fac incest. E mai mult decat complex oedipian aici.
Nu i-am dat 5 pentru ca desi temele sunt profunde si Attila Bartis trece fara sa te menajeze prin avort, bataie, sex cu mama, explozie la psihiatru, ratoieli la comunisti si discutii deprimante la birt, nu-mi place forma lui de scris.
Plus ca e prea narcisist romanul asta.
Am citit critici care il lauda ca scrie niste cuvinte impreuna si e nemaivazut [sic], ca povesteste fara semne de punctuatie si ca nu prea iti dai seama cine tine dialogul. Uneori e in regula, alteori m-a obosit. Parea fie ca l-a durut undeva de forma, fie ca s-a straduit prea tare sa para interesant. Oricare ar fi, mi-a venit sa dau cu cartea de pamant. Asa ca e buna, dar.
July 28, 2021
Whenever I read contemporary Hungarian authors, I'm rather conflicted about being a Hungarian. Almost every single one of them - Andrea Tompa a laudable and refreshing exception, partially - or at least the ones I read (Krisztina T贸th, 脕gnes Gergely, Kriszti谩n Grecs贸, to some extent Gy枚rgy Dragom谩n, occasionally even Krasznahorkai, and now Attila Bartis) disgorge the same depressive stories of the same idiotic characters that are all ripe for a psychiatric institution.
They all follow the same pattern:
1) a framework story of a
2) depressed psychopath with
3) nothing much happening; this nothing much is
4) told in an otherwise elegant style
5) with stream-of-consciousness intermezzos, and
6) punctuated by numerous other irrelevant stories about a country or a city/town that, in their vision it seems, is full of mental cases.
Vulgarism (Mandatory Element No. 7) is of course inevitable, because it is meet and right for a post-postmodernist author to talk like an uneducated lower-class blue-collar worker whose main purpose in life is to drink and smoke and do that x-rated thing as often as possible.
Is Hungary really this? Can it really not inspire a straight story-line with at least one character who is not ridiculed in some way, whose genitals are not mentioned, who is not abused or abusive, who can participate in a conversation without screaming/shouting/offending/complaining, who can be used for conveying something positive?
I get the impression that it is a cultural inferiority complex that makes Hungarian authors resort to this sort of fiction and sickeningly explicit language, hoping in a twisted way that this grossness will somehow compensate for their inability to write a (no better word) normal story.
That said, I did read this book in almost one sitting. He knows his way around words and is a terrific writer. This book is well worth a 5-star rating, but my tolerance to filth is very low, so I'll stick to the lower end of the rating scale.
If Hogarth Penguin ever decide to start a Hogarth Sophocles series similar to their Shakespeare one, they should definitely contract Attila Bartis for the Oedipus retelling...
They all follow the same pattern:
1) a framework story of a
2) depressed psychopath with
3) nothing much happening; this nothing much is
4) told in an otherwise elegant style
5) with stream-of-consciousness intermezzos, and
6) punctuated by numerous other irrelevant stories about a country or a city/town that, in their vision it seems, is full of mental cases.
Vulgarism (Mandatory Element No. 7) is of course inevitable, because it is meet and right for a post-postmodernist author to talk like an uneducated lower-class blue-collar worker whose main purpose in life is to drink and smoke and do that x-rated thing as often as possible.
Is Hungary really this? Can it really not inspire a straight story-line with at least one character who is not ridiculed in some way, whose genitals are not mentioned, who is not abused or abusive, who can participate in a conversation without screaming/shouting/offending/complaining, who can be used for conveying something positive?
I get the impression that it is a cultural inferiority complex that makes Hungarian authors resort to this sort of fiction and sickeningly explicit language, hoping in a twisted way that this grossness will somehow compensate for their inability to write a (no better word) normal story.
That said, I did read this book in almost one sitting. He knows his way around words and is a terrific writer. This book is well worth a 5-star rating, but my tolerance to filth is very low, so I'll stick to the lower end of the rating scale.
If Hogarth Penguin ever decide to start a Hogarth Sophocles series similar to their Shakespeare one, they should definitely contract Attila Bartis for the Oedipus retelling...
October 9, 2019
丕賱爻賰賷賳丞 - 兀鬲賷賱丕 亘丕乇鬲賷卮
丕賱毓賳賵丕賳 賲禺丕丿毓 賵賲囟賱賱, 賮丕賱爻賰賷賳丞 賱賲 兀毓乇賮賴丕 兀孬賳丕亍 賯乇丕卅鬲賷 賱賴匕賴 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞, 賱賷爻 亘爻亘亘 兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賳賮爻賴丕 丕賱鬲賷 鬲禺賱賵 鬲賲丕賲丕 賲賳 丕賱爻賰賷賳丞, 亘賱 賱兀爻賱賵亘 丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞 賳賮爻賴.
賷購氐賳賾賮 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 丕賱賲噩乇賷 兀鬲賷賱丕 亘丕乇鬲賷卮 囟賲賳 兀亘乇夭 賵噩賵賴 兀丿亘 賲丕 亘毓丿 丕賱丨丿丕孬丞, 賵賲丐賱賮賴 賴匕丕 賲賳 兀亘乇夭 丕賱兀丿賱丞 毓賱賶 賴匕丕 丕賱鬲氐賳賷賮 : 賮丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 鬲鬲賲賷夭 亘爻乇丿 賱丕 禺胤賷 賲鬲乇丕賵丨 亘賷賳 丕賱丨丕囟乇 賵丕賱賲丕囟賷 亘廿爻鬲禺丿丕賲 賲賰孬賾賮 賱鬲賯賳賷丞 丕賱廿爻鬲乇噩丕毓 ( flashback), 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 賷鬲賲乇丿 毓賱賶 丕賱亘賳賷丞 丕賱鬲賯賱賷丿賷丞 賱賱乇賵丕賷丞 亘卮賰賱 賷賮乇囟 毓賱賶 丕賱賯丕乇卅 丕賱鬲兀賳賷 丕賱卮丿賷丿 賮賷 賯乇丕亍丞 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賵丕賱鬲乇賰賷夭.
賮賷 禺囟賲 廿賳爻丨丕亘 丕賱噩賷卮 丕賱爻賵賮賷丕鬲賷 賲賳 丕賱賲噩乇 爻賳丞 1990 賵丕賳賴賷丕乇 丕賱卮賷賵毓賷丞 賮賷 丕賱亘賱丿 , 鬲鬲丨丿孬 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 毓賳 賰丕鬲亘 賷毓賷卮 賲毓 賵丕賱丿鬲賴 丕賱鬲賷 賰丕賳鬲 賲賲孬賱丞 賲爻乇丨賷丞 爻丕亘賯丕 賵丕賳毓夭賱鬲 賮賷 賲賳夭賱賴丕 賱賲丿丞 15 毓丕賲丕 丿賵賳 丕賱禺乇賵噩 賱賱丨馗丞 賵丕丨丿丞 禺丕乇噩 丕賱賲賳夭賱, 丨賷丕丞 乇鬲賷亘丞 賵賲囟胤乇亘丞 亘爻亘亘 鬲丿賴賵乇 丕賱丨丕賱丞 丕賱匕賴賳賷丞 賵丕賱賳賮爻賷丞 賱賱兀賲, 賵鬲賲夭賯 丕賱兀爻乇丞 亘毓丿 賴噩乇丞 賷賵丿賷鬲 卮賯賷賯丞 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 廿賱賶 丕賱禺丕乇噩 賴乇亘丕 賲賳 丕賱廿爻鬲亘丿丕丿 丕賱卮賷賵毓賷, 賵丕賱毓賱丕賯丞 丕賱賲囟胤乇亘丞 賵丕賱睾乇賷亘丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲噩賲毓 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 亘丨亘賷亘鬲賴 廿爻鬲乇.
賷鬲賵爻賱 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 囟賲賷乇 丕賱賲鬲賰賱賲 賰賲丨乇賾賰 賱賱爻乇丿, 賰兀爻賱賵亘 賱賱鬲賲乇丿 毓賱賶 丕賱卮賲賵賱賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 胤亘毓鬲 賮鬲乇丞 丨賰賲 丕賱卮賷賵毓賷丞 賮賷 丕賱賲噩乇, 賵廿毓賱丕亍賸 賱賱賮乇丿丕賳賷丞...丕賱卮賷亍 丕賱匕賷 賷賳毓賰爻 毓賱賶 兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 亘鬲賲夭賯 兀賮乇丕丿 毓丕卅賱丞 丕賱賰丕鬲亘, 賵丕賱毓賱丕賯丞 丕賱睾乇賷亘丞 賲毓 丕賱丨亘賷亘丞 廿爻鬲乇, 賵爻禺乇賷丞 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 賲賳 丕賱賯爻 賵丕賱賰賳賷爻丞..賵賴賵 賲丕 賷丐賰丿 丕賱胤丕亘毓 丕賱賭" 賲丕 亘毓丿 丕賱丨丿丕孬賷" 賱賱乇賵丕賷丞, 亘孬賵乇鬲賴丕 毓賱賶 賰賱 賲丕賴賵 鬲賯賱賷丿賷 兀賵 賲丐爻爻賷.
丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 噩賷丿丞 噩丿丕, 賱賵賱丕 兀賳 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 兀賮爻丿鬲賴丕 亘賵噩賵丿 兀禺胤丕亍 賰孬賷乇丞 賵賲鬲賰乇乇丞.
丕賱毓賳賵丕賳 賲禺丕丿毓 賵賲囟賱賱, 賮丕賱爻賰賷賳丞 賱賲 兀毓乇賮賴丕 兀孬賳丕亍 賯乇丕卅鬲賷 賱賴匕賴 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞, 賱賷爻 亘爻亘亘 兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賳賮爻賴丕 丕賱鬲賷 鬲禺賱賵 鬲賲丕賲丕 賲賳 丕賱爻賰賷賳丞, 亘賱 賱兀爻賱賵亘 丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞 賳賮爻賴.
賷購氐賳賾賮 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 丕賱賲噩乇賷 兀鬲賷賱丕 亘丕乇鬲賷卮 囟賲賳 兀亘乇夭 賵噩賵賴 兀丿亘 賲丕 亘毓丿 丕賱丨丿丕孬丞, 賵賲丐賱賮賴 賴匕丕 賲賳 兀亘乇夭 丕賱兀丿賱丞 毓賱賶 賴匕丕 丕賱鬲氐賳賷賮 : 賮丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 鬲鬲賲賷夭 亘爻乇丿 賱丕 禺胤賷 賲鬲乇丕賵丨 亘賷賳 丕賱丨丕囟乇 賵丕賱賲丕囟賷 亘廿爻鬲禺丿丕賲 賲賰孬賾賮 賱鬲賯賳賷丞 丕賱廿爻鬲乇噩丕毓 ( flashback), 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 賷鬲賲乇丿 毓賱賶 丕賱亘賳賷丞 丕賱鬲賯賱賷丿賷丞 賱賱乇賵丕賷丞 亘卮賰賱 賷賮乇囟 毓賱賶 丕賱賯丕乇卅 丕賱鬲兀賳賷 丕賱卮丿賷丿 賮賷 賯乇丕亍丞 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 賵丕賱鬲乇賰賷夭.
賮賷 禺囟賲 廿賳爻丨丕亘 丕賱噩賷卮 丕賱爻賵賮賷丕鬲賷 賲賳 丕賱賲噩乇 爻賳丞 1990 賵丕賳賴賷丕乇 丕賱卮賷賵毓賷丞 賮賷 丕賱亘賱丿 , 鬲鬲丨丿孬 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 毓賳 賰丕鬲亘 賷毓賷卮 賲毓 賵丕賱丿鬲賴 丕賱鬲賷 賰丕賳鬲 賲賲孬賱丞 賲爻乇丨賷丞 爻丕亘賯丕 賵丕賳毓夭賱鬲 賮賷 賲賳夭賱賴丕 賱賲丿丞 15 毓丕賲丕 丿賵賳 丕賱禺乇賵噩 賱賱丨馗丞 賵丕丨丿丞 禺丕乇噩 丕賱賲賳夭賱, 丨賷丕丞 乇鬲賷亘丞 賵賲囟胤乇亘丞 亘爻亘亘 鬲丿賴賵乇 丕賱丨丕賱丞 丕賱匕賴賳賷丞 賵丕賱賳賮爻賷丞 賱賱兀賲, 賵鬲賲夭賯 丕賱兀爻乇丞 亘毓丿 賴噩乇丞 賷賵丿賷鬲 卮賯賷賯丞 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 廿賱賶 丕賱禺丕乇噩 賴乇亘丕 賲賳 丕賱廿爻鬲亘丿丕丿 丕賱卮賷賵毓賷, 賵丕賱毓賱丕賯丞 丕賱賲囟胤乇亘丞 賵丕賱睾乇賷亘丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲噩賲毓 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 亘丨亘賷亘鬲賴 廿爻鬲乇.
賷鬲賵爻賱 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 囟賲賷乇 丕賱賲鬲賰賱賲 賰賲丨乇賾賰 賱賱爻乇丿, 賰兀爻賱賵亘 賱賱鬲賲乇丿 毓賱賶 丕賱卮賲賵賱賷丞 丕賱鬲賷 胤亘毓鬲 賮鬲乇丞 丨賰賲 丕賱卮賷賵毓賷丞 賮賷 丕賱賲噩乇, 賵廿毓賱丕亍賸 賱賱賮乇丿丕賳賷丞...丕賱卮賷亍 丕賱匕賷 賷賳毓賰爻 毓賱賶 兀丨丿丕孬 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 亘鬲賲夭賯 兀賮乇丕丿 毓丕卅賱丞 丕賱賰丕鬲亘, 賵丕賱毓賱丕賯丞 丕賱睾乇賷亘丞 賲毓 丕賱丨亘賷亘丞 廿爻鬲乇, 賵爻禺乇賷丞 丕賱賰丕鬲亘 賲賳 丕賱賯爻 賵丕賱賰賳賷爻丞..賵賴賵 賲丕 賷丐賰丿 丕賱胤丕亘毓 丕賱賭" 賲丕 亘毓丿 丕賱丨丿丕孬賷" 賱賱乇賵丕賷丞, 亘孬賵乇鬲賴丕 毓賱賶 賰賱 賲丕賴賵 鬲賯賱賷丿賷 兀賵 賲丐爻爻賷.
丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 噩賷丿丞 噩丿丕, 賱賵賱丕 兀賳 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 兀賮爻丿鬲賴丕 亘賵噩賵丿 兀禺胤丕亍 賰孬賷乇丞 賵賲鬲賰乇乇丞.
January 21, 2011
鈥楾ranquility鈥� is a complex, dark, ironic tale of supreme dysfunction, related in beautifully discursive and elliptical prose. The backdrop of Communist Hungary is wonderfully juxtaposed with the claustrophobic, oedipal relationship between mother and son. Such freshly twisted bonds and philosophical richness render this novel unforgettable and worthy of many readings, classic. I plan to re-read this book after viewing the upcoming release of the film version, 鈥榳herewereyoumyson.鈥�
October 27, 2018
this book rules. i constantly check the internet for new translations from attila bartis. when i received this the postman threw the book over the fence and my dog chewed up the spine but happily left the words. almost comically dark in the style of a haneke film or cioran essay
August 13, 2020
Atila je za knjigu Spokoj dobio knji啪evnu nagradu koja ponosno nosi ime ma膽arskog knji啪evnika 艩andor Maraija. Simboli膷ki?
"Sada bi trebalo da pustim korenje, kao hrastovi, pomislio sam, radije kao kedar, pomislila je, on du啪e 啪ivi, pomislio sam, volim te, pomislila je, 膰uti, pomislio sam, samo sam pomislila, pomislila je, tu 膷e拧 sigurno propasti, pomislio sam, nije me briga, pomislila je, ovako se ne mo啪e 啪iveti, pomislio sam, ja tako 啪elim, pomislila je, 膰uti, pomislio sam, ne膰u da 膰utim, pomislila je (...)"
Postoje li vrata za izlaz ili bekstvo od sudbine, od porodice, genetskog koda, politi膷ke represije nesre膰nog doba, nesre膰nih praznih o膷iju na stajali拧tu neke stanice ili 拧etali拧tu pokraj nekog budimpe拧tanskog dunavskog mosta, ima li bekstva od maj膷inog otvorenog groba koji uvla膷i sve u sebe, poput crne rupe ili vira? Rebeka Vest, atraktivna pozori拧na glumica, ona kojoj se svi dive, za kojom se okre膰u brojne o膷i, ona kojoj se dive i ona koju tako lako mogu da sru拧e. Komunizam u Ma膽arskoj i Rumuniji nosio je sa sobom i disidente, one koji su be啪ali u slobodu i spokoj u susedni Beograd, koji je predstavljao put ka Evropi, koji je predstavljao Evropu. Njegova sestra bliznakinja spakovala je sve 拧to ima sa sobom, violinu i dobru volju, i sa takmi膷enja u Beogradu nije se vratila. 沤ivot pod svetlima pozornice zamenjen je svetlima za saslu拧anje, potrebom da se odbegli deo stada vrati, bez posledica i uz minimalno izvinjenje ili dru拧tveno koristan rad. I 膷emer ljudskog roda prilazi njoj kojoj nikada pri拧li ne bi, sa uslovima i bez molbe i kopa raku za 啪ivu 膰erku i kopa raku za sebe, samoizolaciju i stid i bekstvo od taloga i 膷emera ljudskog roda. Nezatvorena raka vu膷e sa sobom sve, a ponajvi拧e njega, sina, brata blizanca odbegle violinistkinje, uspe拧nog pisca koji svoj 啪ivot posve膰uje majci, svojoj obavezi i sidru koje ne da da se ra拧ire krila. U sumrak komunizma, stazom tranzicije kora膷a jedan nesre膰ni produkt pro拧losti, sudbinski u susret Ester koja ga 膷eka na Mostu oslobo膽enja, praznog pogleda i usahlih misli, da sudbinski po膽u putem koji vodi ka vratima koja mo啪da vide do kona膷nog oslobo膽enja. I ko je ubio koga, pisac majku ili majka pisca? Paukova zamka spre膷ava one neve拧te da nastave 啪ivot normalno, a majka je isplela savr拧enu zamku za svoga sina.
"(...) od navlake za jorgan napravio nekakav d啪ak i u njega sasuo tuce pudera, prazne i poluprazne fla拧ice s parfemom, vitaminske kreme protiv bora, koje u stvari nisu vredele ni拧ta, uzalud je na lice nanosila cenu aran啪mana za put oko sveta, mre啪a ni拧tavnosti uplela ju je kao pauk svoju 啪rtvu, bubu s ru啪e (...)"
"Sada bi trebalo da pustim korenje, kao hrastovi, pomislio sam, radije kao kedar, pomislila je, on du啪e 啪ivi, pomislio sam, volim te, pomislila je, 膰uti, pomislio sam, samo sam pomislila, pomislila je, tu 膷e拧 sigurno propasti, pomislio sam, nije me briga, pomislila je, ovako se ne mo啪e 啪iveti, pomislio sam, ja tako 啪elim, pomislila je, 膰uti, pomislio sam, ne膰u da 膰utim, pomislila je (...)"
Postoje li vrata za izlaz ili bekstvo od sudbine, od porodice, genetskog koda, politi膷ke represije nesre膰nog doba, nesre膰nih praznih o膷iju na stajali拧tu neke stanice ili 拧etali拧tu pokraj nekog budimpe拧tanskog dunavskog mosta, ima li bekstva od maj膷inog otvorenog groba koji uvla膷i sve u sebe, poput crne rupe ili vira? Rebeka Vest, atraktivna pozori拧na glumica, ona kojoj se svi dive, za kojom se okre膰u brojne o膷i, ona kojoj se dive i ona koju tako lako mogu da sru拧e. Komunizam u Ma膽arskoj i Rumuniji nosio je sa sobom i disidente, one koji su be啪ali u slobodu i spokoj u susedni Beograd, koji je predstavljao put ka Evropi, koji je predstavljao Evropu. Njegova sestra bliznakinja spakovala je sve 拧to ima sa sobom, violinu i dobru volju, i sa takmi膷enja u Beogradu nije se vratila. 沤ivot pod svetlima pozornice zamenjen je svetlima za saslu拧anje, potrebom da se odbegli deo stada vrati, bez posledica i uz minimalno izvinjenje ili dru拧tveno koristan rad. I 膷emer ljudskog roda prilazi njoj kojoj nikada pri拧li ne bi, sa uslovima i bez molbe i kopa raku za 啪ivu 膰erku i kopa raku za sebe, samoizolaciju i stid i bekstvo od taloga i 膷emera ljudskog roda. Nezatvorena raka vu膷e sa sobom sve, a ponajvi拧e njega, sina, brata blizanca odbegle violinistkinje, uspe拧nog pisca koji svoj 啪ivot posve膰uje majci, svojoj obavezi i sidru koje ne da da se ra拧ire krila. U sumrak komunizma, stazom tranzicije kora膷a jedan nesre膰ni produkt pro拧losti, sudbinski u susret Ester koja ga 膷eka na Mostu oslobo膽enja, praznog pogleda i usahlih misli, da sudbinski po膽u putem koji vodi ka vratima koja mo啪da vide do kona膷nog oslobo膽enja. I ko je ubio koga, pisac majku ili majka pisca? Paukova zamka spre膷ava one neve拧te da nastave 啪ivot normalno, a majka je isplela savr拧enu zamku za svoga sina.
"(...) od navlake za jorgan napravio nekakav d啪ak i u njega sasuo tuce pudera, prazne i poluprazne fla拧ice s parfemom, vitaminske kreme protiv bora, koje u stvari nisu vredele ni拧ta, uzalud je na lice nanosila cenu aran啪mana za put oko sveta, mre啪a ni拧tavnosti uplela ju je kao pauk svoju 啪rtvu, bubu s ru啪e (...)"
October 30, 2022
A olvastam egy kritik谩t err艖l, ami nagyon j贸l le铆rja az 茅n 茅lm茅nyemet is ezzel a k枚nyvvel: "Ha elkezdtem olvasni, alig b铆rtam letenni; ha azonban m茅gis letettem, napokig, s艖t hetekig nem k铆v谩ntam 煤jra kinyitni."
B谩r nem volt hetes kihagy谩s, minden egyes alkalommal neh茅z volt 煤jra k茅zbevenni.
B谩r nem volt hetes kihagy谩s, minden egyes alkalommal neh茅z volt 煤jra k茅zbevenni.
September 28, 2019
丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 爻賷卅丞 噩丿丕 賱賱丕爻賮..賱賷爻鬲 賲賳 毓丕丿丞 丕賱賲噩賱爻 丕賱賵胤賳賷 賱賱孬賯丕賯賴 賵丕賱賮賳賵賳 賵丕賱丕丿丕亘 丕賱賰賵賷鬲賷 賴匕賴 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丕鬲 丕賱鬲賷 丕賮賯丿鬲 丕賱乇賵丕賷賴 乇賵丨賴丕
May 31, 2023
1.
"Nu exist膬 nimic mai jalnic ca atunci c芒nd omul confund膬 libertatea cu produsul jegos 葯颈 confuz al min葲ii sale."
2.
"-Taci, mi-a spus 葯颈 st膬tea at芒t de singur膬 pe scen膬 de parc膬 Dumnezeu ar fi uitat s膬 creeze l芒ng膬 ea universul."
3.
"Uneori e foarte util ca omul s膬 葯tie exact c芒t poate s膬 suporte din realitate "
4. (Andor, scriitorul 葯颈 mama lui)
- Mar葯 din casa mea!
- Cu mare pl膬cere, dar atunci cr膬pi de foame [...]
- Inima!... M膬 doare inima!
- Stai potolit膬, dumneata n-ai inim膬. 葮i nici eu nu am. Avem muci 卯n locul inimii. Muci, 卯n葲elegi? O s膬 cr膬p膬m pentru c膬 nu sim葲im nimic...
5.
"...libertatea nu e o stare destinat膬 oamenilor."
6.
"...abia dac膬 exist膬 ceva mai important dec芒t s膬 ne cunoa葯tem [...] Ca omul s膬 nu se cace pe el c芒nd 卯n oglind膬 卯n loc de cei doi ochi frumo葯颈 vede o fiar膬, ci s膬 葯tie ce-i de f膬cut."
7.
"脦i rup m芒na p芒n膬 葯颈 lui Dumnezeu dac膬 卯ndr膬zne葯te s膬 se ating膬 de mama..."
"Nu exist膬 nimic mai jalnic ca atunci c芒nd omul confund膬 libertatea cu produsul jegos 葯颈 confuz al min葲ii sale."
2.
"-Taci, mi-a spus 葯颈 st膬tea at芒t de singur膬 pe scen膬 de parc膬 Dumnezeu ar fi uitat s膬 creeze l芒ng膬 ea universul."
3.
"Uneori e foarte util ca omul s膬 葯tie exact c芒t poate s膬 suporte din realitate "
4. (Andor, scriitorul 葯颈 mama lui)
- Mar葯 din casa mea!
- Cu mare pl膬cere, dar atunci cr膬pi de foame [...]
- Inima!... M膬 doare inima!
- Stai potolit膬, dumneata n-ai inim膬. 葮i nici eu nu am. Avem muci 卯n locul inimii. Muci, 卯n葲elegi? O s膬 cr膬p膬m pentru c膬 nu sim葲im nimic...
5.
"...libertatea nu e o stare destinat膬 oamenilor."
6.
"...abia dac膬 exist膬 ceva mai important dec芒t s膬 ne cunoa葯tem [...] Ca omul s膬 nu se cace pe el c芒nd 卯n oglind膬 卯n loc de cei doi ochi frumo葯颈 vede o fiar膬, ci s膬 葯tie ce-i de f膬cut."
7.
"脦i rup m芒na p芒n膬 葯颈 lui Dumnezeu dac膬 卯ndr膬zne葯te s膬 se ating膬 de mama..."
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