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Guerra e guerra
La vita del solitario archivista György Korin viene sconvolta dalla scoperta di un antico manoscritto dall'inestimabile valore in un paesino ungherese: il testo narra l'epopea di quattro personaggi in diverse epoche storiche accomunate da uno stato di guerra permanente. Reso folle dalla sua ossessione, Korin decide di portare il misterioso volume con sé a New York, "il centro del mondo", per trascriverlo, consegnarlo alla Rete e renderlo immortale. Guerra e guerra è la storia di questa missione, punteggiata dai molti incontri del protagonista lungo il suo cammino, in un mondo diviso tra brutalità e bellezza. Un romanzo che non è solo un romanzo, ma che già durante la stesura ha sconfinato nella realtà – in forma di messaggi dell'autore ai suoi lettori – e che la invade quando, nel 1999, viene inaugurata una targa commemorativa, come Korin stesso desiderava, affissa sulla parete di un museo in Svizzera, accanto a una scultura di Mario Merz. Per l'edizione italiana, la prima integrale, l'autore ha raccolto tutti questi elementi perché i lettori possano ripercorrere l'intera esistenza del progetto Guerra e guerra in una sorta di caccia al tesoro.
394 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1999
About the author
László Krasznahorkai
45 books1,783 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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November 23, 2020
Over-sharing
Breathless, relentless, urgent, a man on a mission; yet Korin is stuck like Baalam’s Ass, unable to move on a railway footbridge over an industrial wasteland, a prisoner of seven thuggish, homicidal children who could actually care less about him. They are his Greek chorus to whom he feels the need to confess his suicidal intentions and from whom he expects counsel. Korin’s fear of being physically harmed is exactly offset by his fear of not being listened to. The children know he is insane and ignore him instead of killing him.
Korin has lost faith in the world. This is a functional definition of his insanity and the reason for his intended suicide. Nothing he perceives, including his own thoughts, can be trusted. He has concluded that his only alternative is acceptance, submission to the power of a universe and its gods which are imaginary but not illusory. Because Korin has already lost his mind, he is desperately afraid of losing his head, of it literally separating gradually from his body before he completes his mission.
So Korin ‘shares’ with the children... and shares... and shares with everyone else he encounters. He wants them to understand what has happened to him, his epiphany of the senselessness of the world and the task he has. His job as records keeper for the Council, and his avocation as local historian, he recognises, were entirely meaningless. Facts, data, reports never approached anything like the truth. But what can accepting all this mean? He had been creating an artificial world in his head; and now he isn’t anymore. So?
Escaping the children, Korin resumes his mission by travelling to “the very center of the world.” He appears somewhat unsure about where that might be and will take the next flight to anywhere. His loquacious intensity is unremitting and it gets him a ticket to New York City, a visa, a stand-by seat, and the care of a beautiful stewardess, who also thinks he is insane, even if benignly so. Customs and Immigration find him eccentric but otherwise harmless, as do the other people he meets on the streets of NYC.
Although he has lost faith in the gods, he remains a devotee of Hermes, the divine messenger and their general factotum. Hermes has a singular function among the Olympians. He tells stories, eloquently. Korin‘s devotion to Hermes is well-placed even if paradoxical. He has a story to tell, a story of men returning to their homes from war. He found it in his municipal archive. His objective is to publicise it to the world... and die.
This is all somewhat spooky. Written two years before the attacks of 9/11, I’m sure that if the book were more popular in the US there would be conspiracy theories in abundance about it. More likely though, it is a literary artist’s expression of a sort of religious faith in literature. Or rather the obsessive, compulsive need to articulate what one finds important. This need is, of course, as silly and neurotic as any other human need. Perhaps it is even insane. One significant advantage, however, is that it does not involve blowing up buildings.
Breathless, relentless, urgent, a man on a mission; yet Korin is stuck like Baalam’s Ass, unable to move on a railway footbridge over an industrial wasteland, a prisoner of seven thuggish, homicidal children who could actually care less about him. They are his Greek chorus to whom he feels the need to confess his suicidal intentions and from whom he expects counsel. Korin’s fear of being physically harmed is exactly offset by his fear of not being listened to. The children know he is insane and ignore him instead of killing him.
Korin has lost faith in the world. This is a functional definition of his insanity and the reason for his intended suicide. Nothing he perceives, including his own thoughts, can be trusted. He has concluded that his only alternative is acceptance, submission to the power of a universe and its gods which are imaginary but not illusory. Because Korin has already lost his mind, he is desperately afraid of losing his head, of it literally separating gradually from his body before he completes his mission.
So Korin ‘shares’ with the children... and shares... and shares with everyone else he encounters. He wants them to understand what has happened to him, his epiphany of the senselessness of the world and the task he has. His job as records keeper for the Council, and his avocation as local historian, he recognises, were entirely meaningless. Facts, data, reports never approached anything like the truth. But what can accepting all this mean? He had been creating an artificial world in his head; and now he isn’t anymore. So?
Escaping the children, Korin resumes his mission by travelling to “the very center of the world.” He appears somewhat unsure about where that might be and will take the next flight to anywhere. His loquacious intensity is unremitting and it gets him a ticket to New York City, a visa, a stand-by seat, and the care of a beautiful stewardess, who also thinks he is insane, even if benignly so. Customs and Immigration find him eccentric but otherwise harmless, as do the other people he meets on the streets of NYC.
Although he has lost faith in the gods, he remains a devotee of Hermes, the divine messenger and their general factotum. Hermes has a singular function among the Olympians. He tells stories, eloquently. Korin‘s devotion to Hermes is well-placed even if paradoxical. He has a story to tell, a story of men returning to their homes from war. He found it in his municipal archive. His objective is to publicise it to the world... and die.
This is all somewhat spooky. Written two years before the attacks of 9/11, I’m sure that if the book were more popular in the US there would be conspiracy theories in abundance about it. More likely though, it is a literary artist’s expression of a sort of religious faith in literature. Or rather the obsessive, compulsive need to articulate what one finds important. This need is, of course, as silly and neurotic as any other human need. Perhaps it is even insane. One significant advantage, however, is that it does not involve blowing up buildings.
August 11, 2022
A suicidal clerk going by the name of György Korin who spends a lonely existence working in the archive room of a small Hungarian town discovers an antique manuscript buried in some old boxes that narrates the epic story of four brothers-in-arms (Kasser, Bengazza, Falke and Toót) who appear to be traveling through an ancient Europe on their way home from a war of some kind. It clearly becomes apparent from the early stages that Korin is suffering from some sort of psychiatric disorder and he becomes completely blown away by the startling beauty of his discovery that he rereads this over and over again, in a way he feels chosen that this precious work must be saved for all eternity and decides to write up the whole text onto the internet. But this isn't your average individual, so to follow through his mission he must travel to the center of the world ( this being New York oddly) to do the typing before taking his own life. As Korin has never left Hungary before and with little English his journey is all together heartbreaking but also strangely uplifting at his sheer determination to succeed. Wondering lost on the villainous cold streets of the Big Apple he soon meets with a Hungarian interpreter who helps him buy a laptop and rents him a small room in his apartment where Korin spends his days typing up the manuscript while also at times reading it out to the interpreter's partner who passes him off as a complete loony.
This is a work of breathtaking power and bewilderment and asks some large cosmic questions concerning the disenchantment of our world and the enchanting reverberations of history, while metaphysically studying one's mind into the decent of madness. For those who are not familiar with the work of László Krasznahorkai he writes in the most unconventional way, the sentences he uses are expansive and meandering, although nothing on the scale of "The Melancholy of Resistance" which was at times almost unreadable. "War and War" also contains very little dialogue and use of punctuation marks so takes some getting used to, it's as if a phantom spirit is narrating over proceedings from a distance, and this would be my one and only problem is that everything seems distant that you never really feel for Korin only for his actions, he is a total enigma. And as we are dealing with someone with a mental illness it really is left up to the reader to draw their own conclusions of what to make of it all.
The tone and textures reading varies a lot of the time, from the simple to the perplexing and astonishing, as whole sections during the middle third of the book are basically Korin reading out the manuscript aloud, so in theory at least we have two stories in one, Korin's and that of the four travelers from the manuscript, and it's during this time you just have to hang in there, as to try and make sense of what?, where?, who?, how? or when? is difficult to make out, but this only intensifies the mystery aspect of the story. There are times where things get desperate but there is little in the way of tension or thrills so this is a hard book to categorize and borders on strange realism, madness and historical mythology. The novel on the whole is generally speaking fueled by a bleakness, but this never truly takes hold because your simply always looking beyond that, to it's enchantment, to it's beauty, to it's damn right complexities! . The finale is also somewhat enigmatic even if it seems predictable, and will remain lingering in the mind for some time to come. László Krasznahorkai has established himself as one of the finest writers in contemporary European literature, personally I think he is a genius, and reading "War and War" has only strengthened his case to remain as one of my favourites.
January 12, 2012
Moon, valley, dew, death. Hypnotism, spell, candle, book. War, peace, fight, talk. I have no idea what I am talking about.
"And this condition, said Korin, for someone like him, who saw clearly that this tragic turn of events was not the product of supernatural agency, not of divine judgement, but of the actions of a peculiarly horrible heterogeneous bunch of people , there was nothing left to do than to use the rest of his speech to lay the most terrible, most incurable curse on them."
"Let the world be cursed, he declared, choking, a world in which there is neither Omnipotence nor Last Judgement, where curses, and any who pronounced them, were held up to ridicule, where glory could only be bought with trash."
I am cursed. Korin is cursed. I had a "Well, that leaves me out" moment when reading War and War. I had more than one of those moments. I don't want to admit on goodreads which those were. This book reminded me to feel self conscious about admitting that kind of thing (again). Curses, swears, names in vein (oops vain). Korin is cursed too. He goes on and on, a sort of railing against the established wall of collective not giving a shit at the same time he doesn't notice the back that's turned to him (turned against its own wall. Gotta be). This back is literal and figurative. (I was shocked when he noticed his "listener" fell asleep during his demonstrations.) Would he notice it if it were staring him in the face? (He might notice that the face was pleasing to him.) Cursed, cursed, cursed. And it moved me because I feel it too. It's a prayer (and that swear) for the feeling moved and not knowing why. A movement to want to share it and it all gets lost in translation. I was reminded a lot of when I was a teenager and lived in rural Florida towns. I saw a whole lot what I began to refer to as "evil little kid translators". The brats took awful advantage of the fact that their foreigner parents didn't know English. They had a kind of mixture of anger at having to be the representative and another scornful eye on what they could get out of it. Communication woes. This shit again, Mariel?
I really want to describe the prose, those paragraph long sentences, those after the facts and are they really the facts obsessions as like a stop motion animation. (Sometimes the recurring movements seeped into me. I would be reading in my car during my work lunch breaks and I'd find myself going to open my arms wide for some kind of back up emphasis. Or reaching for something. Or hands going through my hair when I was confused. That happened a lot.)
What book would I share if I would upload a book onto the internet? This is the new Fahrenheit 451 question. Instead of reciting it you talk and and talk and talk about how it moved you and you hope that the back will turn around. (And hope that you'll notice if it doesn't. That was painful.)
I loved this book and yet it made me feel so anxious. It probably wasn't a good idea to read it when too predisposed to feeling threadless. Sometimes a song lyric can feel prophetic and I feel like it could have something to do with anything that has anything to do with me. Other times? Not so much. Would it be too weird to say that War and War felt like a bit of both? I only hope it'll shade in for me as I can take it with me... Right now I feel kind of cursed, too.
"What this meant was that the freedom produced by love was the highest condition available in the given order of things, and given that, how strange it was that such love seemed to be characteristic of lonely people who were condemned to live in perpetual isolation, that love was one of the aspects of loneliness most difficult to resolve, and therefore all those millions on millions of individual loves and individual rebellions could never add up to a single love or rebellion, because such was the nature of things."
War and war and war and war and war. Keep thinking about it, Mariel. I've been thinking for weeks about Korin feeling like he was on to something and the more he tried to pin it the more he was cursed to not notice anything himself. I don't want to be like that. László Krasznahorkai, I will listen. I will give you that much. (You can try to take over my expressions.)
I can't wait to read Satanstango (I've been watching the movie. Watching the movements isn't the same as moving them in your head, I don't think. Because I'm blind!).
"And this condition, said Korin, for someone like him, who saw clearly that this tragic turn of events was not the product of supernatural agency, not of divine judgement, but of the actions of a peculiarly horrible heterogeneous bunch of people , there was nothing left to do than to use the rest of his speech to lay the most terrible, most incurable curse on them."
"Let the world be cursed, he declared, choking, a world in which there is neither Omnipotence nor Last Judgement, where curses, and any who pronounced them, were held up to ridicule, where glory could only be bought with trash."
I am cursed. Korin is cursed. I had a "Well, that leaves me out" moment when reading War and War. I had more than one of those moments. I don't want to admit on goodreads which those were. This book reminded me to feel self conscious about admitting that kind of thing (again). Curses, swears, names in vein (oops vain). Korin is cursed too. He goes on and on, a sort of railing against the established wall of collective not giving a shit at the same time he doesn't notice the back that's turned to him (turned against its own wall. Gotta be). This back is literal and figurative. (I was shocked when he noticed his "listener" fell asleep during his demonstrations.) Would he notice it if it were staring him in the face? (He might notice that the face was pleasing to him.) Cursed, cursed, cursed. And it moved me because I feel it too. It's a prayer (and that swear) for the feeling moved and not knowing why. A movement to want to share it and it all gets lost in translation. I was reminded a lot of when I was a teenager and lived in rural Florida towns. I saw a whole lot what I began to refer to as "evil little kid translators". The brats took awful advantage of the fact that their foreigner parents didn't know English. They had a kind of mixture of anger at having to be the representative and another scornful eye on what they could get out of it. Communication woes. This shit again, Mariel?
I really want to describe the prose, those paragraph long sentences, those after the facts and are they really the facts obsessions as like a stop motion animation. (Sometimes the recurring movements seeped into me. I would be reading in my car during my work lunch breaks and I'd find myself going to open my arms wide for some kind of back up emphasis. Or reaching for something. Or hands going through my hair when I was confused. That happened a lot.)
What book would I share if I would upload a book onto the internet? This is the new Fahrenheit 451 question. Instead of reciting it you talk and and talk and talk about how it moved you and you hope that the back will turn around. (And hope that you'll notice if it doesn't. That was painful.)
I loved this book and yet it made me feel so anxious. It probably wasn't a good idea to read it when too predisposed to feeling threadless. Sometimes a song lyric can feel prophetic and I feel like it could have something to do with anything that has anything to do with me. Other times? Not so much. Would it be too weird to say that War and War felt like a bit of both? I only hope it'll shade in for me as I can take it with me... Right now I feel kind of cursed, too.
"What this meant was that the freedom produced by love was the highest condition available in the given order of things, and given that, how strange it was that such love seemed to be characteristic of lonely people who were condemned to live in perpetual isolation, that love was one of the aspects of loneliness most difficult to resolve, and therefore all those millions on millions of individual loves and individual rebellions could never add up to a single love or rebellion, because such was the nature of things."
War and war and war and war and war. Keep thinking about it, Mariel. I've been thinking for weeks about Korin feeling like he was on to something and the more he tried to pin it the more he was cursed to not notice anything himself. I don't want to be like that. László Krasznahorkai, I will listen. I will give you that much. (You can try to take over my expressions.)
I can't wait to read Satanstango (I've been watching the movie. Watching the movements isn't the same as moving them in your head, I don't think. Because I'm blind!).
December 15, 2019
If someone asked me “who is the living writer that best captures the voice, the sound inside of our age, its overwhelming vibes, who puts that best in prose?” I would have to say I do not read enough, in as many languages as is required, to answer that. But I’d be tempted to say it’s Krasznahorkai.
August 18, 2019
Ο Κορίμ είναι Ούγγρος αρχειοφύλακας όταν μια κατά τα άλλα συνηθισμένη μέρα ανακαλύπτει ένα χειρόγραφο που συνταράζει το μέσα του συθέμελα μέσα σε ένα φάκελο που δεν έπρεπε να βρεθεί. Είναι τόσος μεγάλος ο ‘ντουβρουτζάς’ που παθαίνει, που πουλάει ό,τι έχει και δεν έχει και χωρίς να ξέρει λέξη αγγλικά, βγάζει εισιτήριο για Νέα Υόρκη, για να καθαρογράψει αυτό το χειρόγραφο και να το ανεβάσει στο διαδίκτυο. Είναι ήδη αποφασισμένος, μόλις επιτύχει αυτό τον μεγάλο στόχο του, να δώσει τέλος στη ζωή του. Φτάνοντας στην Αμερική, πέφτει στο δρόμο του διερμηνέα ‘κύριου Σάβαρυ’ ο οποίος θα γίνει και ο σπιτονοικοκύρης του μαζί με την Πορτορικανή σύντροφό του.
Το στόρυ παίζει σε δύο ταμπλώ – μία η ιστορία του Κορίμ, το πως βρήκε το χειρόγραφο, το πως βρέθηκε στην Αμερική, το πως ζει στην Αμερική, το πως η είναι η ζωή του ζευγαριού
που τον φιλοξενεί με ολίγην από γυναικεία κακοποίηση. Στο δεύτερο ταμπλώ έχουμε την ιστορία του χειρόγραφου όπου παρουσιάζεται το χρονικό τεσσάρων φίλων και το ταξίδι τους από τη μινωική Κρήτη, στη Βενετία, στη Γερμανία, στη Βρετανία, στη Ρώμη, λίγο όλα ένας αχταρμάς…
Η γνώμη μου;;; Χρχφμψηφαεψηεψφχωδφδφ….
Κατά τη γνώμη μου, οι μεγάλες αλήθειες της ζωής είναι απλές. Και γι’αυτό λέγονται με λόγια απλά. ¨Όταν βλέπω πολυπερίτεχνες προσπάθειες να πουν κάτι, για να αισθανθούμε πως γίνεται κάτι σπουδαίο χωρίς ποτέ να καταλάβουμε ποιο είναι αυτό το σπουδαίο, εγώ τα ονομ��ζω ‘ψευδοκουλτούρα’ ή προσπάθεια εντυπωσιασμού του συγγραφέα για να μας κάνει να αισθανθούμε τιποτένιοι και αδαείς.
Δεν με κέρδισε το βιβλίο και προφανώς είναι τόσο τιποτένι�� το I.Q. μου που δεν μπόρεσα να βρω τίποτα μεγαλειώδες μέσα του… Εξηγούμαι:
1. Ο μακροπερίοδος λόγος – μία πρόταση ένα κεφάλαιο - μου φάνηκε χωρίς λόγο και ουσία. Δεν κατάλαβα τι εξυπηρετούσε αφού όπως ήταν η σύνταξη όλης της πρότασης ήταν σαν να υπήρχαν σημεία στίξης, απλώς δεν τα έβαζε για κάποιο δικό του λόγο ο συγγραφέας. Καμία σχέση με τον μακροπερίοδο λόγο του Σαραμάγκου που μου φαίνεται άκρως ποιητικός και καθόλου κουραστικός.
2. Δεν υπάρχει πλοκή. Κανένα plot twist, μα κανένα. Περιμένεις όλο το βιβλίο να μάθεις τι στο καλό τόσο σημαντικό περιείχε αυτό το χειρόγραφο που έκανε τον ταπεινό αρχειοθέτη να πετάξει στην άλλη άκρη του κόσμου και δεν το μαθαίνεις ποτέ. Μία απλή ιστορία, ένα απλό οδοιπορικό και ξαφνικά έτσι σταματάει, με τη μεγάλη φοβερή ανακάλυψη πως δεν υπάρχει ειρήνη πουθενά, πως τον πόλεμο τον διαδέχεται ο πόλεμος… Τέτοια φοβερή ανακάλυψη!
3. Η ιστορία του Κορίμ από ένα σημείο και μετά είναι γεμάτη γεγονότα χωρίς καμία λογική. Έτσι να ‘χαμε να λέγαμε… Εμφανίζεται στο δρόμο του ένας ταξιτζής, έτσι τον αφήνει στο χιόνι, τον βρίσκει ένας άλλος, επιστρέφει στο σπίτι βρίσκει τους άλλους κρεμασμένους και τους αφήνει έτσι, πάει Ζυρίχη έτσι για να πάει γιατί είναι ωραίος τόπος εκεί ρε φίλε για αυτοκτονία, λες και δεν μπορούσε να αυτοκτονήσει στη Νέα Υόρκη κι έπρεπε να κάνει όλο αυτό το ταξίδι… Τι διάβαζα Θε μου;
4. Η σκηνή με τους δύο ζητιάνους που κάνουν έρωτα στο μπαρ μπροστά σε όλους, τι σκατά συμβολισμό είχε; Για ποιο λόγο μπήκε; Για να μας δείξει το σκληρό νατουραλιστικό γράψιμο του συγγραφέα; Για να μας δείξει πως είναι στην πραγματικότητα ο έρωτας; Δίχως συναίσθημα, γυμνός, άσχημος, γλοιώδης, φόρα παρτίδα; Στα μπράβο του συγγραφέα, η περιγραφή του ήταν τόσο πειστική, που μόλις έκανα τη σκηνή στη φαντασία του, μου ήρθε να ξεράσω… εντάξει είπαμε να μην είναι μποντιμπιλντεράς ο τύπος αλλά γέρος ξεδοντιάρης, με μεγάλα σπυριά που τρέχουν πύον, που βρωμάει και ζέχνει, μαλλιά άπλυτα, με ντούρα στύση ωστόσο να την πέφτει στη γριά;;;
5. Κι έρχεται εκείνο το τελευταίο κεφάλαιο στο οποίο είχα στηρίξει όλες μου τις προσδοκίες πως κάτι θα γίνει, πως θα μου αποκαλυφθεί μια αλήθεια… Ένα παραλήρημα… αυτό… ένα παραλήρημα… σκόρπιες φιλοσοφίες ολίγον θρησκεία ολίγον λογοτεχνία πολύ ό,τι νάναι…. Νάτη η μεγάλη αλήθεια και το μεγάλο αριστούργημα αλλά είπαμε το I.Q μου είναι I.Q ραδικιού κι εγώ δεν συναματαπαντήθηκα ποτέ ούτε με τη μεγάλη αλήθεια μα ούτε και με τη μικρή….
Δεν ξέρω αν είναι αριστούργημα, δεν ξέρω αν είναι βραβευμένο, δεν ξέρω αν ο συγγραφέας του θεωρείται μεγάλος και τρανός, οι δρόμοι μας όμως ξέρω πως δεν θα ξανανταμώσουνε…
Υ.Γ. Κρατάω μία επιφύλαξη ωστόσο μήπως έφταιγε ολίγον και η μετάφραση που ήταν μετάφραση της μετάφρασης ω! μετάφραση… καθώς έγινε από τη γαλλική μετάφραση και όχι απ’ευθείας από το πρωτότυπο… ίσως κάτι να χάθηκε στη μετάφραση…
Το στόρυ παίζει σε δύο ταμπλώ – μία η ιστορία του Κορίμ, το πως βρήκε το χειρόγραφο, το πως βρέθηκε στην Αμερική, το πως ζει στην Αμερική, το πως η είναι η ζωή του ζευγαριού
που τον φιλοξενεί με ολίγην από γυναικεία κακοποίηση. Στο δεύτερο ταμπλώ έχουμε την ιστορία του χειρόγραφου όπου παρουσιάζεται το χρονικό τεσσάρων φίλων και το ταξίδι τους από τη μινωική Κρήτη, στη Βενετία, στη Γερμανία, στη Βρετανία, στη Ρώμη, λίγο όλα ένας αχταρμάς…
Η γνώμη μου;;; Χρχφμψηφαεψηεψφχωδφδφ….
Κατά τη γνώμη μου, οι μεγάλες αλήθειες της ζωής είναι απλές. Και γι’αυτό λέγονται με λόγια απλά. ¨Όταν βλέπω πολυπερίτεχνες προσπάθειες να πουν κάτι, για να αισθανθούμε πως γίνεται κάτι σπουδαίο χωρίς ποτέ να καταλάβουμε ποιο είναι αυτό το σπουδαίο, εγώ τα ονομ��ζω ‘ψευδοκουλτούρα’ ή προσπάθεια εντυπωσιασμού του συγγραφέα για να μας κάνει να αισθανθούμε τιποτένιοι και αδαείς.
Δεν με κέρδισε το βιβλίο και προφανώς είναι τόσο τιποτένι�� το I.Q. μου που δεν μπόρεσα να βρω τίποτα μεγαλειώδες μέσα του… Εξηγούμαι:
1. Ο μακροπερίοδος λόγος – μία πρόταση ένα κεφάλαιο - μου φάνηκε χωρίς λόγο και ουσία. Δεν κατάλαβα τι εξυπηρετούσε αφού όπως ήταν η σύνταξη όλης της πρότασης ήταν σαν να υπήρχαν σημεία στίξης, απλώς δεν τα έβαζε για κάποιο δικό του λόγο ο συγγραφέας. Καμία σχέση με τον μακροπερίοδο λόγο του Σαραμάγκου που μου φαίνεται άκρως ποιητικός και καθόλου κουραστικός.
2. Δεν υπάρχει πλοκή. Κανένα plot twist, μα κανένα. Περιμένεις όλο το βιβλίο να μάθεις τι στο καλό τόσο σημαντικό περιείχε αυτό το χειρόγραφο που έκανε τον ταπεινό αρχειοθέτη να πετάξει στην άλλη άκρη του κόσμου και δεν το μαθαίνεις ποτέ. Μία απλή ιστορία, ένα απλό οδοιπορικό και ξαφνικά έτσι σταματάει, με τη μεγάλη φοβερή ανακάλυψη πως δεν υπάρχει ειρήνη πουθενά, πως τον πόλεμο τον διαδέχεται ο πόλεμος… Τέτοια φοβερή ανακάλυψη!
3. Η ιστορία του Κορίμ από ένα σημείο και μετά είναι γεμάτη γεγονότα χωρίς καμία λογική. Έτσι να ‘χαμε να λέγαμε… Εμφανίζεται στο δρόμο του ένας ταξιτζής, έτσι τον αφήνει στο χιόνι, τον βρίσκει ένας άλλος, επιστρέφει στο σπίτι βρίσκει τους άλλους κρεμασμένους και τους αφήνει έτσι, πάει Ζυρίχη έτσι για να πάει γιατί είναι ωραίος τόπος εκεί ρε φίλε για αυτοκτονία, λες και δεν μπορούσε να αυτοκτονήσει στη Νέα Υόρκη κι έπρεπε να κάνει όλο αυτό το ταξίδι… Τι διάβαζα Θε μου;
4. Η σκηνή με τους δύο ζητιάνους που κάνουν έρωτα στο μπαρ μπροστά σε όλους, τι σκατά συμβολισμό είχε; Για ποιο λόγο μπήκε; Για να μας δείξει το σκληρό νατουραλιστικό γράψιμο του συγγραφέα; Για να μας δείξει πως είναι στην πραγματικότητα ο έρωτας; Δίχως συναίσθημα, γυμνός, άσχημος, γλοιώδης, φόρα παρτίδα; Στα μπράβο του συγγραφέα, η περιγραφή του ήταν τόσο πειστική, που μόλις έκανα τη σκηνή στη φαντασία του, μου ήρθε να ξεράσω… εντάξει είπαμε να μην είναι μποντιμπιλντεράς ο τύπος αλλά γέρος ξεδοντιάρης, με μεγάλα σπυριά που τρέχουν πύον, που βρωμάει και ζέχνει, μαλλιά άπλυτα, με ντούρα στύση ωστόσο να την πέφτει στη γριά;;;
5. Κι έρχεται εκείνο το τελευταίο κεφάλαιο στο οποίο είχα στηρίξει όλες μου τις προσδοκίες πως κάτι θα γίνει, πως θα μου αποκαλυφθεί μια αλήθεια… Ένα παραλήρημα… αυτό… ένα παραλήρημα… σκόρπιες φιλοσοφίες ολίγον θρησκεία ολίγον λογοτεχνία πολύ ό,τι νάναι…. Νάτη η μεγάλη αλήθεια και το μεγάλο αριστούργημα αλλά είπαμε το I.Q μου είναι I.Q ραδικιού κι εγώ δεν συναματαπαντήθηκα ποτέ ούτε με τη μεγάλη αλήθεια μα ούτε και με τη μικρή….
Δεν ξέρω αν είναι αριστούργημα, δεν ξέρω αν είναι βραβευμένο, δεν ξέρω αν ο συγγραφέας του θεωρείται μεγάλος και τρανός, οι δρόμοι μας όμως ξέρω πως δεν θα ξανανταμώσουνε…
Υ.Γ. Κρατάω μία επιφύλαξη ωστόσο μήπως έφταιγε ολίγον και η μετάφραση που ήταν μετάφραση της μετάφρασης ω! μετάφραση… καθώς έγινε από τη γαλλική μετάφραση και όχι απ’ευθείας από το πρωτότυπο… ίσως κάτι να χάθηκε στη μετάφραση…
January 10, 2024
With this novel, i’ve continued my journey through tetralogy of the novels Krasznahorkai’s calls his “one book". (The others are: Satantango, The Melancholy of Resistance and Baron Wenckheim's Homecoming). This is the first book in this cycle where Krasznahorkai sends his characters outside of Hungary. The main actions take play in New York. Later the novel moves to Switzerland. But interestingly the vast majority of the characters, especially the ones given their own voice, are the Hungarians.
The story is focused on an existentially challenged, painfully imaginative, kind but powerless archivist, Korin. Unfortunately, he has got suicidal tendencies and occasional weakness for alcohol. The former is not surprising considering his disposition and the realities of his country. The later is even less surprising considering every other character is this book is suffering from this affliction.
One of those days at work, Korin finds a manuscript between the old papers. Or so he says to everyone who will listen. The manuscript is appeared to have a very special meaning for him. Generally, this is quite an evocative symbolism of mystic nature such a job might entail: an archivist can often literally choose whom to bring out of oblivion. And Korin experiences a strong “calling” from the manuscript. Before his final act of self-destruction, he wants to do a deed and to save the text for posterity. This involves going to New York, “the centre of the world”, and type in the manuscript into an internet page. As readers, we never have a direct access to the manuscript (therefore i was experiencing a growing but possibly not fully warranted suspicion that Korin might in fact have been the author). However, we are very well aware about its content through Korin’s eyes. It describes the travels of four men thrown from one historical time and place to another who seemed to try to escape from a certain pending catastrophe. But each time they meet with a nefarious presence of the fifth man and realise that their attempt was doomed once more. At some stage, Korin is hit with realisation that it would not suffice for him to protect the manuscript: he wants now to safe those men who have become very real to him. But he also feels he would be unable to bring them out “war&war” into peace.
It is a sort of powerful allegory with these men representing either eternal refugees or maybe angels who try to find their way back with the fifth man being the force of evil. And the character of Korin plays a role of a failed saviour or maybe just a story teller. It is designed to be a timeless, universal tale, but still it is striking how much it is symbolic of the current state of the world.
The allegory has brought to mind The Master and Margarita with its idea of a Master telling the tale and the Devil’s calling the shots everywhere. But of course the style and the context of this novel cannot be more different from the Bulgakov’s. There is no place for lyricism, vague “happy” ending or any kind of soapy romantic notion (ie “power of love”) in Krasznahorkai’s world. Compared to his other two novels, I’ve found the story in this one even more cruel and occasionally borderline obscene in some details, especially in his depiction of males treating women.
In terms of style, this novel is written with his trade mark very long, multi-clause, elegant sentences. But I’ve found it much easier to read compared to “Melancholy” where those sentences were packed to the brim with philosophic meaning. Here the ideas are more explicit, often simply spelled out.
What seemed new to me was more pronounced meta-fictional element. The novel contains quite lengthy passages on the nature of writing. Here is the one (note that it is just the part of the sentence):
“...for here language simply rebels and refuses to serve, will not do what it was created to do, for once a sentence begins it doesn’t want to stop, not because—let’s put it this way—because it is about to fall off the edge of the world, not in other words as a result of incompetence, but because it is driven by some crazy form of rigor, as if its antithesis—the short sentence—led straight to hell, as indeed it had tended to do with him, but not with the manuscript, for that was a matter of discipline, Korin explained to the woman,..”
Also all the whole of the novel can pass for a Russian dole of nested manuscripts and failed saviours:
- first: the original manuscript with its presumed unknown author trying to write a tale about saving four “angels”. But it does not look they’ve managed to escape;
- then Korin’s retelling of the story and his doomed attempt of “saving” those characters;
- finally, i felt that as the readers, we are guided to imagine that the book we are reading is Krasznahorkai’s attempt to “save" Korin as well as some other of his characters from that “all out war” surrounding them. Needless to say, this attempt in its turn was also a failure.
At the end of the novel, Krasznahorkai also uses a popular meta-trick by creating a physical reference to Korin in the real world. But this has failed to impress me. Though by the standard of the 90s when the book was written it should have been pretty cool. However, another post-modern element, the prequel story included into the book at the end was really great: like a Tarantino movie with Central European innuendo.
The benefit of the relative ease of reading this story was that i spent more time noticing what makes his narrative construction so unique. Here the magic was how seamlessly he weaved together the perspectives of his multiple narrators.The story proceeds roughly in chronological order. However, we are presented with the multiple layers:
1) It seems, there is an omnipresent narrator who rarely uses his voice, but orchestrates other voices and controls the coherence of a whole;
2) Each chronological snippet is presented by the variety of characters; some of them are appearing in the book only for a short while, almost like to deliver their witness statement. This aspect has reminded me the famous story "Rashomon" by Akutagawa's in Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories. This technique makes reading experience akin watching a movie with its cinematic cuts between the characters. It might be disorienting at first, but makes the narrative very dynamic. Have I mentioned Tarantino already? But it is even more clever than that: in many cases, the character would not deliver his monologue directly, but through the conversation with someone else. For example, there is an episode when a cafe owner shares her encounter with Korin and with her telephone interlocutor. We never hear the other side of the conversation. But the nature of speech comes across as a very genuine dialogue almost as if we are the part of it.
3) Another big part of narration is made as a feverish first person monologue by Korin periodically interrupted by the narrator’s remarks a-la “Korin said” , “Korin declared”, “Korin nodded”. In other context these remarks might be irritating but here they create a certain rhythm in otherwise practically breathless speech. Korin is a very talkative character. So often his interlocutors are practically silent, though they play a significant and very subtle role in the narrative. For example, his main listener is a woman who is in an abusive relationship with his landlord. So her silence is full of tragic subtext.
4) And the manuscript as such would constitute the final layer of narration. Though, as i’ve already mentioned, we are not sure how reliable the retelling is.
In general, the potential unreliability of each step in this “ladder of testimonies” adds ambiguity and creates a possibility multiple interpretations. It also defines the pace of the novel and its atmosphere. For me this was the main attraction of this novel. I still prefer “The Melancholy of Resistance” to both Satantango and this one. But i can totally see what Krasznahorkai means when he says each of them is an attempt to write the same book. They brilliantly complement each other in more than one way.
I also recommend the review of my friend, Anna, who is justifiably considered K's specialist and as read all his work in the original language.
The story is focused on an existentially challenged, painfully imaginative, kind but powerless archivist, Korin. Unfortunately, he has got suicidal tendencies and occasional weakness for alcohol. The former is not surprising considering his disposition and the realities of his country. The later is even less surprising considering every other character is this book is suffering from this affliction.
One of those days at work, Korin finds a manuscript between the old papers. Or so he says to everyone who will listen. The manuscript is appeared to have a very special meaning for him. Generally, this is quite an evocative symbolism of mystic nature such a job might entail: an archivist can often literally choose whom to bring out of oblivion. And Korin experiences a strong “calling” from the manuscript. Before his final act of self-destruction, he wants to do a deed and to save the text for posterity. This involves going to New York, “the centre of the world”, and type in the manuscript into an internet page. As readers, we never have a direct access to the manuscript (therefore i was experiencing a growing but possibly not fully warranted suspicion that Korin might in fact have been the author). However, we are very well aware about its content through Korin’s eyes. It describes the travels of four men thrown from one historical time and place to another who seemed to try to escape from a certain pending catastrophe. But each time they meet with a nefarious presence of the fifth man and realise that their attempt was doomed once more. At some stage, Korin is hit with realisation that it would not suffice for him to protect the manuscript: he wants now to safe those men who have become very real to him. But he also feels he would be unable to bring them out “war&war” into peace.
It is a sort of powerful allegory with these men representing either eternal refugees or maybe angels who try to find their way back with the fifth man being the force of evil. And the character of Korin plays a role of a failed saviour or maybe just a story teller. It is designed to be a timeless, universal tale, but still it is striking how much it is symbolic of the current state of the world.
The allegory has brought to mind The Master and Margarita with its idea of a Master telling the tale and the Devil’s calling the shots everywhere. But of course the style and the context of this novel cannot be more different from the Bulgakov’s. There is no place for lyricism, vague “happy” ending or any kind of soapy romantic notion (ie “power of love”) in Krasznahorkai’s world. Compared to his other two novels, I’ve found the story in this one even more cruel and occasionally borderline obscene in some details, especially in his depiction of males treating women.
In terms of style, this novel is written with his trade mark very long, multi-clause, elegant sentences. But I’ve found it much easier to read compared to “Melancholy” where those sentences were packed to the brim with philosophic meaning. Here the ideas are more explicit, often simply spelled out.
What seemed new to me was more pronounced meta-fictional element. The novel contains quite lengthy passages on the nature of writing. Here is the one (note that it is just the part of the sentence):
“...for here language simply rebels and refuses to serve, will not do what it was created to do, for once a sentence begins it doesn’t want to stop, not because—let’s put it this way—because it is about to fall off the edge of the world, not in other words as a result of incompetence, but because it is driven by some crazy form of rigor, as if its antithesis—the short sentence—led straight to hell, as indeed it had tended to do with him, but not with the manuscript, for that was a matter of discipline, Korin explained to the woman,..”
Also all the whole of the novel can pass for a Russian dole of nested manuscripts and failed saviours:
- first: the original manuscript with its presumed unknown author trying to write a tale about saving four “angels”. But it does not look they’ve managed to escape;
- then Korin’s retelling of the story and his doomed attempt of “saving” those characters;
- finally, i felt that as the readers, we are guided to imagine that the book we are reading is Krasznahorkai’s attempt to “save" Korin as well as some other of his characters from that “all out war” surrounding them. Needless to say, this attempt in its turn was also a failure.
At the end of the novel, Krasznahorkai also uses a popular meta-trick by creating a physical reference to Korin in the real world. But this has failed to impress me. Though by the standard of the 90s when the book was written it should have been pretty cool. However, another post-modern element, the prequel story included into the book at the end was really great: like a Tarantino movie with Central European innuendo.
The benefit of the relative ease of reading this story was that i spent more time noticing what makes his narrative construction so unique. Here the magic was how seamlessly he weaved together the perspectives of his multiple narrators.The story proceeds roughly in chronological order. However, we are presented with the multiple layers:
1) It seems, there is an omnipresent narrator who rarely uses his voice, but orchestrates other voices and controls the coherence of a whole;
2) Each chronological snippet is presented by the variety of characters; some of them are appearing in the book only for a short while, almost like to deliver their witness statement. This aspect has reminded me the famous story "Rashomon" by Akutagawa's in Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories. This technique makes reading experience akin watching a movie with its cinematic cuts between the characters. It might be disorienting at first, but makes the narrative very dynamic. Have I mentioned Tarantino already? But it is even more clever than that: in many cases, the character would not deliver his monologue directly, but through the conversation with someone else. For example, there is an episode when a cafe owner shares her encounter with Korin and with her telephone interlocutor. We never hear the other side of the conversation. But the nature of speech comes across as a very genuine dialogue almost as if we are the part of it.
3) Another big part of narration is made as a feverish first person monologue by Korin periodically interrupted by the narrator’s remarks a-la “Korin said” , “Korin declared”, “Korin nodded”. In other context these remarks might be irritating but here they create a certain rhythm in otherwise practically breathless speech. Korin is a very talkative character. So often his interlocutors are practically silent, though they play a significant and very subtle role in the narrative. For example, his main listener is a woman who is in an abusive relationship with his landlord. So her silence is full of tragic subtext.
4) And the manuscript as such would constitute the final layer of narration. Though, as i’ve already mentioned, we are not sure how reliable the retelling is.
In general, the potential unreliability of each step in this “ladder of testimonies” adds ambiguity and creates a possibility multiple interpretations. It also defines the pace of the novel and its atmosphere. For me this was the main attraction of this novel. I still prefer “The Melancholy of Resistance” to both Satantango and this one. But i can totally see what Krasznahorkai means when he says each of them is an attempt to write the same book. They brilliantly complement each other in more than one way.
I also recommend the review of my friend, Anna, who is justifiably considered K's specialist and as read all his work in the original language.
February 7, 2011
There is a book by David Horrobin which posits that schizophrenia, genetically present in every racial type, carried the perspective alteration whose infestation—spread through art, language, ideas, and dreams—evolved the full-flowering of a vigorous creativity amongst humanity, and thus helped to separate us from our non-abstract primate kin. Yet as this freeform and chaotic creativeness, an entropic imagination that spread like a wildfire, burned through its dimensional fuel, there was set up beside it a parallel structure of an icy and steely strength that strained all of the encompassing mass of sensory input that bombarded our physical bodies like an infinite meteor shower through filters defined by a rational logic and empirical reasoning, one which cast out as useless or baseless all that didn't further burnish its utilitarian shield warding us as we groped forward into the future. Art and Science, the Manichean duality forever linked with Good and Evil—the original bifurcation—invariably capable, at their respective extremities where the purity of devotion demanded by its mazes blazes white hot, of shattering the quotidian social framework that stabilizes the individual with madness: when the purity bursts the cautionary barriers and roils forth in its frenzied pride to claim mastery over all purviews that surround its newborn victim. In those moments when the eyes take on the intensity of earthbound stars we are never more certain that we are on a side, one that must, at all costs, win. The universe itself hinges upon how we shape our becoming.
Sometimes I would really like to stop, to abandon the whole thing, because something in me is breaking up and I'm getting tired.
War & War opens with the epigraph Heaven is sad which, whether read funereally or bitterly, so appositely sets the stage for the conflict between sides which commences on the opposite page and pours forth in exhausting and nigh-overwhelming abundance in subchapters comprised of a single sentence that might span either a few lines or several pages. Ostensibly we are being told the melancholy story of György Korin, a bat-faced, middle-aged archivist from southwest Hungary who has recently undergone a series of life-altering transformations. The discovery of an enigmatic manuscript buried amidst the formulaic wartime personal documents of an obscure Hungarian family has dramatically and irreversibly shifted his perspective, to the degree that Korin is convinced his entire ontological viewpoint prior to the discovery has been revealed as having been utterly and foolishly wrong. Unfortunately, his insistence on informing his neighbors at great length of his awakening has led to a spell in the local psychiatric hospital. Now freshly sprung, Korin is a man aflame with the passion of a holy mission: he must make his way to New York City, the center of the world, where he will transmit the contents of his precious and mysterious manuscript to the internet where, through the miracle of electronic technology, it will have transcended the finite limits of day-by-day time and entered the rarified air of the Eternal.
If there was just one sentence remaining at the end, it could only be that nothing, absolutely nothing, made sense, but a lot of sentences are left yet.
Korin's journey—which is fraught with human violence and menace and hostility from the very outset—provides him with plenty of opportunity to rave and gabble, in ecstatic perfervidness, the details of his story to a series of apathetically receptive strangers. Once in New York and given quarters by a coarse Hungarian expatriate, he develops a routine for his obsessions, one of typing up the manuscript and uploading it to warandwar.com and subsequently expounding upon its content and meaning to the subdued and broken lover of Korin's fellow Magyar whilst she cleans and cooks. It seems that the manuscript details the strange quest of four men—Kasser, Bengazza, Falke, and Toót—to avail themselves of the endless beauty and wonder bestowed upon a grateful world by the Absolute whilst both pursued, and pursuing, the mirror-eyed Mastemann, an austere archon whose breviary speaks the language of sprockets and gears and metallurgy, robed in power and reeking of death. The manuscript itself is but the prime duality that redounds throughout the tale as sides entrench against their antithesis, though whether in offense or defense becomes lost in the details—the result being a world forever searching for a peace in which to bask, recover and grow and yet finding naught but further war; individuals driven by arterial fire finding the persuasive power of their verbal effluence dissipated against the dull and conventional carapace of daily self-involved utilitarian torpor; the anchor of what was straining against the propulsion of what is to come; the Janus-faced dialectic. It may very well be that the entirety of existence is but an infinite battleground where victory always remains just beyond reach, perhaps beyond definition. In such an existence any demiurgy will of necessity be Manichean, one which, if not divided between mind and flesh, between the transcendent and the imminent, the noble and the base, will be riven in twain by the pillars of knowledge and belief. What will the wayfarer encounter in such a conflicted theatre of black and white whose backdrop exhibits permutations of terror? Much that is horrifyingly brutal and exquisitely beautiful.
There is an intense relationship between proximate objects, a much weaker one between objects further away, and as for the really distant ones there is none at all, and that is the nature of God.
Krasznahorkai left me with much to ponder and chew upon when I finally laid the book to rest. In Bernhardian fashion do the pulverizing sentences break, in endless succession, upon the reader; at times they prove a struggle to make headway against, at others a giddy and breathless ride through some of the most lucently gorgeous and ethereally haunting prose I've had the pleasure to encounter. The actual structure of the book is part of its fascinating puzzle—written almost in the fashion of an investigative inquiry, the reader can never quite ascertain whether what we are hearing is the voice of Korin himself, the manuscript, or something that plumbs even deeper. At the same time, whether the sorely tried Hungarian is in the grips of a fevered madness or an inspired Hermetic vision cannot be determined with any certainty; indeed, perhaps Korin is, in fact, the fleshly incarnation of the very angel whom he so desperately wishes to act as an intermediary. Krasznahorkai's style ensures that a vast host of details get swept up in the logorrheic vortex, and this minute accumulation of minutiae approaches the level of exasperation at several points throughout. What's more, there are certain tricks that just flat-out do not work, and certain characters and incidents whose (back)actions and details seem paradoxically contradictory to what was described as having actually occurred. However, the mark of all brilliant authors is that even when these minor obsessions don't provide an immediate insight or benefit, they are invariably followed by pieces that, aglow in the exuberance of burgeoning inspiration, stun with their sublime magnificence and the truths they harvest—and in War & War Krasznahorkai left me with no doubt at all that he is comfortably ensconced within their ranks.
Sometimes I would really like to stop, to abandon the whole thing, because something in me is breaking up and I'm getting tired.
War & War opens with the epigraph Heaven is sad which, whether read funereally or bitterly, so appositely sets the stage for the conflict between sides which commences on the opposite page and pours forth in exhausting and nigh-overwhelming abundance in subchapters comprised of a single sentence that might span either a few lines or several pages. Ostensibly we are being told the melancholy story of György Korin, a bat-faced, middle-aged archivist from southwest Hungary who has recently undergone a series of life-altering transformations. The discovery of an enigmatic manuscript buried amidst the formulaic wartime personal documents of an obscure Hungarian family has dramatically and irreversibly shifted his perspective, to the degree that Korin is convinced his entire ontological viewpoint prior to the discovery has been revealed as having been utterly and foolishly wrong. Unfortunately, his insistence on informing his neighbors at great length of his awakening has led to a spell in the local psychiatric hospital. Now freshly sprung, Korin is a man aflame with the passion of a holy mission: he must make his way to New York City, the center of the world, where he will transmit the contents of his precious and mysterious manuscript to the internet where, through the miracle of electronic technology, it will have transcended the finite limits of day-by-day time and entered the rarified air of the Eternal.
If there was just one sentence remaining at the end, it could only be that nothing, absolutely nothing, made sense, but a lot of sentences are left yet.
Korin's journey—which is fraught with human violence and menace and hostility from the very outset—provides him with plenty of opportunity to rave and gabble, in ecstatic perfervidness, the details of his story to a series of apathetically receptive strangers. Once in New York and given quarters by a coarse Hungarian expatriate, he develops a routine for his obsessions, one of typing up the manuscript and uploading it to warandwar.com and subsequently expounding upon its content and meaning to the subdued and broken lover of Korin's fellow Magyar whilst she cleans and cooks. It seems that the manuscript details the strange quest of four men—Kasser, Bengazza, Falke, and Toót—to avail themselves of the endless beauty and wonder bestowed upon a grateful world by the Absolute whilst both pursued, and pursuing, the mirror-eyed Mastemann, an austere archon whose breviary speaks the language of sprockets and gears and metallurgy, robed in power and reeking of death. The manuscript itself is but the prime duality that redounds throughout the tale as sides entrench against their antithesis, though whether in offense or defense becomes lost in the details—the result being a world forever searching for a peace in which to bask, recover and grow and yet finding naught but further war; individuals driven by arterial fire finding the persuasive power of their verbal effluence dissipated against the dull and conventional carapace of daily self-involved utilitarian torpor; the anchor of what was straining against the propulsion of what is to come; the Janus-faced dialectic. It may very well be that the entirety of existence is but an infinite battleground where victory always remains just beyond reach, perhaps beyond definition. In such an existence any demiurgy will of necessity be Manichean, one which, if not divided between mind and flesh, between the transcendent and the imminent, the noble and the base, will be riven in twain by the pillars of knowledge and belief. What will the wayfarer encounter in such a conflicted theatre of black and white whose backdrop exhibits permutations of terror? Much that is horrifyingly brutal and exquisitely beautiful.
There is an intense relationship between proximate objects, a much weaker one between objects further away, and as for the really distant ones there is none at all, and that is the nature of God.
Krasznahorkai left me with much to ponder and chew upon when I finally laid the book to rest. In Bernhardian fashion do the pulverizing sentences break, in endless succession, upon the reader; at times they prove a struggle to make headway against, at others a giddy and breathless ride through some of the most lucently gorgeous and ethereally haunting prose I've had the pleasure to encounter. The actual structure of the book is part of its fascinating puzzle—written almost in the fashion of an investigative inquiry, the reader can never quite ascertain whether what we are hearing is the voice of Korin himself, the manuscript, or something that plumbs even deeper. At the same time, whether the sorely tried Hungarian is in the grips of a fevered madness or an inspired Hermetic vision cannot be determined with any certainty; indeed, perhaps Korin is, in fact, the fleshly incarnation of the very angel whom he so desperately wishes to act as an intermediary. Krasznahorkai's style ensures that a vast host of details get swept up in the logorrheic vortex, and this minute accumulation of minutiae approaches the level of exasperation at several points throughout. What's more, there are certain tricks that just flat-out do not work, and certain characters and incidents whose (back)actions and details seem paradoxically contradictory to what was described as having actually occurred. However, the mark of all brilliant authors is that even when these minor obsessions don't provide an immediate insight or benefit, they are invariably followed by pieces that, aglow in the exuberance of burgeoning inspiration, stun with their sublime magnificence and the truths they harvest—and in War & War Krasznahorkai left me with no doubt at all that he is comfortably ensconced within their ranks.
June 9, 2017
Ngay từ những dòng đầu tiên, tác giả đã tạo ra một chủ đề quan trọng của tiểu thuyết này đó là sự đối cực giữa yên ổn và bất ổn, giữa mắc kẹt và chạy trốn giải thoát, mà đôi khi nhân vật và cả chính độc giả không phân biệt nổi cái nào là cái nào. Krasznahorkai giăng mắc một hệ thống những tình huống trớ trêu đẩy nhân vật chính vào, đưa gã vào những chuỗi gây hãm, để từ đó bắt đầu công cuộc truy tìm lối ra. Ngay cảnh mở đầu chuyện, đó là đám choai choai trấn lột quây Korin trên cầu vượt sân ga. Đó là hành trình sang New York, nơi Korin mơ ước để giải phóng chính mình và cảo bản bí hiểm kia, lại trở thành nơi đầy đe dọa mạng sống của hắn. Đó cuộc đào tẩu sang Zürich tìm đến bảo tang căn lều igloo của nghệ sĩ Mario Merz mà không được phép vào.
Ngay từ những dòng đầu tiên, tác giả đã tạo ra một chủ đề quan trọng của tiểu thuyết này đó là sự đối cực giữa yên ổn và bất ổn, giữa mắc kẹt và chạy trốn giải thoát, mà đôi khi nhân vật và cả chính độc giả không phân biệt nổi cái nào là cái nào. Krasznahorkai giăng mắc một hệ thống những tình huống trớ trêu đẩy nhân vật chính vào, đưa gã vào những chuỗi gây hãm, để từ đó bắt đầu công cuộc truy tìm lối ra. Ngay cảnh mở đầu chuyện, đó là đám choai choai trấn lột quây Korin trên cầu vượt sân ga. Đó là hành trình sang New York, nơi Korin mơ ước để giải phóng chính mình và cảo bản bí hiểm kia, lại trở thành nơi đầy đe dọa mạng sống của hắn. Đó cuộc đào tẩu sang Zürich tìm đến bảo tang căn lều igloo của nghệ sĩ Mario Merz mà không được phép vào.
https://www.facebook.com/phianhaz/pos...
Ngay từ những dòng đầu tiên, tác giả đã tạo ra một chủ đề quan trọng của tiểu thuyết này đó là sự đối cực giữa yên ổn và bất ổn, giữa mắc kẹt và chạy trốn giải thoát, mà đôi khi nhân vật và cả chính độc giả không phân biệt nổi cái nào là cái nào. Krasznahorkai giăng mắc một hệ thống những tình huống trớ trêu đẩy nhân vật chính vào, đưa gã vào những chuỗi gây hãm, để từ đó bắt đầu công cuộc truy tìm lối ra. Ngay cảnh mở đầu chuyện, đó là đám choai choai trấn lột quây Korin trên cầu vượt sân ga. Đó là hành trình sang New York, nơi Korin mơ ước để giải phóng chính mình và cảo bản bí hiểm kia, lại trở thành nơi đầy đe dọa mạng sống của hắn. Đó cuộc đào tẩu sang Zürich tìm đến bảo tang căn lều igloo của nghệ sĩ Mario Merz mà không được phép vào.
https://www.facebook.com/phianhaz/pos...
October 24, 2016
Ένα δύσκολο βιβλίο που με εξώθησε σε πολλές παράλληλες αναγνώσεις.
Το αποτέλεσμα ήταν να τελειώσω καμιά δεκαριά βιβλία και χάρη σε μια άσχημη γρίπη που με καθήλωσε στο κρεβάτι, πήρα την απόφαση να το πιάσω και να μην το αφήσω μέχρι να τελειώσει.
Δεν είναι ότι δε συμπαθώ τις non stop, όπως αποκαλώ, τις μακροπερίοδες αφηγήσεις.
Θυμάμαι ότι όταν είχα διαβάσει το "Περί τυφλότητας" ήταν μια non stop απολαυστική ανάγνωση.
Εδώ όμως κοπίασα με φιλότιμο να μην τοποθετήσω το βιβλίο στο ράφι με τα abandoned.
Ο ήρωας μού ήταν πολύ συμπαθής μέσα στο παραλήρημα του.
Ένας φουκαράς με ένα όραμα. Αξιοσέβαστος!
Λίγο διαταραγμένος αλλά από αυτούς τους ευγενείς, τους μη προκλητικούς που σου κινητοποιούν τον οίκτο περισσότερο παρά την αποστροφή και τον εκνευρισμό.
Η αρχή ήταν αρκετά ενδιαφέρουσα.
Η γνωριμία με τον ήρωα, ο σκοπός που είχε και ο αγώνας του να ταξιδέψει για να φτάσει στη Νέα Υόρκη που στα μάτια του ήταν η Μέκκα του πολιτισμού και της εξέλιξης, οι περιπέτειες του που ουσιαστικά τον εισήγαγαν στην κακία του κόσμου, σαν ένα δυνατό ράπισμα στην μέχρι τότε ήρεμη και προφυλαγμένη διαβίωση του σε μια μικρή πόλη της Ουγγαρίας. Αλλά και η βοήθεια που βρήκε, κυρίως λόγω της ευγένειας και της κακομοιριάς του, τα εμπόδια που φάνταζαν ανυπέρβλητα, όμως υποχωρούσαν....
Ο ήρωας μας είναι αποφασισμένος να μοιραστεί το χειρόγραφο που βρήκε τυχαία σε μια σκονισμένη γωνιά των αρχείων της μικρής του πόλης, με όλο τον κόσμο. Να κάνει όλο τον κόσμο κοινωνό της ομορφιάς και της μαγείας του χειρόγραφου.
Και έρχεται πράγματι εκείνο το χειρόγραφο στην ιστορία και γίνονται όλα πιο δύσκολα. Περιγραφές των 4 ανδρών που βρέθηκαν σε ένα ναυαγισμένο καράβι και μετά ξεκίνησαν ένα ταξίδι, προς τί; προς πού; με τί σκοπό;
Εκεί άρχισα να αυτομολώ προς άλλες σελίδες... Για ένα διάστημα, ντρέπομαι που το ομολογώ, χρησιμοποιούσα το βιβλίο για να νυστάξω το βράδυ.
Μετά ήρθε η γρίπη, οπότε μάζεψα τα μυαλά μου και ξαναχώθηκα στην ιστορία.
Η συνειδητή επιλογή του ήρωα να αποδώσει/παραδώσει το χειρόγραφο στο διαδίκτυο και από εκεί σε όλο τον κόσμο και την αιωνιότητα, ο ευγενής αυτός σκοπός ζωής που θα αποτελούσε και την αυλαία αυτής της ίδιας της ζωής του ήρωα, όπως ο ίδιος είχε προαποφασίσει, ήταν το σημείο που κρατούσε τον αναγνώστη. Η περιέργεια και η καθημερινότητα του στην αδηφάγο ΝΥC. Το αυστηρό του πρόγραμμα, ο καθημερινός του μονόλογος προς τη γυναίκα του σπιτιού, η αθωότητα του, η σ��αδιακή του προσγείωση προς την πεζή και κάποτε επικίνδυνη πραγματικότητα.
Ας μη μιλήσω για το τέλος που ήταν η απαισιοδοξία προσωποποιημένη. Ο συμπαθής ήρωας κάνει τον αναγνώστη να μελαγχολήσει στο τέλος.
Δύσκολο βιβλίο, με αρκετές αρετές όμως. Απαιτεί προσοχή και συγκέντρωση στην ανάγνωση, απευθύνεται στους λίγους αναγνώστες εκείνους που μπορούν να εισέλθουν στον παραληρηματικό κόσμο του ήρωα και να τον ακολουθήσουν.
Λυπάμαι που αποδείχτηκα κατώτερη των προσδοκιών του βιβλίου και του συγγραφέα αλλά τουλάχιστον το τελείωσα!
Το αποτέλεσμα ήταν να τελειώσω καμιά δεκαριά βιβλία και χάρη σε μια άσχημη γρίπη που με καθήλωσε στο κρεβάτι, πήρα την απόφαση να το πιάσω και να μην το αφήσω μέχρι να τελειώσει.
Δεν είναι ότι δε συμπαθώ τις non stop, όπως αποκαλώ, τις μακροπερίοδες αφηγήσεις.
Θυμάμαι ότι όταν είχα διαβάσει το "Περί τυφλότητας" ήταν μια non stop απολαυστική ανάγνωση.
Εδώ όμως κοπίασα με φιλότιμο να μην τοποθετήσω το βιβλίο στο ράφι με τα abandoned.
Ο ήρωας μού ήταν πολύ συμπαθής μέσα στο παραλήρημα του.
Ένας φουκαράς με ένα όραμα. Αξιοσέβαστος!
Λίγο διαταραγμένος αλλά από αυτούς τους ευγενείς, τους μη προκλητικούς που σου κινητοποιούν τον οίκτο περισσότερο παρά την αποστροφή και τον εκνευρισμό.
Η αρχή ήταν αρκετά ενδιαφέρουσα.
Η γνωριμία με τον ήρωα, ο σκοπός που είχε και ο αγώνας του να ταξιδέψει για να φτάσει στη Νέα Υόρκη που στα μάτια του ήταν η Μέκκα του πολιτισμού και της εξέλιξης, οι περιπέτειες του που ουσιαστικά τον εισήγαγαν στην κακία του κόσμου, σαν ένα δυνατό ράπισμα στην μέχρι τότε ήρεμη και προφυλαγμένη διαβίωση του σε μια μικρή πόλη της Ουγγαρίας. Αλλά και η βοήθεια που βρήκε, κυρίως λόγω της ευγένειας και της κακομοιριάς του, τα εμπόδια που φάνταζαν ανυπέρβλητα, όμως υποχωρούσαν....
Ο ήρωας μας είναι αποφασισμένος να μοιραστεί το χειρόγραφο που βρήκε τυχαία σε μια σκονισμένη γωνιά των αρχείων της μικρής του πόλης, με όλο τον κόσμο. Να κάνει όλο τον κόσμο κοινωνό της ομορφιάς και της μαγείας του χειρόγραφου.
Και έρχεται πράγματι εκείνο το χειρόγραφο στην ιστορία και γίνονται όλα πιο δύσκολα. Περιγραφές των 4 ανδρών που βρέθηκαν σε ένα ναυαγισμένο καράβι και μετά ξεκίνησαν ένα ταξίδι, προς τί; προς πού; με τί σκοπό;
Εκεί άρχισα να αυτομολώ προς άλλες σελίδες... Για ένα διάστημα, ντρέπομαι που το ομολογώ, χρησιμοποιούσα το βιβλίο για να νυστάξω το βράδυ.
Μετά ήρθε η γρίπη, οπότε μάζεψα τα μυαλά μου και ξαναχώθηκα στην ιστορία.
Η συνειδητή επιλογή του ήρωα να αποδώσει/παραδώσει το χειρόγραφο στο διαδίκτυο και από εκεί σε όλο τον κόσμο και την αιωνιότητα, ο ευγενής αυτός σκοπός ζωής που θα αποτελούσε και την αυλαία αυτής της ίδιας της ζωής του ήρωα, όπως ο ίδιος είχε προαποφασίσει, ήταν το σημείο που κρατούσε τον αναγνώστη. Η περιέργεια και η καθημερινότητα του στην αδηφάγο ΝΥC. Το αυστηρό του πρόγραμμα, ο καθημερινός του μονόλογος προς τη γυναίκα του σπιτιού, η αθωότητα του, η σ��αδιακή του προσγείωση προς την πεζή και κάποτε επικίνδυνη πραγματικότητα.
Ας μη μιλήσω για το τέλος που ήταν η απαισιοδοξία προσωποποιημένη. Ο συμπαθής ήρωας κάνει τον αναγνώστη να μελαγχολήσει στο τέλος.
Δύσκολο βιβλίο, με αρκετές αρετές όμως. Απαιτεί προσοχή και συγκέντρωση στην ανάγνωση, απευθύνεται στους λίγους αναγνώστες εκείνους που μπορούν να εισέλθουν στον παραληρηματικό κόσμο του ήρωα και να τον ακολουθήσουν.
Λυπάμαι που αποδείχτηκα κατώτερη των προσδοκιών του βιβλίου και του συγγραφέα αλλά τουλάχιστον το τελείωσα!
June 2, 2013
A masterpiece, of course. There are wonderful reviews here already so, instead, I shall quote a few things which floated to the surface for me while reading.
"‘Let there be light! said God, and there was light!’
‘Let there be blood!’ says man, and there ‘s a seal
The fiat of this spoil’d child of the Night
(For Day ne’er saw his merits) could decree
More evil in an hour, than thirty bright
Summers could renovate, though they should be
Lovely as those which ripen’d Eden’s fruit;
For war cuts up not only branch, but root."
Byron - Don Juan
"Oh shame to men! Devil with Devil damn’d
Firm concord holds, men only disagree
Of creatures rational, though under hope
Of Heavenly Grace: and God proclaiming peace,
Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife
Among themselves, and levy cruel wars,
Wasting the earth, each other to destroy:
As if (which might induce us to accord)
Man had not hellish foes enow besides,
That day and night for his destruction wait. "
Milton - Paradise Lost
"The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebretonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast. "
Auden - The Fall of Rome
(Sidebar - I agree with Brodsky that that final stanza is all that is needed to prove Auden's genius)
One last thing to say is that, at times, my attempts to get a clear view of the extraordinary, flowing temporal/geographical/meta-textual shifts (not to mention the incredibly skilful use of narrative voice and point of view to create a highly effective distancing effect) reminded me of physicist's attempts to explain higher dimensions. I felt like the famous square in Flatland watching an unknowable sphere pass through my world.
My only query would be how necessary the final section was...
"‘Let there be light! said God, and there was light!’
‘Let there be blood!’ says man, and there ‘s a seal
The fiat of this spoil’d child of the Night
(For Day ne’er saw his merits) could decree
More evil in an hour, than thirty bright
Summers could renovate, though they should be
Lovely as those which ripen’d Eden’s fruit;
For war cuts up not only branch, but root."
Byron - Don Juan
"Oh shame to men! Devil with Devil damn’d
Firm concord holds, men only disagree
Of creatures rational, though under hope
Of Heavenly Grace: and God proclaiming peace,
Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife
Among themselves, and levy cruel wars,
Wasting the earth, each other to destroy:
As if (which might induce us to accord)
Man had not hellish foes enow besides,
That day and night for his destruction wait. "
Milton - Paradise Lost
"The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebretonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast. "
Auden - The Fall of Rome
(Sidebar - I agree with Brodsky that that final stanza is all that is needed to prove Auden's genius)
One last thing to say is that, at times, my attempts to get a clear view of the extraordinary, flowing temporal/geographical/meta-textual shifts (not to mention the incredibly skilful use of narrative voice and point of view to create a highly effective distancing effect) reminded me of physicist's attempts to explain higher dimensions. I felt like the famous square in Flatland watching an unknowable sphere pass through my world.
My only query would be how necessary the final section was...
February 11, 2011
Heaven is sad.
That begins, as a benediction of sorts, the book.
I feel like I'm too stupid to fully get Krasznahorkai (we'll call him K. for short from now on in the review, although that ill undoubtedly bring to mind an insurance agent from Prague..... but Kafka is almost appropriate to this novel, or at least his line in one of his Parables and Paradoxes, roughly remembered as, 'the messiah will return only when he is no longer needed'). I love parts of his books, and then I'm baffled and confused by other parts. My understanding of the text feels dreamlike, something is in my grasp and then it slips through it, the scenes change and I'm at a lose and even the thing I thought I was so close to understanding becomes ethereal and I start to doubt I ever understood anything.
I don't quite know what to write about this book. I'm not sure I completely get what K was going for. I'm not sure what the illumination of the post script last chapter is supposed to mean, especially coming after the 'punchline' to the whole novel. Without the last chapter the book is a comedy in the way that the other K writing is comedic (see DFW's essay in Consider the Lobster). With the post-punch-line twenty some odd pages the absurdity of the book shifts, and the novel becomes vaguely tragic. Or is it Beckett like? No. That doesn't work in this situation. I feel like the author / allusion is rattling around in my brain but I can't get the fucking thing to uncloud and reveal itself to me.
Someone I know should read this book, I have questions and no one really to discuss my questions with.
And has K written any books with normal structures? Melancholy of Resistance was long blocks of text. This book has almost as many chapters as a James Patterson novel, but each chapter is made up of just one sentence, one sentence that is anywhere from regular length run of the mill to four or five pages with shifting subjects and temporal settings. Unlike in my last review for a novel by K, I'm not complaining, I'm just feeling curious why he writes in this manner. What is he trying to achieve?
That begins, as a benediction of sorts, the book.
I feel like I'm too stupid to fully get Krasznahorkai (we'll call him K. for short from now on in the review, although that ill undoubtedly bring to mind an insurance agent from Prague..... but Kafka is almost appropriate to this novel, or at least his line in one of his Parables and Paradoxes, roughly remembered as, 'the messiah will return only when he is no longer needed'). I love parts of his books, and then I'm baffled and confused by other parts. My understanding of the text feels dreamlike, something is in my grasp and then it slips through it, the scenes change and I'm at a lose and even the thing I thought I was so close to understanding becomes ethereal and I start to doubt I ever understood anything.
I don't quite know what to write about this book. I'm not sure I completely get what K was going for. I'm not sure what the illumination of the post script last chapter is supposed to mean, especially coming after the 'punchline' to the whole novel. Without the last chapter the book is a comedy in the way that the other K writing is comedic (see DFW's essay in Consider the Lobster). With the post-punch-line twenty some odd pages the absurdity of the book shifts, and the novel becomes vaguely tragic. Or is it Beckett like? No. That doesn't work in this situation. I feel like the author / allusion is rattling around in my brain but I can't get the fucking thing to uncloud and reveal itself to me.
Someone I know should read this book, I have questions and no one really to discuss my questions with.
And has K written any books with normal structures? Melancholy of Resistance was long blocks of text. This book has almost as many chapters as a James Patterson novel, but each chapter is made up of just one sentence, one sentence that is anywhere from regular length run of the mill to four or five pages with shifting subjects and temporal settings. Unlike in my last review for a novel by K, I'm not complaining, I'm just feeling curious why he writes in this manner. What is he trying to achieve?
February 2, 2016
Undoubtedly a masterpiece, and a new addition to the favourites list. The second Krasznahorkai for me already this year (and third overall) and I would argue, the best so far. The depth in this novel is going to take a while to process through this tiny brain of mine. Outstanding.
April 29, 2015
Πραγματική αποκάλυψη, σε κάποια σημεία ευχόμουν να μην τελειώσει ποτέ, όπως οι προτάσεις του, άλλοτε πάλι κρατούσα την ανάσα μου μέχρι να βρω τελεία και να συνέλθω. Δεν νομίζω πως θα διαβάσω καλύτερο βιβλίο φέτος.
October 28, 2022
A wonderful interview about a wonderful book
http://www.musicandliterature.org/fea...
This War & War project contains four parts, actually, more than four, but you will see why I am unsure. The first chapter, let us say the first step in this whole project, was Isaiah Has Come. The text is a short story, a big monologue of the main hero, the main character of the novel, but the place of this short story is the birthplace of this character, and the time of the story is three years before the start of the novel. This is very important to understand. That’s why I am very happy the Spanish edition solved the main problem of the English, French, and German translations, namely, that this short story belongs not directly to the text of the novel, but is a little bit secluded. My Spanish publisher at Acantilado, Jaume Vallcorba, could solve it because he understood why it’s important to make a difference between this monologue and the novel. In this monologue, the main character talks about the human condition, how the world is gone, and what’s happened in the last few hundred years, and this happens at a bar in a bus station, it’s almost empty, he’s sitting at a bar next to a man who’s absolutely silent and who’s smoking and smoking, and next to him there’s Korin, and because Korin’s absolutely drunk, really absolutely drunk, he wants to tell this Isaiah figure why the world is gone, what’s happened with the human beings. And after this monologue he wants to commit suicide, but he’s so drunk that after the first shot in the left palm of his hand he collapses, and committing suicide would be absolutely ridiculous. This is the first step of the project.
Three years later, the novel starts with the same main character. This is an almost different person, because Korin, this person, is absolutely a peaceful person, has become absolutely a peaceful person, he is absolutely calm, he has opinions about his own life, his life is absolutely unnecessary, with this wonderful emotions and sensitivities, absolutely unnecessary, but he’s not angry against the world. He wants to say, “Only in my case, this life, my life, is absolutely unnecessary.” That’s why the best solution is to commit suicide and goodbye. But before committing suicide he found a manuscript in his workplace—he’s an archivist—and this manuscript is a kind of novel about four angels who escape, in world history, from one side of the world to the other side, they want to find peace, a peaceful place, but in the world there is no peaceful place, that’s why they try to escape, and when Korin, the main hero, understands it, he decides to find a way out for these four angels, these four fictional angels, and he goes from a very small town in Eastern Europe to the center of the world—these are his words—to New York, and he wants to find a form to care for this manuscript for eternity. Everything is absolutely impossible for him: the movie, the book, every material form is destructible. That’s why when he listens in a bar to a conversation that something like the internet exists, he has the idea that the virtual space is never destructible. That’s why he goes to New York, writes and sends the text into the internet and this is an eternal place for this manuscript and perhaps this is the solution for these four angels. But at the end of the novel Korin runs into chaos, and in this chaos he goes back to Europe because of a sculpture that is very important for him: an igloo by an Italian artist, Mario Merz. And he wants to spend one hour, actually, his last hour, in this igloo, in this sculpture, in a small town in Switzerland. And he reaches this small town and this small museum, Schauffhausen, a wonderful museum, a modern museum, and this museum has three or four pieces by Mario Merz, one of them this igloo. But Korin arrived about midnight, and of course the guard didn’t want to let him into the igloo. Korin finds a man who understands him and asks this man to make a small plaque with his last sentence, and he gives some money for this plaque and afterward he commits suicide. The last pages of War & War are the sentences and opinions of the man who understood Korin, saying, “Of course we will comply with this last wish, this last plaque, of this poor man, because he deserves it.” This is the last sentence of the book, but it is not the last sentence of the War & War project.
The last sentence is on this plaque. After the novel’s publication the third chapter of this project began, only in reality. One month later, after the book’s publication, we all stood in front of the museum’s entrance and every person, every character from the last chapter of this book stood there and everybody talked about his or her relationship to the main character, Korin. It didn’t matter that this was a fictional person, but these people who were there were and are real people. After that, we unveiled this plaque, and even today, actually forever, you can see in Schauffhausen, on the right side from the main entrance, this plaque with the last sentence of the book.
But after that, what happened? Mario Merz read this book in German, and that same day, in Schauffhausen, in a small town next to Zurich, Mario Merz runs to see the director of this museum—they were friends—and he cried, “Why didn’t you let Korin into my igloo? Why didn’t you let Korin into my igloo?” And the director said, “What?” And Mario, who was always a very animalistic artist, very rough, cried much stronger and louder: “Why didn’t you let this Korin, György Korin, in my igloo?” And slowly the director understood and he tried to explain: “Dear Mario, my friend, György Korin is not a real person, this is a fictional person.” “I didn’t ask you if György Korin is a real person, I asked you why you didn’t let him into my igloo?” “But dear Mario, listen to me, this is a novel, there is a writer, László Krasznahorkai, and György Korin exists only in his imagination, in his novel.” “I didn’t ask you”—but this time Mario’s voice got louder—“I didn’t ask you whether he’s fictional or not!” The director did not know what to do. The director’s wife came in and tried to calm Mario, but that was impossible. One hour, more than one hour, the same story. And after this absolutely crazy conversation the director and his wonderful wife found a solution: they promised Mario Merz they would all go to the birthplace of György Korin, to the small city where the novel starts and there, in that small city, Mario Merz would make a new igloo to commemorate György Korin. That was the only solution. A little more than two weeks later, I waited for these characters from my novel in the Budapest airport. I rented a big car and we went to this small town because Mario wanted to build a new igloo, his first igloo in an open space. But Mario was a very rough character, and he was very cruel with everybody, except with me. Nobody understood why. But everyone showed him around and asked him if this would be a good place and he would be absolutely uninterested. Someone else would show him another. “Perhaps this is good?” “Absolutely unbearable,” Mario would say. One and a half days we walked in this small city, and everything was absolutely terrible. Everybody was out of their wits. And we went back to Budapest, and nobody spoke with anybody, and my task was to transport Mario and his wife, Maritz Merz, who’s also an artist in the Arte Povera. Maritza Merz is also an interesting figure. Mario was six feet tall, a very big man with sculpture fingers, really rough, and Maritza Merz was five foot two inches, very fragile, with huge eyes, long hair, very long black hair, she’s a dear and the vice-president of the World Association of Witches But at the airport, we were alone—Mario Merz, Maritza Merz, and me—and Mario was suddenly a different person after everyone went away. Very calm, very friendly, peaceful, and he began to make sketches, drawings, of what kind of igloos he would make for Korin, and when the airplane was ready to depart, Mario said, “No, the next one.” Maritza had to change the flight because Mario was so enthusiastic and many of his sketches were on the table. Finally they flew back to Turin and four months later, very late in the night, at four o’clock in the morning, my telephone rings: “I am Krisel”—the director’s wife—“excuse me, I am terribly sorry, I know I woke you up, but this is very important.” “What has happened?” “I know that you loved Mario Merz very much and Mario, about three o’clock, has died.”
That was the fourth chapter of this War & War project, but in reality. And in November 2011, in a small town in southeast Hungary, there was a big poetry competition between different schools and different elementary school students. The name of this competition was Competition of the Lyrics of György Korin. Of course nobody from these schools had any idea who was György Korin. They all believe he was a real person, somebody from the city. And that’s the whole War & War story.
http://www.musicandliterature.org/fea...
This War & War project contains four parts, actually, more than four, but you will see why I am unsure. The first chapter, let us say the first step in this whole project, was Isaiah Has Come. The text is a short story, a big monologue of the main hero, the main character of the novel, but the place of this short story is the birthplace of this character, and the time of the story is three years before the start of the novel. This is very important to understand. That’s why I am very happy the Spanish edition solved the main problem of the English, French, and German translations, namely, that this short story belongs not directly to the text of the novel, but is a little bit secluded. My Spanish publisher at Acantilado, Jaume Vallcorba, could solve it because he understood why it’s important to make a difference between this monologue and the novel. In this monologue, the main character talks about the human condition, how the world is gone, and what’s happened in the last few hundred years, and this happens at a bar in a bus station, it’s almost empty, he’s sitting at a bar next to a man who’s absolutely silent and who’s smoking and smoking, and next to him there’s Korin, and because Korin’s absolutely drunk, really absolutely drunk, he wants to tell this Isaiah figure why the world is gone, what’s happened with the human beings. And after this monologue he wants to commit suicide, but he’s so drunk that after the first shot in the left palm of his hand he collapses, and committing suicide would be absolutely ridiculous. This is the first step of the project.
Three years later, the novel starts with the same main character. This is an almost different person, because Korin, this person, is absolutely a peaceful person, has become absolutely a peaceful person, he is absolutely calm, he has opinions about his own life, his life is absolutely unnecessary, with this wonderful emotions and sensitivities, absolutely unnecessary, but he’s not angry against the world. He wants to say, “Only in my case, this life, my life, is absolutely unnecessary.” That’s why the best solution is to commit suicide and goodbye. But before committing suicide he found a manuscript in his workplace—he’s an archivist—and this manuscript is a kind of novel about four angels who escape, in world history, from one side of the world to the other side, they want to find peace, a peaceful place, but in the world there is no peaceful place, that’s why they try to escape, and when Korin, the main hero, understands it, he decides to find a way out for these four angels, these four fictional angels, and he goes from a very small town in Eastern Europe to the center of the world—these are his words—to New York, and he wants to find a form to care for this manuscript for eternity. Everything is absolutely impossible for him: the movie, the book, every material form is destructible. That’s why when he listens in a bar to a conversation that something like the internet exists, he has the idea that the virtual space is never destructible. That’s why he goes to New York, writes and sends the text into the internet and this is an eternal place for this manuscript and perhaps this is the solution for these four angels. But at the end of the novel Korin runs into chaos, and in this chaos he goes back to Europe because of a sculpture that is very important for him: an igloo by an Italian artist, Mario Merz. And he wants to spend one hour, actually, his last hour, in this igloo, in this sculpture, in a small town in Switzerland. And he reaches this small town and this small museum, Schauffhausen, a wonderful museum, a modern museum, and this museum has three or four pieces by Mario Merz, one of them this igloo. But Korin arrived about midnight, and of course the guard didn’t want to let him into the igloo. Korin finds a man who understands him and asks this man to make a small plaque with his last sentence, and he gives some money for this plaque and afterward he commits suicide. The last pages of War & War are the sentences and opinions of the man who understood Korin, saying, “Of course we will comply with this last wish, this last plaque, of this poor man, because he deserves it.” This is the last sentence of the book, but it is not the last sentence of the War & War project.
The last sentence is on this plaque. After the novel’s publication the third chapter of this project began, only in reality. One month later, after the book’s publication, we all stood in front of the museum’s entrance and every person, every character from the last chapter of this book stood there and everybody talked about his or her relationship to the main character, Korin. It didn’t matter that this was a fictional person, but these people who were there were and are real people. After that, we unveiled this plaque, and even today, actually forever, you can see in Schauffhausen, on the right side from the main entrance, this plaque with the last sentence of the book.
But after that, what happened? Mario Merz read this book in German, and that same day, in Schauffhausen, in a small town next to Zurich, Mario Merz runs to see the director of this museum—they were friends—and he cried, “Why didn’t you let Korin into my igloo? Why didn’t you let Korin into my igloo?” And the director said, “What?” And Mario, who was always a very animalistic artist, very rough, cried much stronger and louder: “Why didn’t you let this Korin, György Korin, in my igloo?” And slowly the director understood and he tried to explain: “Dear Mario, my friend, György Korin is not a real person, this is a fictional person.” “I didn’t ask you if György Korin is a real person, I asked you why you didn’t let him into my igloo?” “But dear Mario, listen to me, this is a novel, there is a writer, László Krasznahorkai, and György Korin exists only in his imagination, in his novel.” “I didn’t ask you”—but this time Mario’s voice got louder—“I didn’t ask you whether he’s fictional or not!” The director did not know what to do. The director’s wife came in and tried to calm Mario, but that was impossible. One hour, more than one hour, the same story. And after this absolutely crazy conversation the director and his wonderful wife found a solution: they promised Mario Merz they would all go to the birthplace of György Korin, to the small city where the novel starts and there, in that small city, Mario Merz would make a new igloo to commemorate György Korin. That was the only solution. A little more than two weeks later, I waited for these characters from my novel in the Budapest airport. I rented a big car and we went to this small town because Mario wanted to build a new igloo, his first igloo in an open space. But Mario was a very rough character, and he was very cruel with everybody, except with me. Nobody understood why. But everyone showed him around and asked him if this would be a good place and he would be absolutely uninterested. Someone else would show him another. “Perhaps this is good?” “Absolutely unbearable,” Mario would say. One and a half days we walked in this small city, and everything was absolutely terrible. Everybody was out of their wits. And we went back to Budapest, and nobody spoke with anybody, and my task was to transport Mario and his wife, Maritz Merz, who’s also an artist in the Arte Povera. Maritza Merz is also an interesting figure. Mario was six feet tall, a very big man with sculpture fingers, really rough, and Maritza Merz was five foot two inches, very fragile, with huge eyes, long hair, very long black hair, she’s a dear and the vice-president of the World Association of Witches But at the airport, we were alone—Mario Merz, Maritza Merz, and me—and Mario was suddenly a different person after everyone went away. Very calm, very friendly, peaceful, and he began to make sketches, drawings, of what kind of igloos he would make for Korin, and when the airplane was ready to depart, Mario said, “No, the next one.” Maritza had to change the flight because Mario was so enthusiastic and many of his sketches were on the table. Finally they flew back to Turin and four months later, very late in the night, at four o’clock in the morning, my telephone rings: “I am Krisel”—the director’s wife—“excuse me, I am terribly sorry, I know I woke you up, but this is very important.” “What has happened?” “I know that you loved Mario Merz very much and Mario, about three o’clock, has died.”
That was the fourth chapter of this War & War project, but in reality. And in November 2011, in a small town in southeast Hungary, there was a big poetry competition between different schools and different elementary school students. The name of this competition was Competition of the Lyrics of György Korin. Of course nobody from these schools had any idea who was György Korin. They all believe he was a real person, somebody from the city. And that’s the whole War & War story.
March 20, 2016
It might be the first time this has happened in the USA but I haven’t come to start a new life, Korin protested right at the beginning, and not being able to decide whether his companion, who, having consumed his beer, had slumped heavily across the table, had heard him at all or was fast asleep, he put down his glass, leaned over and put his hand on the man's shoulder, carefully looking around him and adding rather more quietly: I would rather like to finish the old one.Each chapter of this book is broken up into numbered sections, with each section consisting of a single sentence. For instance, the first chapter consists of 40 sections, or, 40 sentences. Of course, the first chapter is 49 pages long, which means each of those sentences averages more than a page in length. Example:
3.And that's only a medium-length sentence for the book.
Nobody asked him to speak, only that he should hand over his money but he didn’t, saying he had none, and carried on speaking, hesitantly at first, then more fluently and finally continuously and unstoppably, because the eyes of the seven children had plainly scared him, or, as he himself put it, his stomach had turned in fear, and, as he said, once his stomach was gripped by fear he absolutely had to speak, and furthermore, since the fear had not passed – after all, how could he know whether they were carrying weapons or not – he grew ever more absorbed in his speech, or rather he became ever more absorbed by the idea of telling them everything from beginning to end, of telling someone in any case, because, from the time that he had set out in secret, at the last possible moment, to embark on his “great journey" as he called it, he had not exchanged a word, not a single word, with anyone, considering it too dangerous, though there were few enough people he could engage in conversation in any case, since he hadn't so far met anybody sufficiently harmless, nobody at least, of whom he was not wary because in fact there really was nobody harmless enough, which meant he had to be wary of everyone, because, as he had said at the beginning, whoever it was he set eyes on it was the same thing he saw, a figure, that is, who, directly or indirectly was in contact with those who pursued him, someone related intimately or distantly but most certainly related, to those who, according to him, kept tabs on his every move, and it was only the speed of his movements, as he later explained, that kept him “at least half a day” ahead of them, though these gains were specific to places and occasions: so he had not said a word to anyone, and only did so now because fear drove him, because it was only under the natural pressure of fear that he ventured into these most important areas of his life, venturing deeper and deeper still, offering them ever more profound glimpses of it in order to defeat them, to make them face him so that he might purge his assailants of the tendency to assail, so he should convince all seven of them that someone had not only given himself up to them, but, with his giving, had somehow outflanked them.
(I'm a number dork, so: the book (minus the epilogue, which is an outlier) is 251 pages long and consists of 167 sentences)
What's interesting, is that there are a few reference points in the book to give explanation for the extremely long sentences - both in the way that Korin speaks and in some of the descriptions of the manuscript - where it feels like the book is written in this manner to suit these circumstances. But, Krasznahorkai is pretty well known for these sorts of sentences - I pulled Satantango off the shelf to verify, and the first page I opened to was just a lovely wall of words - so now I'm curious if the way he writes is narratively entrenched in other books he's written (this is the first of his I've actually read).
All that said, this a truly stunning book. The (frame tale) story of Korin and the story of the manuscript which he tells - of these moments in history when true lasting peace was obtainable and instead war was chosen - the story that Krasznahorkai is telling, with its casual unthinking brutality suffused with moments of beauty and transcendental connections - all of it comes together to form a staggering whole.
And - I'm going to say this, but don't read ahead and spoil it for yourself - at the end of the book you are given a website url, which you should open and make sure you read in full. It's heartbreaking, and it avoids being gimmicky and instead adds a while terrible layer to Korin's life.
Read
September 1, 2024Boekhandelaar Steven Van Ammel noemde zijn naam in mijn podcast 'drie boeken' (aflevering 207). Hij tipte hem als mogelijke Nobelprijswinnaar. Ik had zijn naam nog nooit gehoord. Op reis in Frankrijk heb ik mij getrakteerd op een boek van de Hongaarse schrijver László Krasznahorkai. Ik koos het enige boek dat van hem in de bibliotheek lag: Oorlog en oorlog.
Het verhaal gaat over Korin, een man die werkt als archivaris en een document vindt waarmee hij naar New York trekt, om daar zijn levensmissie te voltooien. In het manuscript duiken vier figuren op, tijdens verschillende momenten in de geschiedenis. We horen wat er in het manuscript staat en wat Korin ermee van plan is.
Wat de schrijver doet met taal in dit boek, is ongelooflijk: Korin spreekt geen Engels en moet zich in New York redden met zijn notitieboekje en enkele woordjes die hij kent. Alles wat in het boek staat, wordt door iemand verteld tegen iemand anders. We krijgen nooit iets rechtstreeks te horen van een alwetende verteller. Niks.
Korin vertelt zijn verhaal ook steeds tegen mensen die compleet niet geïnteresseerd zijn in wat hij te vertellen heeft. Toch blijft hij oneindig doorgaan, en elk detail van zijn tocht vertellen. Bovendien - schrijft de schrijver - weigert de taal soms dienst. In het manuscript van Korin, maar ook in de roman die we aan het lezen zijn.
De tekst in de roman speelt met de tekst van Korins manuscript; het manuscript gaat soms met de roman aan de haal. Terwijl Korin zijn manuscript probeert te begrijpen, proberen wij het boek te begrijpen. En oja, ik zou het nog bijna vergeten te zegggen: elk hoofdstuk in dit boek bestaat uit één zin, vaak vele bladzijden lang. Slik. Patat.
Emotioneel ging ik helemaal mee met de vier delen: zoekend in het eerste deel, meegesleept worden in het tweede, verward in het derde, verbluft in het vierde.
Zoals je wel voelt, is dit boek absoluut niet evident om te lezen. Het is een klus, het is werken, het is een investering. De vorm van dit boek is uitzinnig, de inhoud doet het stormen in je hoofd.
Een ontroerende hoofdfiguur, een epische tocht, een ingenieus taalspel, een bespiegeling op mens, oorlog, vrede en god, een onvergetelijk boek. Oorlog en oorlog is niets minder dan een gigantisch kunstwerk. Bedankt Steven Van Ammel voor de wonderbaarlijke tip.
Het verhaal gaat over Korin, een man die werkt als archivaris en een document vindt waarmee hij naar New York trekt, om daar zijn levensmissie te voltooien. In het manuscript duiken vier figuren op, tijdens verschillende momenten in de geschiedenis. We horen wat er in het manuscript staat en wat Korin ermee van plan is.
Wat de schrijver doet met taal in dit boek, is ongelooflijk: Korin spreekt geen Engels en moet zich in New York redden met zijn notitieboekje en enkele woordjes die hij kent. Alles wat in het boek staat, wordt door iemand verteld tegen iemand anders. We krijgen nooit iets rechtstreeks te horen van een alwetende verteller. Niks.
Korin vertelt zijn verhaal ook steeds tegen mensen die compleet niet geïnteresseerd zijn in wat hij te vertellen heeft. Toch blijft hij oneindig doorgaan, en elk detail van zijn tocht vertellen. Bovendien - schrijft de schrijver - weigert de taal soms dienst. In het manuscript van Korin, maar ook in de roman die we aan het lezen zijn.
De tekst in de roman speelt met de tekst van Korins manuscript; het manuscript gaat soms met de roman aan de haal. Terwijl Korin zijn manuscript probeert te begrijpen, proberen wij het boek te begrijpen. En oja, ik zou het nog bijna vergeten te zegggen: elk hoofdstuk in dit boek bestaat uit één zin, vaak vele bladzijden lang. Slik. Patat.
Emotioneel ging ik helemaal mee met de vier delen: zoekend in het eerste deel, meegesleept worden in het tweede, verward in het derde, verbluft in het vierde.
Zoals je wel voelt, is dit boek absoluut niet evident om te lezen. Het is een klus, het is werken, het is een investering. De vorm van dit boek is uitzinnig, de inhoud doet het stormen in je hoofd.
Een ontroerende hoofdfiguur, een epische tocht, een ingenieus taalspel, een bespiegeling op mens, oorlog, vrede en god, een onvergetelijk boek. Oorlog en oorlog is niets minder dan een gigantisch kunstwerk. Bedankt Steven Van Ammel voor de wonderbaarlijke tip.
September 7, 2015
Language, languages, architecture, and how these things construct the consciousness. Peace, war, the advent of money-based trade systems, and the end, personal or apocalyptically global. And much more, across most of human history and half the globe. There's a whole lot here, more than I can get a proper handle on. I still have some serious unpacking to do, and I don't mean from the month-long road trip I read this over the course of.
Actually, suddenly, thinking about what meaning the book attempts to or is able to transmit to me, and about my understanding and ability to understand, I'm suddenly thinking that this might be the prime content of the novel. The solitude of epiphany and the supreme difficulty of transmitting significant meaning to others. Maybe? This is definitely the core of Korin's struggle and it drives the entire confused-monologue structuring of the story. Like I said, lots more unpacking.
A note on format. Much can be said of the book's chapter structure. Each is a single winding (sometimes comma-splicing) sentence. Many go on for pages. Many are beautiful. All are pretty readable for all that. As above, the format totally works with the content.
A note on extra-textual punchlines. This one is inevitably tragic and sort of hilarious.
A note on Lazlo K. Hungarian speakers please translate more of his novels. (I just saw that we're getting a translation of Satantango, which Bela Tarr turned into a 7 hour film. Which, I mean, dang.)
A note on Mihaly Vig. I really kinda love the cameo from Bela Tarr's soundtracker and his band Balaton at a concert where Korin takes shelter early on in Budapest. It keeps things in the family. Hence the link back up there at the top of the review (since gone because the original site is gone and I can't recall which song seemed to fit at the time).
Actually, suddenly, thinking about what meaning the book attempts to or is able to transmit to me, and about my understanding and ability to understand, I'm suddenly thinking that this might be the prime content of the novel. The solitude of epiphany and the supreme difficulty of transmitting significant meaning to others. Maybe? This is definitely the core of Korin's struggle and it drives the entire confused-monologue structuring of the story. Like I said, lots more unpacking.
A note on format. Much can be said of the book's chapter structure. Each is a single winding (sometimes comma-splicing) sentence. Many go on for pages. Many are beautiful. All are pretty readable for all that. As above, the format totally works with the content.
A note on extra-textual punchlines. This one is inevitably tragic and sort of hilarious.
A note on Lazlo K. Hungarian speakers please translate more of his novels. (I just saw that we're getting a translation of Satantango, which Bela Tarr turned into a 7 hour film. Which, I mean, dang.)
A note on Mihaly Vig. I really kinda love the cameo from Bela Tarr's soundtracker and his band Balaton at a concert where Korin takes shelter early on in Budapest. It keeps things in the family. Hence the link back up there at the top of the review (since gone because the original site is gone and I can't recall which song seemed to fit at the time).
February 27, 2017
hẳn nhiên là một thứ văn chương đẹp kỳ quái và vượt trội trên tất thảy. các nhà văn châu âu luôn làm tôi ngạc nhiên ngỡ ngàng. chưa có cơ hội đọc bản dịch tiếng Việt nên không biết chất lượng thế nào.
November 19, 2017
War And War plants seeds of hope in the soil of your heart, only to pour acid on it a few pages later. A cruel reminder of beauty's hopelessness in a world that's deranged as it is misled.
+1 star just for the final chapter.
+1 star just for the final chapter.
September 8, 2021
Was sucht er? Wovor flieht er? Was macht ihn so verrückt? Rastlos und gehetzt bequasselt er ohne Hemmung jeden, der ihm über den Weg läuft, erzählt ihm ausführlich sein ganzes Leben, erzählt es den Kindern, die ihn auf der Eisenbahnüberführung bedrohen, der Stewardess am Budapester Flughafen, die ihm im letzten Abdruck ein Visum besorgt, einem Taxifahrer in New York und dem Museumswärter in Schaffhausen.
Als Lokalhistoriker und Archivar in einer ungarischen Kleinstadt entdeckte er, bevor die Geschichte beginnt, ein merkwürdiges Manuskript. Darin wird von vier Männern erzählt, die sich an verschiedensten Orten zu verschiedensten Zeiten aufhalten, etwa in Kreta zu babylonischer Zeit, in einem Kölner Bierhaus um 1880, wo sie mit großem Interesse die Fertigstellung des Doms beobachten oder im alten Rom auf der Via Appia.
So rätselhaft wie das Manuskript ist das ganze Buch und man könnte das Manuskript als ein inneres Abbild des Buches selbst deuten, oder als Modell, das zum Buch im selben Verhältnis steht, wie das Buch zur Welt. Der Fund bringt Unruhe in Korims geruhsames Leben, das keinen Sinn mehr hat. Er verkauft seinen Besitz, gibt alles auf. Er reist in konfuser Besessenheit ab, er muss ins Zentrum der Welt, nach New York, wo er als letzte Aufgabe seines Lebens das Manuskript der Ewigkeit überantworten will. Sprich, er tippt es Tag für Tag, Seite um Seite ab und veröffentlicht es als Website im Internet.
»... was bedeute, sagte er, in dem Maß, wie drüben die Poesie wachse, nehme hier die Zahl seiner Tage ab, aber das jage ihm nicht Angst ein, im Gegenteil, er sei höchst zufrieden, wisse er doch gut, worin hier seine einzige Chance bestehe, darin nämlich, daß alles in diesem tödlichen Gleichgewicht bleibt, zwischen der Ewigkeit und den weniger werdenden Tagen bleibt, den ursprünglichen Plänen entsprechend so bleibt, daß es auf der einen Seite wächst und wächst und auf der anderen stetig abnimmt.«
Auch die vier Männer im Manuskript werden immer wieder von einer seltsamen Unruhe befallen, sie scheinen auf einer endlosen Flucht durch Geschichte und Geographie zu sein, nur, das ist keine alberne Zeitreise wie bei H.G.Wells, der Autor des Manuskripts sucht offenbar verzweifelt nach einem Ort und einer Zeit, wo er die vier in Ruhe und Frieden ansiedeln kann, doch die Menschheitsgeschichte ist eine Abfolge von Krieg und Krieg und so wird das Vorhaben immer unmöglicher, immer unübersichtlicher und endet schließlich im Chaos und dem Untergang Roms.
Wie üblich bei Krasznahorkai bin ich schwer begeistert. Sprache und Bilder sind ungewöhnlich, aber vom Feinsten, und ich mag die unerwarteten Wendungen, das Rätselhafte, Unberechenbare, Ambivalente, wo mir als Leser die maximale Freiheit gelassen wird. Ein großes, zeitloses Buch über die Unruhe des Menschen und der Welt, über Zerrissenheit, Unfrieden und die Suche nach Zuflucht.
Was hat das mit den Iglus des Arte-Povera-Künstlers Mario Merz zu tun?
Vielleicht sind sie Sinnbild für Schutz und Asyl, Symbol des gesicherten Raums, ein Traum, in dem mensch sich niederlassen kann, eine Sphäre der Ruhe und des Friedens. Krasznahorkai war mit Merz gut bekannt und hat ihm später nochmals in Seiobo auf Erden mit der Nummerierung der Kapitel in der Fibonacci Reihe seine Referenz erwiesen. Heute hängt in den Hallen für neue Kunst, die 2014 von Schaffhausen nach Basel übersiedelt sind, jene Gedenktafel, die Korim im Roman als einen letzten Wunsch erbittet.
"Hier tötete sich mit einem Revolver der Held des Romans Krieg und Krieg von László Krasznahorkai, György Korim, der lange suchte und nicht fand, was er den Ausweg nannte."
Als Lokalhistoriker und Archivar in einer ungarischen Kleinstadt entdeckte er, bevor die Geschichte beginnt, ein merkwürdiges Manuskript. Darin wird von vier Männern erzählt, die sich an verschiedensten Orten zu verschiedensten Zeiten aufhalten, etwa in Kreta zu babylonischer Zeit, in einem Kölner Bierhaus um 1880, wo sie mit großem Interesse die Fertigstellung des Doms beobachten oder im alten Rom auf der Via Appia.
So rätselhaft wie das Manuskript ist das ganze Buch und man könnte das Manuskript als ein inneres Abbild des Buches selbst deuten, oder als Modell, das zum Buch im selben Verhältnis steht, wie das Buch zur Welt. Der Fund bringt Unruhe in Korims geruhsames Leben, das keinen Sinn mehr hat. Er verkauft seinen Besitz, gibt alles auf. Er reist in konfuser Besessenheit ab, er muss ins Zentrum der Welt, nach New York, wo er als letzte Aufgabe seines Lebens das Manuskript der Ewigkeit überantworten will. Sprich, er tippt es Tag für Tag, Seite um Seite ab und veröffentlicht es als Website im Internet.
»... was bedeute, sagte er, in dem Maß, wie drüben die Poesie wachse, nehme hier die Zahl seiner Tage ab, aber das jage ihm nicht Angst ein, im Gegenteil, er sei höchst zufrieden, wisse er doch gut, worin hier seine einzige Chance bestehe, darin nämlich, daß alles in diesem tödlichen Gleichgewicht bleibt, zwischen der Ewigkeit und den weniger werdenden Tagen bleibt, den ursprünglichen Plänen entsprechend so bleibt, daß es auf der einen Seite wächst und wächst und auf der anderen stetig abnimmt.«
Auch die vier Männer im Manuskript werden immer wieder von einer seltsamen Unruhe befallen, sie scheinen auf einer endlosen Flucht durch Geschichte und Geographie zu sein, nur, das ist keine alberne Zeitreise wie bei H.G.Wells, der Autor des Manuskripts sucht offenbar verzweifelt nach einem Ort und einer Zeit, wo er die vier in Ruhe und Frieden ansiedeln kann, doch die Menschheitsgeschichte ist eine Abfolge von Krieg und Krieg und so wird das Vorhaben immer unmöglicher, immer unübersichtlicher und endet schließlich im Chaos und dem Untergang Roms.
Wie üblich bei Krasznahorkai bin ich schwer begeistert. Sprache und Bilder sind ungewöhnlich, aber vom Feinsten, und ich mag die unerwarteten Wendungen, das Rätselhafte, Unberechenbare, Ambivalente, wo mir als Leser die maximale Freiheit gelassen wird. Ein großes, zeitloses Buch über die Unruhe des Menschen und der Welt, über Zerrissenheit, Unfrieden und die Suche nach Zuflucht.
Was hat das mit den Iglus des Arte-Povera-Künstlers Mario Merz zu tun?
Vielleicht sind sie Sinnbild für Schutz und Asyl, Symbol des gesicherten Raums, ein Traum, in dem mensch sich niederlassen kann, eine Sphäre der Ruhe und des Friedens. Krasznahorkai war mit Merz gut bekannt und hat ihm später nochmals in Seiobo auf Erden mit der Nummerierung der Kapitel in der Fibonacci Reihe seine Referenz erwiesen. Heute hängt in den Hallen für neue Kunst, die 2014 von Schaffhausen nach Basel übersiedelt sind, jene Gedenktafel, die Korim im Roman als einen letzten Wunsch erbittet.
"Hier tötete sich mit einem Revolver der Held des Romans Krieg und Krieg von László Krasznahorkai, György Korim, der lange suchte und nicht fand, was er den Ausweg nannte."
July 25, 2015
Υποβλητικό και εντυπωσιακό λογοτεχνικά, το βιβλίο δεν είναι από αυτά που θα σε κερδίσουν με το τι λέει αλλά με το πως το λέει.
Κι αυτό δεν είναι κακό, γιατί να είναι, δε χρειάζεται να κυνηγάμε συνεχώς νοήματα και πλοκές, είναι καθησυχαστικό να αφηνόμαστε καμιά φορά στη ροή μιας αφήγησης. Μια αφήγηση βέβαια που έχει πλάνο και σχέδιο, είναι γεμάτη μαυρίλα [λιγάκι αστεία], γεμάτη τραγικότητα [λιγάκι αλαφρή], γεμάτη κυνικότητα [σκέτη αυτή], προφήτη, αποκάλυψη, σκοτάδι, Ευρώπη, Μεφιστοφελή, τρέλα, πόλεμο, Βαβέλ, απ' όλα έχει.
Επίσης είναι ένα βιβλίο που προκαλεί τρελό name-dropping από τους κριτικούς λογοτεχνίας ;)
Τελικά όμως, όσο κι αν ήθελα να τυλιχτώ με το βιβλίο και να ζήσω εκεί μέσα, όσο κι αν κατανοώ θεωρητικά την αξία του ως κειμένου, όσο κι αν θαύμασα τη σχεδόν αυτόματη γραφή του Κρασναχορκάι, δύσκολα θα το ξανασκεφτώ μετά από 6 μήνες και μάλλον δε θα μου αφήσει πολλά πέρα από την απροσδιόριστη μαγεία της γλώσσας του. Έτσι, τα 3.5*/5 είναι ενδεδειγμένα.
Κι αυτό δεν είναι κακό, γιατί να είναι, δε χρειάζεται να κυνηγάμε συνεχώς νοήματα και πλοκές, είναι καθησυχαστικό να αφηνόμαστε καμιά φορά στη ροή μιας αφήγησης. Μια αφήγηση βέβαια που έχει πλάνο και σχέδιο, είναι γεμάτη μαυρίλα [λιγάκι αστεία], γεμάτη τραγικότητα [λιγάκι αλαφρή], γεμάτη κυνικότητα [σκέτη αυτή], προφήτη, αποκάλυψη, σκοτάδι, Ευρώπη, Μεφιστοφελή, τρέλα, πόλεμο, Βαβέλ, απ' όλα έχει.
Επίσης είναι ένα βιβλίο που προκαλεί τρελό name-dropping από τους κριτικούς λογοτεχνίας ;)
Τελικά όμως, όσο κι αν ήθελα να τυλιχτώ με το βιβλίο και να ζήσω εκεί μέσα, όσο κι αν κατανοώ θεωρητικά την αξία του ως κειμένου, όσο κι αν θαύμασα τη σχεδόν αυτόματη γραφή του Κρασναχορκάι, δύσκολα θα το ξανασκεφτώ μετά από 6 μήνες και μάλλον δε θα μου αφήσει πολλά πέρα από την απροσδιόριστη μαγεία της γλώσσας του. Έτσι, τα 3.5*/5 είναι ενδεδειγμένα.
September 27, 2012
War and War is the story of Korin, an archivist from a small Hungarian town, crippled by his passivity and his jejune life. Through his work, he randomly encounters an impenetrable manuscript that recounts the tale of the same four men appearing in various points in history, and observations about civilization and art. Korin becomes transfixed by the abstruse manuscript; his obsession incites him to sell all of his worldly possessions and abandon his life in Hungary, to come to New York City -- the center of the world -- and transcribe the manuscript so that it may be read by all on the internet, for all eternity. The manuscript serves as the catalyst for Korin’s descent into madness (or was he mentally ill to begin with?) as Korin is repeatedly thrust into terrifying scenarios in the pursuit of his goal.
Reading this is a demanding and often disorienting experience. The structure is such that it is easy to let the mind wander and completely lose track of the narrative thread. Each chapter is divided into sub-chapters, and each sub-chapter consists of one sentence; one sentence that will often meander for pages and flow into different thoughts or parts of the story. Thus, it requires adopting a very specific reading pace or way of focusing on the text, in order to adequately retain anything. Reading this was reminiscent of one of those Magic Eye 3D posters from the 90s, in that way. If you focus too hard, or observe it from the wrong angle, it is unlikely you will be able to view the illusion.
Like its predecessor, Satantango, War and War was able to tear down my emotional iron curtain and provoke a wide range of emotions with startling intensity. There were times where I was filled with rage by the blighted world Korin inhabited. Other times I was profoundly sad, knowing that Korin’s story would end with his suicide (this is not a spoiler, this is on the back of the book), and inexplicably hopeful that something good would happen to him (this is a Krasznahorkai novel, after all). But then, after a brief honeymoon, I became frustrated by the novel’s density, especially the parts of the narrative where Korin’s story intertwined with his descriptions of the manuscript (which is the point, as Korin retreats further into the many worlds of the manuscript and away from his cruel reality). But these parts of the novel required a lot of heavy lifting, and left me feeling exhausted and unsatisfied, and like I was constantly missing something, but I didn’t find the manuscript interesting enough to care about it (even though I cared about Korin, and Korin only cared about the manuscript).
War and War was published in 1999, after Krasznahorkai had achieved a significant amount of success and critical acclaim; most notably for his earlier novels, Satantango and The Melancholy of Resistance, both adapted for the screen by Béla Tarr. Having read Satantango, his first novel, not too long ago, qualifies me for drawing some comparison between the two works. It felt as if there was a cocksure swagger to War and War that was absent from Satantango. And I don’t mean this in a complimentary way. (And this is not sour grapes because a lot of this book went over my head.) I felt like the excessive density of the prose had a bitter, masturbatory quality to it. Like LK was saying, “Fuck you, I know I’m brilliant and amazing. I want to alienate all you fuckers,” thus turning his readers into unwittingparticipants victims in a degrading, ritualistic bukkake.
Finally, let’s talk about ratings here. I am strangely obsessed with rating books appropriately (or, maybe it’s because ratings correspond well with the obsessive compulsive part of my personality). I question the veracity of the almost universal high ratings on this. I can’t be the only person that felt this way about this book. Are people being honest with themselves? Is no one else willing to admit that this made them feel stupid? Or maybe this is an illustration of the famous JD Salinger quote from The Catcher in the Rye; “All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they’ll do practically anything you want them to.” Including characterizing this book as amazing, when at least half of the time it was incomprehensible.
Reading this is a demanding and often disorienting experience. The structure is such that it is easy to let the mind wander and completely lose track of the narrative thread. Each chapter is divided into sub-chapters, and each sub-chapter consists of one sentence; one sentence that will often meander for pages and flow into different thoughts or parts of the story. Thus, it requires adopting a very specific reading pace or way of focusing on the text, in order to adequately retain anything. Reading this was reminiscent of one of those Magic Eye 3D posters from the 90s, in that way. If you focus too hard, or observe it from the wrong angle, it is unlikely you will be able to view the illusion.
Like its predecessor, Satantango, War and War was able to tear down my emotional iron curtain and provoke a wide range of emotions with startling intensity. There were times where I was filled with rage by the blighted world Korin inhabited. Other times I was profoundly sad, knowing that Korin’s story would end with his suicide (this is not a spoiler, this is on the back of the book), and inexplicably hopeful that something good would happen to him (this is a Krasznahorkai novel, after all). But then, after a brief honeymoon, I became frustrated by the novel’s density, especially the parts of the narrative where Korin’s story intertwined with his descriptions of the manuscript (which is the point, as Korin retreats further into the many worlds of the manuscript and away from his cruel reality). But these parts of the novel required a lot of heavy lifting, and left me feeling exhausted and unsatisfied, and like I was constantly missing something, but I didn’t find the manuscript interesting enough to care about it (even though I cared about Korin, and Korin only cared about the manuscript).
War and War was published in 1999, after Krasznahorkai had achieved a significant amount of success and critical acclaim; most notably for his earlier novels, Satantango and The Melancholy of Resistance, both adapted for the screen by Béla Tarr. Having read Satantango, his first novel, not too long ago, qualifies me for drawing some comparison between the two works. It felt as if there was a cocksure swagger to War and War that was absent from Satantango. And I don’t mean this in a complimentary way. (And this is not sour grapes because a lot of this book went over my head.) I felt like the excessive density of the prose had a bitter, masturbatory quality to it. Like LK was saying, “Fuck you, I know I’m brilliant and amazing. I want to alienate all you fuckers,” thus turning his readers into unwitting
Finally, let’s talk about ratings here. I am strangely obsessed with rating books appropriately (or, maybe it’s because ratings correspond well with the obsessive compulsive part of my personality). I question the veracity of the almost universal high ratings on this. I can’t be the only person that felt this way about this book. Are people being honest with themselves? Is no one else willing to admit that this made them feel stupid? Or maybe this is an illustration of the famous JD Salinger quote from The Catcher in the Rye; “All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they’ll do practically anything you want them to.” Including characterizing this book as amazing, when at least half of the time it was incomprehensible.
April 25, 2022
Tenere a memoria, per quanto sia difficile, questo nome Laszlo Krasznahorkai, l'autore merita il Nobel, non è che lo dico io è da un po' uno dei possibili candidati al premio.
Laszlo Krasznahorkai è il maggior scrittore ungherese, viene avvicinato a Sebald o a Bernhard, trovo siano accostamenti un po' fuorvianti, se di Sebald ha l'amore per la delimitazione spaziale o temporale dei dettagli, anche architettonici, e di Bhernard una certa visione cupa del mondo, di converso Krasznahorkai possiede quel guizzo di follia e visionarietà, di sparigliare le carte, e la sua scrittura possiede una gentilezza anche nel descrivere il male, che non so spiegare.
Da sfatare subito ogni possibile associazione evocata dal titolo: qui la guerra in senso tradizionale non c'entra una cippa.
La guerra è da intendere come uno stato permanente dell'esistenza: pulsione tra il bisogno di sicurezza (il vallo di Adriano) e la tendenza ad affrontare sempre nuove sfide (colonne d'Ercole a Gibilterra), così solo a titolo esemplificativo, cose che si chiariscono in corso di lettura.
La vita, così come la Storia, ha il carattere di una continua precarietà, è un Eden sempre perduto non appena lo si conquista ecco arrivare la distruzione, la fine della pace nella grande Storia o della propria serenità individuale.
Il protagonista tal Korin è un dolcissimo logorroico genio, folle e come tutti i folli un perdente, votato alla sconfitta perenne, Korin ama i perdenti; trova un manoscritto negli archivi di Stato dove lavora e consegnarlo all'eternità, condividerlo, diffonderlo diventa lo scopo della sua esistenza.
Lo so l'espediente del manoscritto in letteratura è spesso abusato, infastidisce sempre anche me, fa nulla dimenticatelo.
Il romanzo si svolge su due piani presente e passato, ma non il classico viaggio nel tempo all'indietro (quello sarebbe oltremodo banale) ma un po' a zig zag, uno slalom passando in epoche storiche diverse: per l'antica isola di Creta, Colonia e il suo meraviglioso Duomo, Bassano e parte del Veneto, il Vallo Adriano, Gibilterra e finalmente Roma davanti a Porta Appia dove qualcosa definitivamente finisce, ma poi New York (il centro del mondo) e l'Ungheria ovviamente, per finire in Svizzera in un igloo che è un'opera d'arte d'avanguardia di uno scultore italiano esistito realmente, dove finzione narrativa e realtà si fondono nel vero senso della parola e per questo aspetto audace il romanzo di Laszlo Krasznahorkai è veramente postmoderno.
Guerra e guerra romanzo stratificato di significati, caleidoscopico, avvolgente nelle sue frasi lunghissime ma sempre chiare, una prosa di una bellezza abbacinante.
Dell'autore avevo già letto Melancolia della resistenza, altrettanto bello, ma con Guerra e guerra siamo ad un livello direi superiore per completezza e universalità di temi e narrazione.
Laszlo Krasznahorkai è il maggior scrittore ungherese, viene avvicinato a Sebald o a Bernhard, trovo siano accostamenti un po' fuorvianti, se di Sebald ha l'amore per la delimitazione spaziale o temporale dei dettagli, anche architettonici, e di Bhernard una certa visione cupa del mondo, di converso Krasznahorkai possiede quel guizzo di follia e visionarietà, di sparigliare le carte, e la sua scrittura possiede una gentilezza anche nel descrivere il male, che non so spiegare.
Da sfatare subito ogni possibile associazione evocata dal titolo: qui la guerra in senso tradizionale non c'entra una cippa.
La guerra è da intendere come uno stato permanente dell'esistenza: pulsione tra il bisogno di sicurezza (il vallo di Adriano) e la tendenza ad affrontare sempre nuove sfide (colonne d'Ercole a Gibilterra), così solo a titolo esemplificativo, cose che si chiariscono in corso di lettura.
La vita, così come la Storia, ha il carattere di una continua precarietà, è un Eden sempre perduto non appena lo si conquista ecco arrivare la distruzione, la fine della pace nella grande Storia o della propria serenità individuale.
Il protagonista tal Korin è un dolcissimo logorroico genio, folle e come tutti i folli un perdente, votato alla sconfitta perenne, Korin ama i perdenti; trova un manoscritto negli archivi di Stato dove lavora e consegnarlo all'eternità, condividerlo, diffonderlo diventa lo scopo della sua esistenza.
Lo so l'espediente del manoscritto in letteratura è spesso abusato, infastidisce sempre anche me, fa nulla dimenticatelo.
Il romanzo si svolge su due piani presente e passato, ma non il classico viaggio nel tempo all'indietro (quello sarebbe oltremodo banale) ma un po' a zig zag, uno slalom passando in epoche storiche diverse: per l'antica isola di Creta, Colonia e il suo meraviglioso Duomo, Bassano e parte del Veneto, il Vallo Adriano, Gibilterra e finalmente Roma davanti a Porta Appia dove qualcosa definitivamente finisce, ma poi New York (il centro del mondo) e l'Ungheria ovviamente, per finire in Svizzera in un igloo che è un'opera d'arte d'avanguardia di uno scultore italiano esistito realmente, dove finzione narrativa e realtà si fondono nel vero senso della parola e per questo aspetto audace il romanzo di Laszlo Krasznahorkai è veramente postmoderno.
Guerra e guerra romanzo stratificato di significati, caleidoscopico, avvolgente nelle sue frasi lunghissime ma sempre chiare, una prosa di una bellezza abbacinante.
Dell'autore avevo già letto Melancolia della resistenza, altrettanto bello, ma con Guerra e guerra siamo ad un livello direi superiore per completezza e universalità di temi e narrazione.
July 18, 2017
ở giữ chiến tranh và chiến tranh, phải chăng là hòa bình? Hay chỉ là một bước đệm, một khoảng lặng trong một thế giới bất ổn và đang trên đà sụp đổ?
Có thể nói đây là cuốn sách đáng chú ý nhất năm nay, dù lối viết của László Krasznahorkai không có chút nào là dễ đọc.
Có thể nói đây là cuốn sách đáng chú ý nhất năm nay, dù lối viết của László Krasznahorkai không có chút nào là dễ đọc.
December 8, 2023
De onnavolgbare, unieke en ongelofelijk eigenzinnige Hongaarse schrijver Laszlo Krasznahorkai geldt in het Duitse en Angelsaksische taalgebied al tijden als een fenomeen. Zeker sinds hij de Man Booker International 2015 heeft gewonnen. Zelf ben ik helemaal idolaat van hem, vooral dankzij “De melancholie van het verzet”. Sinds dat boek is Krasznahorkai een van mijn ultieme helden, iemand van wie ik alles lezen wil. Dus kon ik “Oorlog en oorlog” niet laten liggen, ook al had ik in 2016 al de Engelse vertaling “War and war” gelezen (en bejubeld). Welnu, bij herlezing vond ik dit boek zelfs nog formidabeler dan de eerste keer. Misschien omdat je bij herlezing altijd meer ziet dan de eerste keer. Misschien omdat de Nederlandse vertaling – van Mari Alföldi- zo swingend en meeslepend is. Hoe dan ook: ik genoot. Enorm.
Hoofdpersoon is György Korin, gepromoveerd historicus en archivaris, wiens leven en wereldbeeld helemaal op zijn kop wordt gezet door de toevallige vondst van een verpletterend maar volkomen duister manuscript. Totaal overweldigd door de hermetische inhoud en de ultieme schoonheid hiervan besluit hij uit zijn Hongaarse provinciestadje naar New York te reizen, het middelpunt van de wereld, en om aldaar het hele manuscript op internet te zetten. Daarna is hij dan vast van plan zelfmoord te plegen, want met name dit manuscript heeft hem geleerd dat het hele bestaan één grote chaos is, die van elke zin en betekenis is verstoken. Maar dan ook totaal. Niet voor niets vertelt hij aan een onbegrijpende toehoorder dat juist de zo dubbelzinnige, duistere en onbevattelijke god Hermes voor hem een groot voorbeeld was: “Hermes was voor hem de absolute oorsprong, zei hij, de ontmoeting met het hermetische […], zijn raadselachtigheid, zijn onbevattelijkheid, zijn extreme veelzijdigheid, zijn verzwegen trekken, de veelbetekenende stilte over de duistere kant van zijn wezen, dit alles betoverde zijn fantasie, of misschien was het beter om te zeggen dat het die fantasie gijzelde […]”.
Alles in deze wereld is volgens Korin dus gehuld in hermetisch duister, niets wordt door enig verhelderend licht beschenen. God is dood, de hemel is leeg, er is geen hogere waarheid of maatgevende bovenwereld, en dus is het leven door elke zin verlaten. Zodat de aarde een immense duisternis is, en de hemel een andere maar even immense duisternis die niet met de aarde is verbonden. En zodat Korin zich een nietig zinloos wezentje voelt dat verdwaald is tussen die twee oneindige hermetische duisternissen: “[…] de hemel, die ook zijn eigen onmetelijke donkere massa, trillend van de sterren, in het enorme spoorlandschap onder hen weerspiegeld had kunnen zien, als tussen de trillende sterren en het doffe rood van de talloze semaforenpalen enig contact mogelijk was geweest; maar er was geen contact, want er was geen gezamenlijke orde, en er was ook geen onderlinge samenhang, er bestonden slechts twee afzonderlijke ordes en twee afzonderlijke samenhangen, want sterren en semaforen staarden elkaar blind aan, en alle grote entiteiten van het bestaan waren blind voor elkaar, blind was de aarde en blind de hemel, zodat in de verloren blik van een hoger gezichtspunt een dode symmetrie van wijdte ontstond, en in het midden uiteraard een minuscuul vlekje, en daarin Korin… […].”.
Dat gevoel van duisternis en totale chaos maakt Krasznahorkai indringend voelbaar door zijn ellenlange zinnen, die soms wel vier pagina’s achter elkaar doordenderen. Zinnen die ademloos alle kanten op bewegen, die vol zitten met herhalingen en tegenspraken en zelfs met perspectiefwisselingen, zinnen bovendien die weigeren om zich te laten rangschikken in een ordelijke alineastructuur. Want in de wereld van Krasznahorkai ontbreekt elke structuur, ontbreekt ook elke rustpauze. Ieder hoofdstuk bestaat uit precies één zin die vol zit met chaotische en onbegrijpelijk intense beleving, waarin wordt verteld over ervaringen waarin geen logica of patroon valt te ontdekken. Dat leidt echter wel tot heel meeslepende passages, zoals de citaten hierboven hopelijk een klein beetje illustreren. En tot heel kleurrijke passages bovendien, want Krasznahorkais taferelen zijn ongelofelijk rijk aan details, en ook aan scala's van uiteenlopende perspectieven en emoties die je in "gewone" zinnen nooit zou zien. In een wat normaler boek zou je bijvoorbeeld citaten lezen uit het door Korin bewonderde manuscript. In “Oorlog en oorlog” echter zie je hoe Korin ademloos over dit voor hem onbevattelijke manuscript vertelt, hoe hij diverse passages daaruit parafraseert in eigen bewoordingen en welke stijgende verbijstering hij bij die parafrases voelt, welke indruk Korin tijdens het vertellen maakt op zijn toehoorder die hem nauwelijks begrijpt, in wat voor desolate en door verwarring geteisterde omgeving hij zich daarbij bevindt, enzovoort enzoverder. En juist dat totaalbeeld, onbevattelijk vol en bont als een schilderij van Bruegel, vind ik in elk hoofdstuk – in elke zin- verpletterend.
Het is bovendien fascinerend om glimpen op te vangen van het manuscript dat Korin zo overweldigt. We zien hoe vier volmaakt mysterieuze personages, die kennelijk net ontsnapt zijn aan een geheimzinnige oorlog, stranden op Kreta en vol verbijstering staren naar de pracht van de Minoïsche beschaving, zo’n 1600 jaar voor onze jaartelling, en naar de plotse vernietiging daarvan. Die verbijstering krijgt extra lading als we bedenken dat deze vernietigde, maar prachtige beschaving Plato mogelijk inspireerde tot zijn verhaal over het mythische Atlantis. We zien vervolgens hoe dezelfde vier personages vele eeuwen later -dank zij een volkomen onverklaarde en niet te rationaliseren 'breuk' in het verhaal- getuige zijn van de bouw van een kathedraal, die een adembenemend beschreven Goddelijk-demonische transcendentie uitstraalt. Maar ook die kathedraal staat op de rand van de ondergang. We zien hoe zij bij de muur van Hadrianus, in een tafereel waarin het oude Rome op bijna surrealistische wijze met het Spanje en Portugal uit de tijden van Columbus versmelt, op bijna hallucinatoire wijze spookbeelden ervaren van het "niet zijn" voorbij de muur en de fragiele fundamenten van het "zijn" aan hun kant van de muur. Wat dan gepaard gaat met de panische angst dat de wereld zal ophouden te bestaan, omdat Columbus naar het einde van de wereld vaart en dus ontdekkingen gaat doen voorbij de grenzen van de wereld. En we zien hoe zij in de bijna virtueel-onwerkelijke wereld van het uit water en spiegelingen opgetrokken van het 15e eeuwse Venetië een cryptische belofte menen te zien van een onvoorstelbare vrede en schoonheid die een einde maakt aan alle oorlogen. Maar de ultiem vredige orde van dit oude Venetië eindigt in oorlog. Er is in dit manuscript dus geen sprake van “Oorlog en vrede”, zoals bij Tolstoi, maar van “oorlog en oorlog”. Oftewel van een voortdurende chaos, waarin elke belofte van grootsheid of schoonheid of Goddelijke openbaring direct in draaikolken van verwarring verdwijnt. In Krasznahorkais ellenlange zinnen worden precies die draaikolken voelbaar: de draaikolken uit het manuscript zoals Korin dat parafraseert, en tegelijk de steeds toenemende chaos en verwarring van en rondom Korin terwijl hij dit hele manuscript parafraseert. Die beide vormen van chaos worden TEGELIJK voelbaar gemaakt, in chaotische zinnen die alles tegelijk willen vertellen. En daar soms nog in slagen ook. Op voor mij vaak ongelofelijke wijze.
“Oorlog en oorlog” heeft dus een ijzingwekkend sombere, gitzwarte boodschap: deze wereld is niets dan doelloze chaos, waarin elke God morsdood is en elke hogere waarheid afwezig. Niet voor niets is het curieuze motto van dit boek “De hemel is verdrietig”. Niet voor niets wordt de nietigheid beschreven van Korin in de eindeloze wijdte van twee oneindige duisternissen: die van de hemel en die van de aarde. En in dat opzicht lijkt “Oorlog en oorlog” sprekend op “De melancholie van het verzet”, waarin God doder is dan dood. Zeker als je ook het prachtige hoofdstuk “Isaiah has come” leest, dat niet in het boek zelf is opgenomen maar wel op een internetlink waar dit boek naar verwijst. Er zijn dus veel redenen om behoorlijk wanhopig en somber te raken van dit uit wanhoop en gitzwarte desillusie opgetrokken boek.
Maar ik ben vooral opgetogen. Ten eerste omdat ik zulke gitzwartheid op zichzelf al niet puur negatief vind: mogelijk heeft de wereld inderdaad geen zin en is alle hoop uit onze wereld verbannen, en dat is tragisch, maar als dat zo is dan moeten we er ons ook toe zien te verhouden. En daar helpt dit proza naar mijn idee bij, door zijn filosofische diepgang, door zijn vlijmscherpe luciditeit, en door de werkelijk adembenemende beelden waarmee het onze chaotische en zinledige wereld bijna lijfelijk voelbaar maakt. Belangrijker dan dat echter vind ik de prominente rol van schoonheid in dit boek. De glimpen van een onmogelijke, bovenaardse en ongrijpbaar-transcendente schoonheid, en Korins even vertwijfelde als wanhopig-verlangende reacties erop, worden naar mijn smaak echt onnavolgbaar prachtig verwoord. Al die ellenlange Krasznahorkai-zinnen beproeven ons tot het uiterste, ontsnappen aan onze ratio en de greep van ons verstand, tasten naar 'iets' voorbij ons verstand en ons rationele begrip, naar 'iets' wat zich totaal aan onze voorstelling onttrekt en blijft onttrekken, naar 'iets' wat wellicht onmogelijk is en niet bestaat. Vaak is dat de voor ons onvoorstelbare zinloosheid in het hart van de chaos. Maar vaak is het ook de eveneens onvoorstelbare, ultieme schoonheid waar Korin en de vier personages uit het hermetische manuscript zo naarstig naar zoeken. De taal verbetert bij Krasznahorkai voortdurend zijn eigen record, tast voortdurend voorbij zijn eigen grenzen. Ook wanneer hij, net als Korin en de vier personages uit het hermetische manuscript, op zoek is naar sublieme schoonheid of onvoorstelbare grootsheid.
Daardoor leef je helemaal mee met een van die personages, als hij spreekt over “[…] de ontdekking van de heiligheid, van de onzichtbare ruimte en tijd, van God en het goddelijke, want niets was grootser […] dan de mens die al ontwakend ontdekte dat hij een God had, de mens die het betoverende feit van de heiligheid had herkend en die dat alles door die ontdekking zelf had geschapen, want er waren grote momenten en enorme prestaties, maar daarboven, op de top van alle momenten en prestaties schitterde de enige God […], en ook weer de mens die hem aanschouwde, die in zichzelf een heel universum had gebouwd als een kathedraal die naar de hemel reikte […]”. En zeker zo imponerend is een eerdere passage, waarin de vier raadselachtige personages helemaal begeesterd raken van een zonsondergang in het Kreta van 1600 jaar voor onze jaartelling. Een begeestering die Korin als volgt tastend parafraseert: “[…] maar toen die stilte dan toch verbroken werd, ging het gesprek al over iets anders, namelijk dat er niets mooiers bestond dan zo’n zonsondergang boven de bergen en de zee, een zonsondergang, zei Kasser, dit buitengewone schouwspel, die schitterende schijn van transitie en continuïteit, het grandioze drama van alle transitie en continuïteit, zei Falke, een weergaloze voorstelling van iets wat niet bestond, maar tegelijk een bijzondere parabel van vervluchtigen, van teloorgaan, van wegsterven en uitdoven en een plechtige voorstelronde van de kleuren, zei Kasser, een adembenemende verheerlijking van rood en paars, van geel en bruin, van blauw en wit, een demonische presentatie van een geschilderde hemel, dit allemaal, zei Kasser, en wat allemaal nog meer, zei ook Falke, want dan hadden ze het nog niet gehad over die duizenden vibraties die een zonsondergang bij de toeschouwer opwekte en de hevige ontroering waardoor die toeschouwer bij het kijken beslist werd bevangen; er was dus niets mooiers dan een zonsondergang, zei Kasser, die schoonheid van een afscheid dat vervuld was van hoop […]”. Prachtig, hoe Kasser en Falke samen proberen de niet in taal te vatten schoonheid toch te vatten in taal, en elkaar daarbij meer en meer opzwepen. En hoe Korin dat dan weer poogt te vatten in zijn eigen woorden, die eveneens onder hoogspanning staan.
Ik bewonder "Oorlog en oorlog" vanwege de indringende wijze waarop het de chaos en zinloosheid voelbaar maakt, in een werkelijk adembenemende stijl en vorm. Maar de wijze waarop sublieme schoonheid gestalte krijgt, en ook het onmogelijk intense verlangen daarnaar, bewonder ik nog meer. De geschakeerdheid en rijkdom van Krasznahorkais historische taferelen vond ik adembenemend. Korin vond ik bovendien een van de meest aandoenlijke Quichottekse antihelden die ik ooit in een roman heb zien rondlopen. Zelden heb ik kortom met zo veel plezier een boek herlezen. En ik hoop dat er nog veel meer van Krasznahorkai zal worden vertaald, liefst door Mari Alföldi.
Hoofdpersoon is György Korin, gepromoveerd historicus en archivaris, wiens leven en wereldbeeld helemaal op zijn kop wordt gezet door de toevallige vondst van een verpletterend maar volkomen duister manuscript. Totaal overweldigd door de hermetische inhoud en de ultieme schoonheid hiervan besluit hij uit zijn Hongaarse provinciestadje naar New York te reizen, het middelpunt van de wereld, en om aldaar het hele manuscript op internet te zetten. Daarna is hij dan vast van plan zelfmoord te plegen, want met name dit manuscript heeft hem geleerd dat het hele bestaan één grote chaos is, die van elke zin en betekenis is verstoken. Maar dan ook totaal. Niet voor niets vertelt hij aan een onbegrijpende toehoorder dat juist de zo dubbelzinnige, duistere en onbevattelijke god Hermes voor hem een groot voorbeeld was: “Hermes was voor hem de absolute oorsprong, zei hij, de ontmoeting met het hermetische […], zijn raadselachtigheid, zijn onbevattelijkheid, zijn extreme veelzijdigheid, zijn verzwegen trekken, de veelbetekenende stilte over de duistere kant van zijn wezen, dit alles betoverde zijn fantasie, of misschien was het beter om te zeggen dat het die fantasie gijzelde […]”.
Alles in deze wereld is volgens Korin dus gehuld in hermetisch duister, niets wordt door enig verhelderend licht beschenen. God is dood, de hemel is leeg, er is geen hogere waarheid of maatgevende bovenwereld, en dus is het leven door elke zin verlaten. Zodat de aarde een immense duisternis is, en de hemel een andere maar even immense duisternis die niet met de aarde is verbonden. En zodat Korin zich een nietig zinloos wezentje voelt dat verdwaald is tussen die twee oneindige hermetische duisternissen: “[…] de hemel, die ook zijn eigen onmetelijke donkere massa, trillend van de sterren, in het enorme spoorlandschap onder hen weerspiegeld had kunnen zien, als tussen de trillende sterren en het doffe rood van de talloze semaforenpalen enig contact mogelijk was geweest; maar er was geen contact, want er was geen gezamenlijke orde, en er was ook geen onderlinge samenhang, er bestonden slechts twee afzonderlijke ordes en twee afzonderlijke samenhangen, want sterren en semaforen staarden elkaar blind aan, en alle grote entiteiten van het bestaan waren blind voor elkaar, blind was de aarde en blind de hemel, zodat in de verloren blik van een hoger gezichtspunt een dode symmetrie van wijdte ontstond, en in het midden uiteraard een minuscuul vlekje, en daarin Korin… […].”.
Dat gevoel van duisternis en totale chaos maakt Krasznahorkai indringend voelbaar door zijn ellenlange zinnen, die soms wel vier pagina’s achter elkaar doordenderen. Zinnen die ademloos alle kanten op bewegen, die vol zitten met herhalingen en tegenspraken en zelfs met perspectiefwisselingen, zinnen bovendien die weigeren om zich te laten rangschikken in een ordelijke alineastructuur. Want in de wereld van Krasznahorkai ontbreekt elke structuur, ontbreekt ook elke rustpauze. Ieder hoofdstuk bestaat uit precies één zin die vol zit met chaotische en onbegrijpelijk intense beleving, waarin wordt verteld over ervaringen waarin geen logica of patroon valt te ontdekken. Dat leidt echter wel tot heel meeslepende passages, zoals de citaten hierboven hopelijk een klein beetje illustreren. En tot heel kleurrijke passages bovendien, want Krasznahorkais taferelen zijn ongelofelijk rijk aan details, en ook aan scala's van uiteenlopende perspectieven en emoties die je in "gewone" zinnen nooit zou zien. In een wat normaler boek zou je bijvoorbeeld citaten lezen uit het door Korin bewonderde manuscript. In “Oorlog en oorlog” echter zie je hoe Korin ademloos over dit voor hem onbevattelijke manuscript vertelt, hoe hij diverse passages daaruit parafraseert in eigen bewoordingen en welke stijgende verbijstering hij bij die parafrases voelt, welke indruk Korin tijdens het vertellen maakt op zijn toehoorder die hem nauwelijks begrijpt, in wat voor desolate en door verwarring geteisterde omgeving hij zich daarbij bevindt, enzovoort enzoverder. En juist dat totaalbeeld, onbevattelijk vol en bont als een schilderij van Bruegel, vind ik in elk hoofdstuk – in elke zin- verpletterend.
Het is bovendien fascinerend om glimpen op te vangen van het manuscript dat Korin zo overweldigt. We zien hoe vier volmaakt mysterieuze personages, die kennelijk net ontsnapt zijn aan een geheimzinnige oorlog, stranden op Kreta en vol verbijstering staren naar de pracht van de Minoïsche beschaving, zo’n 1600 jaar voor onze jaartelling, en naar de plotse vernietiging daarvan. Die verbijstering krijgt extra lading als we bedenken dat deze vernietigde, maar prachtige beschaving Plato mogelijk inspireerde tot zijn verhaal over het mythische Atlantis. We zien vervolgens hoe dezelfde vier personages vele eeuwen later -dank zij een volkomen onverklaarde en niet te rationaliseren 'breuk' in het verhaal- getuige zijn van de bouw van een kathedraal, die een adembenemend beschreven Goddelijk-demonische transcendentie uitstraalt. Maar ook die kathedraal staat op de rand van de ondergang. We zien hoe zij bij de muur van Hadrianus, in een tafereel waarin het oude Rome op bijna surrealistische wijze met het Spanje en Portugal uit de tijden van Columbus versmelt, op bijna hallucinatoire wijze spookbeelden ervaren van het "niet zijn" voorbij de muur en de fragiele fundamenten van het "zijn" aan hun kant van de muur. Wat dan gepaard gaat met de panische angst dat de wereld zal ophouden te bestaan, omdat Columbus naar het einde van de wereld vaart en dus ontdekkingen gaat doen voorbij de grenzen van de wereld. En we zien hoe zij in de bijna virtueel-onwerkelijke wereld van het uit water en spiegelingen opgetrokken van het 15e eeuwse Venetië een cryptische belofte menen te zien van een onvoorstelbare vrede en schoonheid die een einde maakt aan alle oorlogen. Maar de ultiem vredige orde van dit oude Venetië eindigt in oorlog. Er is in dit manuscript dus geen sprake van “Oorlog en vrede”, zoals bij Tolstoi, maar van “oorlog en oorlog”. Oftewel van een voortdurende chaos, waarin elke belofte van grootsheid of schoonheid of Goddelijke openbaring direct in draaikolken van verwarring verdwijnt. In Krasznahorkais ellenlange zinnen worden precies die draaikolken voelbaar: de draaikolken uit het manuscript zoals Korin dat parafraseert, en tegelijk de steeds toenemende chaos en verwarring van en rondom Korin terwijl hij dit hele manuscript parafraseert. Die beide vormen van chaos worden TEGELIJK voelbaar gemaakt, in chaotische zinnen die alles tegelijk willen vertellen. En daar soms nog in slagen ook. Op voor mij vaak ongelofelijke wijze.
“Oorlog en oorlog” heeft dus een ijzingwekkend sombere, gitzwarte boodschap: deze wereld is niets dan doelloze chaos, waarin elke God morsdood is en elke hogere waarheid afwezig. Niet voor niets is het curieuze motto van dit boek “De hemel is verdrietig”. Niet voor niets wordt de nietigheid beschreven van Korin in de eindeloze wijdte van twee oneindige duisternissen: die van de hemel en die van de aarde. En in dat opzicht lijkt “Oorlog en oorlog” sprekend op “De melancholie van het verzet”, waarin God doder is dan dood. Zeker als je ook het prachtige hoofdstuk “Isaiah has come” leest, dat niet in het boek zelf is opgenomen maar wel op een internetlink waar dit boek naar verwijst. Er zijn dus veel redenen om behoorlijk wanhopig en somber te raken van dit uit wanhoop en gitzwarte desillusie opgetrokken boek.
Maar ik ben vooral opgetogen. Ten eerste omdat ik zulke gitzwartheid op zichzelf al niet puur negatief vind: mogelijk heeft de wereld inderdaad geen zin en is alle hoop uit onze wereld verbannen, en dat is tragisch, maar als dat zo is dan moeten we er ons ook toe zien te verhouden. En daar helpt dit proza naar mijn idee bij, door zijn filosofische diepgang, door zijn vlijmscherpe luciditeit, en door de werkelijk adembenemende beelden waarmee het onze chaotische en zinledige wereld bijna lijfelijk voelbaar maakt. Belangrijker dan dat echter vind ik de prominente rol van schoonheid in dit boek. De glimpen van een onmogelijke, bovenaardse en ongrijpbaar-transcendente schoonheid, en Korins even vertwijfelde als wanhopig-verlangende reacties erop, worden naar mijn smaak echt onnavolgbaar prachtig verwoord. Al die ellenlange Krasznahorkai-zinnen beproeven ons tot het uiterste, ontsnappen aan onze ratio en de greep van ons verstand, tasten naar 'iets' voorbij ons verstand en ons rationele begrip, naar 'iets' wat zich totaal aan onze voorstelling onttrekt en blijft onttrekken, naar 'iets' wat wellicht onmogelijk is en niet bestaat. Vaak is dat de voor ons onvoorstelbare zinloosheid in het hart van de chaos. Maar vaak is het ook de eveneens onvoorstelbare, ultieme schoonheid waar Korin en de vier personages uit het hermetische manuscript zo naarstig naar zoeken. De taal verbetert bij Krasznahorkai voortdurend zijn eigen record, tast voortdurend voorbij zijn eigen grenzen. Ook wanneer hij, net als Korin en de vier personages uit het hermetische manuscript, op zoek is naar sublieme schoonheid of onvoorstelbare grootsheid.
Daardoor leef je helemaal mee met een van die personages, als hij spreekt over “[…] de ontdekking van de heiligheid, van de onzichtbare ruimte en tijd, van God en het goddelijke, want niets was grootser […] dan de mens die al ontwakend ontdekte dat hij een God had, de mens die het betoverende feit van de heiligheid had herkend en die dat alles door die ontdekking zelf had geschapen, want er waren grote momenten en enorme prestaties, maar daarboven, op de top van alle momenten en prestaties schitterde de enige God […], en ook weer de mens die hem aanschouwde, die in zichzelf een heel universum had gebouwd als een kathedraal die naar de hemel reikte […]”. En zeker zo imponerend is een eerdere passage, waarin de vier raadselachtige personages helemaal begeesterd raken van een zonsondergang in het Kreta van 1600 jaar voor onze jaartelling. Een begeestering die Korin als volgt tastend parafraseert: “[…] maar toen die stilte dan toch verbroken werd, ging het gesprek al over iets anders, namelijk dat er niets mooiers bestond dan zo’n zonsondergang boven de bergen en de zee, een zonsondergang, zei Kasser, dit buitengewone schouwspel, die schitterende schijn van transitie en continuïteit, het grandioze drama van alle transitie en continuïteit, zei Falke, een weergaloze voorstelling van iets wat niet bestond, maar tegelijk een bijzondere parabel van vervluchtigen, van teloorgaan, van wegsterven en uitdoven en een plechtige voorstelronde van de kleuren, zei Kasser, een adembenemende verheerlijking van rood en paars, van geel en bruin, van blauw en wit, een demonische presentatie van een geschilderde hemel, dit allemaal, zei Kasser, en wat allemaal nog meer, zei ook Falke, want dan hadden ze het nog niet gehad over die duizenden vibraties die een zonsondergang bij de toeschouwer opwekte en de hevige ontroering waardoor die toeschouwer bij het kijken beslist werd bevangen; er was dus niets mooiers dan een zonsondergang, zei Kasser, die schoonheid van een afscheid dat vervuld was van hoop […]”. Prachtig, hoe Kasser en Falke samen proberen de niet in taal te vatten schoonheid toch te vatten in taal, en elkaar daarbij meer en meer opzwepen. En hoe Korin dat dan weer poogt te vatten in zijn eigen woorden, die eveneens onder hoogspanning staan.
Ik bewonder "Oorlog en oorlog" vanwege de indringende wijze waarop het de chaos en zinloosheid voelbaar maakt, in een werkelijk adembenemende stijl en vorm. Maar de wijze waarop sublieme schoonheid gestalte krijgt, en ook het onmogelijk intense verlangen daarnaar, bewonder ik nog meer. De geschakeerdheid en rijkdom van Krasznahorkais historische taferelen vond ik adembenemend. Korin vond ik bovendien een van de meest aandoenlijke Quichottekse antihelden die ik ooit in een roman heb zien rondlopen. Zelden heb ik kortom met zo veel plezier een boek herlezen. En ik hoop dat er nog veel meer van Krasznahorkai zal worden vertaald, liefst door Mari Alföldi.
August 5, 2013
What a brilliant form in which to go mad on the page. The entire book jamb-packed with lovely words given to us from a very talented writer, all except, that is, the word venue which the translator decided was the correct word for the Hungarian version, or at least what Krasznahorkai wanted us to read. I doubt it very much. No way would Krasznahorkai use a popular word venue in place of a specific place. Too smart. Too gifted to resort to our popular culture's crappy, and ill-informed language. The translator, George Szirtes, used the word venue twice that I can remember and it made me almost want to quit the book, but Krasznahorkai kept coming at me with his language which George, I must admit, did an excellent job with the language, except for my initial complaint above, that is, you know, as if we are going to now move the trial of George Szirtes to a new venue other than this chosen place.
This book is only for the strong. A difficult book, but I found it so pleasing I did not want it to end. Fact is, I agreed with the lead character Korin. Call me mad, but Korin knew his shit. From the opening scenes on the bridge with the bad-ass children with knives through the violent executions later on in Brooklyn, Krasznahorkai kept me intrigued. And he did it all with his gifted use of language and his power of speech. That is, speeches that rolled on for sometimes three or four pages of single sentences. And sometimes funny, and most times clever, and generally in the spirit of angst. A wonderful time was had by me in reading this great novel. Could not recommend a novel more than this one. I'll let the smarter ones here break it down for you. Let me just say I told you so. We'll call it the rhythm of my own black despair.
Note that Krasznahorkai is also Béla Tarr's principle screenwriter for his films including the epic Sátántangó. My personal favorites include:
Kárhozat / Damnation (1988)
Sátántangó / Satan's Tango (1994)
Werckmeister harmóniák / Werckmeister Harmonies (2000)
A londoni férfi / The Man from London (2007)
Matter of fact, I just finished watching The Man From London yesterday and that film's screenplay was also written by none other than László Krasznahorkai as were the ones mentioned above.
This book is only for the strong. A difficult book, but I found it so pleasing I did not want it to end. Fact is, I agreed with the lead character Korin. Call me mad, but Korin knew his shit. From the opening scenes on the bridge with the bad-ass children with knives through the violent executions later on in Brooklyn, Krasznahorkai kept me intrigued. And he did it all with his gifted use of language and his power of speech. That is, speeches that rolled on for sometimes three or four pages of single sentences. And sometimes funny, and most times clever, and generally in the spirit of angst. A wonderful time was had by me in reading this great novel. Could not recommend a novel more than this one. I'll let the smarter ones here break it down for you. Let me just say I told you so. We'll call it the rhythm of my own black despair.
Note that Krasznahorkai is also Béla Tarr's principle screenwriter for his films including the epic Sátántangó. My personal favorites include:
Kárhozat / Damnation (1988)
Sátántangó / Satan's Tango (1994)
Werckmeister harmóniák / Werckmeister Harmonies (2000)
A londoni férfi / The Man from London (2007)
Matter of fact, I just finished watching The Man From London yesterday and that film's screenplay was also written by none other than László Krasznahorkai as were the ones mentioned above.
October 16, 2018
Βαδίζοντας σε πλουραλιστικότερες τομές από την κλασική ερμηνεία "δυτικής εκμετάλλευσης των μοντέρνων κοινωνιών", το ελεγειακό part-έπος part-ανατομία του Κρασναχορκάι διυλίζει τις προστριβές ενός συσσωρευμένου ψυχισμού ωσάν απελπισία, απορρέοντας μπασταρδεμένη και τόσο προφητική εκδοχή μετα-9/11 παθογένειας της παγκοσμιοποίησης. Θυμίζοντας τους ψυχικούς ελιγμούς ενός Μισίμα, όμως σκαρφαλώνοντας σε εμμονικούς συνειρμούς όπως ένα Γουλφ-ικό Ορλάντο, ο χρόνος συνυπάρχει με το τσι, το ό,τι κατευθύνει τη ζωική αναγκαιότητα για εκβάθυνση ιδεών, διαφωτιστικών προ(σδι)ορισμών.
Οι 4 "καβαλάρηδες"-διαμεσολαβητές του κατά Κορίμ αποκαλυπτικού χειρόγραφου γνωρίζουν το μάταιο απέναντι σε κατάλυση εξουσιών στον ιστορικό ρου. Διαπερνάμε, τουτέστιν, οχλαγωγία μυθοπλαστικών, γλωσσολογικών, ακατάπαυστα μετασχηματιζόμενων πληροφοριών (μέχρι και γεωγραφικές παρομοιώσεις για την real-time βαναυσότητα εκτός χειρόγραφου), ταυτόσημη αναφορά στην πραγματιστική ματαιότητα των Κορίμ, όπου θα επιχειρήσουν επούλωση σε υπαρξιακές δυσλειτουργίες.
Οι 4 "καβαλάρηδες"-διαμεσολαβητές του κατά Κορίμ αποκαλυπτικού χειρόγραφου γνωρίζουν το μάταιο απέναντι σε κατάλυση εξουσιών στον ιστορικό ρου. Διαπερνάμε, τουτέστιν, οχλαγωγία μυθοπλαστικών, γλωσσολογικών, ακατάπαυστα μετασχηματιζόμενων πληροφοριών (μέχρι και γεωγραφικές παρομοιώσεις για την real-time βαναυσότητα εκτός χειρόγραφου), ταυτόσημη αναφορά στην πραγματιστική ματαιότητα των Κορίμ, όπου θα επιχειρήσουν επούλωση σε υπαρξιακές δυσλειτουργίες.
November 4, 2021
Çok enteresan bir okuma deneyimi oldu, okuduğum en ilginç romanlardan biriydi. Baş karakterimiz Korin hayatına anlam katmaya çabalıyor roman boyunca, biz de onun vasıtasıyla yani onun ne yapmaya çalıştığını anlamlandırmaya çalışarak ortak oluyoruz bu çabaya. Kesinlikle herkese göre bir roman değil onu belirtmem lazım. Daha deneysel metinler okumayı seven, düz metinlerden sıkılanlar için bir kaçış olabilir belki..Roman boyunca "ne oluyor, ne okuyorum ben şimdi" hissi peşinizi bırakmıyor..
July 28, 2021
Skyscrapers and the Mystery of Existence
This urgent, neurotic, impenetrable narrative is a story of everything, where everything is the intersection of the horizontal scope of life and its vertical depth/height. There is existential despair, purpose as obsession, a brief history of mankind, the difficulties and urge of writing, breakdown in human communication.
Plot-wise, there is not much more to the story than what the blurb summarizes for us. The opening chapter evokes familiar motifs. As in Krasznahorkai’s Theseus-általános (The Universal Theseus), the lead character here is a storyteller. The narrative he tells is embedded and braided with the narrative told about him. Korin speaks constantly: he must share his story, to anyone who listens and even to those who don’t listen. Speech becomes a remedy against fear and against meaninglessness.
His transcription and digitization of the magical manuscript give us insight into the pains of writing. Writing, as an urgent, irresistible creative undertaking, is a matter of life and death. As is everything in this novel. Writing is recording: it is a mission entrusted to the writer as an agent. It is also storytelling: creating reality. It is also communication: Korin shares it with the interpreter’s mistress in the kitchen. In a heartbreaking scene, an aloof and unhinged Korin talks about bad periods, turning points, hope, while the abused woman cries silently, understanding only the key words Korin inserts in his monologue in English. There’s a fascinating companionship between Korin and the woman who doesn't understand his words, but still perceives something of what he says.
Seeing Korin as representative of humanity, as I did, leads to uncomfortable conclusions. He experiences existential rupture both outside, in his relationships, and inside, in his self. He is in a place of absurdity, and his sole attachment to life is his big project. His obsession is grotesque, but even scarier is how we, “the normal people”, also often believe that our lives need just that one great achievement to be complete. His sole purpose is to deliver the manuscript to eternity. As the volume grows in eternity, i.e. on the internet, so his days become shorter. What a terrifying and magnificent image this is: as our days become shorter here, our participation in eternity (the good we build into our persons) grows. Ideally.
Krasznahorkai is not a moralist, he doesn’t examine choices. Instead, he probes into the raw dimension of existence, that is beyond (or before?) the luxury of choice. War is a prime challenge of being. However, it is not the specific wars that he looks at, but the greatest war of all: that waged on the pointlessness of existence. The novel is an attempt at understanding war with the means of literature. By making its subject another writing and not merely a medieval plot intertwined with a present-time story, this book is also a meta-understanding, a look at how literature understands war. Korin’s gloomy conclusion is that the author of the manuscript could not show the characters a way out. Is that an admission of the insufficiency of literature?
There are spots of bright color in this dark painting. Mystery in its various forms, e.g. Korin’s dream, the beauty of the inexplicable manuscript, is magical and positive, life-affirming, full of beauty, like fresh air. I can’t decide whether this is reassuring or disheartening.
Visually, the novel is dominated by skyscrapers, these architectural symbols of longing for transcendence that have been present in most eras in history. In his attempt to find meaning, Korin realizes they are somehow all related: Babel in the Brueghel painting he sees on screen, the Cologne cathedral (a medieval skyscraper, indeed), the 120 Wall Street Building. In Part VII, Krasznahorkai does to Brueghel’s Babel painting what Gert Hofmann did to the painter’s Blind Leading the Blind, or more recently, Iván Sándor to Bosch’s Haywain Triptych.
Krasznahorkai’s voice is so unique, his meandering, interrupted sentences so mischievously rhythmic, that often I can’t tell whether his writing is one big laugh in the face of the anguish that pierces through his speech. There is certainly humor in how the novel becomes its own literary criticism. How others perceive Korin’s narrative and how he analyzes the manuscript perfectly describe the novel itself:
This urgent, neurotic, impenetrable narrative is a story of everything, where everything is the intersection of the horizontal scope of life and its vertical depth/height. There is existential despair, purpose as obsession, a brief history of mankind, the difficulties and urge of writing, breakdown in human communication.
Plot-wise, there is not much more to the story than what the blurb summarizes for us. The opening chapter evokes familiar motifs. As in Krasznahorkai’s Theseus-általános (The Universal Theseus), the lead character here is a storyteller. The narrative he tells is embedded and braided with the narrative told about him. Korin speaks constantly: he must share his story, to anyone who listens and even to those who don’t listen. Speech becomes a remedy against fear and against meaninglessness.
His transcription and digitization of the magical manuscript give us insight into the pains of writing. Writing, as an urgent, irresistible creative undertaking, is a matter of life and death. As is everything in this novel. Writing is recording: it is a mission entrusted to the writer as an agent. It is also storytelling: creating reality. It is also communication: Korin shares it with the interpreter’s mistress in the kitchen. In a heartbreaking scene, an aloof and unhinged Korin talks about bad periods, turning points, hope, while the abused woman cries silently, understanding only the key words Korin inserts in his monologue in English. There’s a fascinating companionship between Korin and the woman who doesn't understand his words, but still perceives something of what he says.
Seeing Korin as representative of humanity, as I did, leads to uncomfortable conclusions. He experiences existential rupture both outside, in his relationships, and inside, in his self. He is in a place of absurdity, and his sole attachment to life is his big project. His obsession is grotesque, but even scarier is how we, “the normal people”, also often believe that our lives need just that one great achievement to be complete. His sole purpose is to deliver the manuscript to eternity. As the volume grows in eternity, i.e. on the internet, so his days become shorter. What a terrifying and magnificent image this is: as our days become shorter here, our participation in eternity (the good we build into our persons) grows. Ideally.
Krasznahorkai is not a moralist, he doesn’t examine choices. Instead, he probes into the raw dimension of existence, that is beyond (or before?) the luxury of choice. War is a prime challenge of being. However, it is not the specific wars that he looks at, but the greatest war of all: that waged on the pointlessness of existence. The novel is an attempt at understanding war with the means of literature. By making its subject another writing and not merely a medieval plot intertwined with a present-time story, this book is also a meta-understanding, a look at how literature understands war. Korin’s gloomy conclusion is that the author of the manuscript could not show the characters a way out. Is that an admission of the insufficiency of literature?
There are spots of bright color in this dark painting. Mystery in its various forms, e.g. Korin’s dream, the beauty of the inexplicable manuscript, is magical and positive, life-affirming, full of beauty, like fresh air. I can’t decide whether this is reassuring or disheartening.
Visually, the novel is dominated by skyscrapers, these architectural symbols of longing for transcendence that have been present in most eras in history. In his attempt to find meaning, Korin realizes they are somehow all related: Babel in the Brueghel painting he sees on screen, the Cologne cathedral (a medieval skyscraper, indeed), the 120 Wall Street Building. In Part VII, Krasznahorkai does to Brueghel’s Babel painting what Gert Hofmann did to the painter’s Blind Leading the Blind, or more recently, Iván Sándor to Bosch’s Haywain Triptych.
Krasznahorkai’s voice is so unique, his meandering, interrupted sentences so mischievously rhythmic, that often I can’t tell whether his writing is one big laugh in the face of the anguish that pierces through his speech. There is certainly humor in how the novel becomes its own literary criticism. How others perceive Korin’s narrative and how he analyzes the manuscript perfectly describe the novel itself:
… a narrative that, there was no denying, apart from a certain rhythm, lacked all sense of shape […] except perhaps its copiousness, which resulted in him trying to tell them everything at once […]
… reality examined to the point of madness, and the experience of all those intense mad details, the engraving by sheer manic repetition of the matter into the imagination, was […] as if the writer had written the text not with pen and words but with his nails, scratching the text into the paper and into the mind, all the details, repetitions and intensifications making the process of reading more difficult, while the details it gave, the lists it repeated and the material it intensified was etched into the brain forever.
March 29, 2024
Never have I read a novel so empathic in some of the most disastrous circumstances.
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