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Η μελαγχολία της αντίστασης
Σε μια μικρή και λησμονημένη από τον Θεό πόλη της Ουγγαρίας, χαμένη μέσα στην ομιχλώδη και παγωμένη λεκάνη των Καρπαθίων, πλανάται η απροσδιόριστη απειλή μιας επικείμενης καταστροφής. Η απειλή, που δεν κατονομάζεται ποτέ, επιτείνεται όταν καταφτάνει στην πόλη ένα μυστηριώδες τσίρκο που κουβαλάει μαζί του μια γιγαντιαία φάλαινα και επιδεικνύει τον παράδοξο "Πρίγκιπα" με τα τρία μάτια.
Οι τρομαγμένοι πολίτες νιώθουν πως πρέπει να αντιδράσουν και καταφεύγουν σε οτιδήποτε νομίζουν πως μπορεί να δαμάσει το χάος, από τη μουσική ώς τον φασισμό. Και ανάμεσα στους μοχθηρούς ή άβουλους κατοίκους της πόλης ξεχωρίζει ο αλαφροΐσκιωτος Βάλουσκα, ο τρυφερός ήρωας του βιβλίου, η μοναδική αγνή και ευγενική ψυχή.
"Αντάξιο ενός Κάφκα κι ενός Μπέκετ, ενός Μπέρνχαρτ και ενός Μέλβιλ, το μυθιστόρημα καθηλώνει τον αναγνώστη με τις υπνωτιστικές ποιητικές εικόνες του, τους παραληρηματικούς μονολόγους των ηρώων του και τις μπουρλέσκ καταστάσεις που φέρνουν ένα πικρό μειδίαμα στα χείλη του αναγνώστη.
Με άκρως διεισδυτική ματιά, ο συγγραφέας περιγράφει την ανθρώπινη κατάσταση στις σύγχρονες κοινωνίες μας, στις οποίες τα άτομα, έρμαια του φόβου και των δεισιδαιμονιών τους, μάταια αγωνίζονται ενάντια στην κατάσταση της διάλυσης και του χάους που, κατά την άποψη του συγγραφέα, 'είναι η φυσική κατάσταση του κόσμου'.
Μυστήριο, μελαγχολία και θλίψη διατρέχει όλο το βιβλίο· η αντίσταση είναι ανώφελη, αφού η προσπάθεια να αλλάξει η υπάρχουσα κατάσταση οδηγεί την πόλη σε ένα αυταρχικό καθεστώς.
Η μόνη χαραμάδα φωτός είναι η αποδοχή της ανθρώπινης κατάστασής μας και η αλλαγή στάσης απέναντι στη ζωή και στον συνάνθρωπό μας", παρατηρεί η μεταφράστρια του βιβλίου Ιωάννα Αβραμίδου.
Οι τρομαγμένοι πολίτες νιώθουν πως πρέπει να αντιδράσουν και καταφεύγουν σε οτιδήποτε νομίζουν πως μπορεί να δαμάσει το χάος, από τη μουσική ώς τον φασισμό. Και ανάμεσα στους μοχθηρούς ή άβουλους κατοίκους της πόλης ξεχωρίζει ο αλαφροΐσκιωτος Βάλουσκα, ο τρυφερός ήρωας του βιβλίου, η μοναδική αγνή και ευγενική ψυχή.
"Αντάξιο ενός Κάφκα κι ενός Μπέκετ, ενός Μπέρνχαρτ και ενός Μέλβιλ, το μυθιστόρημα καθηλώνει τον αναγνώστη με τις υπνωτιστικές ποιητικές εικόνες του, τους παραληρηματικούς μονολόγους των ηρώων του και τις μπουρλέσκ καταστάσεις που φέρνουν ένα πικρό μειδίαμα στα χείλη του αναγνώστη.
Με άκρως διεισδυτική ματιά, ο συγγραφέας περιγράφει την ανθρώπινη κατάσταση στις σύγχρονες κοινωνίες μας, στις οποίες τα άτομα, έρμαια του φόβου και των δεισιδαιμονιών τους, μάταια αγωνίζονται ενάντια στην κατάσταση της διάλυσης και του χάους που, κατά την άποψη του συγγραφέα, 'είναι η φυσική κατάσταση του κόσμου'.
Μυστήριο, μελαγχολία και θλίψη διατρέχει όλο το βιβλίο· η αντίσταση είναι ανώφελη, αφού η προσπάθεια να αλλάξει η υπάρχουσα κατάσταση οδηγεί την πόλη σε ένα αυταρχικό καθεστώς.
Η μόνη χαραμάδα φωτός είναι η αποδοχή της ανθρώπινης κατάστασής μας και η αλλαγή στάσης απέναντι στη ζωή και στον συνάνθρωπό μας", παρατηρεί η μεταφράστρια του βιβλίου Ιωάννα Αβραμίδου.
416 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1989
799 people are currently reading
26.1k people want to read
About the author
László Krasznahorkai
48 books1,844 followersLászló Krasznahorkai is a Hungarian novelist and screenwriter who is known for critically difficult and demanding novels, often labelled as postmodern, with dystopian and bleak melancholic themes.
He is probably best known through the oeuvre of the director Béla Tarr, who has collaborated with him on several movies.
Krasznahorkai has been honored with numerous literary prizes, among them the highest award of the Hungarian state, the Kossuth Prize, and the 2015 Man Booker International Prize for his English-translated oeuvre.
He is probably best known through the oeuvre of the director Béla Tarr, who has collaborated with him on several movies.
Krasznahorkai has been honored with numerous literary prizes, among them the highest award of the Hungarian state, the Kossuth Prize, and the 2015 Man Booker International Prize for his English-translated oeuvre.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 759 reviews
September 3, 2016
László Krasznahorkai, I am nervous. Isn't that ridiculous? I'm actually nervous about writing a review for your novel The Melancholy of Resistance because I just finished scanning through the (few) other reviews on this site and saw that they were mostly perfunctory in their praise, somewhat soulless and academic, and insufficiently rapturous.
This is an amazing book! Don't they understand that? When you've heard the word of god (and here it is), you just don't dither around with propriety or the bone-dry language of theory. You jump up and down and run up to strangers and shake them and slobber and cry and sputter, OMG OMG OMG! And let me reassure you that I am very, very stingy with my enthusiasms and my ecstasies. I'm not Gene Shalit or the Sixty Second Movie Review or some idiot naïf who's floored by the slightest registerable stimulus.
This is what this book did to me. It woke me up in the middle of the night last night -- there, on my cheap lacquered IKEA nightstand. It veritably hummed with menace (and intimacy too) and demanded to be finished. It was midnight, or whenever-it-was... because, really, who consults clocks or bothers heeling to their increments when one is summoned -- yes, summoned to follow a course as needful and endemic as one's own pulse? Krasznahorkai enslaved me. There's no better way to put it. I was tempted to say that I was spellbound by the novel -- which is true, I guess, but doesn't go far enough or address the muscularity of the novel's powers. Spells (in the vernacular) are airy and fantastic, but slavery is more consciously willful. You can feel the master's force and bearing in every word. This isn't the vague twilight of spells, but the fullest night of abjection. Krasznahorkai, I am yours.
Immediately after finishing the final eighty-or-so pages, in the middle of the night, I had to start re-watching the film based on (or inspired by) the novel, Béla Tarr’s Werckmeister Harmonies, because how can you just nod off to sleep after you’ve been so dominated and terrorized by a novel? You can’t. There’s so much to think through, and the intensity does not easily yield to the evenness that sleep requires. Even though Krasznahorkai cowrote the screenplay of Werckmeister with Tarr -- and it is a good film -- it is (sad to say) lacking even as an homage to the book or its strange, all-consuming power. Tarr fails at capturing the menace or properly defining his characters. We are on such intimate terms with the characters in the novel that it comes as a rude shock that Valuska, the protagonist (played by a very Klaus Kinski-ish actor), is reduced to the status of mere cipher in the film. He seems to have no substance specifically belonging to himself. The other characters don’t fare much better as Tarr obsesses on their uncanniness rather than their humanity.
But back to the book, for a moment. I’ve failed to reveal a thing about it and only alluded to or attempted to suggest its strength. I must confess that I’ve been avoiding dealing with the brute matter of the novel because abstracted as such, it's not a very persuasive enticement. The novel is the story of the end of the world, in a way, by way of acknowledging that the world will persist, linger, drag on even after its raison d’être, its motivations, its meaning have collapsed. Valuska is an ‘idiot’ in the Dostoyevskian sense -- a young idealist still open-mouthed in his wonder at the world -- no, at the whole universe. As expected, his ‘purity’ is the subject of confusion, some admiration, but mostly ridicule and contempt. Even at the brink of civilization’s disintegration, he is invested with a passion and optimism that condemns him as the fool. His Hungarian hometown has been taken over by ‘strange’ happenings [or are they really so strange?] that the suspicious townspeople interpret as omens of terrible things to come. The culminating symbol is the arrival of a circus that scarcely deserves that name, since it seems to include only two exhibits: a giant, preserved whale in a truck trailer and a mysterious unseen Prince, deformed and rumored to reign over or impel the sinister happenings in the town… such as the arrival of hundreds of sullen men, followers of the circus, who wait, speechless, in the town square in small huddles. Waiting for what, exactly? The townspeople stay indoors and expect the worst -- some sort of provincial apocalypse, perhaps. But does the Prince bring about the mob’s menace and its chilling denouement or is he merely a convenient outside force on which to blame the worst impulses of mankind?
This is an amazing book! Don't they understand that? When you've heard the word of god (and here it is), you just don't dither around with propriety or the bone-dry language of theory. You jump up and down and run up to strangers and shake them and slobber and cry and sputter, OMG OMG OMG! And let me reassure you that I am very, very stingy with my enthusiasms and my ecstasies. I'm not Gene Shalit or the Sixty Second Movie Review or some idiot naïf who's floored by the slightest registerable stimulus.
This is what this book did to me. It woke me up in the middle of the night last night -- there, on my cheap lacquered IKEA nightstand. It veritably hummed with menace (and intimacy too) and demanded to be finished. It was midnight, or whenever-it-was... because, really, who consults clocks or bothers heeling to their increments when one is summoned -- yes, summoned to follow a course as needful and endemic as one's own pulse? Krasznahorkai enslaved me. There's no better way to put it. I was tempted to say that I was spellbound by the novel -- which is true, I guess, but doesn't go far enough or address the muscularity of the novel's powers. Spells (in the vernacular) are airy and fantastic, but slavery is more consciously willful. You can feel the master's force and bearing in every word. This isn't the vague twilight of spells, but the fullest night of abjection. Krasznahorkai, I am yours.
Immediately after finishing the final eighty-or-so pages, in the middle of the night, I had to start re-watching the film based on (or inspired by) the novel, Béla Tarr’s Werckmeister Harmonies, because how can you just nod off to sleep after you’ve been so dominated and terrorized by a novel? You can’t. There’s so much to think through, and the intensity does not easily yield to the evenness that sleep requires. Even though Krasznahorkai cowrote the screenplay of Werckmeister with Tarr -- and it is a good film -- it is (sad to say) lacking even as an homage to the book or its strange, all-consuming power. Tarr fails at capturing the menace or properly defining his characters. We are on such intimate terms with the characters in the novel that it comes as a rude shock that Valuska, the protagonist (played by a very Klaus Kinski-ish actor), is reduced to the status of mere cipher in the film. He seems to have no substance specifically belonging to himself. The other characters don’t fare much better as Tarr obsesses on their uncanniness rather than their humanity.
But back to the book, for a moment. I’ve failed to reveal a thing about it and only alluded to or attempted to suggest its strength. I must confess that I’ve been avoiding dealing with the brute matter of the novel because abstracted as such, it's not a very persuasive enticement. The novel is the story of the end of the world, in a way, by way of acknowledging that the world will persist, linger, drag on even after its raison d’être, its motivations, its meaning have collapsed. Valuska is an ‘idiot’ in the Dostoyevskian sense -- a young idealist still open-mouthed in his wonder at the world -- no, at the whole universe. As expected, his ‘purity’ is the subject of confusion, some admiration, but mostly ridicule and contempt. Even at the brink of civilization’s disintegration, he is invested with a passion and optimism that condemns him as the fool. His Hungarian hometown has been taken over by ‘strange’ happenings [or are they really so strange?] that the suspicious townspeople interpret as omens of terrible things to come. The culminating symbol is the arrival of a circus that scarcely deserves that name, since it seems to include only two exhibits: a giant, preserved whale in a truck trailer and a mysterious unseen Prince, deformed and rumored to reign over or impel the sinister happenings in the town… such as the arrival of hundreds of sullen men, followers of the circus, who wait, speechless, in the town square in small huddles. Waiting for what, exactly? The townspeople stay indoors and expect the worst -- some sort of provincial apocalypse, perhaps. But does the Prince bring about the mob’s menace and its chilling denouement or is he merely a convenient outside force on which to blame the worst impulses of mankind?
December 22, 2024
Entropy, as usual, strives to reach a maximum so, as a result, there is anarchy in everything…
And as an appendage to this apocalyptic chaos a great terrifying and enigmatic spectacle is announced… The Biggest Whale in the World will be exhibited on the central square…
The story rotates around a mother an her adult son… They live separately… She is a widow… He is a daydreamer hooked on astronomy…
The whale plays a role of the Trojan Horse… It acts as a catalyst… The revolt is provoked…
Crowds need no order, crowds want a riot.
…all normal expectations went by the board and one’s daily habits were disrupted by a sense of ever-spreading all-consuming chaos which rendered the future unpredictable, the past unrecallable and ordinary life so haphazard that people simply assumed that whatever could be imagined might come to pass…
And as an appendage to this apocalyptic chaos a great terrifying and enigmatic spectacle is announced… The Biggest Whale in the World will be exhibited on the central square…
The story rotates around a mother an her adult son… They live separately… She is a widow… He is a daydreamer hooked on astronomy…
He had no sense of proportion and was entirely lacking the compulsive drive to reason; he was not hungry to measure himself, time and time again, against the pure and wonderful mechanism of ‘that silent heavenly clockwork’ for he took it for granted that his great concern for the universe was unlikely to be reciprocated by the universe for him. And, since this understanding of his extended to life on earth generally and the town in which he lived particularly – for it was his experience that each history, each incident, each movement and each act of the will was part of an endless repetitive cycle…
The whale plays a role of the Trojan Horse… It acts as a catalyst… The revolt is provoked…
A group of men stood before him and slowly encircled him. He saw their hands, their stumpy fingers, and would have liked to say something. But a voice behind them croaked, ‘Wait!’ and, without seeing his face, he recognized the grey broadcloth overcoat and knew immediately that the figure walking up to him through the open ring of men couldn’t be anyone else but the new friend he had made in the market square. ‘Don’t be afraid. You’re coming with us,’ the man whispered in his ear and put his arm about his shoulders.
Crowds need no order, crowds want a riot.
January 13, 2024
The Melancholy of Resistance is a novel that truly haunts long after the reading has ended. Krasznahorkai creates a dark allegorical novel that is saturated with dread and overflowing with malice as he depicts a city overrun by strange happenings and menacing mobs of strangers during the icy winter. Even if you were to read this on a warms summers day, he would make you feel as if the world outside your window was frozen over and treacherous. This novel deserves a more wide-spread critical acclaim and its infectious nature has lead me to recommend it to nearly everyone I know, and now I am recommending it to you.
Krasznahorkai employs a nearly opaque style of loquacious, dense prose, penning beautiful long sentences with no breaks. The whole novel reads as only a handful of paragraphs. Like a train, this dense prose starts to slowly pull away and the novel picks up a frightening momentum as the reactionary chain of event pushes forward on pure dreadful inertia towards an apocalyptic-like resolve. You will not be able to stop once you the momentum has picked up; this novel will have such a hold on your mind that you will be compelled to drop everything and keep reading. The reader is strapped to this and watches it all unfold in nearly real-time. It is no surprise that Bella Tar's film portrayal is built with a mere thirty nine long flowing camera shots as the novel seems to follow along the characters without ever blinking or breaking the slow grinding pace. We watch a woman ride a train, return home and be visited by Mrs. Eszter, then the 'camera' of language follows Eszter from this scene, home, through the entire evening, hovering about her room as she sleeps, and far into the next day before there is ever a break from the constant flow of the scene. Krasznahorkai's ability to keep this up and maintain an even, continuous flow is highly impressive. I understand the comparison to Herman Melville that this novel receives, and it goes beyond the mere fact that both are allegorical tales surrounding a large whale. Krasznahorkai's verbose style is as eloquent as Melville and both maintain a fluent vocabulary that will keep a dictionary by your side.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky is another author used for comparison with this novel, which also has merit. While the two authors style of writing is quite varied, their use of characters flows in a similar vein. Like the great Dostoevsky, the characters in Melancholy are often used to represent a specific idea, value, or force of nature. This is not a detractor of the characters however, as they are fully fleshed out and multidimensional and exist in a realistic sense appropriate and fitting to the world of the novel. There are many characters, each one a bit bizarre and frayed by the world, but each offers an insightful look into their humanity.
The philosophical musings that furnish the story are the real meat of this novel. Krasznahorkai has some very brilliant and occasionally controversial ideas that he is compelled to tell you, and the reader will soon realize this novel is an allegory for his philosophical thoughts on existence. In his world, order and chaos, creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin and must coexist in a proper balance. Krasznahorkai shows how all is meant to end in chaos and destruction eventually and to try and deny this is futile and foolish. Yet this is what allows for creation and rebirth. He even shows how biology is wired for its own destruction after death in a brilliant, highly medical descriptive fashion. All his discussions of heavenly bodies in space begs the question, is there a natural order, or are we all spinning at random and merely victims of empty chance and reaction. The question of faith is brought up and Krasznahorkai shakes some ideas loose upon the reader. There is an excellent passage where this question is brought about through the metaphor of musical theory. It is easily understandable by all, but a bit of knowledge of music theory and research into theory and classical composition will shed light on Krasznahorkai's stunning intellect. Also, the idea of power is a overarching theme here.
This is an incredible novel, although it should be noted that it is a bit dense and difficult and isn't a quick read. Krasznahorkai is a verbal virtuosos and this should be read if only to view his ability with language and to marvel at how seemingly effortlessly he maintains a constant, unblinking flow through the few days that make up this novel. There is plenty to read into in here, as the whole novel can be taken as allegory and you will have much to ponder for days to come. Months later I still think about this book and have revelations into its meaning. The Melancholy of Resistance is a frightening look into the world, but is at times laugh out loud funny as it pokes at humanity and the ridiculousness of it all. Please find and read this novel, Krasznahorkai should be much wider read than he is.
4/5
Krasznahorkai employs a nearly opaque style of loquacious, dense prose, penning beautiful long sentences with no breaks. The whole novel reads as only a handful of paragraphs. Like a train, this dense prose starts to slowly pull away and the novel picks up a frightening momentum as the reactionary chain of event pushes forward on pure dreadful inertia towards an apocalyptic-like resolve. You will not be able to stop once you the momentum has picked up; this novel will have such a hold on your mind that you will be compelled to drop everything and keep reading. The reader is strapped to this and watches it all unfold in nearly real-time. It is no surprise that Bella Tar's film portrayal is built with a mere thirty nine long flowing camera shots as the novel seems to follow along the characters without ever blinking or breaking the slow grinding pace. We watch a woman ride a train, return home and be visited by Mrs. Eszter, then the 'camera' of language follows Eszter from this scene, home, through the entire evening, hovering about her room as she sleeps, and far into the next day before there is ever a break from the constant flow of the scene. Krasznahorkai's ability to keep this up and maintain an even, continuous flow is highly impressive. I understand the comparison to Herman Melville that this novel receives, and it goes beyond the mere fact that both are allegorical tales surrounding a large whale. Krasznahorkai's verbose style is as eloquent as Melville and both maintain a fluent vocabulary that will keep a dictionary by your side.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky is another author used for comparison with this novel, which also has merit. While the two authors style of writing is quite varied, their use of characters flows in a similar vein. Like the great Dostoevsky, the characters in Melancholy are often used to represent a specific idea, value, or force of nature. This is not a detractor of the characters however, as they are fully fleshed out and multidimensional and exist in a realistic sense appropriate and fitting to the world of the novel. There are many characters, each one a bit bizarre and frayed by the world, but each offers an insightful look into their humanity.
The philosophical musings that furnish the story are the real meat of this novel. Krasznahorkai has some very brilliant and occasionally controversial ideas that he is compelled to tell you, and the reader will soon realize this novel is an allegory for his philosophical thoughts on existence. In his world, order and chaos, creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin and must coexist in a proper balance. Krasznahorkai shows how all is meant to end in chaos and destruction eventually and to try and deny this is futile and foolish. Yet this is what allows for creation and rebirth. He even shows how biology is wired for its own destruction after death in a brilliant, highly medical descriptive fashion. All his discussions of heavenly bodies in space begs the question, is there a natural order, or are we all spinning at random and merely victims of empty chance and reaction. The question of faith is brought up and Krasznahorkai shakes some ideas loose upon the reader. There is an excellent passage where this question is brought about through the metaphor of musical theory. It is easily understandable by all, but a bit of knowledge of music theory and research into theory and classical composition will shed light on Krasznahorkai's stunning intellect. Also, the idea of power is a overarching theme here.
This is an incredible novel, although it should be noted that it is a bit dense and difficult and isn't a quick read. Krasznahorkai is a verbal virtuosos and this should be read if only to view his ability with language and to marvel at how seemingly effortlessly he maintains a constant, unblinking flow through the few days that make up this novel. There is plenty to read into in here, as the whole novel can be taken as allegory and you will have much to ponder for days to come. Months later I still think about this book and have revelations into its meaning. The Melancholy of Resistance is a frightening look into the world, but is at times laugh out loud funny as it pokes at humanity and the ridiculousness of it all. Please find and read this novel, Krasznahorkai should be much wider read than he is.
4/5
August 13, 2024
My second attempt after twelve years. This novel's sidling, oblique tone reminds me of Kazuo Ishiguro's The Unconsoled, though it is without that book's lighter than air prose. In fact, it's rather dense. The translator, George Szirtes, calls it ". . . a slow lava flow of narrative, a vast black river of type."
The action takes place during what feels like the late Cold War years, somewhere in rural Hungary. The story is shot through with a pervasive sense of doom. The world is ending and almost everything seems proof of this, including, or perhaps especially, the giant whale trucked into town by an unwashed "circus" of strangers.
The characters are (1) Mrs. Plauf, an elderly woman taking the train home, whose life is one ongoing panic attack; onboard she is crudely propositioned by a randy drunk; at one point during the come on her brassiere clip — she is extraordinarily buxom — fails. (2) Mrs. Eszter, a large, cruel, manipulative woman bent on the ruination of her disabled spouse; her insidious ambition is at the heart of the novel: (3) Mr. Eszter, a musicologist and genius now bedridden after a career managing the bumbling local orchestra; and (4) Valuska, Mrs. Plauf's estranged son, quasi village naif, ecstatic teller of tales about the cosmos, and Mr. Eszter's young companion.
The novel makes use of almost Proust-like run on sentences, but the strings of dependent clauses are fewer which means greater readibility. Interiority is Krasznahorkai's great and seamless gift: the movement of the mind in thought — frenzied, disbelieving, quiescent etc. — and the sensory body mirroring it.
"He set off and houses and garden fences began to lurch past him but he felt rather than saw their fevered rushing for his eyes were incapable of seeing anything, not even the square blocks of paving at his feet; trees swept by him, their trunks at a slant, their bare branches trembling with anticipation in the murderous cold, lampposts leapt out of his way: everything was galloping, everything was in flight wherever he went, but all in vain, since neither the houses, nor the pavement slabs, nor the lampposts, nor the trees with their admonitory branches wanted to come to a stop, far from it, the more he wanted to force them back behind him the more he felt that they kept appearing again and again and somehow managed to get in front of him so that really he hadn't passed a single one." (p. 169)
Other interesting things: the whole business of His Highness The Prince, a 30 pound menace; the ennui that overcomes the rioters, if they can be called that; Valuska's epiphany and escape; and the circus director's monologue at army HQ.
The action takes place during what feels like the late Cold War years, somewhere in rural Hungary. The story is shot through with a pervasive sense of doom. The world is ending and almost everything seems proof of this, including, or perhaps especially, the giant whale trucked into town by an unwashed "circus" of strangers.
The characters are (1) Mrs. Plauf, an elderly woman taking the train home, whose life is one ongoing panic attack; onboard she is crudely propositioned by a randy drunk; at one point during the come on her brassiere clip — she is extraordinarily buxom — fails. (2) Mrs. Eszter, a large, cruel, manipulative woman bent on the ruination of her disabled spouse; her insidious ambition is at the heart of the novel: (3) Mr. Eszter, a musicologist and genius now bedridden after a career managing the bumbling local orchestra; and (4) Valuska, Mrs. Plauf's estranged son, quasi village naif, ecstatic teller of tales about the cosmos, and Mr. Eszter's young companion.
The novel makes use of almost Proust-like run on sentences, but the strings of dependent clauses are fewer which means greater readibility. Interiority is Krasznahorkai's great and seamless gift: the movement of the mind in thought — frenzied, disbelieving, quiescent etc. — and the sensory body mirroring it.
"He set off and houses and garden fences began to lurch past him but he felt rather than saw their fevered rushing for his eyes were incapable of seeing anything, not even the square blocks of paving at his feet; trees swept by him, their trunks at a slant, their bare branches trembling with anticipation in the murderous cold, lampposts leapt out of his way: everything was galloping, everything was in flight wherever he went, but all in vain, since neither the houses, nor the pavement slabs, nor the lampposts, nor the trees with their admonitory branches wanted to come to a stop, far from it, the more he wanted to force them back behind him the more he felt that they kept appearing again and again and somehow managed to get in front of him so that really he hadn't passed a single one." (p. 169)
Other interesting things: the whole business of His Highness The Prince, a 30 pound menace; the ennui that overcomes the rioters, if they can be called that; Valuska's epiphany and escape; and the circus director's monologue at army HQ.
March 2, 2023
Strange and hypnotic, with a slow burning atmosphere of cold fear and impending catastrophe, all fused with a darkly comic edge, this novel completely tears the rule book to shreds and throws the pieces back at you with the most unconventional, extraordinary and EPIC! sentence structuring that I have ever come across. So under the bleak winter skies of a small decaying Hungarian town where the only colour that seems to be apparent is one of grey, as thick fog lingers at dawn, stray cats meow down dreary alleyways, rubbish is frozen solid to the ground and the sad townsfolk drag their weary bodies around passing abandoned vehicles left to rot in the streets (not to sound to stereotypical but the old Eastern Bloc does spring to mind), we follow a small group of residents mainly the helpful but week minded Valuska who has a number of odd jobs including delivering mail and taking hot meals to older locals. It doesn't take long to realize that for Valuska in particular life is just an existence and the people cling to anything for a way of escapism for example music and...er...cosmology.
But fear not as a circus has entered town, so maybe some laughter and light entertainment for these poor souls is here at last?...that couldn't be any further from the truth as you will find no trapeze artists, lion tamers or clowns here, for our main attraction is the carcass of the world's largest whale and a mysterious figure known only as 'The Prince' who may or may not have sinister ulterior motives planned. As the simple townsfolk fail to grasp the intentions of their new guests it's not long before gossip spreads and the town is gripped by panic and dread as a large mob of followers have congregated in the town square, huddled around fires in small groups, and with menace in their eyes, they patiently wait...for soon they will participate in an event with only one thing on their minds, total and complete anarchy and destruction, although for some locals they knew this day was always around the corner and that the last day on earth is finally upon them.
László Krasznahorkai has been very clever and deceptive here as on the one hand we have an immensely sad and disturbing work, but delve a little deeper under the blanket of doom and actually it should not be taken as seriously as it first appears, and what maybe we also have here is a social satire concerning decline, law and order, and the ideology of fascism.
Krasznahorkai and Béla Tarr seem to be a match made in heaven as after the seven hour marathon of mud, rain, misery and cow fields that was 'Satantango', Tarr completely nailed an out and out masterpiece with his film adaptation of this 'The Werckmeister Harmonies that I personally think is even better than the novel for two simple reasons, the haunting and devastatingly beautiful score by Mihaly Vig and Tarr's black and white vision of desolation. But take nothing away from the novel as it's a masterclass of European literature, and will no doubt be one the best things I'll read this year.
September 21, 2017
Στο ερώτημα:
πρέπει να εναντιωθούμε, να αντιπαλέψουμε την καταστροφή του κόσμου -έστω συνειδησιακά- ή να απολαύσουμε με κρυφή λαχτάρα τη μελαγχολία της εντροπίας χωρίς καμία αντίσταση -αφού τη στιγμή που αρχίζει η διαδικασία αποσύνθεσης δεν μπορούμε να επέμβουμε,η κατάσταση είναι μη αναστρέψιμη, και όλα θα ξαναρχίσουν απο το μηδέν.
Η απάντηση είναι σίγουρα πολυδιάστατη και απευθύνεται σε όσους πιστεύουν στην χαμένη ιερότητα της ανθρωπότητας,σε αναθέματα, κατάρες,αρχέγονους φόβους, άγρια ένστικτα, καταστάσεις βυθισμένες σε τέλματα συναισθηματικών τραυμάτων και ιδιοτελών μικροπρεπειών.
Ομολογουμένως όλοι πιστεύουμε πως όλα αυτά έχουν ζωτική σημασία, αλλά προσωπικά θεωρώ όχι αναγκαστικά κάποιο νόημα.
Ξεκινώντας με την υπόθεση του βιβλίου τα βασικά χαρακτηριστικά του είναι η αποδόμηση των πάντων, η κατάθλιψη, η αδράνεια, ο φόβος για το επερχόμενο αόριστο κακό, η καταστροφή, η ωμή βία,η στρατιωτική κατάληψη, η εχθρότητα,το ατομικό συμφέρον.
Στη θέση του Θεού του σύμπαντος βρισκεται το Χάος και στη θέση της τάξης των πραγμάτων - τυχαίας ή νέας- η πλήρης αταξία.
Σε μια μικρή Ουγγρική πόλη στα παγωμένα Καρπάθια έχει ενσκύψει μια διαρκώς επικείμενη καταστροφή αόριστη, ανεξήγητη, ακατονόμαστη.
Η άφιξη ενός τσίρκου στην αποδομημένη πόλη έχει βασικά εκθέματα το ταριχευμένο κουφάρι μιας φάλαινας και έναν άνδρα με τρία μάτια, ο οποίος ενσαρκώνει αόριστα τον πρίγκιπα του σκότους και της κακοδαιμονίας.
Το παραδοξο μυστήριο των εκθεμάτων σε συνάρτηση με την νεκρή πόλη όπου τίποτα δε λειτουργεί, τρομοκρατεί εντελώς τους κατοίκους.
Όλη η κοινωνία είναι βυθισμένη στο σκοτάδι της δυσπραγίας και καθημερινά μεγαλώνει ο όγκος των νεκρών μυαλών, των κενών ψυχών, των έρημων δρόμων,των απορριμμάτων υλικής και πνευματικής δυσωδίας.
Το βιβλίο υπερογκώνεται απο τη βαθιά μελαγχολία, την έλλειψη αντίστασης και την υπνωτιστική μετακαταστροφική ατμόσφαιρα.
Ο συγγραφέας κουράζει υπερβολικά με τα γιγαντιαία κεφαλαία, τις τεράστιες παραγράφους που περιέχουν άλλες μικρότερες για να σχηματίσουν ένα κειμενικό πλαίσιο.
Το πλαίσιο αυτό γίνεται βαρύ αφού εμπεριέχει και μεγάλες ρεαλιστικές περιγραφές, φιλοσοφία για τη φιλοσοφία, καθώς επίσης "χιλιοειπωμένους"εσωτερικούς μονόλογους.
Το κύριο αρνητικό μέρος του βιβλίου είναι οι δοκιμιακές περιγραφές σχετικά με την αρμονία της μουσικής και τη βιοχημεία της σαπίλας.
Εκτεταμένες πολιτικές αναφορές με εμμονικό χαρακτήρα στα ολοκληρωτικά καθεστώτα και κάποιες όμορφες στιγμές - ευτυχώς- συγκινητικών συναισθηματικών αναφορών.
Το συμπέρασμα έγκειται στην αφανή περίοδο που μετά την αδράνεια και την ησυχία έρχεται η ανασυγκρότηση ή η σήψη!!!
Καθώς επίσης και στο επικό πανανθρώπινο μήνυμα της οικειοποίησης και της βιωσιμότητας.
Ο κόσμος θα ναι πάντα ίδιος, δεν θα αλλάξει ποτέ. Η αλλαγή πρέπει να έρθει απο το προσωπικό αίσθημα ευθύνης του κάθε ατόμου,την εμπειρία της ύπαρξης και την εσωτερική στάση του ανθρώπου απέναντι στον κόσμο.
Μοναδικές απαντήσεις σε
κοσμοϊστορικά ερωτήματα που έχουν αποδώσει όμως πρώτα και με κλασική παραδοσιακή λογική ο Κάφκα και ο Μπέκετ. ( ίσως και πολλοί άλλοι,λιγότερο κουραστικά)
Στις τελευταίες σελίδες έχασα κάθε θετική άποψη που είχα με δυσκολία σχηματίσει για τον συγγραφέα.
Ο λόγος είναι το δοκίμιο για τη σήψη ως αιτία πολλαπλής οργανικής ανεπάρκειας.
Ακόμη και ως αλληγορικό μέσο με ξεπέρασε.
Το κείμενο βρίθει αναλυτικών φαινομένων βιοχημείας της σήψης με πλούσιες και σημαντικές χημικές ουσίες μηχανισμών ενεργοποίησης και ρυθμιστικών παραγόντων δυσλειτουργίας και οξείδωσης, που τεχνικά μόνο ειδικούς πτυχιούχους μπορεί να γοητεύσει.
*** Αφιερωμένο σε σένα, που με ενημέρωσες κάπως αργά σχετικά με την αναγνωστική απόλαυση που ΔΕΝ θα μου προσέφερε το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο.
Αρχικά, το αρνήθηκα.
Τελικά, πάλι δίκιο είχες.
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.
πρέπει να εναντιωθούμε, να αντιπαλέψουμε την καταστροφή του κόσμου -έστω συνειδησιακά- ή να απολαύσουμε με κρυφή λαχτάρα τη μελαγχολία της εντροπίας χωρίς καμία αντίσταση -αφού τη στιγμή που αρχίζει η διαδικασία αποσύνθεσης δεν μπορούμε να επέμβουμε,η κατάσταση είναι μη αναστρέψιμη, και όλα θα ξαναρχίσουν απο το μηδέν.
Η απάντηση είναι σίγουρα πολυδιάστατη και απευθύνεται σε όσους πιστεύουν στην χαμένη ιερότητα της ανθρωπότητας,σε αναθέματα, κατάρες,αρχέγονους φόβους, άγρια ένστικτα, καταστάσεις βυθισμένες σε τέλματα συναισθηματικών τραυμάτων και ιδιοτελών μικροπρεπειών.
Ομολογουμένως όλοι πιστεύουμε πως όλα αυτά έχουν ζωτική σημασία, αλλά προσωπικά θεωρώ όχι αναγκαστικά κάποιο νόημα.
Ξεκινώντας με την υπόθεση του βιβλίου τα βασικά χαρακτηριστικά του είναι η αποδόμηση των πάντων, η κατάθλιψη, η αδράνεια, ο φόβος για το επερχόμενο αόριστο κακό, η καταστροφή, η ωμή βία,η στρατιωτική κατάληψη, η εχθρότητα,το ατομικό συμφέρον.
Στη θέση του Θεού του σύμπαντος βρισκεται το Χάος και στη θέση της τάξης των πραγμάτων - τυχαίας ή νέας- η πλήρης αταξία.
Σε μια μικρή Ουγγρική πόλη στα παγωμένα Καρπάθια έχει ενσκύψει μια διαρκώς επικείμενη καταστροφή αόριστη, ανεξήγητη, ακατονόμαστη.
Η άφιξη ενός τσίρκου στην αποδομημένη πόλη έχει βασικά εκθέματα το ταριχευμένο κουφάρι μιας φάλαινας και έναν άνδρα με τρία μάτια, ο οποίος ενσαρκώνει αόριστα τον πρίγκιπα του σκότους και της κακοδαιμονίας.
Το παραδοξο μυστήριο των εκθεμάτων σε συνάρτηση με την νεκρή πόλη όπου τίποτα δε λειτουργεί, τρομοκρατεί εντελώς τους κατοίκους.
Όλη η κοινωνία είναι βυθισμένη στο σκοτάδι της δυσπραγίας και καθημερινά μεγαλώνει ο όγκος των νεκρών μυαλών, των κενών ψυχών, των έρημων δρόμων,των απορριμμάτων υλικής και πνευματικής δυσωδίας.
Το βιβλίο υπερογκώνεται απο τη βαθιά μελαγχολία, την έλλειψη αντίστασης και την υπνωτιστική μετακαταστροφική ατμόσφαιρα.
Ο συγγραφέας κουράζει υπερβολικά με τα γιγαντιαία κεφαλαία, τις τεράστιες παραγράφους που περιέχουν άλλες μικρότερες για να σχηματίσουν ένα κειμενικό πλαίσιο.
Το πλαίσιο αυτό γίνεται βαρύ αφού εμπεριέχει και μεγάλες ρεαλιστικές περιγραφές, φιλοσοφία για τη φιλοσοφία, καθώς επίσης "χιλιοειπωμένους"εσωτερικούς μονόλογους.
Το κύριο αρνητικό μέρος του βιβλίου είναι οι δοκιμιακές περιγραφές σχετικά με την αρμονία της μουσικής και τη βιοχημεία της σαπίλας.
Εκτεταμένες πολιτικές αναφορές με εμμονικό χαρακτήρα στα ολοκληρωτικά καθεστώτα και κάποιες όμορφες στιγμές - ευτυχώς- συγκινητικών συναισθηματικών αναφορών.
Το συμπέρασμα έγκειται στην αφανή περίοδο που μετά την αδράνεια και την ησυχία έρχεται η ανασυγκρότηση ή η σήψη!!!
Καθώς επίσης και στο επικό πανανθρώπινο μήνυμα της οικειοποίησης και της βιωσιμότητας.
Ο κόσμος θα ναι πάντα ίδιος, δεν θα αλλάξει ποτέ. Η αλλαγή πρέπει να έρθει απο το προσωπικό αίσθημα ευθύνης του κάθε ατόμου,την εμπειρία της ύπαρξης και την εσωτερική στάση του ανθρώπου απέναντι στον κόσμο.
Μοναδικές απαντήσεις σε
κοσμοϊστορικά ερωτήματα που έχουν αποδώσει όμως πρώτα και με κλασική παραδοσιακή λογική ο Κάφκα και ο Μπέκετ. ( ίσως και πολλοί άλλοι,λιγότερο κουραστικά)
Στις τελευταίες σελίδες έχασα κάθε θετική άποψη που είχα με δυσκολία σχηματίσει για τον συγγραφέα.
Ο λόγος είναι το δοκίμιο για τη σήψη ως αιτία πολλαπλής οργανικής ανεπάρκειας.
Ακόμη και ως αλληγορικό μέσο με ξεπέρασε.
Το κείμενο βρίθει αναλυτικών φαινομένων βιοχημείας της σήψης με πλούσιες και σημαντικές χημικές ουσίες μηχανισμών ενεργοποίησης και ρυθμιστικών παραγόντων δυσλειτουργίας και οξείδωσης, που τεχνικά μόνο ειδικούς πτυχιούχους μπορεί να γοητεύσει.
*** Αφιερωμένο σε σένα, που με ενημέρωσες κάπως αργά σχετικά με την αναγνωστική απόλαυση που ΔΕΝ θα μου προσέφερε το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο.
Αρχικά, το αρνήθηκα.
Τελικά, πάλι δίκιο είχες.
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.
December 4, 2017
Interesting, complicated - with the strangest death scene I ever read in the end, and that says a lot, as I must have read about thousands of characters' dying by now.
Strange how death is the omnipresent master of so many books, the spider spinning the web of the story to a perfect, deadly trap. That is a disturbing thought, actually, worthy of the nightmarish atmosphere the novel creates. A threatening, surreal setting, hard to grasp, with equally evasive characters, and it left me puzzled.
It is one of those books I need to read at least one more time, as I am at a loss what to think. Or maybe someone could explain it to me? I am blonde, after all...
I loved it despite not getting it, which is as close as I will ever get to understanding what drives religious people, I guess.
Can you recommend a book that you only vaguely understood?
Yes!
Strange how death is the omnipresent master of so many books, the spider spinning the web of the story to a perfect, deadly trap. That is a disturbing thought, actually, worthy of the nightmarish atmosphere the novel creates. A threatening, surreal setting, hard to grasp, with equally evasive characters, and it left me puzzled.
It is one of those books I need to read at least one more time, as I am at a loss what to think. Or maybe someone could explain it to me? I am blonde, after all...
I loved it despite not getting it, which is as close as I will ever get to understanding what drives religious people, I guess.
Can you recommend a book that you only vaguely understood?
Yes!
November 29, 2022
2001. Anthology Film Archives. (one of the great places on the planet: i swear when one studies taken-from-space photographs a faint but heavenly light emanates from manhattan--push further in and you'd see that most of it originates from the southeast corner of 2nd&2nd) a hungarian film the smart people at the newyorkpress raved about. i bought a ticket and dropped into one of those dreadful foldable chairs, fought off the stink of mold and time, and looked back to see richard hell stroll in wearing pajamas & sneakers under a peacoat. yeah, that's right. theater was empty save me and the jewboy who invented the ripped shirt and 'blank generation!' those were the days when i'd spend massive amounts of time chugging whiskey and thrashing around to ramones & bad brains & new order in low-ceilinged bars, hoovering coke in various dumpy bathrooms, receiving limpdicked blowjobs from stoned girls and boys etc etc and richard hell fell under that whole romanticized umbrella so i tried to work up the nerve to worm my way into some kind of convo and talk movies and music and all the other stuff, however, deep into the film's opening shot i forgot all about richard hell and really about anything/everything but the film itself. didn't wanna talk to hell, didn't wanna get a beer, didn't wanna do anything but wander the city in a daze trying to put it all together. and i've never reseen werckmeister harmonies and i never will b/c i don't wanna ruin that initial experience, don't wanna see it in my comfortable bouged-out apartment on my 46' flatscreen and have it be dragged down by a pair of jaded and considerably more comfortable, less interesting, eyes.
well... ten years later i'm at the bar of the beverly hills hotel and the indian guy sitting next to me tells me his 3 favorite writers are borges, bernhard, and krasznahorkai -- the latter, he explains, wrote the novels which were the source material for tarr's films. now, what the fuck. how've i never heard of this guy? seeing as how werckmeister is one of the 5 best films of the last decade* and this guy's obviously got good taste, i immediately take my cocktail out into the lobby, call up that midwestern polish bastard, and i dish...
* if yer interested, here's the list, in no particular order:
1. werckmeister harmonies (bela tarr)
2. you, the living (roy andersson)
3. mulholland drive (david lynch)
4. 2046 (kar wai wong)
5. inglourious basterds (quentin tarentino)
seeing as how that polish bastard has gotta get his (veiny, tiny, purple) penis into everything before me, he bought and read that shit immediately. but his dryhump for this extremely humpworthy novel is better than i could've done and he lives in south bend, so i'll let him have this one.
read:
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/...
but i must include a few words for those morons still teetering on the edge of reading this thing: do it! this novel is a revelation. one which takes as its subject the very acts of creation and destruction, the incomprehensibility of the universe (and learning to accept and deal with this horrible fact), the subjectivity of experience, the hidden nature of all things alive and inanimate. and it surpasses expectations! check it:
"…Straightening up and walking on two legs therefore, my dear friend, are the symbolic starting points for our ugly historical progress, and, to tell you the truth, I am not hopeful that we regularly waste any slight chance we might have of that, as, for example, in the case of the moon landings, which, in their time, might have pointed to a more stylish farewell, and which made a great impression on me, until, soon enough, Armstrong and the others having duly returned, I had to admit the whole thing was only a mirage and my expectations vain, since the beauty of every single - however breathtaking - attempt was in some way marred by the fact these pioneers of the cosmic adventure, for reasons wholly incomprehensible to me, having landed on the moon and realized that they were no longer on earth, failed to remain there."
krasznahorkai might have a sense of humor about all that wonderful misanthropy, but this is grim grim. here we find a world whose only prevailing force is entropy, a world of decay and horror, a mankind whose default position is fascism and violence, a microcosmic view of the cosmos in the form of an unseen & deformed figure called The Prince who, with his traveling circus (and stuffed whale corpse), compels a town to turn on itself (or does he?), to partake in the ultimate act of creation: mass destruction. and at the heart of this extraordinary thing are a series of dialectically, head-explodingly, pants-crappingly, rip-out-your-spiningly epiphanies by the two lead characters. read this book.
ASAP.
well... ten years later i'm at the bar of the beverly hills hotel and the indian guy sitting next to me tells me his 3 favorite writers are borges, bernhard, and krasznahorkai -- the latter, he explains, wrote the novels which were the source material for tarr's films. now, what the fuck. how've i never heard of this guy? seeing as how werckmeister is one of the 5 best films of the last decade* and this guy's obviously got good taste, i immediately take my cocktail out into the lobby, call up that midwestern polish bastard, and i dish...
* if yer interested, here's the list, in no particular order:
1. werckmeister harmonies (bela tarr)
2. you, the living (roy andersson)
3. mulholland drive (david lynch)
4. 2046 (kar wai wong)
5. inglourious basterds (quentin tarentino)
seeing as how that polish bastard has gotta get his (veiny, tiny, purple) penis into everything before me, he bought and read that shit immediately. but his dryhump for this extremely humpworthy novel is better than i could've done and he lives in south bend, so i'll let him have this one.
read:
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/...
but i must include a few words for those morons still teetering on the edge of reading this thing: do it! this novel is a revelation. one which takes as its subject the very acts of creation and destruction, the incomprehensibility of the universe (and learning to accept and deal with this horrible fact), the subjectivity of experience, the hidden nature of all things alive and inanimate. and it surpasses expectations! check it:
"…Straightening up and walking on two legs therefore, my dear friend, are the symbolic starting points for our ugly historical progress, and, to tell you the truth, I am not hopeful that we regularly waste any slight chance we might have of that, as, for example, in the case of the moon landings, which, in their time, might have pointed to a more stylish farewell, and which made a great impression on me, until, soon enough, Armstrong and the others having duly returned, I had to admit the whole thing was only a mirage and my expectations vain, since the beauty of every single - however breathtaking - attempt was in some way marred by the fact these pioneers of the cosmic adventure, for reasons wholly incomprehensible to me, having landed on the moon and realized that they were no longer on earth, failed to remain there."
krasznahorkai might have a sense of humor about all that wonderful misanthropy, but this is grim grim. here we find a world whose only prevailing force is entropy, a world of decay and horror, a mankind whose default position is fascism and violence, a microcosmic view of the cosmos in the form of an unseen & deformed figure called The Prince who, with his traveling circus (and stuffed whale corpse), compels a town to turn on itself (or does he?), to partake in the ultimate act of creation: mass destruction. and at the heart of this extraordinary thing are a series of dialectically, head-explodingly, pants-crappingly, rip-out-your-spiningly epiphanies by the two lead characters. read this book.
ASAP.
August 18, 2020
The Normality Of Chaos
Paragraph-length sentences; chapter-like paragraphs, book-length chapters; and a very different kind of stream of consciousness constituted not by random events but by the intentions which are interrupted or thwarted by these events. The events are only noticed because that is precisely what they do. They disrupt routine, inhibit political ambition, prevent family union, prevent family dissolution, and frustrate announced national purpose.
This is the central theme of Melancholy, suffering. Everyone suffers the consequences of their desires. The universality of suffering depicted is worthy of Emil Cioran or Thomas Ligotti. Everyone is their own worst enemy, being driven mad by the desire for the world, particularly other people, to be other than it is. The nexus of these divergent desires is disaster, seemingly inescapable suffering. Inexplicably, the more they suffer, the more they commit to their desires.
In the midst of this suffering arrives a whale, billed by its circus attendants as The Biggest Whale In The World. The whale - or its carcass - is accompanied by “signs and omens,” the inexplicable events that are so disconcerting and threaten the disintegration of each individual world of desire. The whale also suffers, more acutely than any other creature since it is caged in a steel aquarium into which its ‘followers’ have consigned it. The whale suffers, in other words, for the desires of others.
Whether the whale refers to the Buddha or to Christ - perhaps to both - or to other suffering gods of myth and legend is open to interpretation. What is relevant to the story is that it is a symbol of the train-wreck of not human nature but rather human civilisation as the diversity of ambitions, goals, ideals, and aspirations intersect. The remedy for this condition is not to be found even in religion, worship of the whale, since such devotion merely adds to the sum total of diverse desires... as well as the death of the whale.
In the end, some desires are furthered, others are not. But this is temporary. There is no equilibrium of desire, just arbitrary points from which to expose its persistence. Resistance is not just futile, it also adds to the problem. Hence the associated feeling of anxious sadness.
Postscript: Melancholy might be considered as a worked-out literary example of the Impossibility Theorem formulated by the economist Kenneth Arrow in 1950. According to this theorem, any situation requiring group consensus among people with even slightly different utility functions (that is, desires) will result in a further situation which all can temporarily accept but which none want. See here for further elucidation: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
Paragraph-length sentences; chapter-like paragraphs, book-length chapters; and a very different kind of stream of consciousness constituted not by random events but by the intentions which are interrupted or thwarted by these events. The events are only noticed because that is precisely what they do. They disrupt routine, inhibit political ambition, prevent family union, prevent family dissolution, and frustrate announced national purpose.
This is the central theme of Melancholy, suffering. Everyone suffers the consequences of their desires. The universality of suffering depicted is worthy of Emil Cioran or Thomas Ligotti. Everyone is their own worst enemy, being driven mad by the desire for the world, particularly other people, to be other than it is. The nexus of these divergent desires is disaster, seemingly inescapable suffering. Inexplicably, the more they suffer, the more they commit to their desires.
In the midst of this suffering arrives a whale, billed by its circus attendants as The Biggest Whale In The World. The whale - or its carcass - is accompanied by “signs and omens,” the inexplicable events that are so disconcerting and threaten the disintegration of each individual world of desire. The whale also suffers, more acutely than any other creature since it is caged in a steel aquarium into which its ‘followers’ have consigned it. The whale suffers, in other words, for the desires of others.
Whether the whale refers to the Buddha or to Christ - perhaps to both - or to other suffering gods of myth and legend is open to interpretation. What is relevant to the story is that it is a symbol of the train-wreck of not human nature but rather human civilisation as the diversity of ambitions, goals, ideals, and aspirations intersect. The remedy for this condition is not to be found even in religion, worship of the whale, since such devotion merely adds to the sum total of diverse desires... as well as the death of the whale.
In the end, some desires are furthered, others are not. But this is temporary. There is no equilibrium of desire, just arbitrary points from which to expose its persistence. Resistance is not just futile, it also adds to the problem. Hence the associated feeling of anxious sadness.
Postscript: Melancholy might be considered as a worked-out literary example of the Impossibility Theorem formulated by the economist Kenneth Arrow in 1950. According to this theorem, any situation requiring group consensus among people with even slightly different utility functions (that is, desires) will result in a further situation which all can temporarily accept but which none want. See here for further elucidation: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
May 19, 2024
This not your laid back summer beach read. Don’t even think of attempting this on a train, a plane, a park, a doctor’s office or anywhere where you won’t be able to focus completely and fall face first into this absurd Hungarian nightmare.
With about three paragraphs in the entire 300 pages, and just a smattering of sentences (I’m exaggerating, but not by much), Melancholy seemed to gush out of Krasznahorkai like a drunken folklore told over a campfire in the darkest pit of a forest.
The first seventy or so pages were probably the best voyeuristic writing I’ve ever had the joy to read. We simultaneously pull up a chair inside the head of a self-conscious woman riding a train while also hanging out with the fly on the wall of her apartment. If nothing else, I encourage you to read part one and treat it as a short story.
Reflective, ripe with frantic tangents and supremely dark and eerie, Melancholy is for the thinkers, the sky gazers and the carny groupies.
With about three paragraphs in the entire 300 pages, and just a smattering of sentences (I’m exaggerating, but not by much), Melancholy seemed to gush out of Krasznahorkai like a drunken folklore told over a campfire in the darkest pit of a forest.
The first seventy or so pages were probably the best voyeuristic writing I’ve ever had the joy to read. We simultaneously pull up a chair inside the head of a self-conscious woman riding a train while also hanging out with the fly on the wall of her apartment. If nothing else, I encourage you to read part one and treat it as a short story.
Reflective, ripe with frantic tangents and supremely dark and eerie, Melancholy is for the thinkers, the sky gazers and the carny groupies.
January 5, 2024
05/01/24 - it is his 70s birthday today!
In one of his interviews, Krasznahorkai empathetically stated:
I’ve said it a thousand times that I always wanted to write just one book. I wasn’t satisfied with the first, and that’s why I wrote the second. I wasn’t satisfied with the second, so I wrote the third, and so on. Now, with Baron, I can close this story. With this novel I can prove that I really wrote just one book in my life. This is the book—Satantango, Melancholy, War and War, and Baron. This is my one book.
Knowing this, it is difficult to think of “Melancholy” separately from the other three books. And I’ve read only Satantango yet. This one is an important and very distinctive improvisation on a theme within a bigger piece. It also seems to me, that this theme is entropy, the tendency to disorder in all its manifestations: the physical, biological and social as well as a possibility of resistance to it or the lack of such possibility.
In this book, the nature of this entropy is presented more like a force beyond human control. In Santatango it was more about the fight of good and evil. I look forward to the next two books to see where Krasznahorkai would take this.
Maybe because of that, I found this novel little less emotionally charged compared to Satantango (though it still contains a several very poignant moments). However without the doubts, this work is literary more crafty, philosophically more sophisticated and definitely more brutal in terms of exposing the weaknesses of human nature. I also found both novels were funny, mercilessly satiric. It seems maybe with one exception, Krasznahorkai does not spare his characters from his dark laugh.
In terms of ideas it is essentially a 19th century novel. I thought Dostoyevsky’s The Possessed was a strong inspiration. The plot, as thin as it is here, is almost identical: a possible conspiracy is covertly instigating the mob towards destructive actions. The civil society mainly represented by petite bourgeoisie and toothless liberal intellectuals is ineffectual and pathetic against violence; so “a strong hand”, boosted by the conspiracy ends up snatching the power. All of this leads to the universal question what is good and does it stand a chance against such an evil?
So what is Krasznahorkai’s contribution to this debate? What is new? Maybe, and only maybe he wants to show that chaos is neither good nor bad. It does not care about us. Maybe he wants to shift the emphasis from good vs bad towards order vs chaos. I am not sure. But the novel has definitely provoked me to think once again about all these binaries.
I am not even sure whether he is truly so pessimistic as some of his characters. He might be. He certainly goes into depth analysing the relevant thinking through their eyes. Alternatively, he might be satirising this pessimism in the same manner he is mocking fake intellectual profundity, material aspirations or other human flaws. And he certainly does not underestimate the power of brutality.
In any case, the main thing he is an artist. And one would not refuse him the power, the craft and imagination in bringing all these tensions closer the surface. This novel is first and foremost a very elegant work of literature. Krasznahorkai creates layers upon layers upon layers. And it is not only the length of sentences and the amount of clauses in them. It is also the whole architecture of the book.
The core of the novel is the moments of epiphany of the two main characters on the background of the violent riot. This is the most dramatic and moving in one case and the most intellectually demanding in another part of the novel. It also contains an imbedded short text - the diary of a rioter. a few pages of the diary come across as an authentic document; as an absorbingly shocking factual evidence.
This core is framed by two ruthlessly satirical narratives. At the centre of the first one is a petite bourgeoisie lady on a rough train journey; the second one at the end of the novel is told from the perspective of an emerging female dictator. She appears in the first narrative as well. I did not find her very convincing as a dictator. But maybe that was exactly the point. Lenin said that he would make a kitchen maid to govern the state. She might be the one of those. Both of these framing narratives are merciless in terms of their satirical impact. I found it almost absurdly funny. Even the violence in the first narrative and the funeral in the last were more grotesque than poignant or terrifying. It is a special skill by the author to produce such emotional dissonance.
The conclusive chapter is an example of mixing very different linguistic styles for with a powerful, unexpected effect. The chapter is called Sermo Super Sepulchrum (from Latin: “A Speech over grave”). This speech is given by the female dictator and appears to be another short embedded text in the novel. In spite of the chapter’s title, this speech is far from a typical Roman eulogy in its eloquence. It is sad for all wrong reasons: it is plainly grotesque, full of cliches and euphemisms. It is also sad as being so grotesque it seems so realistic.
The speaker ends this miserable performance with the statement that “the unchained workers of decay” would not be able to destroy “the real presence” of the departed in the memory of the living.
Straight after that, the perspective is changed and it seems as an imaginary microphone is passed exactly to those “workers of decay” otherwise known as maggots. And the rest of the novel is written from their point of view while they commence their usual work, or more broadly, from the point of view of this faceless objective power that feeds “indifferent and unstoppable traffic between things”, the entropy.
In this last bit, Krasznahorkai rightly does not attempt any zoomorphisms, personifications, metaphors or alike. On the contrary, he switches to the scientific language with impressive level of terminology pertinent to the related biological process; for example: “adenozintriphosphatase enzymes continued their assault on the central fortress of the general energy level, the ATP, and this resulted in the energy of the torn cell tissue..”. And this language, its cold objectivity somehow swallows all the narrative preceding it into the vortex it creates making this final scene counterintuitively the one of the most emotionally intense in the book. Symbolically, the language becomes performative as the novel resolves into itself in parallel with the body.
Overall, this ability of Krasznahorkai to squeeze the most out of what a language is cable of is the strongest feature of this novel.
He also investigates how a language plays a role in shaping a person’s worldview. How people thoughts often come almost prepackaged in phrases like ready made meals. It takes time for a certain new phenomena, ideas and actions to find their reflection in language, get polished in use like pebbles in the river and eventually appear as steady phrases or expressions internalised by many. They often become speech markers of a social group the person belongs to. With their help, people might recognise each other belonging to this group. In harmless way they become idioms. But more alarmingly, often these idioms often become stubbornly imbedded in our heads and stop us to think afresh. Naturally, people do not even notice how they use those phrases even introspectively. In the novel, Krasznahorkai deliberately indicates these phrases with ‘quotation marks’. He satirises their use of course, he shows how much these things play role in forming certain stereotypes and cliches.
A petit bourgeois woman thinks of her fellow train travellers as “‘common peasants’ producing noise ‘so calculated to offend all one’s finer feelings’” but in her opinion this noise is “‘perfectly common among common people’ of munching and crunching”.
A would-be dictator, the woman presumably of somewhat lower origins, is waxing lyrical about ‘the first and final notice of a victim in full realization of her rights’, ‘suffers from BO’, considers herself ‘eagled-eyed’ and uses a ‘trusty rat poison’.
Here is probably the right time to pay a tribute to the translator of this novel. One need to be creative with all this idiomatic use.
But the intellectuals are the worst. By definition, their language is more rich and metaphoric. They produce and utilise much more of those steady expressions. Sometimes they might be effective in persuasion. But often the resulting language obscures rather than reveals the reality it should reflect. And even more often it leads to passivity and lazy thinking by the speaker.
Krasznahorkai mocks this mercilessly. He gives these words to the colonel addressing the ineffectual establishment of the town:
“Because you don’t talk, you “whisper” or “expostulate”; you don’t walk down the street but “proceed feverishly”; you don’t enter a place but “cross its threshold”, you don’t feel cold or hot, but “find yourselves shivering” or “feeling the sweat pour down you”!””
Apart from the obvious, I think he is getting at something even more profound. Since I’ve read this book, I’ve started noticing how often i use these phrases, concepts preconceived by someone else, even simple cliches in my head without really stopping to reflect how appropriate they are. On the one hand it is inevitable as this is how any language operates. But on another hand, doesn’t it kill the originality of thoughts, affects how one sees the reality and herself? It might also encourage biases and tribalism.
But let’s come back to the core of this book. It is sort of a double epiphany by two main characters. The one of these characters is a retired intellectual, Eszter, and another one, Valuska, is seemingly a simpleton who, in spite of the surrounding decay, sees the world as a place of wonder and admires remote cosmos. Needless to say, he is rarely taken seriously, but used by everyone for chores, entertainment and help. From the beginning, these two characters are connected by a sort of friendship. However, when the riots start, they are in very different places both physically and emotionally. That night, simultaneously and independent from each other, they both experience the moments of revelation.
“blind man suddenly able to see”
Eszner’s interior monologue was the most difficult part of the book for me; it was a lot to take and it took a lot of time. It made me grapple with Eszter’s ideas and Krasznahorkai’s intentions of having Eszter experiencing this sort of epiphany in the middle of the chaos and decay. At the end, I think i’ve forgotten that i was dealing with a piece of fiction. It felt as if I was reading a work of existential philosophy. It is not surprising as in these twenty pages or so Eszter was trying to rethink all those main philosophical questions such as metaphysics - what is out there; the theory of mind - what is our mind for; plus some moral philosophy and politics: how should we live as human beings.
I am still not sure how fruitful was this struggle of mine with his ideas. But after hours and hours of going through those long sentences I think I’ve understood enough. Eszter’s moment of revelation comes after he was trying to learn how to use a hammer. He realised that the less he thought about this process, the easier it became. This fact has appeared to be a trigger for his lengthy train of thoughts and has lead to the moment of his epiphany:
"nor could what he then felt be described as either disillusionment or wonder, it was more like being the recipient of a bequest, an acceptance of the fact that the nature of the vision far transcended him, a kind of patience, a kind of resignation to the will of the special grace which allowed him to comprehend only as much as he was capable of comprehending!”
Effectively, he has had a moment of grace without believing in God which has lead to his newly developed scepticism about the role of human intelligence and reason.
As a result, “he understood that there was nothing to be understood”.
Eszter’s ideas were more nuanced than this last sentence. It seemed, in many respects, they echoed Kant and Hegel as well as some form of the evolutionary theory. More details and thoughts about this, Ive put under spoiler in the 2nd comment.
Eventually, he has come to the conclusion to reject his previous ways to “of tireless questioning” and focus on “real” objects surrounding him and “steadfast love” instead of abstract concepts and the world of imagination:
“...at that moment he had to recognize that his existence – hitherto based on the twin values of ‘intelligence and good taste’, on his so-called independent and clear thinking and on the ability of his spirit to soar, as he had always secretly believed, above the mundane – was not worth a fly’s fart: it was the moment he had to admit that nothing interested him any more but the steadfast love of his friend (Valuska).”
I am not sure what to make out of this revelation. Intelligence complicates things; it does not bring happiness. Intelligent people indeed tend to focus on what Eszter calls “the significance of things”, the symbolic meaning rather than “things themselves”. We’ve discussed some of this earlier. Often it comes at the expense of something more concrete, more specific, more individual. It indeed complicate matters, it can be even harmful. It is true as well that human societies are organic and usually not created by someone’s personal intellectual design. But do these drawbacks and limits of the human intelligence make it so useless? Can they justify a form of social passivity? It is wonderful to realise the value in simplicity and the ability to accept another human being or a chair for that matter as “they are”. But does it go that far to imply that one should not actively use his mind to search for the reasons (rational or otherwise) why the plies of rubbish stay uncollected on the streets? And then use the same mind to try to find the way of making these streets clean?
It could be just an attempt to rein in his previous intellectual vanity, but I think Eszner makes another mistake by trying to juxtapose the world of life “right here” with abstract imaginary world of the mind. I’ve recently read a few books by a wonderful writer, Gerard Murnane. And his worldview is much closer to me: for him both of these worlds are “real” - just two manifestations of the same whole.
I am not sure to which extent i should take the character of Eszter as a representation of solid pessimistic argument against rationality. Could it be another example of subversive dark irony by Krasznahorkai. My intuition is that he himself is not that keen on Eszner. But I am not sure whom he is mocking more: Eszner in the past or post-epiphany Eszner, or the tragedy of both of them.
a man who has lived his entire life with his eyes closed
The story of Valuska’s revelation is simpler but more cruel, raw and sad.
Initially Valuska was full of wonder. He was convinced that the force “driving cosmos was ultimately joy” and somewhere out there there is “some secret core, a central point, not precisely a meaning but some kind of substance or mass, lighter, more delicate than a single breath”. He was telling it to anyone who would listen and that is exactly what so much enchanted Eszner. However he was of course mocked by the others. It did not stopped him though until the night of the riot.
Krasznahorkai makes Valuska’s language the most eclectic. His speech and thoughts are full ‘quotation marks’ we’ve discussed earlier. It is as if he does not need his own language as anything really important to him he just simply sees. It cannot be verbalised. So he borrows those steady expressions, idioms and cliches from different people just for simple communication; to be understood. He does not even try to fully comprehend the meaning of the words as it would not add anything new to his precious knowledge. That is before the riot.
But on the night he was dragged into participation in the bloody violence, even if in a relatively passive way. He has seen that brutal uncontrollable destructive power close enough, being borderline complacent in it. And that has transformed him. Can we call his revelation “an epiphany”? I think yes, even if what was “revealed” to him is so devastatingly sad. His thoughts has become like bullets:
-“He ‘could now declare himself to be ‘just like the others’.”
- “He ‘had learned to stand on his own two feet and understood everything’: he no longer believed the world was ‘an enchanted place’ for the only power that really existed was ‘that declared by force of arms’; and while he couldn’t deny that they had terrified him at first, he now felt himself capable of adjusting to their ways and was ‘grateful for the privilege of being offered a glance into their lives’.”
-“There is a war going on out there, and it’s only worth waking to the dying night if you are prepared to be utterly ruthless”
“You should imagine me, he would say, as a man who has lived his entire life with his eyes closed, and when I opened them, those millions of stars and planets, that universe of delight, simply disappeared.”
That last bit of Valuska’s “awakening” mirrors the moment of Eszner’s opening his previously “closed” eyes. And it is deeply ironic as Eszner has just seen a glimpse of Valuska’s truth at the moment when it has disappeared for Valushka. In his turn, Valuska opens his eyes into the darkness and chaos. The darkness so well described to him but Eszner earlier but never comprehended by him before.
In his thoughts, he also mirrors Eszner’s pessimism about the power of intelligence. But he goes further and, following Hume, rejects any possibility of predictive knowledge (or causation) :
“it’s as pointless to predict as to judge, since even the words ‘chaos’ and ‘outcome’ are entirely redundant, there being nothing one can posit as their antitheses, which further implies that the very act of naming is enough to put paid to them, for ‘there is simply one damned thing after another’”
At this point however, his voice stops in any way to resemble the voice of Valuska, the simple person, and start to resembles the bitter rumination of much more educated Bertrand Russell who said:
‘The law of causality … is a relic of a bygone age, surviving, like the monarchy, only because it is erroneously supposed to do no harm.’
to be continued in the second comment under this review
In one of his interviews, Krasznahorkai empathetically stated:
I’ve said it a thousand times that I always wanted to write just one book. I wasn’t satisfied with the first, and that’s why I wrote the second. I wasn’t satisfied with the second, so I wrote the third, and so on. Now, with Baron, I can close this story. With this novel I can prove that I really wrote just one book in my life. This is the book—Satantango, Melancholy, War and War, and Baron. This is my one book.
Knowing this, it is difficult to think of “Melancholy” separately from the other three books. And I’ve read only Satantango yet. This one is an important and very distinctive improvisation on a theme within a bigger piece. It also seems to me, that this theme is entropy, the tendency to disorder in all its manifestations: the physical, biological and social as well as a possibility of resistance to it or the lack of such possibility.
In this book, the nature of this entropy is presented more like a force beyond human control. In Santatango it was more about the fight of good and evil. I look forward to the next two books to see where Krasznahorkai would take this.
Maybe because of that, I found this novel little less emotionally charged compared to Satantango (though it still contains a several very poignant moments). However without the doubts, this work is literary more crafty, philosophically more sophisticated and definitely more brutal in terms of exposing the weaknesses of human nature. I also found both novels were funny, mercilessly satiric. It seems maybe with one exception, Krasznahorkai does not spare his characters from his dark laugh.
In terms of ideas it is essentially a 19th century novel. I thought Dostoyevsky’s The Possessed was a strong inspiration. The plot, as thin as it is here, is almost identical: a possible conspiracy is covertly instigating the mob towards destructive actions. The civil society mainly represented by petite bourgeoisie and toothless liberal intellectuals is ineffectual and pathetic against violence; so “a strong hand”, boosted by the conspiracy ends up snatching the power. All of this leads to the universal question what is good and does it stand a chance against such an evil?
So what is Krasznahorkai’s contribution to this debate? What is new? Maybe, and only maybe he wants to show that chaos is neither good nor bad. It does not care about us. Maybe he wants to shift the emphasis from good vs bad towards order vs chaos. I am not sure. But the novel has definitely provoked me to think once again about all these binaries.
I am not even sure whether he is truly so pessimistic as some of his characters. He might be. He certainly goes into depth analysing the relevant thinking through their eyes. Alternatively, he might be satirising this pessimism in the same manner he is mocking fake intellectual profundity, material aspirations or other human flaws. And he certainly does not underestimate the power of brutality.
In any case, the main thing he is an artist. And one would not refuse him the power, the craft and imagination in bringing all these tensions closer the surface. This novel is first and foremost a very elegant work of literature. Krasznahorkai creates layers upon layers upon layers. And it is not only the length of sentences and the amount of clauses in them. It is also the whole architecture of the book.
The core of the novel is the moments of epiphany of the two main characters on the background of the violent riot. This is the most dramatic and moving in one case and the most intellectually demanding in another part of the novel. It also contains an imbedded short text - the diary of a rioter. a few pages of the diary come across as an authentic document; as an absorbingly shocking factual evidence.
This core is framed by two ruthlessly satirical narratives. At the centre of the first one is a petite bourgeoisie lady on a rough train journey; the second one at the end of the novel is told from the perspective of an emerging female dictator. She appears in the first narrative as well. I did not find her very convincing as a dictator. But maybe that was exactly the point. Lenin said that he would make a kitchen maid to govern the state. She might be the one of those. Both of these framing narratives are merciless in terms of their satirical impact. I found it almost absurdly funny. Even the violence in the first narrative and the funeral in the last were more grotesque than poignant or terrifying. It is a special skill by the author to produce such emotional dissonance.
The conclusive chapter is an example of mixing very different linguistic styles for with a powerful, unexpected effect. The chapter is called Sermo Super Sepulchrum (from Latin: “A Speech over grave”). This speech is given by the female dictator and appears to be another short embedded text in the novel. In spite of the chapter’s title, this speech is far from a typical Roman eulogy in its eloquence. It is sad for all wrong reasons: it is plainly grotesque, full of cliches and euphemisms. It is also sad as being so grotesque it seems so realistic.
The speaker ends this miserable performance with the statement that “the unchained workers of decay” would not be able to destroy “the real presence” of the departed in the memory of the living.
Straight after that, the perspective is changed and it seems as an imaginary microphone is passed exactly to those “workers of decay” otherwise known as maggots. And the rest of the novel is written from their point of view while they commence their usual work, or more broadly, from the point of view of this faceless objective power that feeds “indifferent and unstoppable traffic between things”, the entropy.
In this last bit, Krasznahorkai rightly does not attempt any zoomorphisms, personifications, metaphors or alike. On the contrary, he switches to the scientific language with impressive level of terminology pertinent to the related biological process; for example: “adenozintriphosphatase enzymes continued their assault on the central fortress of the general energy level, the ATP, and this resulted in the energy of the torn cell tissue..”. And this language, its cold objectivity somehow swallows all the narrative preceding it into the vortex it creates making this final scene counterintuitively the one of the most emotionally intense in the book. Symbolically, the language becomes performative as the novel resolves into itself in parallel with the body.
Overall, this ability of Krasznahorkai to squeeze the most out of what a language is cable of is the strongest feature of this novel.
He also investigates how a language plays a role in shaping a person’s worldview. How people thoughts often come almost prepackaged in phrases like ready made meals. It takes time for a certain new phenomena, ideas and actions to find their reflection in language, get polished in use like pebbles in the river and eventually appear as steady phrases or expressions internalised by many. They often become speech markers of a social group the person belongs to. With their help, people might recognise each other belonging to this group. In harmless way they become idioms. But more alarmingly, often these idioms often become stubbornly imbedded in our heads and stop us to think afresh. Naturally, people do not even notice how they use those phrases even introspectively. In the novel, Krasznahorkai deliberately indicates these phrases with ‘quotation marks’. He satirises their use of course, he shows how much these things play role in forming certain stereotypes and cliches.
A petit bourgeois woman thinks of her fellow train travellers as “‘common peasants’ producing noise ‘so calculated to offend all one’s finer feelings’” but in her opinion this noise is “‘perfectly common among common people’ of munching and crunching”.
A would-be dictator, the woman presumably of somewhat lower origins, is waxing lyrical about ‘the first and final notice of a victim in full realization of her rights’, ‘suffers from BO’, considers herself ‘eagled-eyed’ and uses a ‘trusty rat poison’.
Here is probably the right time to pay a tribute to the translator of this novel. One need to be creative with all this idiomatic use.
But the intellectuals are the worst. By definition, their language is more rich and metaphoric. They produce and utilise much more of those steady expressions. Sometimes they might be effective in persuasion. But often the resulting language obscures rather than reveals the reality it should reflect. And even more often it leads to passivity and lazy thinking by the speaker.
Krasznahorkai mocks this mercilessly. He gives these words to the colonel addressing the ineffectual establishment of the town:
“Because you don’t talk, you “whisper” or “expostulate”; you don’t walk down the street but “proceed feverishly”; you don’t enter a place but “cross its threshold”, you don’t feel cold or hot, but “find yourselves shivering” or “feeling the sweat pour down you”!””
Apart from the obvious, I think he is getting at something even more profound. Since I’ve read this book, I’ve started noticing how often i use these phrases, concepts preconceived by someone else, even simple cliches in my head without really stopping to reflect how appropriate they are. On the one hand it is inevitable as this is how any language operates. But on another hand, doesn’t it kill the originality of thoughts, affects how one sees the reality and herself? It might also encourage biases and tribalism.
But let’s come back to the core of this book. It is sort of a double epiphany by two main characters. The one of these characters is a retired intellectual, Eszter, and another one, Valuska, is seemingly a simpleton who, in spite of the surrounding decay, sees the world as a place of wonder and admires remote cosmos. Needless to say, he is rarely taken seriously, but used by everyone for chores, entertainment and help. From the beginning, these two characters are connected by a sort of friendship. However, when the riots start, they are in very different places both physically and emotionally. That night, simultaneously and independent from each other, they both experience the moments of revelation.
“blind man suddenly able to see”
Eszner’s interior monologue was the most difficult part of the book for me; it was a lot to take and it took a lot of time. It made me grapple with Eszter’s ideas and Krasznahorkai’s intentions of having Eszter experiencing this sort of epiphany in the middle of the chaos and decay. At the end, I think i’ve forgotten that i was dealing with a piece of fiction. It felt as if I was reading a work of existential philosophy. It is not surprising as in these twenty pages or so Eszter was trying to rethink all those main philosophical questions such as metaphysics - what is out there; the theory of mind - what is our mind for; plus some moral philosophy and politics: how should we live as human beings.
I am still not sure how fruitful was this struggle of mine with his ideas. But after hours and hours of going through those long sentences I think I’ve understood enough. Eszter’s moment of revelation comes after he was trying to learn how to use a hammer. He realised that the less he thought about this process, the easier it became. This fact has appeared to be a trigger for his lengthy train of thoughts and has lead to the moment of his epiphany:
"nor could what he then felt be described as either disillusionment or wonder, it was more like being the recipient of a bequest, an acceptance of the fact that the nature of the vision far transcended him, a kind of patience, a kind of resignation to the will of the special grace which allowed him to comprehend only as much as he was capable of comprehending!”
Effectively, he has had a moment of grace without believing in God which has lead to his newly developed scepticism about the role of human intelligence and reason.
As a result, “he understood that there was nothing to be understood”.
Eszter’s ideas were more nuanced than this last sentence. It seemed, in many respects, they echoed Kant and Hegel as well as some form of the evolutionary theory. More details and thoughts about this, Ive put under spoiler in the 2nd comment.
Eventually, he has come to the conclusion to reject his previous ways to “of tireless questioning” and focus on “real” objects surrounding him and “steadfast love” instead of abstract concepts and the world of imagination:
“...at that moment he had to recognize that his existence – hitherto based on the twin values of ‘intelligence and good taste’, on his so-called independent and clear thinking and on the ability of his spirit to soar, as he had always secretly believed, above the mundane – was not worth a fly’s fart: it was the moment he had to admit that nothing interested him any more but the steadfast love of his friend (Valuska).”
I am not sure what to make out of this revelation. Intelligence complicates things; it does not bring happiness. Intelligent people indeed tend to focus on what Eszter calls “the significance of things”, the symbolic meaning rather than “things themselves”. We’ve discussed some of this earlier. Often it comes at the expense of something more concrete, more specific, more individual. It indeed complicate matters, it can be even harmful. It is true as well that human societies are organic and usually not created by someone’s personal intellectual design. But do these drawbacks and limits of the human intelligence make it so useless? Can they justify a form of social passivity? It is wonderful to realise the value in simplicity and the ability to accept another human being or a chair for that matter as “they are”. But does it go that far to imply that one should not actively use his mind to search for the reasons (rational or otherwise) why the plies of rubbish stay uncollected on the streets? And then use the same mind to try to find the way of making these streets clean?
It could be just an attempt to rein in his previous intellectual vanity, but I think Eszner makes another mistake by trying to juxtapose the world of life “right here” with abstract imaginary world of the mind. I’ve recently read a few books by a wonderful writer, Gerard Murnane. And his worldview is much closer to me: for him both of these worlds are “real” - just two manifestations of the same whole.
I am not sure to which extent i should take the character of Eszter as a representation of solid pessimistic argument against rationality. Could it be another example of subversive dark irony by Krasznahorkai. My intuition is that he himself is not that keen on Eszner. But I am not sure whom he is mocking more: Eszner in the past or post-epiphany Eszner, or the tragedy of both of them.
a man who has lived his entire life with his eyes closed
The story of Valuska’s revelation is simpler but more cruel, raw and sad.
Initially Valuska was full of wonder. He was convinced that the force “driving cosmos was ultimately joy” and somewhere out there there is “some secret core, a central point, not precisely a meaning but some kind of substance or mass, lighter, more delicate than a single breath”. He was telling it to anyone who would listen and that is exactly what so much enchanted Eszner. However he was of course mocked by the others. It did not stopped him though until the night of the riot.
Krasznahorkai makes Valuska’s language the most eclectic. His speech and thoughts are full ‘quotation marks’ we’ve discussed earlier. It is as if he does not need his own language as anything really important to him he just simply sees. It cannot be verbalised. So he borrows those steady expressions, idioms and cliches from different people just for simple communication; to be understood. He does not even try to fully comprehend the meaning of the words as it would not add anything new to his precious knowledge. That is before the riot.
But on the night he was dragged into participation in the bloody violence, even if in a relatively passive way. He has seen that brutal uncontrollable destructive power close enough, being borderline complacent in it. And that has transformed him. Can we call his revelation “an epiphany”? I think yes, even if what was “revealed” to him is so devastatingly sad. His thoughts has become like bullets:
-“He ‘could now declare himself to be ‘just like the others’.”
- “He ‘had learned to stand on his own two feet and understood everything’: he no longer believed the world was ‘an enchanted place’ for the only power that really existed was ‘that declared by force of arms’; and while he couldn’t deny that they had terrified him at first, he now felt himself capable of adjusting to their ways and was ‘grateful for the privilege of being offered a glance into their lives’.”
-“There is a war going on out there, and it’s only worth waking to the dying night if you are prepared to be utterly ruthless”
“You should imagine me, he would say, as a man who has lived his entire life with his eyes closed, and when I opened them, those millions of stars and planets, that universe of delight, simply disappeared.”
That last bit of Valuska’s “awakening” mirrors the moment of Eszner’s opening his previously “closed” eyes. And it is deeply ironic as Eszner has just seen a glimpse of Valuska’s truth at the moment when it has disappeared for Valushka. In his turn, Valuska opens his eyes into the darkness and chaos. The darkness so well described to him but Eszner earlier but never comprehended by him before.
In his thoughts, he also mirrors Eszner’s pessimism about the power of intelligence. But he goes further and, following Hume, rejects any possibility of predictive knowledge (or causation) :
“it’s as pointless to predict as to judge, since even the words ‘chaos’ and ‘outcome’ are entirely redundant, there being nothing one can posit as their antitheses, which further implies that the very act of naming is enough to put paid to them, for ‘there is simply one damned thing after another’”
At this point however, his voice stops in any way to resemble the voice of Valuska, the simple person, and start to resembles the bitter rumination of much more educated Bertrand Russell who said:
‘The law of causality … is a relic of a bygone age, surviving, like the monarchy, only because it is erroneously supposed to do no harm.’
to be continued in the second comment under this review
February 15, 2021
1.5 stars. You can't even imagine how rare my decision to postpone a review is : I usually rate and review the books I read immediately, for better or for worst.
The Melancholy of Resistance was different.
Indeed my first reaction after closing this novel was, What the Fuck did I just read? Huh? I was so lost between my excitation during the first 30% and the boredom I felt after - in addition to some side-eying (I'll come back to that) - that I left my rating blank on Goodreads and gave myself some weeks to think about what I wanted to say. Sometimes time helps highlighting what emotion won, and in this case, it's not pretty.
A month after, having reread both the parts that I first liked and those I wish haven't been there in the first place, I can push The Melancholy of Resistance out of the books I would recommend reading. I would most definitely not, and here's why :
➊ Now the only thing that lingers in my mind is the utter confusion - and boredom - I felt 80% of the time. Look, I won't deny that I found some parts beautiful and enthralling, yet they were too rare to overtake the overall annoyance. To be completely honest, I think that the first time I breathed through it to get to the ending, mainly to see if I could find something to like again (having liked the beginning), but I didn't. During the last month I reread most of it, and I can't even count the number of times I just shook my head in disbelief because of the page-long parts that did not make any sense. What The Melancholy of Resistance is : good openings and endings, with loads of useless bullshit in the middle. And the middle feels very, very long because it's so. damn. stretched. I mean, there's only so many musings I can take, and if a few political ones don't bother me - but rather interest me, pages and pages revolving around unintelligible ones (about music, about life, about freaking EVERYTHING) for no reason whatsoever I cannot stand.
➋ I stated in my first review on Goodreads that "I was very uncomfortable with the fact that one character referred to the crazy rioters as "dark-skinned hooligans" - I did not gather that they were black from the novel (except at this very part), but if that's the case, it's a big no from me : you don't go and assign a race to the 'bad' people. You just don't." At that time I thought I might had misinterpreted it, given that nothing else in the book gave me this impression.
Then a friend of mine shared another cover with me :
... and when I reread the book, I did it with this cover in mind. The fact is, what's obvious is that The Melancholy of Resistance is a novel about apocalypse. Always was - I did not understand everything, but this I did. So, tell me, even if the very white Mrs Eszter is the real villain through and through, why feel the need to link the arrival of black people to said apocalypse? Why do they kill and destroy everything on their way? Why are they violent? We never know. They just are, because apparently it's who they are, and excuse me, but that's some kind of BULLSHIT right there. Why haven't I read about that in any review? (and I read tons) This novel has been written in 1989, and many reviewers interpreted it as a social novel, and I mean, sure. I agree. It does express the impossibility of resistance in a totalitarian state - I can see that.
Yet.
Intend means nothing when black rioters are pictured as "inhuman" in a novel. This will always be incredibly offensive in my book. As always with classics, I try to keep the original period in mind, but I'm reviewing it in 2017. You who are reading my review live in 2017. That's why I cannot accept this more than I would of a contemporary novel. Not if it's not challenged in text, and it never is.
The truth is, I don't think for one second that it was acceptable in 1989 either, and I don't care if it wasn't what the author intended. It's THERE, for crying out loud. Not recommended.
For more of my reviews, please visit:
July 21, 2018
“[...] non siamo altro che miseri soggetti di un insignificante fallimento in questo affascinante creato, tutta la storia umana si può riassumere in quattro pietose spacconate, per usare un’immagine efficace, replicate da poveri sciocchi, sanguinari paria, in qualche oscuro angolino dietro le quinte di un immenso palcoscenico, e nella dolorosa ammissione di un errore, nel lento riconoscimento di una verità deprimente: il mondo che abbiamo costruito non ci è riuscito così brillantemente.”
Dall’enciclopedia Treccani online:
“La melancolia o lipemania è la sindrome affettiva che ha per note fondamentali una tristezza morbosa e ostinata, indipendente dagli avvenimenti esterni, un pessimismo invincibile, un senso profondo di sfiducia e di avvilimento, che paralizza l'azione. Ogni impressione esterna riesce spiacevole, il pensiero s'aggira in una chiusa cerchia d'idee tristi. Dal pessimismo germogliano spesso veri delirî: di colpa, di miseria, di rovina propria e altrui, di rovina universale, d'indegnità, di dannazione [...]”
Questo è un romanzo che non credo di aver capito fino in fondo, un romanzo pieno di allusioni, metafore e allegorie, immerse in una narrazione surreale, quasi onirica, sebbene vividissima; ma dopo averci riflettuto, ecco credo che non sia necessario aver capito proprio tutto con certezza per poter affermare che si tratta di un’opera bellissima, capace di lasciare un’impressione forte e duratura, di piantarsi nel cuore e nei sentimenti del lettore.
Quello che più mi è piaciuto è sicuramente l’atmosfera cupa e claustrofobica, ottenuta sia con una scrittura sorprendente, dal fraseggiare lungo e incalzante, che fa quasi venire il fiatone durante la lettura, sia per il fatto di riportare pensieri ossessivi e deliri dei personaggi - personaggi tra l’altro delineati alla perfezione benché tutti matti, in varie gradazioni (tranne forse la signora Ezster, calcolatrice, arrivista, avida di potere). Ecco sì, c’è proprio una tristezza morbosa e ostinata attaccata a ogni singola pagina di questo libro, un pessimismo invincibile.
Ma anche una lotta tra il caos e la ragione. Mi sono chiesta in effetti il perchè di questo titolo, Melancolia della resistenza, alla melancolia ci arrivo subito, mentre il significato di quella resistenza credo sia da ricercare nella lotta tra la ragione, l’ordine da una lato e quell’entropia che divora il mondo dall’altro - e che ha già vinto, sempre vincerà, lo dice il secondo principio della termodinamica, ma questa non è una buona ragione per non lottare. Perché è sempre possibile una seppur effimera - forse menzognera - armonia.
Per questo chi resiste è condannato alla melancolia. Alla pazzia. A essere lo scemo del villaggio, come Valuska, il personaggio che mi ha preso il cuore. O a rinchiudersi in una fortezza di solitudine, come il signor Eszter.
Non so dire altro di questo romanzo, che avrebbe bisogno di ben altri commenti e di analisi approfondite. Io non sono in grado di farle, posso solo dirvi: leggetelo, provate. Resistete, resistiamo.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yT_ji...
Dall’enciclopedia Treccani online:
“La melancolia o lipemania è la sindrome affettiva che ha per note fondamentali una tristezza morbosa e ostinata, indipendente dagli avvenimenti esterni, un pessimismo invincibile, un senso profondo di sfiducia e di avvilimento, che paralizza l'azione. Ogni impressione esterna riesce spiacevole, il pensiero s'aggira in una chiusa cerchia d'idee tristi. Dal pessimismo germogliano spesso veri delirî: di colpa, di miseria, di rovina propria e altrui, di rovina universale, d'indegnità, di dannazione [...]”
Questo è un romanzo che non credo di aver capito fino in fondo, un romanzo pieno di allusioni, metafore e allegorie, immerse in una narrazione surreale, quasi onirica, sebbene vividissima; ma dopo averci riflettuto, ecco credo che non sia necessario aver capito proprio tutto con certezza per poter affermare che si tratta di un’opera bellissima, capace di lasciare un’impressione forte e duratura, di piantarsi nel cuore e nei sentimenti del lettore.
Quello che più mi è piaciuto è sicuramente l’atmosfera cupa e claustrofobica, ottenuta sia con una scrittura sorprendente, dal fraseggiare lungo e incalzante, che fa quasi venire il fiatone durante la lettura, sia per il fatto di riportare pensieri ossessivi e deliri dei personaggi - personaggi tra l’altro delineati alla perfezione benché tutti matti, in varie gradazioni (tranne forse la signora Ezster, calcolatrice, arrivista, avida di potere). Ecco sì, c’è proprio una tristezza morbosa e ostinata attaccata a ogni singola pagina di questo libro, un pessimismo invincibile.
Ma anche una lotta tra il caos e la ragione. Mi sono chiesta in effetti il perchè di questo titolo, Melancolia della resistenza, alla melancolia ci arrivo subito, mentre il significato di quella resistenza credo sia da ricercare nella lotta tra la ragione, l’ordine da una lato e quell’entropia che divora il mondo dall’altro - e che ha già vinto, sempre vincerà, lo dice il secondo principio della termodinamica, ma questa non è una buona ragione per non lottare. Perché è sempre possibile una seppur effimera - forse menzognera - armonia.
Per questo chi resiste è condannato alla melancolia. Alla pazzia. A essere lo scemo del villaggio, come Valuska, il personaggio che mi ha preso il cuore. O a rinchiudersi in una fortezza di solitudine, come il signor Eszter.
Non so dire altro di questo romanzo, che avrebbe bisogno di ben altri commenti e di analisi approfondite. Io non sono in grado di farle, posso solo dirvi: leggetelo, provate. Resistete, resistiamo.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yT_ji...
September 2, 2023
Apparently, this is an early work by the Hungarian writer Laszlo Krasznahorkai, who in the mean time has built up quite a reputation as a typical Central European author. This book clearly refers to respectable authors such as Kafka, Canetti, Kundera, and so on. That’s obvious through themes like the opacity of reality, the short-sightedness of petty-bourgeois existence, the cynical sarcasm of those in power, and the threat of impersonal powers and forces.
Not an easy read, this book, because Krasznahorkai deliberately produces long, complex sentences, plays with a high brow register, and clearly also likes to keep the reader in the dark. But the ironic and satirical touches make up for that.
It's easy to state this in hindsight, of course, but in this 1989 book Krasznahorkai seems to be prophetic with regard to the rising of populism of recent decades and of pessimism in general, in more recent years. The stage on which this novel is set is that of an (unnamed) Hungarian town in decline, with main characters who are well aware of the impending disruptions. It helps, of course, that almost all scenes take place at evening or night, so that the contrasts between light and darkness come into their own even more sharply, and a haze of mystery remains over the actions. Perspectivism also is relevant: the characters are all locked into their own perspective, colored by self-cherished illusions. And for some, those illusions are also opportunities: the complacency and cynicism of Mrs. Eszter in particular jumps to the fore, using the horrific threat of the anonymous masses (terrifyingly palpable) to turn its own pursuit of power into reality. This is great literature, that's for sure.
Not an easy read, this book, because Krasznahorkai deliberately produces long, complex sentences, plays with a high brow register, and clearly also likes to keep the reader in the dark. But the ironic and satirical touches make up for that.
It's easy to state this in hindsight, of course, but in this 1989 book Krasznahorkai seems to be prophetic with regard to the rising of populism of recent decades and of pessimism in general, in more recent years. The stage on which this novel is set is that of an (unnamed) Hungarian town in decline, with main characters who are well aware of the impending disruptions. It helps, of course, that almost all scenes take place at evening or night, so that the contrasts between light and darkness come into their own even more sharply, and a haze of mystery remains over the actions. Perspectivism also is relevant: the characters are all locked into their own perspective, colored by self-cherished illusions. And for some, those illusions are also opportunities: the complacency and cynicism of Mrs. Eszter in particular jumps to the fore, using the horrific threat of the anonymous masses (terrifyingly palpable) to turn its own pursuit of power into reality. This is great literature, that's for sure.
March 13, 2020
Ο κύριος λόγος που αγάπησα αυτό το βιβλίο, και κατ' επέκταση τον Κραζναχορκάι, είναι το ότι η γραφή του συγγραφέα αντανακλά πλήρως το πνεύμα του βιβλίου. Εξηγούμαι: ο μακροπερίοδος, απελευθερωμένος από τα δεσμά της στίξης και του χρόνου, και ενίοτε χαοτικός λόγος αντικατοπτρίζει τον άναρχο, βίαιο και αποσυντιθέμενο κόσμο στον οποίο ζούμε.
Εδώ ο συγγραφέας μιλά για την αυθαιρεσία της εξουσίας και την αντίσταση του πνεύματος και της γνώσης απέναντι στο χάος που εμπεριείχε τους κρυστάλλους της τάξης, το είχε διαλύσει η απαρεμπόδιστη και αδιάφορη κυκλοφορία των διαφόρων στοιχείων που κυβερνούσε το σύμπαν. Και, διάολε, το καταφέρνει με α π ό λ υ τ η επιτυχία.
Το λιγότερο (οκ, το μόνο) που μπορώ να κάνω είναι να υποκλιθώ στο μεγαλείο του Κραζναχορκάι.
Υ.Γ.: Εσείς που λέτε ότι τα γερμανικά ονόματα είναι σιδηρόδρομοι ξανασκεφτείτε το. Δοκιμάστε να πείτε "Λάσλο Κραζναχορκάι" 2 - 3 φορές σερί, πλάκα έχει.
Εδώ ο συγγραφέας μιλά για την αυθαιρεσία της εξουσίας και την αντίσταση του πνεύματος και της γνώσης απέναντι στο χάος που εμπεριείχε τους κρυστάλλους της τάξης, το είχε διαλύσει η απαρεμπόδιστη και αδιάφορη κυκλοφορία των διαφόρων στοιχείων που κυβερνούσε το σύμπαν. Και, διάολε, το καταφέρνει με α π ό λ υ τ η επιτυχία.
Το λιγότερο (οκ, το μόνο) που μπορώ να κάνω είναι να υποκλιθώ στο μεγαλείο του Κραζναχορκάι.
Υ.Γ.: Εσείς που λέτε ότι τα γερμανικά ονόματα είναι σιδηρόδρομοι ξανασκεφτείτε το. Δοκιμάστε να πείτε "Λάσλο Κραζναχορκάι" 2 - 3 φορές σερί, πλάκα έχει.
January 16, 2020
I feel that Krasznahorkai is the conscience of our age. A brilliant writer, quickly becoming my favorite contemporary prose writer.
January 19, 2024
direnişin melankolisi, bir romanın gücünün ne olduğunu ve ne kadar etki edebileceğini gösteren bir uç örnek oldu benim için. etkisi, iyi ya da güzel dediğim romanlar gibi değil. uyandırdığı hisler beğeni ya da hayranlık değil. yazara, yazıya, edebiyata şükran duymadım bitirdiğimde, bunların başka şeyler olduğunu anladım. direnişin melankolisi bir dağılmaya, allak bullak oluşa sebep oldu bende. bir darbe gibi, neredeyse fiziksel. ürpertici, ürkütücü. güçsüz hissettirdi bu romanın gücü. ağırlığı altında ezildim sanki. hiç geçmeyecek gibi bir huzursuzluk ve tedirginlikle öylece kalakaldım.
peki neden ve nasıl böyle diye düşündüğümde ve bir yerden sonra romanın etkisinden kurtulmak için biraz zaman, biraz mesafeyle değerlendirmeye çalıştığımda daha ürpertici bir şeyle karşılaştım: romanın gücünü artıran, şiddetlendiren şey basitlik. bu romanın gücü hikayesinden kaynaklanmıyor. çürüme, yıkım, kıyamet gibi temalarından da kaynaklanmıyor. aksine alegorik, ironik bir hikaye okuyoruz ve kendiliğinden ürkütücü olan temalar hikaye içinde basitleşiyor, zaman zaman komik bir hal alıyor. okurken öyle gelmese de “güldürü” yerinde bir tanımlama direnişin melankolisi için. ama bunu anlamlandırabilmek zor gerçekten.
romanın giriş bölümünün ilk sayfasından şu cümle: "…alışılmış düzen şaibeli hale gelmiş, günlük alışkanlıklar durdurulmaz biçimde büyüyen karmaşa tarafından altüst edilmiş, gelecek kuşkuyla dolu, geçmiş muğlak, gündelik hayatın işleyişi ise kestirilemez olmuş, çürütücü zararın sadece semptomları hissedilebildiği için esas sebepler erişilemez ve ölçülemez biçimde belirsizleşmiş, bir daha tek bir kapının dahi açılmaz olması ya da buğday başaklarının toprağın içine doğru büyümesi bile bir kabulleniş içinde normal sayılmaya başlamış ve böylece insanların…hala elde edilmesi mümkün olan geriye kalmış ne varsa tamah etmekten başka yapacak bir şeyleri kalmamıştı." ve romanın son sayfasından şu cümle: "…tüm bunlardan üstün bir yapı, her şeyi ince hatlar üzerinden içine çekti, uzun bir direnişin ardından dokular, kıkırdak ve sonunda kemik bile nafile savaşın sonucunda teslim olup, bir zamanların kalesinden geriye hiçbir şey kalmadığında, aslında tek bir atom bile kaybolmayacak şekilde, hepsini yeniden organik ve inorganik yaşamlara dağıttı.” bu başlangıç-bu son bizim hayatımız dedim romanı bitirince. insanın başlangıcı ve sonu, bizim varoluşumuz bizim yok oluşumuz, bu bizim en derin mevzumuz. ve “bir gün bir kasabaya bir sirk gelir..” hikayesinde böyle yansıyorsa, bizim en derin mevzumuz da basit dedim. buz gibi basit, donduracak kadar basit.
öyle mi?.. herkes hikaye anlatıyor, herkes hikaye anlatarak bir dünya kuruyor, bir küçük dünya, bir model dünya. roman bu zaten, edebiyat bu. ve fakat laszlo krasznahorkai kadar işleyince, laszlo krasznahorkai kadar inceltince ve en zoru laszlo krasznahorkai kadar yoğunlaştırınca romanın-edebiyatın ötesine geçiyor. kendi içine bu kadar yoğunlaşan şey patlayıcıdır, bombadır, patlıyor. şeytan tangosu böyleydi, direnişin melankolisi böyle. iyi romanlar sonrasında okumayı zorlaştırır, laszlo krasznahorkai romanları ise yaşamayı zorlaştırıyor…romanın çok çarpıcı bir sahnesinden hareketle, laszlo krasznahorkai’nin iyi roman-kötü roman yoktur, güçlü roman-güçsüz roman vardır diyeceğini düşündüm tam burada. bir çıkış bir, bir yol bulalım o zaman. bir “basitlik” mi ya da, nasıl yapalım. burada soru işareti yerine, artık yeter, nokta koydum.
peki neden ve nasıl böyle diye düşündüğümde ve bir yerden sonra romanın etkisinden kurtulmak için biraz zaman, biraz mesafeyle değerlendirmeye çalıştığımda daha ürpertici bir şeyle karşılaştım: romanın gücünü artıran, şiddetlendiren şey basitlik. bu romanın gücü hikayesinden kaynaklanmıyor. çürüme, yıkım, kıyamet gibi temalarından da kaynaklanmıyor. aksine alegorik, ironik bir hikaye okuyoruz ve kendiliğinden ürkütücü olan temalar hikaye içinde basitleşiyor, zaman zaman komik bir hal alıyor. okurken öyle gelmese de “güldürü” yerinde bir tanımlama direnişin melankolisi için. ama bunu anlamlandırabilmek zor gerçekten.
romanın giriş bölümünün ilk sayfasından şu cümle: "…alışılmış düzen şaibeli hale gelmiş, günlük alışkanlıklar durdurulmaz biçimde büyüyen karmaşa tarafından altüst edilmiş, gelecek kuşkuyla dolu, geçmiş muğlak, gündelik hayatın işleyişi ise kestirilemez olmuş, çürütücü zararın sadece semptomları hissedilebildiği için esas sebepler erişilemez ve ölçülemez biçimde belirsizleşmiş, bir daha tek bir kapının dahi açılmaz olması ya da buğday başaklarının toprağın içine doğru büyümesi bile bir kabulleniş içinde normal sayılmaya başlamış ve böylece insanların…hala elde edilmesi mümkün olan geriye kalmış ne varsa tamah etmekten başka yapacak bir şeyleri kalmamıştı." ve romanın son sayfasından şu cümle: "…tüm bunlardan üstün bir yapı, her şeyi ince hatlar üzerinden içine çekti, uzun bir direnişin ardından dokular, kıkırdak ve sonunda kemik bile nafile savaşın sonucunda teslim olup, bir zamanların kalesinden geriye hiçbir şey kalmadığında, aslında tek bir atom bile kaybolmayacak şekilde, hepsini yeniden organik ve inorganik yaşamlara dağıttı.” bu başlangıç-bu son bizim hayatımız dedim romanı bitirince. insanın başlangıcı ve sonu, bizim varoluşumuz bizim yok oluşumuz, bu bizim en derin mevzumuz. ve “bir gün bir kasabaya bir sirk gelir..” hikayesinde böyle yansıyorsa, bizim en derin mevzumuz da basit dedim. buz gibi basit, donduracak kadar basit.
öyle mi?.. herkes hikaye anlatıyor, herkes hikaye anlatarak bir dünya kuruyor, bir küçük dünya, bir model dünya. roman bu zaten, edebiyat bu. ve fakat laszlo krasznahorkai kadar işleyince, laszlo krasznahorkai kadar inceltince ve en zoru laszlo krasznahorkai kadar yoğunlaştırınca romanın-edebiyatın ötesine geçiyor. kendi içine bu kadar yoğunlaşan şey patlayıcıdır, bombadır, patlıyor. şeytan tangosu böyleydi, direnişin melankolisi böyle. iyi romanlar sonrasında okumayı zorlaştırır, laszlo krasznahorkai romanları ise yaşamayı zorlaştırıyor…romanın çok çarpıcı bir sahnesinden hareketle, laszlo krasznahorkai’nin iyi roman-kötü roman yoktur, güçlü roman-güçsüz roman vardır diyeceğini düşündüm tam burada. bir çıkış bir, bir yol bulalım o zaman. bir “basitlik” mi ya da, nasıl yapalım. burada soru işareti yerine, artık yeter, nokta koydum.
December 27, 2022
Something wicked this way comes, or The path of least resistance
The story of a village plunging into authoritarianism told in three acts.
Ingredients you'll need: conformity of the average person, misanthropy and resulting apathy of intelligentsia, and violence of the masses (preferably outsiders).
Mix all together, give an external threat of chaos and the good strongman or strongwoman to bring back under control, peace in exchange for power. Bake for 16 days.
A very enjoyable for my sensibilities, my first Laszlo Krasznahorkai, perhaps not last, but with all the rave reviews by James Wood and Sontag I did expect something headier and more substantial. Or maybe even more surreal. But never mind expectations, the prose is atmospheric and intense, the story is interesting and the ending is depressing. Amazing!
The story of a village plunging into authoritarianism told in three acts.
Ingredients you'll need: conformity of the average person, misanthropy and resulting apathy of intelligentsia, and violence of the masses (preferably outsiders).
Mix all together, give an external threat of chaos and the good strongman or strongwoman to bring back under control, peace in exchange for power. Bake for 16 days.
A very enjoyable for my sensibilities, my first Laszlo Krasznahorkai, perhaps not last, but with all the rave reviews by James Wood and Sontag I did expect something headier and more substantial. Or maybe even more surreal. But never mind expectations, the prose is atmospheric and intense, the story is interesting and the ending is depressing. Amazing!
November 11, 2016
STAALKAART #35
***
DE MELANCHOLIE VAN HET VERZET, GRANDIOZE ROMAN VAN HONGAARSE MEESTER LÁSZLÓ KRASZNAHORKAI
Na 'Satanstango' in 2012 brengt de Wereldbibliotheek nu een tweede roman van de Hongaar László Krasznahorkai op de markt. Ook in 'De melancholie van het verzet' ontleedt en herschikt Krasznahorkai de wereld tot een nieuwe werkelijkheid die onze kijk op de gebruikelijke orde van de dingen - de orde tussen goed en kwaad, zeg maar – danig ondersteboven haalt en ontregelt. Het kaliber van deze veeleisende mastodont van een roman is evenwaardig duister en bevreemdend als dreigend en ingenieus.
LÁSZLÓ KRASZNAHORKAI
Toen Krasznahorkai eind 2015 de Man Booker Prize voor zijn hele oeuvre in de wacht sleepte, was hij voor velen nog een nobele onbekende. Nochtans debuteerde de mediaschuwe Hongaar ruim dertig jaar terug met het succesvolle 'Satanstango', werden meerdere van zijn boeken met veel kritische bijval verfilmd door landgenoot en trouwe kunstbroeder Béla Tarr (waaronder ook 'De melancholie van het verzet' onder de titel 'Werckmeister harmóniák') en kan hij rekenen op de onvoorwaardelijke bewondering van een handvol invloedrijke literaire grootheden. Zo noemde Susan Sontag hem “een meester van de Apocalyps” en bombardeerde W.G. Sebald hem tot de “Gogol van het hedendaagse schrijven”. Misschien heeft zijn voor niet-Hongaren moeilijk uit te spreken (én te onthouden) familienaam bijgedragen tot zijn beperkte roem en bekendheid? Hoewel, ook daar valt Krasznahorkai niets te verwijten. Op zijn typerende, droogkomische manier licht hij op zijn website de correcte fonetische uitspraak van zijn naam in een tiental talen toe.
Krasznahorkai is mee met zijn tijd: zijn uitgebreid curriculum staat gewoon op zijn site. Hij werd op 5 januari 1954 geboren in Gyula, een stadje in het zuidoosten van Hongarije op 4 kilometer van de Roemeense grens. Zijn vader was een advocaat, zijn moeder werkte als bediende in de sociale zekerheid. Een decennium lang, tussen 1973 en 1983, wijdde hij zich aan hogere studies. Eerst volmaakte hij een rechtenstudie, om nadien te promoveren in de Hongaarse taal- en letterkunde op een eindwerk over Sándor Márai. Hij bekostigde zijn studies door te werken als ‘documentalist’ bij de onafhankelijke uitgeverij Gondolat en verbaasde in 1985 de Hongaarse literaire wereld door als uit het niets op te duiken met 'Satanstango', een virulente dystopische roman waarin hij communistisch Hongarije te kijk zet. Zijn naam in eigen land was meteen gevestigd en tot op vandaag blijft het zijn bekendste roman, mede dankzij Tarrs verbluffende bijna acht uur durende verfilming uit 1994. Tussen 1987 en 1989 verblijft Krasznahorkai met een studiebeurs in Berlijn. Nadien start een lange periode van reizen en rondtrekken: hij verblijft langdurig in China, Mongolië en Japan, reist mee op de langevaart, hangt de bohémien uit in Europese steden als Wenen en Berlijn, maar ook in de VS, waar hij naar verluidt goede vriendjes werd met Patti Smith, David Byrne en Philip Glass én tijdelijk gehuisvest werd door beat koning Allen Ginsberg. Sinds enkele jaren leeft hij een teruggetrokken bestaan in een onooglijk dorpje van nog geen duizend inwoners in het noorden van Hongarije, Szentlászló, waar alle geruchten als zou hij de volgende Nobelprijskandidaat zijn hem duchtig worst wezen.
Inmiddels bouwt Krasznahorkai onverstoorbaar verder aan een uniek oeuvre. Hij is geen veelschrijver, maar eerder van het ambachtelijke, eindeloos bijschavende type: op 31 jaar tijd publiceerde hij ‘slechts’ 8 romans en schreef een handvol kortverhalen, scripts en essays. Gezien zijn intense, massieve en compromisloze stijl mag dat geen wonder heten. Zijn romans kenmerken zich immers door een minimale plot en lang uitgesponnen sierlijke zinnen met een afgemeten interpunctie en een geringe aliniëring. In 'Satanstango' bijvoorbeeld bestaat elk hoofdstuk uit één enkele paragraaf en in 2009 stuntte hij met het kortverhaal ‘El último lobo’, dat bestaat uit één zin van achtentwintig pagina’s. Zijn Engelse vertaler George Szirtes spreekt van een “trage narratieve lavastroom, een zwarte uitgestrekte letterrivier.” In 'De melancholie van het verzet' – Krasznahorkais tweede roman, verschenen in 1989 – is dat niet anders.
DE MELANCHOLIE VAN HET VERZET
De plot van 'De melancholie van het verzet' is moeiteloos samen te vatten in één zin: in een kille novembermaand zet een merkwaardig circus met als enige attractie het opgevulde karkas van een walvis zijn tenten op in een niet nader bepaalde kleine Hongaarse stad en veroorzaakt hierdoor bij de bewoners een grote onrust, die culmineert in een catastrofale uitbarsting van geweld en opstand. Het fenomenale openingshoofdstuk is onvergetelijk, Dostojevskiaans gezien de start in een overvolle trein die door de Hongaarse poesta raast. We beleven die helse rit vanuit het perspectief van de kleinburgerlijke mevrouw Plauf, die doodsangsten uitstaat wanneer een haveloze dronkaard haar onschuldige beweging om haar beha recht te trekken misinterpreteert en haar lastig begint te vallen. Wanneer ze uiteindelijk heelhuids in het stadje aankomt, valt op weg naar huis plots overal de stroom uit en botst ze op een groepje mannen dat amok maakt. Ondertussen paradeert het circus met de walvis op een verlichte praalwagen als een soort Trojaans paard doorheen de donkere straten. De sfeer is onheilspellend, er hangt een enorme dreiging in de lucht. Het kleine opstootje waarvan mevrouw Plauf getuige is, blijkt al snel een voorbode, het omineuze begin van een totale ontketening: onder leiding van de Zarathoestra-achtige doemprofeet De Prins zaait een zootje ongeregeld verderf en dompelt het stadje in een storm van geweld en terreur.
In de zes middelste hoofdstukken staan alternerend de andere 3 hoofdpersonages centraal: Valushka, en het koppel meneer en mevrouw Eszter. Valushka, de dromerige zoon van mevrouw Plauf, is niet alleen de brievendrager van het stadje, maar ook het manusje-van-alles van meneer Eszter. Hij wordt aanzien als de mallotige dorpsidioot die op wolken leeft. De vaste klanten in de kroeg entertaint hij met zijn knotsgekke uitbeelding van de beweging van de planeten. Meneer Eszter is de directeur op vervroegde rust van de muziekacademie: sinds zijn mislukt onderzoek over het aantal tonen in een octaaf nodig om tot een zuivere harmonie te komen, zondert hij zich af van de buitenwereld en leeft hij in onmin met zijn echtgenote. Zijn enige toeverlaat en steun is Valushka, met wie hij voortdurend filosofische discussies heeft. De zwaarlijvige, machiavellistische mevrouw Eszter is de gepersonifieerde ‘wil tot macht’: ze maakt misbruik van het oproer en ziet haar kans schoon om het bewind van de gemeenteraad over te nemen. Dat ze de lakens deelt met het hoofd van de politie en later met de kolonel van het leger die de opstand moet stoppen, speelt hierbij in haar voordeel.
'De melancholie van het verzet' omvat een bont allegaartje van genres: het is een onheilspellende allegorie (de walvis, De Prins) en een politiek pamflet (de risico’s van de revolutie), maar ook een duistere ideeënroman (Eszter) en een metafysische parabel (Valushka). Aan de hand van wonderlijk beklijvende streams of consciousness kruipt Krasznahorkai in het hoofd van zijn personages en bouwt een uitgekiend spectrum van sterk uiteenlopende visies en wereldbeelden, handelingen en gebeurtenissen op. Mevrouw Plauf ondergaat, Valushka droomt, meneer Eszter rationaliseert, terwijl zijn echtgenote domineert. Met negen hoofdstukken van rond de veertig bladzijden, lange meanderende zinnen vaak aangedikt met barokke grootsprakerigheid en een opvallende afkeer voor paragrafen biedt de lectuur van 'De melancholie van het verzet' de lezer weinig ademruimte. Bovendien speelt Krasznahorkai in enkele quasi surrealistische passages op meesterlijke wijze met het postmoderne principe van redundantie: het uitvoerige en hilarische stuk waarin Eszter leert hoe hij een hamer moet gebruiken bijvoorbeeld of de laatste vijf pagina’s van het boek die op een wetenschappelijk-afstandelijke manier de ontbinding van het lijk van Plauf beschrijven. Deze fragmenten wisselt Krasznahorkai af met aangrijpende monologues intérieurs, spannende scènes vol actie (het inleidend hoofdstuk, de beschrijving van de revolutie) en filosofische uitweidingen (Eszters harmoniestudies). Maar, dé grote kracht van deze roman zit in de zinsbouw, de rijkdom van de taal. Zelden zal u nog zulke uitgebreide, veelzeggende en perfect geciseleerde zinnen lezen. De grootste lof dus voor de vlotte en natuurlijke vertaling van Mari Alföldy, die er na 'Satanstango', opnieuw met glans in slaagt om de uitzonderlijke energie en vitaliteit van Krasznahorkais taal over te brengen naar het Nederlands, zonder aan kracht of vitaliteit ten aanzien van het origineel te moeten inboeten.
'De melancholie van het verzet' is een overdonderende roman, een weergaloos boek van een van Europa’s grootste schrijvers. Laat ons collectief hopen dat de Wereldbibliotheek nog meer werk van deze sublieme melancholicus aan zijn fondslijst toevoegt.
---
'De melancholie van het verzet' van László Krasznahorkai, vertaald door Mari Alföldy, Wereldbibliotheek, ISBN 9789028426702, 416 pagina’s, € 29,99
***
DE MELANCHOLIE VAN HET VERZET, GRANDIOZE ROMAN VAN HONGAARSE MEESTER LÁSZLÓ KRASZNAHORKAI
Na 'Satanstango' in 2012 brengt de Wereldbibliotheek nu een tweede roman van de Hongaar László Krasznahorkai op de markt. Ook in 'De melancholie van het verzet' ontleedt en herschikt Krasznahorkai de wereld tot een nieuwe werkelijkheid die onze kijk op de gebruikelijke orde van de dingen - de orde tussen goed en kwaad, zeg maar – danig ondersteboven haalt en ontregelt. Het kaliber van deze veeleisende mastodont van een roman is evenwaardig duister en bevreemdend als dreigend en ingenieus.
LÁSZLÓ KRASZNAHORKAI
Toen Krasznahorkai eind 2015 de Man Booker Prize voor zijn hele oeuvre in de wacht sleepte, was hij voor velen nog een nobele onbekende. Nochtans debuteerde de mediaschuwe Hongaar ruim dertig jaar terug met het succesvolle 'Satanstango', werden meerdere van zijn boeken met veel kritische bijval verfilmd door landgenoot en trouwe kunstbroeder Béla Tarr (waaronder ook 'De melancholie van het verzet' onder de titel 'Werckmeister harmóniák') en kan hij rekenen op de onvoorwaardelijke bewondering van een handvol invloedrijke literaire grootheden. Zo noemde Susan Sontag hem “een meester van de Apocalyps” en bombardeerde W.G. Sebald hem tot de “Gogol van het hedendaagse schrijven”. Misschien heeft zijn voor niet-Hongaren moeilijk uit te spreken (én te onthouden) familienaam bijgedragen tot zijn beperkte roem en bekendheid? Hoewel, ook daar valt Krasznahorkai niets te verwijten. Op zijn typerende, droogkomische manier licht hij op zijn website de correcte fonetische uitspraak van zijn naam in een tiental talen toe.
Krasznahorkai is mee met zijn tijd: zijn uitgebreid curriculum staat gewoon op zijn site. Hij werd op 5 januari 1954 geboren in Gyula, een stadje in het zuidoosten van Hongarije op 4 kilometer van de Roemeense grens. Zijn vader was een advocaat, zijn moeder werkte als bediende in de sociale zekerheid. Een decennium lang, tussen 1973 en 1983, wijdde hij zich aan hogere studies. Eerst volmaakte hij een rechtenstudie, om nadien te promoveren in de Hongaarse taal- en letterkunde op een eindwerk over Sándor Márai. Hij bekostigde zijn studies door te werken als ‘documentalist’ bij de onafhankelijke uitgeverij Gondolat en verbaasde in 1985 de Hongaarse literaire wereld door als uit het niets op te duiken met 'Satanstango', een virulente dystopische roman waarin hij communistisch Hongarije te kijk zet. Zijn naam in eigen land was meteen gevestigd en tot op vandaag blijft het zijn bekendste roman, mede dankzij Tarrs verbluffende bijna acht uur durende verfilming uit 1994. Tussen 1987 en 1989 verblijft Krasznahorkai met een studiebeurs in Berlijn. Nadien start een lange periode van reizen en rondtrekken: hij verblijft langdurig in China, Mongolië en Japan, reist mee op de langevaart, hangt de bohémien uit in Europese steden als Wenen en Berlijn, maar ook in de VS, waar hij naar verluidt goede vriendjes werd met Patti Smith, David Byrne en Philip Glass én tijdelijk gehuisvest werd door beat koning Allen Ginsberg. Sinds enkele jaren leeft hij een teruggetrokken bestaan in een onooglijk dorpje van nog geen duizend inwoners in het noorden van Hongarije, Szentlászló, waar alle geruchten als zou hij de volgende Nobelprijskandidaat zijn hem duchtig worst wezen.
Inmiddels bouwt Krasznahorkai onverstoorbaar verder aan een uniek oeuvre. Hij is geen veelschrijver, maar eerder van het ambachtelijke, eindeloos bijschavende type: op 31 jaar tijd publiceerde hij ‘slechts’ 8 romans en schreef een handvol kortverhalen, scripts en essays. Gezien zijn intense, massieve en compromisloze stijl mag dat geen wonder heten. Zijn romans kenmerken zich immers door een minimale plot en lang uitgesponnen sierlijke zinnen met een afgemeten interpunctie en een geringe aliniëring. In 'Satanstango' bijvoorbeeld bestaat elk hoofdstuk uit één enkele paragraaf en in 2009 stuntte hij met het kortverhaal ‘El último lobo’, dat bestaat uit één zin van achtentwintig pagina’s. Zijn Engelse vertaler George Szirtes spreekt van een “trage narratieve lavastroom, een zwarte uitgestrekte letterrivier.” In 'De melancholie van het verzet' – Krasznahorkais tweede roman, verschenen in 1989 – is dat niet anders.
DE MELANCHOLIE VAN HET VERZET
De plot van 'De melancholie van het verzet' is moeiteloos samen te vatten in één zin: in een kille novembermaand zet een merkwaardig circus met als enige attractie het opgevulde karkas van een walvis zijn tenten op in een niet nader bepaalde kleine Hongaarse stad en veroorzaakt hierdoor bij de bewoners een grote onrust, die culmineert in een catastrofale uitbarsting van geweld en opstand. Het fenomenale openingshoofdstuk is onvergetelijk, Dostojevskiaans gezien de start in een overvolle trein die door de Hongaarse poesta raast. We beleven die helse rit vanuit het perspectief van de kleinburgerlijke mevrouw Plauf, die doodsangsten uitstaat wanneer een haveloze dronkaard haar onschuldige beweging om haar beha recht te trekken misinterpreteert en haar lastig begint te vallen. Wanneer ze uiteindelijk heelhuids in het stadje aankomt, valt op weg naar huis plots overal de stroom uit en botst ze op een groepje mannen dat amok maakt. Ondertussen paradeert het circus met de walvis op een verlichte praalwagen als een soort Trojaans paard doorheen de donkere straten. De sfeer is onheilspellend, er hangt een enorme dreiging in de lucht. Het kleine opstootje waarvan mevrouw Plauf getuige is, blijkt al snel een voorbode, het omineuze begin van een totale ontketening: onder leiding van de Zarathoestra-achtige doemprofeet De Prins zaait een zootje ongeregeld verderf en dompelt het stadje in een storm van geweld en terreur.
In de zes middelste hoofdstukken staan alternerend de andere 3 hoofdpersonages centraal: Valushka, en het koppel meneer en mevrouw Eszter. Valushka, de dromerige zoon van mevrouw Plauf, is niet alleen de brievendrager van het stadje, maar ook het manusje-van-alles van meneer Eszter. Hij wordt aanzien als de mallotige dorpsidioot die op wolken leeft. De vaste klanten in de kroeg entertaint hij met zijn knotsgekke uitbeelding van de beweging van de planeten. Meneer Eszter is de directeur op vervroegde rust van de muziekacademie: sinds zijn mislukt onderzoek over het aantal tonen in een octaaf nodig om tot een zuivere harmonie te komen, zondert hij zich af van de buitenwereld en leeft hij in onmin met zijn echtgenote. Zijn enige toeverlaat en steun is Valushka, met wie hij voortdurend filosofische discussies heeft. De zwaarlijvige, machiavellistische mevrouw Eszter is de gepersonifieerde ‘wil tot macht’: ze maakt misbruik van het oproer en ziet haar kans schoon om het bewind van de gemeenteraad over te nemen. Dat ze de lakens deelt met het hoofd van de politie en later met de kolonel van het leger die de opstand moet stoppen, speelt hierbij in haar voordeel.
'De melancholie van het verzet' omvat een bont allegaartje van genres: het is een onheilspellende allegorie (de walvis, De Prins) en een politiek pamflet (de risico’s van de revolutie), maar ook een duistere ideeënroman (Eszter) en een metafysische parabel (Valushka). Aan de hand van wonderlijk beklijvende streams of consciousness kruipt Krasznahorkai in het hoofd van zijn personages en bouwt een uitgekiend spectrum van sterk uiteenlopende visies en wereldbeelden, handelingen en gebeurtenissen op. Mevrouw Plauf ondergaat, Valushka droomt, meneer Eszter rationaliseert, terwijl zijn echtgenote domineert. Met negen hoofdstukken van rond de veertig bladzijden, lange meanderende zinnen vaak aangedikt met barokke grootsprakerigheid en een opvallende afkeer voor paragrafen biedt de lectuur van 'De melancholie van het verzet' de lezer weinig ademruimte. Bovendien speelt Krasznahorkai in enkele quasi surrealistische passages op meesterlijke wijze met het postmoderne principe van redundantie: het uitvoerige en hilarische stuk waarin Eszter leert hoe hij een hamer moet gebruiken bijvoorbeeld of de laatste vijf pagina’s van het boek die op een wetenschappelijk-afstandelijke manier de ontbinding van het lijk van Plauf beschrijven. Deze fragmenten wisselt Krasznahorkai af met aangrijpende monologues intérieurs, spannende scènes vol actie (het inleidend hoofdstuk, de beschrijving van de revolutie) en filosofische uitweidingen (Eszters harmoniestudies). Maar, dé grote kracht van deze roman zit in de zinsbouw, de rijkdom van de taal. Zelden zal u nog zulke uitgebreide, veelzeggende en perfect geciseleerde zinnen lezen. De grootste lof dus voor de vlotte en natuurlijke vertaling van Mari Alföldy, die er na 'Satanstango', opnieuw met glans in slaagt om de uitzonderlijke energie en vitaliteit van Krasznahorkais taal over te brengen naar het Nederlands, zonder aan kracht of vitaliteit ten aanzien van het origineel te moeten inboeten.
'De melancholie van het verzet' is een overdonderende roman, een weergaloos boek van een van Europa’s grootste schrijvers. Laat ons collectief hopen dat de Wereldbibliotheek nog meer werk van deze sublieme melancholicus aan zijn fondslijst toevoegt.
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'De melancholie van het verzet' van László Krasznahorkai, vertaald door Mari Alföldy, Wereldbibliotheek, ISBN 9789028426702, 416 pagina’s, € 29,99
April 23, 2023
Eccomi approdato al mio personale secondo appuntamento con l'autore ungherese. L'avevo conosciuto con il suo primo romanzo "Satantango" e mi aveva convinto, da subito, delle sue enormi potenzialità. Ora che ho concluso "Melancolia della resistenza", ne ho avuto, abbondante, conferma... László Krasznahorkai è un fuoriclasse della scrittura, ne sono sempre più convinto!
La sua scrittura (complimenti anche alla traduttrice) è un condensato di tutto ciò che mi affascina di più quando m'immergo in un qualsiasi universo libresco.
Una scrittura densa di sfumature, sia descrittive che psicologiche, ma anche di riflessioni sociali e filosofiche. Una narrazione complessa, ma anche, in un certo senso "scorrevole", perchè non riuscivo a smettere di leggere, ma dovevo fermarmi, ho fatto anche delle pause di giorni interi, perchè il tutto mi balenava in testa e c'era molto e talmente stratificato, così qualche parte me la sono pure riletta. Un turbine, una frenesia di lettura, questo mi ha messo addosso questo libro, non volevo smettere di leggere, ma al tempo stesso dovevo far sedimentare quello appena letto, altrimenti sarei andato in sovraccarico.
Mi son trovato diverse volte in totale soggezione nella lettura, rileggendo, chiudendo il libro per guardare la copertina e riflettere e chiedere alla balena che cosa stessi mai leggendo, ma la balena non mi rispondeva, però alle volte mi è sembrato che ammiccasse sorniona. Così lo depositavo sul comodino e leggevo altro, intanto il turbine continuava a titillarmi nella mente, intanto che leggevo altro. Non mi dava fastidio leggere altro, è vero, negli intermezzi non ho letto romanzi corposi, sia come scrittura che come mole, però era persistente anche se non ingombrante ciò che avevo letto fino a quel momento. E poi via riprendevo la lettura ed il turbine con essa si rafforzava sempre di più, fino ad arrivare alla parte centrale, che per me rimane indimenticabile, coronamento di un libro straordinario. Ah e non finisce qui, il finale è quanto di più esilarante quanto riflessivo sulla stupidità umana :-D
Capolavoro assoluto!
Aveva visto miliardi di cose inquiete, pronte al cambiamento continuo, aveva visto come dialogavano tra loro severamente senza capo nè coda, ognuna per conto proprio; miliardi di relazioni, miliardi di storie, miliardi, ma si riducevano a una sola, che conteneva tutte le altre: la lotta tra ciò che resiste e ciò che tenta di sconfiggere la resistenza.
Aveva contemplato quel paesaggio infinito, nitido, limpido, ed era rimasto impressionato dalla sua assoluta realtà, sì, impressionato, perchè era così difficile concepire che il mondo reale, oltre alla sua infinita abbondanza di inquietudine, potesse - almeno per noi umani - finire, pur essendo senza fine, e senza centro, e noi semplicemente siamo tra i miliardi di elementi di quello spazio pulsante, al quale collaboriamo guidati dai nostri riflessi...
La sua scrittura (complimenti anche alla traduttrice) è un condensato di tutto ciò che mi affascina di più quando m'immergo in un qualsiasi universo libresco.
Una scrittura densa di sfumature, sia descrittive che psicologiche, ma anche di riflessioni sociali e filosofiche. Una narrazione complessa, ma anche, in un certo senso "scorrevole", perchè non riuscivo a smettere di leggere, ma dovevo fermarmi, ho fatto anche delle pause di giorni interi, perchè il tutto mi balenava in testa e c'era molto e talmente stratificato, così qualche parte me la sono pure riletta. Un turbine, una frenesia di lettura, questo mi ha messo addosso questo libro, non volevo smettere di leggere, ma al tempo stesso dovevo far sedimentare quello appena letto, altrimenti sarei andato in sovraccarico.
Mi son trovato diverse volte in totale soggezione nella lettura, rileggendo, chiudendo il libro per guardare la copertina e riflettere e chiedere alla balena che cosa stessi mai leggendo, ma la balena non mi rispondeva, però alle volte mi è sembrato che ammiccasse sorniona. Così lo depositavo sul comodino e leggevo altro, intanto il turbine continuava a titillarmi nella mente, intanto che leggevo altro. Non mi dava fastidio leggere altro, è vero, negli intermezzi non ho letto romanzi corposi, sia come scrittura che come mole, però era persistente anche se non ingombrante ciò che avevo letto fino a quel momento. E poi via riprendevo la lettura ed il turbine con essa si rafforzava sempre di più, fino ad arrivare alla parte centrale, che per me rimane indimenticabile, coronamento di un libro straordinario. Ah e non finisce qui, il finale è quanto di più esilarante quanto riflessivo sulla stupidità umana :-D
Capolavoro assoluto!
Aveva visto miliardi di cose inquiete, pronte al cambiamento continuo, aveva visto come dialogavano tra loro severamente senza capo nè coda, ognuna per conto proprio; miliardi di relazioni, miliardi di storie, miliardi, ma si riducevano a una sola, che conteneva tutte le altre: la lotta tra ciò che resiste e ciò che tenta di sconfiggere la resistenza.
Aveva contemplato quel paesaggio infinito, nitido, limpido, ed era rimasto impressionato dalla sua assoluta realtà, sì, impressionato, perchè era così difficile concepire che il mondo reale, oltre alla sua infinita abbondanza di inquietudine, potesse - almeno per noi umani - finire, pur essendo senza fine, e senza centro, e noi semplicemente siamo tra i miliardi di elementi di quello spazio pulsante, al quale collaboriamo guidati dai nostri riflessi...
November 25, 2023
Merhaba, buraya geldim ama nasıl geldim? Uzun zamandır okumadığım muhteşemlikte bir şey okumanın verdiği inanılmaz hazla geldim. Hatta övgümü bir adım ileri götüreyim, bu romanı okumadan önceki 'ben'den farklı biri olarak geldim. "Ne şahane bir şey edebiyat" diye diye geldim.
'Direnişin Melankolisi'ni burada anlatmak pek kolay değil, hatta bir yerde bu romandan bahsetmek; onu sökmeden - parçalamadan - bozmadan ne kadar mümkün bilmiyorum. Önce didik didik etmeli, sonra üzerine hoşbeşe düşmeli.
Krasznahorkai'nin 'Şeytan Tangosu' edebiyat tarihinin en iyi kitaplarından bir tanesidir. Öyle bir şey yazmış bir adamın elinden, onun gölgesinde kalmayan nasıl bir şey çıkar diye düşündüğüm çok olmuştu; işte böyle bir şey çıkar, çıkar, çıkmış. Yine bir başyapıt.
Bir şeylerin ters gittiğini anladığımız, çürümeye başlamış bir Macar kasabasına gelen sirk ve sergiledikleri balina ile harekete geçen olaylar, kasabanın yapısındaki insanlar ve kurumlar ile hareket etme bağlamlarını çok açık, politik, spiritüel okuyabileğimiz; hatta belki tarihte çok gördüğümüz ya da bizzat aktörü olduğumuz evrensel bir gerçekliğe doğru taşıyor bizi. Okumanın kapsamı kitap boyunca bizi besleyen damarlardan birleşip, bittiğinde ise büyüyor da büyüyor. Ondan sebep acele etmeden, uzun oturumlar halinde, sindire sindire enjekte etmek lazım bu kitabı, okurun ve idrakın sağlığı için son derece önemli bir ayrıntı olduğunun altını çizmek isterim:)
Krasznahorkai neredeyse hiç paragraf içermeyen, uzun ve birleşik cümlelerden oluşan bir kitap yazarken bunda biçim-içerik anlamında da bir amaç gütmüş açıkça. 30-40 sayfalar halinde ilerleyen periyodlarda karakterlerin zihnine giren yazar olayın anlatımı esnasında hiç seyrelmeyen bir yoğunluk yakalamayı başarmış. Direnişin Melankolisi şüphesiz okuduğum en yoğun metinlerden birisi anlatım açısından. Sizi olayın içerisine alan anlatım, bir süre sonra zihninizi katranla kaplanmış gibi ağırlaştırıyor. Tıpkı romandaki sirk izleyicilerinin kapıldıkları kitle refleksinde olduğu gibi. Bu okuma tecübesinden dolayı da zaman zaman gerçeküstü bir şey okuyormuş gibi hissediyor insan fakat hikayeye döndüğümüzde, okuduğumuz şeyin gerçeklikten başka bir şey olmadığını görüyoruz.
Bir iktidar masası hikayesi nihayetinde. Tek tek toplumun fertlerinin, iktidar kavgası etrafında takındıkları ya da takınmadıkları duruşu izliyoruz. Bir ders verdiğini söyleyemem yazarın, sadece not düşüyor. "Bu Macar kasabasında böyle yaşandı, fakat dünyanın herhangi bir noktasında da böyle yaşandı, yaşanıyor, yaşanacak ey okur" diyor. Burjuvanın, sanatçının, entelektüelin, halkın, faşistin, konformistin, sıradan vatandaşın(?) ve diğerlerinin yaşama ahlaksızlığını gözler önüne seriyor. Bizim kıyametimiz de bu olacak işte der gibi, o Amerikan filmlerine gitmenin anlamı yok, kıyamet aslında tam kıyımızda tam köşemizde dercesine atmosferini de ona çeviriyor. Şeytan Tangosu'nda başlayan çürüme, dökülme, ölümcül yozlaşma burda da devam ediyor. Kitabın epik son üç sayfası zaten 'bozulmaya' dair yazarın son kurşunu oluyor.
Bir de Valuska var tabii. Bizim de tarihimiz onlarla dolu, yakın tarihimiz, güncel tarihimiz. Ne yazık... Direnişin melankolisi cidden. Prens Mişkinler vardır ama çarmıha gerilirler, direnişin gerekliliği!
Keşke herkes okusa diyeceğim ama kimseye de önermeyeceğim bir kitap 'Direnişin Melankolisi'. Ayrıca her sene adı geçmesine rağmen hala Nobel almamış olması da inanamadığım başka bir şey. İyi ki varsın be Krasnahorkai, onlar Fosse'lerle Glück'lerle uğraşsınlar, sen teksin!
'Direnişin Melankolisi'ni burada anlatmak pek kolay değil, hatta bir yerde bu romandan bahsetmek; onu sökmeden - parçalamadan - bozmadan ne kadar mümkün bilmiyorum. Önce didik didik etmeli, sonra üzerine hoşbeşe düşmeli.
Krasznahorkai'nin 'Şeytan Tangosu' edebiyat tarihinin en iyi kitaplarından bir tanesidir. Öyle bir şey yazmış bir adamın elinden, onun gölgesinde kalmayan nasıl bir şey çıkar diye düşündüğüm çok olmuştu; işte böyle bir şey çıkar, çıkar, çıkmış. Yine bir başyapıt.
Bir şeylerin ters gittiğini anladığımız, çürümeye başlamış bir Macar kasabasına gelen sirk ve sergiledikleri balina ile harekete geçen olaylar, kasabanın yapısındaki insanlar ve kurumlar ile hareket etme bağlamlarını çok açık, politik, spiritüel okuyabileğimiz; hatta belki tarihte çok gördüğümüz ya da bizzat aktörü olduğumuz evrensel bir gerçekliğe doğru taşıyor bizi. Okumanın kapsamı kitap boyunca bizi besleyen damarlardan birleşip, bittiğinde ise büyüyor da büyüyor. Ondan sebep acele etmeden, uzun oturumlar halinde, sindire sindire enjekte etmek lazım bu kitabı, okurun ve idrakın sağlığı için son derece önemli bir ayrıntı olduğunun altını çizmek isterim:)
Krasznahorkai neredeyse hiç paragraf içermeyen, uzun ve birleşik cümlelerden oluşan bir kitap yazarken bunda biçim-içerik anlamında da bir amaç gütmüş açıkça. 30-40 sayfalar halinde ilerleyen periyodlarda karakterlerin zihnine giren yazar olayın anlatımı esnasında hiç seyrelmeyen bir yoğunluk yakalamayı başarmış. Direnişin Melankolisi şüphesiz okuduğum en yoğun metinlerden birisi anlatım açısından. Sizi olayın içerisine alan anlatım, bir süre sonra zihninizi katranla kaplanmış gibi ağırlaştırıyor. Tıpkı romandaki sirk izleyicilerinin kapıldıkları kitle refleksinde olduğu gibi. Bu okuma tecübesinden dolayı da zaman zaman gerçeküstü bir şey okuyormuş gibi hissediyor insan fakat hikayeye döndüğümüzde, okuduğumuz şeyin gerçeklikten başka bir şey olmadığını görüyoruz.
Bir iktidar masası hikayesi nihayetinde. Tek tek toplumun fertlerinin, iktidar kavgası etrafında takındıkları ya da takınmadıkları duruşu izliyoruz. Bir ders verdiğini söyleyemem yazarın, sadece not düşüyor. "Bu Macar kasabasında böyle yaşandı, fakat dünyanın herhangi bir noktasında da böyle yaşandı, yaşanıyor, yaşanacak ey okur" diyor. Burjuvanın, sanatçının, entelektüelin, halkın, faşistin, konformistin, sıradan vatandaşın(?) ve diğerlerinin yaşama ahlaksızlığını gözler önüne seriyor. Bizim kıyametimiz de bu olacak işte der gibi, o Amerikan filmlerine gitmenin anlamı yok, kıyamet aslında tam kıyımızda tam köşemizde dercesine atmosferini de ona çeviriyor. Şeytan Tangosu'nda başlayan çürüme, dökülme, ölümcül yozlaşma burda da devam ediyor. Kitabın epik son üç sayfası zaten 'bozulmaya' dair yazarın son kurşunu oluyor.
Bir de Valuska var tabii. Bizim de tarihimiz onlarla dolu, yakın tarihimiz, güncel tarihimiz. Ne yazık... Direnişin melankolisi cidden. Prens Mişkinler vardır ama çarmıha gerilirler, direnişin gerekliliği!
Keşke herkes okusa diyeceğim ama kimseye de önermeyeceğim bir kitap 'Direnişin Melankolisi'. Ayrıca her sene adı geçmesine rağmen hala Nobel almamış olması da inanamadığım başka bir şey. İyi ki varsın be Krasnahorkai, onlar Fosse'lerle Glück'lerle uğraşsınlar, sen teksin!
March 28, 2025
Resistance is Futile
This complicated, fascinating, unsettling and philosophically deep novel is a modern masterpiece. It is not an easy read but it lingers long after its final page.
Although the word 'resistance' is used numerous times in the text, in fact, the majority of the characters of the story, the inhabitants of a nameless, decaying Hungarian town, are divided into groups of aggressors and victims. The latter, as a rule, are unable to resist the social collapse, violence and chaos which the town is plunged into one winter night. When the authority fails, human cruelty thrives in the vacuum. Moreover, sometimes the boundary between aggressor and victim blurs disturbingly and white can become black. Even angels fail to resist and give up. Besides, there is the third group (as always!) - those who take the advantage of the crisis. In fact, they can even create it.
Melancholy, which permeates the whole story, is a reflection of the author's pessimism concerning the society, the political system and the human nature which is prone to self-destruction.
The author also has a unique writing style - the dense prose, long, complex sentences reflect the oppressive atmosphere of the town drowning in garbage.
At the same time, 'The Melancholy of resistance' is a grotesque story and at certain points I could not help laughing. This contrast between the content and the form is really striking.
'He gained height, grew thin, the hair on his temples had begun to grey, but, now as then, he had none of that useful sense of proportion, nor could he ever develop anything of the sort, which might have helped him distinguish between the continuous flux of the universe of which he constituted a part (though a necessarily fleeting part) and the passage of time, the perception of which might have led to an intuitive and wise acceptance of fate. Despite vain efforts to understand and experience what precisely his 'dear friends' wanted from each other, he confronted the slow tide of human affairs with a sad incomprehension, dispassionately and without any sense of personal involvement, for the greater part of his consciousness, the part entirely given over to wonder, had left no room for more mundane matters, and (to his mother's inordinate shame and the extreme amusement of the locals) had ever since then trapped him in a bubble of time, in one eternal, impenetrable and transparent moment. He walked, he trudged, he flitted - as his great friend once said, not entirely without point - 'blindly and tirelessly... with the incurable beauty of his personal cosmos' in his soul. (...)'
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'(...) linked the fingers of his hands together behind his neck, and, as he noticed the feeble ticking of his watch, suddenly realized that he had been escaping all his life, that life had been a constant escape, escape from meaninglessness into music, from music to guilt, from guilt and self-punishment into pure ratiocination, and finally escape from that too, that it was retreat after retreat, as if his guardian angel had, in his own peculiar fashion, been steering him to the antithesis of retreat, to an almost simple-minded acceptance of things as they were, at which point he understood that there was nothing to be understood, that if there was reason in the world it far transcended his own, and that therefore it was enough to notice and observe that which he actually possessed. And he really had ‘retreated into an almost simple-minded acceptance of things as they were.’
This complicated, fascinating, unsettling and philosophically deep novel is a modern masterpiece. It is not an easy read but it lingers long after its final page.
Although the word 'resistance' is used numerous times in the text, in fact, the majority of the characters of the story, the inhabitants of a nameless, decaying Hungarian town, are divided into groups of aggressors and victims. The latter, as a rule, are unable to resist the social collapse, violence and chaos which the town is plunged into one winter night. When the authority fails, human cruelty thrives in the vacuum. Moreover, sometimes the boundary between aggressor and victim blurs disturbingly and white can become black. Even angels fail to resist and give up. Besides, there is the third group (as always!) - those who take the advantage of the crisis. In fact, they can even create it.
Melancholy, which permeates the whole story, is a reflection of the author's pessimism concerning the society, the political system and the human nature which is prone to self-destruction.
The author also has a unique writing style - the dense prose, long, complex sentences reflect the oppressive atmosphere of the town drowning in garbage.
At the same time, 'The Melancholy of resistance' is a grotesque story and at certain points I could not help laughing. This contrast between the content and the form is really striking.
'He gained height, grew thin, the hair on his temples had begun to grey, but, now as then, he had none of that useful sense of proportion, nor could he ever develop anything of the sort, which might have helped him distinguish between the continuous flux of the universe of which he constituted a part (though a necessarily fleeting part) and the passage of time, the perception of which might have led to an intuitive and wise acceptance of fate. Despite vain efforts to understand and experience what precisely his 'dear friends' wanted from each other, he confronted the slow tide of human affairs with a sad incomprehension, dispassionately and without any sense of personal involvement, for the greater part of his consciousness, the part entirely given over to wonder, had left no room for more mundane matters, and (to his mother's inordinate shame and the extreme amusement of the locals) had ever since then trapped him in a bubble of time, in one eternal, impenetrable and transparent moment. He walked, he trudged, he flitted - as his great friend once said, not entirely without point - 'blindly and tirelessly... with the incurable beauty of his personal cosmos' in his soul. (...)'
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'(...) linked the fingers of his hands together behind his neck, and, as he noticed the feeble ticking of his watch, suddenly realized that he had been escaping all his life, that life had been a constant escape, escape from meaninglessness into music, from music to guilt, from guilt and self-punishment into pure ratiocination, and finally escape from that too, that it was retreat after retreat, as if his guardian angel had, in his own peculiar fashion, been steering him to the antithesis of retreat, to an almost simple-minded acceptance of things as they were, at which point he understood that there was nothing to be understood, that if there was reason in the world it far transcended his own, and that therefore it was enough to notice and observe that which he actually possessed. And he really had ‘retreated into an almost simple-minded acceptance of things as they were.’
May 24, 2014
I open the covers and am on a train. Noisy and disordered, Mrs. Plauf, a conventional middle class woman returning from her yearly sojourn to visit her disabled and housebound sisters, sits among peasants. The order of the country has been disrupted and trains no longer run on schedule. The class system is blurred and separation of class distinction disintegrating.. She thinks only of returning to her apartment and all the objects within providing her comfort.
They are all there and she relaxes until visited by her embarrassment of a son who lives life to study the sky, planets, to talk about the eclipse once witnessed and its meaning. Having no interest in practical life he is scoffed at and in danger of being locked up as insane. His visit is followed by a politically ambitious woman who praises Mrs. Plauf's objects while hypocritically deriding them in her mind. She wants to see who can aid her ambitions. What the people are like.
Some in this town enjoy their honest labor and family. Most are wed to a false security where repetition offers them false solace and an illusory safety of security. They readily accept and defend even if objects are reduced to the physics of their contours, the web of practicality, the skein of poetic imagery they contain abandoned. I feel the tension quietly building within the long winding paragraphs I wander. It is not clear if the town's sudden signs of instability arrived out of chance or were delivered from the heated kiln of those with authority. I join the characters in wanting reasons, someone to blame, someone to fix it. Someone to guide me through these paragraphs snaking on for a page or pages with no sign posts.
Posters herald a circus coming to town. They will bring strange people to fear. Fear brings action. Action birthed out of fear brings about what the fearful people are afraid of. A rebellion crafted by the authorities to further entrench their hollow and ever growing hunger for power which will never fill the gaping holes inside? Is the circus exactly what is feared? Is it a con-job moving from place to place with its group of hooligans readied to plunder the town before moving on? Beyond the people's fear that any change will only make life worse could the circus be an amphitheater for creation that grows and expands with the innovation of artistic creation? But the endless paragraphs? The wending serpents slime?
Here I meet Krasznahorkai. He has come upon a snake. One that coils and hisses. It only know its instinct of being and following itself. Krasznahorkai had different ideas? He has now I believe, as I search my way through another paragraph missing any anchor for me to clutch onto, cleaved onto his own earnestness, honestness, to follow the snake. It winds, slips, slithers in its direction through the paragraphs filled with simple words blending into the kingdom of deeper metaphoric meanings. Krasznahorkai's entire system of beliefs, values, and perceptions of himself and the world, of his art may be threatened. Too late, this is a story of a snake who leaves in its instinct ridden path unmarked paragraphs, leaving me within its pages unsettled. Always unsettled Krasznahorkai knows he has the heart to follow the snake to its end. The questions answered or not, the external strife of power and fear, the internal strife of the artist, the snake will not be fluted in a dance out of a hat. Krasznahorkai has risked it all. Exhausted he has followed the snake to its end. Kept on the trail without the beat of his own stride he is wending with the snake's curls and knowing juts and coils, its dark crawl into the never ending circularity of events, so brisk and innovative during its moments, but already showing its tell-tale signage of repeating that which it just replaced, never ending in its tail-nipped recurrence.
I however am left within the waves of paragraphs, not lost but returned, revisited, by the unrolling of their mystified wisdom.
They are all there and she relaxes until visited by her embarrassment of a son who lives life to study the sky, planets, to talk about the eclipse once witnessed and its meaning. Having no interest in practical life he is scoffed at and in danger of being locked up as insane. His visit is followed by a politically ambitious woman who praises Mrs. Plauf's objects while hypocritically deriding them in her mind. She wants to see who can aid her ambitions. What the people are like.
Some in this town enjoy their honest labor and family. Most are wed to a false security where repetition offers them false solace and an illusory safety of security. They readily accept and defend even if objects are reduced to the physics of their contours, the web of practicality, the skein of poetic imagery they contain abandoned. I feel the tension quietly building within the long winding paragraphs I wander. It is not clear if the town's sudden signs of instability arrived out of chance or were delivered from the heated kiln of those with authority. I join the characters in wanting reasons, someone to blame, someone to fix it. Someone to guide me through these paragraphs snaking on for a page or pages with no sign posts.
Posters herald a circus coming to town. They will bring strange people to fear. Fear brings action. Action birthed out of fear brings about what the fearful people are afraid of. A rebellion crafted by the authorities to further entrench their hollow and ever growing hunger for power which will never fill the gaping holes inside? Is the circus exactly what is feared? Is it a con-job moving from place to place with its group of hooligans readied to plunder the town before moving on? Beyond the people's fear that any change will only make life worse could the circus be an amphitheater for creation that grows and expands with the innovation of artistic creation? But the endless paragraphs? The wending serpents slime?
Here I meet Krasznahorkai. He has come upon a snake. One that coils and hisses. It only know its instinct of being and following itself. Krasznahorkai had different ideas? He has now I believe, as I search my way through another paragraph missing any anchor for me to clutch onto, cleaved onto his own earnestness, honestness, to follow the snake. It winds, slips, slithers in its direction through the paragraphs filled with simple words blending into the kingdom of deeper metaphoric meanings. Krasznahorkai's entire system of beliefs, values, and perceptions of himself and the world, of his art may be threatened. Too late, this is a story of a snake who leaves in its instinct ridden path unmarked paragraphs, leaving me within its pages unsettled. Always unsettled Krasznahorkai knows he has the heart to follow the snake to its end. The questions answered or not, the external strife of power and fear, the internal strife of the artist, the snake will not be fluted in a dance out of a hat. Krasznahorkai has risked it all. Exhausted he has followed the snake to its end. Kept on the trail without the beat of his own stride he is wending with the snake's curls and knowing juts and coils, its dark crawl into the never ending circularity of events, so brisk and innovative during its moments, but already showing its tell-tale signage of repeating that which it just replaced, never ending in its tail-nipped recurrence.
I however am left within the waves of paragraphs, not lost but returned, revisited, by the unrolling of their mystified wisdom.
April 7, 2017
Μετα το συγκλονιστικο Πολεμος και πολεμος οι προσδοκιες ηταν πολυ μεγαλες οι οποιες ομως επαληθευτηκαν στο επακρο. Αλλο ενα μεγιστο επιτευγμα απο τον Ουγγρο συγγραφεα η γραφη του οποιου σε σφυροκοπαει με ανελεητο τροπο προκαλωντας σφιξιμο στο στομαχι, τεντωμα των νευρων και υπερδιεγερση του εγκεφαλου. Νοητικοι λαβυρινθοι και παραληρηματικοι συλλογισμοι διατρεχουν ολο το κειμενο μεσα σε ενα σκοτεινο, μιζερο και ζοφερο περιβαλλον γεματο απο γκροτεσκες ανθρωπινες φιγουρες που παλευουν αναμεσα στην επιβολη και στην αντισταση, στην παραιτηση και στην διατηρηση. Βαθυτατα πολιτικο, φιλοσοφικο και υπαρξιακο εργο, με μεγαλες δοσεις κοινωνικης σατιρας. Ο εγκλωβισμος στη σφαιρα του παραλογου, της παρανοιας, του φοβου και της υποταγης, δεν ειναι τιποτα περισσοτερο απο το αποτελεσμα του συνολικου αθροισματος ολων των μικροσυμφεροντων τα οποια κινουν αυτο που ονομαζεται "ζωη", αγνοωντας ομως αυτο που τελικα κυριαρχει και καταβροχθιζει τα παντα.
June 2, 2023
"𝗚𝘂𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗶 𝗺𝗲, 𝗰𝗵𝗶 𝗻𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮 𝗻𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗮 𝗱𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲 𝗱𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝘇𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗶 𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮 𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗮 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗺𝗲"
Ammetto di aver pensato più volte di abbandonare la "𝒷𝒶𝓁ℯ𝓃𝒶", ero incapace di entrare nella storia, di capire cosa stavo leggendo...frasi interminabili, nessuna suddivisione a capitoli, parole parole parole, pensieri troppo filosofeggianti per il mio mood attuale, un infinito flusso di concetti per me a volte inarrivabili. Ho cercato conforto in altre letture, staccavo da tutta quella melancolia, barili, damigiane di malinconia, disprezzo, degrado, disgusto,ma ecco la svolta.
Le ultime 100 pagine sono filate via da sole, non so come ma ho seguito il flusso, la marcia della distruzione e sono arrivata esausta alla fine.
Se devo essere sincera, in questo momento, non me la sento di approfondire Krasznahorkai.
Ma forse un domani, uno di quei giorni dove cerchi l'impossibile, dove la tua testa è pronta per una lettura ai limiti dell'ossessivo allora, forse, ci rivedremo caro László e chissà...
☆☆☆,5
Ammetto di aver pensato più volte di abbandonare la "𝒷𝒶𝓁ℯ𝓃𝒶", ero incapace di entrare nella storia, di capire cosa stavo leggendo...frasi interminabili, nessuna suddivisione a capitoli, parole parole parole, pensieri troppo filosofeggianti per il mio mood attuale, un infinito flusso di concetti per me a volte inarrivabili. Ho cercato conforto in altre letture, staccavo da tutta quella melancolia, barili, damigiane di malinconia, disprezzo, degrado, disgusto,ma ecco la svolta.
Le ultime 100 pagine sono filate via da sole, non so come ma ho seguito il flusso, la marcia della distruzione e sono arrivata esausta alla fine.
Se devo essere sincera, in questo momento, non me la sento di approfondire Krasznahorkai.
Ma forse un domani, uno di quei giorni dove cerchi l'impossibile, dove la tua testa è pronta per una lettura ai limiti dell'ossessivo allora, forse, ci rivedremo caro László e chissà...
☆☆☆,5
August 20, 2020
بداية الرواية مع اعلان وصول سيرك للمدينة يعرض أضخم حوت محنط في العالم. خبر سار لأي سكان مدينة طبيعيين، إلا سكان مدينتنا الصغيرة في هنغاريا.
فالسيرك و الحوت الضخم يعني جلبة و تشويق و إثارة مفاهيم مخيفة مرفوضة فمدينتنا.
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سكان المدينة ضعفاء جبناء ، غارقين في مستنقع من الأوهام و الشلل، منغلقون يسدون أي منفذ للهواء، في اعتقادهم ان اي تغيير طفيف ينذر بكارثة او يوم القيامة.
"لا تخدعوا أنفسكم. فسوف أضع هذا المكان المقرف خلف القضبان، هذه الحفرة القذرة التي يتصرف كل أبله فيها كأنه مركز الكون ... لعنة الرب عليكم! كارثة! يوم القيامة! أنتم هي الكارثة، لأن اقدامكم لا تسير علي الأرض، أنتم يا حفنة السائرين في نومهم.
فلنتراهن على أنك لا تعرف حتى ما أتحدث عنه الآن! هذا لأنك لا تتكلم بل 'تهمس' أو 'تدلي بدلوك'، أنت لا تدخل مكان بل 'تجتاز عتبته'، و انت لا تشعر بالبرد أو بالحر، بل تجد إنك ترتجف' او تشعر بالعرق يتصبب منك'. لم أسمع كلمة واضحة واحدة.. فأنتم لا تتقنون شيئاً غير الخوار و المواء.
إذا ألقى مخرب حجراً على نافذتكم، فإنكم تظنون يوم القيامة قد أتى.
إنكم لا تفعلون شيئاً غير أن تعطسوا ثم تنتظرون و تصيحون 'هذا سحر'! ما سيكون سحراً حقيقياً هو أن يوقظكم أحد فتدركون أنكم لا تعيشون على القمر بل في هنغاريا... انكم ماضون في الثرثرة عن 'الجائحة التي تنذر بنهاية العالم' و قمامات أخرى من هذا القبيل"
شخصيات الرواية قليلة، بين السيدة إيزتر المتسلطة و تخطيطها المدروس و سعيها للسياسة و السلطة بأدوات مختلفة من رجالها و نشر الفوضى و استغلال طبيعة سكان المدينة لتحقيق أطماعها في حكم المدينة.
و السيد إيزتر بهدوئة و كرهه للمدينة بسكانها و عزلته و اعتكافه في منزله مع موسيقاه.
و أخيراً فالوسكا بصيص الأمل في كل السكون و الركود اللي في القرية و أطيب مواطنيها و علاقته بالسيد إيزتر.
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و مدير السيرك و الأمير و السيدة بلوف والدة فالوسكا و بدايتها و نهايتها الغريبة على هامش الرواية.
الرواية موضوعها مثير و الكاتب ابدع في الوصف و تحليل الشخصيات و تفكيرهم و وصفه للسوداوية و الكآبة في المدينة و مشاهد الثورة و الفوضى و الحرائق و حظر التجوال. الرمزية في الرواية و أسلوب الforeshadowing في الوصف في بداية الرواية و في الحوارات ممتع جداً.
مشكلة الرواية او الكارثة انها one shot و دي اول مرة أقرا حاجة كدة.
بدايتها تمهيد ٨٠ صفحة و خاتمة ٤٠ صفحة و باقي الرواية ٢٦٠ صفحة من غير فصول او فقرات او فواصل. مع جمل اعتراضية كتير جداً. مع الوصف و التطويل فالموضوع مرهق جداً.
في المجمل هي رواية مميزة و أحداثها مرت علينا بس الرواية مرهقة جداً في قرائتها. 🤦🏻♀️ و سعيدة إني قدرت أقاوم كآبتها.
December 11, 2022
Абсурдистская философия хаоса, отсылающая к мрачнейшим дням строительства социализма. В самом названии кроется противоречие - также как в словосочетании "страшный цирк" или "страшный клоун". Меланхолия - это пассивное состояние, сопротивление - даже подавленное внешне, это активное нежелание чего-то. Это мое восприятие. Возможно, оно навеяно книгами Домбровского. Хаос, спрессовывающий суть событий, который именно возможен при молчаливом согласии серой толпы, если не усилить эту фразу словосочетанием "только при наличии". Сочность языка и безупречный стиль зачаровывает. Это мощная проза, написанная большим мастером.
May 12, 2024
The circus has come to town; they've brought a massive dead whale.
Everyone comes to take a look.
It does not solve any of their problems. It's just a dead whale.
Everyone comes to take a look.
It does not solve any of their problems. It's just a dead whale.
April 9, 2017
Ήξερα ήδη από τα δύο προηγούμενα βιβλία του Κσαρναχορκάι που είχα διαβάσει ότι κρατούσα στα χέρια μου ένα εν δυνάμει αριστούργημα και φυσικά δεν διαψεύστηκα. Οι προτάσεις που ξεκινούν και δεν ξέρεις πότε, πώς και σε τι κατάσταση θα βρουν εσένα και τους ήρωες του βιβλίου όταν τελειώσουν είναι πάλι εδώ, η περιρρέουσα ατμόσφαιρα ενός αμετάκλητου ζόφου επίσης, οι λέξεις μοιάζουν να κουβαλούν το βάρος της καταστροφής του κόσμου, είναι και πάλι όμως η μόνη σανίδα σωτηρίας σε ένα εσχατολογικό σύμπαν, ακραία σουρεαλιστικό μέσα στον ρεαλισμό του και το αντίστροφο. Δυσνόητη μέσα στους συμβολισμούς της, η Μελαγχολία της Αντίστασης είναι κάτι παραπάνω από μια αναφορά στον Κάφκα, στον Μπέκετ, στον Μπέρναρντ και στον Μέλβιλ, όπως άλλωστε αναφέρεται και στο οπισθόφυλλο, είναι ένα ειρωνικό παραμύθι για τη σοσιαλιστική δυστοπία, μια πολιτική αλληγορία για το ανέφικτο της επανάστασης και τη νομοτέλεια της καταστολής κάθε μορφής αντίστασης, μια πικρή παραδοχή ότι είμαστε όλοι καταδικασμένοι σε μια "αδιανόητα μακρινή Δίκη, που καταβροχθίζει τα πάντα". Στο τελευταίο κεφάλαιο προσπαθούσα να μαζέψω το σαγόνι μου από το πάτωμα.
Υ.Γ1 Συσχετισμούς με την κατάσταση στην Ελλάδα τα τελευταία χρόνια μπορεί να κάνει κανείς κατά βούληση.
Υ.Γ2 Απαραίτητο συμπλήρωμα οι Αρμονίες του Βερκμάιστερ του Μπέλα Ταρ.
Υ.Γ1 Συσχετισμούς με την κατάσταση στην Ελλάδα τα τελευταία χρόνια μπορεί να κάνει κανείς κατά βούληση.
Υ.Γ2 Απαραίτητο συμπλήρωμα οι Αρμονίες του Βερκμάιστερ του Μπέλα Ταρ.
January 23, 2011
There are better reviews than this one to read about this book. Here is one. And another. And a third one. (For those who don't know if they want to click, those link to David's, Brian's and Mariel's reviews).
I had very strong feelings of fondness but not love for this book. It would have been a four and a half star book, but it never had that unquantifiable something that pushes a book past the really really like category and into the love category. Maybe I'm just being a superficial bastard and if the book had had paragraphs I would have loved it. Who knows.
When I started reading this book on my way to work on Tuesday I was a little tired. When I continued reading it on break I was also feeling tired, and I felt the same way on my subway ride home. My eyes would blur on the pages of unbroken text, and I would lose my place at times as I read the first seventy five pages. At times my mind went into that strange place that borders on being awake and asleep, and the words on the page mixed with barely subconscious thoughts and memories and become something of a mix between personal memory and the story in the book. Even though I'd catch myself and re-read the parts when this would happen I'm still not positive that my memory of the first quarter of the book is very accurate.
One of my difficulties with the book (and this isn't a difficulty that would dock a star, but a difficulty meaning something that haunts my thoughts, and probably begs for the book to be re-read at a later point) is putting my finger on what the failure of the two major characters Valuska and Eszter is. I don't mean failure in being characters in the book, because they are not failures at all in that respect, but the moment when each of them experiences their downfall, so to speak. They are both idiots. Valuska is one because the town has decided that he is one with his starry eyed gaze to the heavens and Eszter is one even though he is considered the the town genius who thinks things too lofty for the town to understand. The irony of the way these two characters are viewed by the town is that Valuska's dreamy thoughts are actually grounded in science, although a wide eyed raptured view of the magnificence of just how big and awe-inspiring the world is once you have an idea of some of the reality that is out there beyond the day to day world. Against Valuska's 'idiot' is Eszter who is almost a Derrida like figure who spits out deep and profound pronouncements that are almost entirely abstract from the real world. Eszter lives as a recluse, hiding from the town and the world that he sees as a dismal failure. Not being out on the streets, as Valuska is, everyday gazing up at the sky's like Aristophanes' Socrates Eszter is given respect and people treat his rare public ramblings with respect.
The comic figure of Eszter really comes through in a scene where he is trying to board up the windows to his house. He knows that bad shit is about to go down out on the streets and he takes it on himself to barricade himself in his home. For someone who hasn't read this book, the scene is important because for years Eszter hasn't done anything for himself. He lays down all day while a Valuska brings him his food and a woman comes to keep the house in order. Barricading the windows by nailing up boards is a big step for him. The scene begins with him hammering the hand that is holding the nail for the fourth or fifth time. He has beaten his hand to a pulp and he is trying to figure out why he keeps missing the nail. Instead of going about hammering the nail like a normal person would (little taps to drive the nail in to start and then hitting harder when the fingers are no longer in the way) he works out complicated theories based on velocity and arcs and how much attention he should pay to speed and other aspects of what would normally be unconscious in a person who is able to hammer in a nail. Through a painful trial and error he finally hits upon the correct way of doing the task, and rejoices and finds an enjoyment in skillfully wielding a hammer. By the time he stumbles on the correct way to do this task he has beaten his hand to a pulp and gone through a ridiculous series of trial and error that led to the correct result but the method he took to get here is far from correct.
We never see Valuska hammering in a nail but I imagine he wouldn't have to almost break his left hand in figuring out how to do this relatively simple task.
A moment comes later in the book where Eszter sees how ridiculous he has been and in that realization he sets out to find and save Valuska. It is only at this moment that he goes from being a comical idiot figure to being tragic. His own self-awareness coincides with his downfall. His story ends with him tuning a piano from an obscure tuning system to the conventional 12 tone Werckmeister one so that he can sit down and play some Bach. He's returned from the world of his own making of abstract thoughts that might have been clever but didn't necessarily have any relevance to the real-world to the real-world but he is now a totally marginalized figure that is locked away as an embarrassing relic of the past.
Valuska has a similar downfall when he stops gazing up at the stars and 'buckles down' to the real world. When he begins to be concerned with what is 'important' to everyone else is when his own failure takes place (one has to wonder about the small act that ultimately leads to his fate at the end of the book really does point to a certain idiocy of his, that maybe everyone had been right about him all along).
Long before this happens though there is a scene where he takes Eszter out of his house on a mission for Eszter's wife. Eszter is appalled while walking at the amount of garbage that is piled on the streets. Before this scene the garbage isn't mentioned. When the scene is shown through Valuska's eyes the reader learns that it is on this walk that Valuska turns his gaze which is normally fixed on the lofty view of the sky and is aware for the first time at all the rubbish and trash that is piled on the streets. He hides his own knowledge of this from Eszter by continuing to ramble on as he had been up until this point but in his thoughts he is ashamed to discover the squalor of the town he spends so much time walking around but hadn't actually been noticing up until this point. I don't know exactly why I described this scene, it's part of what makes the character of Valuska difficult for me, something that eludes me about him. I wonder if he had kept his eyes on the heavens if things would have turned out better for him, if his own awareness that he didn't have to be the town idiot and he could think like everyone else doomed him to his own fate. Returning to an Aristophanes allusion, if Valuska had kept starring up at the heavens would he have been able to see the tortoise shell that was falling straight for his head?
The part of both of these characters that disturbs me is that there is no easy answer about what their downfall was. Each were doomed when they left their own ivory towers but the way that they each were prior to becoming like everyone else was just as problematic. Maybe when I watch the film version this weekend some of my thoughts will become a bit more substantial. Probably not though. I think eventually I'll need to return to this strange and haunting book.
I had very strong feelings of fondness but not love for this book. It would have been a four and a half star book, but it never had that unquantifiable something that pushes a book past the really really like category and into the love category. Maybe I'm just being a superficial bastard and if the book had had paragraphs I would have loved it. Who knows.
When I started reading this book on my way to work on Tuesday I was a little tired. When I continued reading it on break I was also feeling tired, and I felt the same way on my subway ride home. My eyes would blur on the pages of unbroken text, and I would lose my place at times as I read the first seventy five pages. At times my mind went into that strange place that borders on being awake and asleep, and the words on the page mixed with barely subconscious thoughts and memories and become something of a mix between personal memory and the story in the book. Even though I'd catch myself and re-read the parts when this would happen I'm still not positive that my memory of the first quarter of the book is very accurate.
One of my difficulties with the book (and this isn't a difficulty that would dock a star, but a difficulty meaning something that haunts my thoughts, and probably begs for the book to be re-read at a later point) is putting my finger on what the failure of the two major characters Valuska and Eszter is. I don't mean failure in being characters in the book, because they are not failures at all in that respect, but the moment when each of them experiences their downfall, so to speak. They are both idiots. Valuska is one because the town has decided that he is one with his starry eyed gaze to the heavens and Eszter is one even though he is considered the the town genius who thinks things too lofty for the town to understand. The irony of the way these two characters are viewed by the town is that Valuska's dreamy thoughts are actually grounded in science, although a wide eyed raptured view of the magnificence of just how big and awe-inspiring the world is once you have an idea of some of the reality that is out there beyond the day to day world. Against Valuska's 'idiot' is Eszter who is almost a Derrida like figure who spits out deep and profound pronouncements that are almost entirely abstract from the real world. Eszter lives as a recluse, hiding from the town and the world that he sees as a dismal failure. Not being out on the streets, as Valuska is, everyday gazing up at the sky's like Aristophanes' Socrates Eszter is given respect and people treat his rare public ramblings with respect.
The comic figure of Eszter really comes through in a scene where he is trying to board up the windows to his house. He knows that bad shit is about to go down out on the streets and he takes it on himself to barricade himself in his home. For someone who hasn't read this book, the scene is important because for years Eszter hasn't done anything for himself. He lays down all day while a Valuska brings him his food and a woman comes to keep the house in order. Barricading the windows by nailing up boards is a big step for him. The scene begins with him hammering the hand that is holding the nail for the fourth or fifth time. He has beaten his hand to a pulp and he is trying to figure out why he keeps missing the nail. Instead of going about hammering the nail like a normal person would (little taps to drive the nail in to start and then hitting harder when the fingers are no longer in the way) he works out complicated theories based on velocity and arcs and how much attention he should pay to speed and other aspects of what would normally be unconscious in a person who is able to hammer in a nail. Through a painful trial and error he finally hits upon the correct way of doing the task, and rejoices and finds an enjoyment in skillfully wielding a hammer. By the time he stumbles on the correct way to do this task he has beaten his hand to a pulp and gone through a ridiculous series of trial and error that led to the correct result but the method he took to get here is far from correct.
We never see Valuska hammering in a nail but I imagine he wouldn't have to almost break his left hand in figuring out how to do this relatively simple task.
A moment comes later in the book where Eszter sees how ridiculous he has been and in that realization he sets out to find and save Valuska. It is only at this moment that he goes from being a comical idiot figure to being tragic. His own self-awareness coincides with his downfall. His story ends with him tuning a piano from an obscure tuning system to the conventional 12 tone Werckmeister one so that he can sit down and play some Bach. He's returned from the world of his own making of abstract thoughts that might have been clever but didn't necessarily have any relevance to the real-world to the real-world but he is now a totally marginalized figure that is locked away as an embarrassing relic of the past.
Valuska has a similar downfall when he stops gazing up at the stars and 'buckles down' to the real world. When he begins to be concerned with what is 'important' to everyone else is when his own failure takes place (one has to wonder about the small act that ultimately leads to his fate at the end of the book really does point to a certain idiocy of his, that maybe everyone had been right about him all along).
Long before this happens though there is a scene where he takes Eszter out of his house on a mission for Eszter's wife. Eszter is appalled while walking at the amount of garbage that is piled on the streets. Before this scene the garbage isn't mentioned. When the scene is shown through Valuska's eyes the reader learns that it is on this walk that Valuska turns his gaze which is normally fixed on the lofty view of the sky and is aware for the first time at all the rubbish and trash that is piled on the streets. He hides his own knowledge of this from Eszter by continuing to ramble on as he had been up until this point but in his thoughts he is ashamed to discover the squalor of the town he spends so much time walking around but hadn't actually been noticing up until this point. I don't know exactly why I described this scene, it's part of what makes the character of Valuska difficult for me, something that eludes me about him. I wonder if he had kept his eyes on the heavens if things would have turned out better for him, if his own awareness that he didn't have to be the town idiot and he could think like everyone else doomed him to his own fate. Returning to an Aristophanes allusion, if Valuska had kept starring up at the heavens would he have been able to see the tortoise shell that was falling straight for his head?
The part of both of these characters that disturbs me is that there is no easy answer about what their downfall was. Each were doomed when they left their own ivory towers but the way that they each were prior to becoming like everyone else was just as problematic. Maybe when I watch the film version this weekend some of my thoughts will become a bit more substantial. Probably not though. I think eventually I'll need to return to this strange and haunting book.
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