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Utz
Ultimo libro pubblicato da Chatwin, questo romanzo fu subito salutato come «una gemma squisita, compatta, luccicante, riccamente sfaccettata».
129 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1988
80 people are currently reading
2940 people want to read
About the author
Bruce Chatwin
65 books654 followersCharles Bruce Chatwin was an English novelist and travel writer. He won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel On the Black Hill (1982).
In 1972, Chatwin interviewed the 93-year-old architect and designer Eileen Gray in her Paris salon, where he noticed a map of the area of South America called Patagonia, which she had painted. "I've always wanted to go there," Bruce told her. "So have I," she replied, "go there for me." Two years later in November 1974, Chatwin flew out to Lima in Peru, and reached Patagonia a month later. When he arrived, he left the newspaper with a telegram: "Have gone to Patagonia." He spent six months in the area, a trip which resulted in the book In Patagonia (1977). This work established his reputation as a travel writer. Later, however, residents in the region contradicted the account of events depicted in Chatwin's book. It was the first time in his career, but not the last, that conversations and characters which Chatwin presented as fact were alleged to have been fictionalised.
Later works included a novel based on the slave trade, The Viceroy of Ouidah, which he researched with extended stays in Benin, West Africa. For The Songlines (1987), a work combining fiction and non-fiction, Chatwin went to Australia. He studied the culture to express how the songs of the Aborigines are a cross between a creation myth, an atlas and an Aboriginal man's personal story. He also related the travelling expressed in The Songlines to his own travels and the long nomadic past of humans. Winner of the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, his novel On the Black Hill (1982) was set closer to home, in the hill farms of the Welsh Borders. It focuses on the relationship between twin brothers, Lewis and Benjamin, who grow up isolated from the course of twentieth century history. Utz (1988), was a novel about the obsession that leads people to collect. Set in Prague, the novel details the life and death of Kaspar Utz, a man obsessed with his collection of Meissen porcelain.
Chatwin was working on a number of new ideas for future novels at the time of his death from AIDS in 1989, including a transcontinental epic, provisionally titled Lydia Livingstone.
In 1972, Chatwin interviewed the 93-year-old architect and designer Eileen Gray in her Paris salon, where he noticed a map of the area of South America called Patagonia, which she had painted. "I've always wanted to go there," Bruce told her. "So have I," she replied, "go there for me." Two years later in November 1974, Chatwin flew out to Lima in Peru, and reached Patagonia a month later. When he arrived, he left the newspaper with a telegram: "Have gone to Patagonia." He spent six months in the area, a trip which resulted in the book In Patagonia (1977). This work established his reputation as a travel writer. Later, however, residents in the region contradicted the account of events depicted in Chatwin's book. It was the first time in his career, but not the last, that conversations and characters which Chatwin presented as fact were alleged to have been fictionalised.
Later works included a novel based on the slave trade, The Viceroy of Ouidah, which he researched with extended stays in Benin, West Africa. For The Songlines (1987), a work combining fiction and non-fiction, Chatwin went to Australia. He studied the culture to express how the songs of the Aborigines are a cross between a creation myth, an atlas and an Aboriginal man's personal story. He also related the travelling expressed in The Songlines to his own travels and the long nomadic past of humans. Winner of the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, his novel On the Black Hill (1982) was set closer to home, in the hill farms of the Welsh Borders. It focuses on the relationship between twin brothers, Lewis and Benjamin, who grow up isolated from the course of twentieth century history. Utz (1988), was a novel about the obsession that leads people to collect. Set in Prague, the novel details the life and death of Kaspar Utz, a man obsessed with his collection of Meissen porcelain.
Chatwin was working on a number of new ideas for future novels at the time of his death from AIDS in 1989, including a transcontinental epic, provisionally titled Lydia Livingstone.
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September 28, 2022
A very peculiar, fine-and-fragile narrative that is equal parts emotionally and intellectually stimulating, wonderfully witty, by turns profoundly philosophical and satirical.
Chatwin’s short novel, Utz, recounts the story of a ‘compulsive collector’ of porcelain figures, Kaspar Utz, against the backdrop – harrowingly ubiquitous and inescapable – of the totalitarian rule in Czechoslovakia during the 60s and 70s. The novel begins on a note of gloom and death that never quite dissipates. What follows is the narrator’s curious search to gain some understanding of Utz’s all-consuming passion, his vocation, for porcelain (Meissen in particular), defined as ‘porcelain-mania’, alternately ‘porcelain-sickness’, but also as ‘the antidote to decay’: ‘for him, this world of little figures was the real world’. It is how he navigates his way through the stifling bleakness – the fake ‘tinsel’ – of the city; the extreme conditions that drive him to feign depression – though, truth be told, the depression is real – in order to attain the necessary documentation for a yearly trip to Vichy, where he is physically – though not mentally or emotionally – distanced from the hold political-and-porcelain totalitarianism have over him. Utz’s struggle both to leave his collection and to return to it is very palpable traced. How is it that these ‘lifeless porcelains’ ‘held him prisoner’, always ‘re-exert[ing] the power of snobbery’ over him? And ‘why should the free world present so frightening an abyss?’ Indeed, Utz finds himself ‘adrift in un unfriendly world’ – ‘the most useless of refugees, an aesthete!’
Throughout the narrative, it seems that the only relations he maintains are with Marta, his inordinately devoted housekeeper and later also his wife (he marries her in order to secure his two-roomed apartment from the clutches of the regime, and thus ensure that his porcelain collection need not be moved or be snatched by the Museum), and the historian of mammoths and flies, Orlík. It is fair to say that Utz is not one to embellish his words or his view of things: he comes across as distinctly unpleasant, ugly, and unappealing, and seems to lack the ability to engage with common people. Rather, he is one to try and smuggle into Vichy his copy of Mann’s The Magic Mountain or read Gide’s The Immoralist and keep himself to himself. Or is this merely a façade, the surface level of things? His face is said to be ‘without a hint of the passions beneath its surface’, and yet, is there truth in the rumours that he engaged in paroxysmal and passionate encounters with women? There is certainly a bewildering aliveness – the porcelains are personified throughout – about his artistic idolatry that constantly suggests an ongoing rippling movement underneath; an excess of passion that is uncontainable and spills over into destruction.
The narrative perspective tends to shift somewhat, or, rather, dissimulate veracity, at times giving the impression that the story is being related by Utz himself. Really and truly, however, the narrative is heavy on reconstruction: it is Utz’s story as interpreted by a historian who only ever spent a few hours in Utz’s company. A story, therefore, that is merely a self-declared ‘revised version’. In fact, the narrator shows himself – at various stages of the narration – to be humorously conflicted as to whether Utz would have had a moustache or not, which suggests the extent to which Utz the character is unknowable. On a deeper level, this sustained ambivalence as to Utz’s character, inclinations, and life, is highly suggestive: that they should elude full representation from the outside reflects the battle fought – lost or won? – throughout his existence, domed by totalitarianism, and relegated to a ‘borderline’ status.
In many respects, this story is an extended commentary on the workings of totalitarianism, the means and ways – and with what inhuman violence – totalitarianism justifies and legitimises its course of action, and, also, the impossibility of any form of exteriority that truly undermines its oppressive power. The city itself is said to be wearing a ‘tragic mask’. Whilst the porcelains themselves, ‘locked behind glass, seemed to beckon him into their secret, Lilliputian world – and also to cry for their release.’ There is violence of vision, callousness in the choice of words, as unforgiving as the power to dominate possessed by politics and things alike. It is also a (self-)destructive power: ‘Tyranny sets up its own echo-chamber’ – ‘in the end, the machinery of repression is more likely to vanish, not with the war or revolution, but with a puff, or the voice of falling leaves’. Indeed, the narrator seems to be equally obsessed with the troubling implications that arise from the parallel-moving conception of things: ‘Things, I reflected, are tougher than people. Things are the changeless mirror in which we watch ourselves disintegrate. Nothing is more ageing than a collection of works of art.’ The narrator’s preoccupation with disintegration of this kind extends itself to his philosophical musings on things, images, porcelains: ‘Do your porcelains demand their own death?’ ‘Do images, in fact, demand their own destruction?’ Does the artist-at-heart experience ‘a counter-tendency to smash them to bits’?
What tempers the ominous undertones of the story is the merging of the high and the low, elements of the grotesque, and the stories – within the overarching narrative – that draw on legends, alchemy, Christianity, and history. Images and references to oppression (for example, the fly being caught in a ‘killing-jar’, and the recurrence itself of the word ‘trapped’) stand alongside some very witty word-play: on the restaurant menu, ‘carp dishes’ becomes ‘crap dishes’ and much sinister laughter builds up on this. There is also a full episode that debates the etymological relationship between ‘pork’ and ‘porcelain’. Or the political debate as to whether the fly is an anarchist or individualist, juxtaposed to the Kafkaesque reference to the (im)possibility of metamorphosis. Above all, there are the extremely enjoyable detours that delve into Augustus the Strong’s obsession with porcelain, and the allusiveness of the Golem story and the metaphor of giants versus dwarfs, the implication being that totalitarianism seeks to creates its own ‘semi-morons’, deluding its people into thinking they are ‘giants’, but treating them as dwarfs (puppets) throughout. Humans themselves, fathered by Adam, are porcelain sculptures made of clay. The world, it seems, is occupied with masquerading itself as the invincible giant, but the reality is really and truly that of dwarfness and finitude. Could the much-adored collection itself have ended up becoming a ‘trash-heap’, after all?
This short story is jam-packed with snippets of knowledge, allusions, and concepts to chew on. I felt the need and desire to spend ample time with it, and I look forward to spending more time amidst its pages. It might just be the porcelain imaginary weighing on my mind, but I felt duty-bound to handle this story with the care it deserves. I was particularly taken by Chatwin’s ability to convey the complex relationship that exists between the artist and the object of adoration. I do find that the ‘warped vision’ attributed to Utz is one developed structurally and on all levels of the narrative in order to further sustain the alluring quality underlying its thematic concerns.
A lesser-known masterpiece that struck me more than I am as yet able to appreciate.
5 stars.
Chatwin’s short novel, Utz, recounts the story of a ‘compulsive collector’ of porcelain figures, Kaspar Utz, against the backdrop – harrowingly ubiquitous and inescapable – of the totalitarian rule in Czechoslovakia during the 60s and 70s. The novel begins on a note of gloom and death that never quite dissipates. What follows is the narrator’s curious search to gain some understanding of Utz’s all-consuming passion, his vocation, for porcelain (Meissen in particular), defined as ‘porcelain-mania’, alternately ‘porcelain-sickness’, but also as ‘the antidote to decay’: ‘for him, this world of little figures was the real world’. It is how he navigates his way through the stifling bleakness – the fake ‘tinsel’ – of the city; the extreme conditions that drive him to feign depression – though, truth be told, the depression is real – in order to attain the necessary documentation for a yearly trip to Vichy, where he is physically – though not mentally or emotionally – distanced from the hold political-and-porcelain totalitarianism have over him. Utz’s struggle both to leave his collection and to return to it is very palpable traced. How is it that these ‘lifeless porcelains’ ‘held him prisoner’, always ‘re-exert[ing] the power of snobbery’ over him? And ‘why should the free world present so frightening an abyss?’ Indeed, Utz finds himself ‘adrift in un unfriendly world’ – ‘the most useless of refugees, an aesthete!’
Throughout the narrative, it seems that the only relations he maintains are with Marta, his inordinately devoted housekeeper and later also his wife (he marries her in order to secure his two-roomed apartment from the clutches of the regime, and thus ensure that his porcelain collection need not be moved or be snatched by the Museum), and the historian of mammoths and flies, Orlík. It is fair to say that Utz is not one to embellish his words or his view of things: he comes across as distinctly unpleasant, ugly, and unappealing, and seems to lack the ability to engage with common people. Rather, he is one to try and smuggle into Vichy his copy of Mann’s The Magic Mountain or read Gide’s The Immoralist and keep himself to himself. Or is this merely a façade, the surface level of things? His face is said to be ‘without a hint of the passions beneath its surface’, and yet, is there truth in the rumours that he engaged in paroxysmal and passionate encounters with women? There is certainly a bewildering aliveness – the porcelains are personified throughout – about his artistic idolatry that constantly suggests an ongoing rippling movement underneath; an excess of passion that is uncontainable and spills over into destruction.
The narrative perspective tends to shift somewhat, or, rather, dissimulate veracity, at times giving the impression that the story is being related by Utz himself. Really and truly, however, the narrative is heavy on reconstruction: it is Utz’s story as interpreted by a historian who only ever spent a few hours in Utz’s company. A story, therefore, that is merely a self-declared ‘revised version’. In fact, the narrator shows himself – at various stages of the narration – to be humorously conflicted as to whether Utz would have had a moustache or not, which suggests the extent to which Utz the character is unknowable. On a deeper level, this sustained ambivalence as to Utz’s character, inclinations, and life, is highly suggestive: that they should elude full representation from the outside reflects the battle fought – lost or won? – throughout his existence, domed by totalitarianism, and relegated to a ‘borderline’ status.
In many respects, this story is an extended commentary on the workings of totalitarianism, the means and ways – and with what inhuman violence – totalitarianism justifies and legitimises its course of action, and, also, the impossibility of any form of exteriority that truly undermines its oppressive power. The city itself is said to be wearing a ‘tragic mask’. Whilst the porcelains themselves, ‘locked behind glass, seemed to beckon him into their secret, Lilliputian world – and also to cry for their release.’ There is violence of vision, callousness in the choice of words, as unforgiving as the power to dominate possessed by politics and things alike. It is also a (self-)destructive power: ‘Tyranny sets up its own echo-chamber’ – ‘in the end, the machinery of repression is more likely to vanish, not with the war or revolution, but with a puff, or the voice of falling leaves’. Indeed, the narrator seems to be equally obsessed with the troubling implications that arise from the parallel-moving conception of things: ‘Things, I reflected, are tougher than people. Things are the changeless mirror in which we watch ourselves disintegrate. Nothing is more ageing than a collection of works of art.’ The narrator’s preoccupation with disintegration of this kind extends itself to his philosophical musings on things, images, porcelains: ‘Do your porcelains demand their own death?’ ‘Do images, in fact, demand their own destruction?’ Does the artist-at-heart experience ‘a counter-tendency to smash them to bits’?
What tempers the ominous undertones of the story is the merging of the high and the low, elements of the grotesque, and the stories – within the overarching narrative – that draw on legends, alchemy, Christianity, and history. Images and references to oppression (for example, the fly being caught in a ‘killing-jar’, and the recurrence itself of the word ‘trapped’) stand alongside some very witty word-play: on the restaurant menu, ‘carp dishes’ becomes ‘crap dishes’ and much sinister laughter builds up on this. There is also a full episode that debates the etymological relationship between ‘pork’ and ‘porcelain’. Or the political debate as to whether the fly is an anarchist or individualist, juxtaposed to the Kafkaesque reference to the (im)possibility of metamorphosis. Above all, there are the extremely enjoyable detours that delve into Augustus the Strong’s obsession with porcelain, and the allusiveness of the Golem story and the metaphor of giants versus dwarfs, the implication being that totalitarianism seeks to creates its own ‘semi-morons’, deluding its people into thinking they are ‘giants’, but treating them as dwarfs (puppets) throughout. Humans themselves, fathered by Adam, are porcelain sculptures made of clay. The world, it seems, is occupied with masquerading itself as the invincible giant, but the reality is really and truly that of dwarfness and finitude. Could the much-adored collection itself have ended up becoming a ‘trash-heap’, after all?
This short story is jam-packed with snippets of knowledge, allusions, and concepts to chew on. I felt the need and desire to spend ample time with it, and I look forward to spending more time amidst its pages. It might just be the porcelain imaginary weighing on my mind, but I felt duty-bound to handle this story with the care it deserves. I was particularly taken by Chatwin’s ability to convey the complex relationship that exists between the artist and the object of adoration. I do find that the ‘warped vision’ attributed to Utz is one developed structurally and on all levels of the narrative in order to further sustain the alluring quality underlying its thematic concerns.
A lesser-known masterpiece that struck me more than I am as yet able to appreciate.
5 stars.
September 14, 2020
Living Within the Lie
How can one best deal with the reality of power, particllarly power which is obviously arbitrary and tasteless as well as unjust? This is an especially relevant issue during the regime of Trump and his vulgarising influence in world affairs. Utz is wonderful comedic farce about how to deal with power - at a personal as well as a political level - not by confronting it but by treating it with utter disdain.
The eponymous Utz is a Czech survivor - of two world wars and a subsequent communist regime. What sustains him is an aesthetic, specifically his appreciation for Meissen porcelain. “Wars, pogroms and revolutions', he used to say, 'offer excellent opportunities for the collector.” He is savvy enough to understand that power is never permanently held and that its machinations need not impede the life of the true aesthete. “Tyranny sets up its own echo-chamber; a void where confused signals buzz about at random; where a murmur or innuendo causes panic: so, in the end, the machinery of repression is more likely to vanish, not with war or revolution, but with a puff, or the voice of falling leaves.” Power is its own worst enemy; if we can just leave it alone, it dissipates.
Utz is no avaricious materialist. Collecting is a spiritual endeavour that involves treating individual pieces as if they were icons that promote entry into another world. Such appreciation is impossible in a museum or public gallery where the pieces “must suffer the de-natured existence of an animal in the zoo. In any museum the object dies —of suffocation and the public gaze -whereas private ownership confers on the owner the right and the need to touch.” His obsession with porcelain is a quest “to find the substance of immortality.” But a collection of such objects is also a constant reminder of one’s own mortality: “These things are the changeless mirror in which we watch ourselves disintegrate. Nothing is more ageing than a collection of works of art.” The collection presents both concrete reality and existential hope for the one oppressed by power..
Even more, the pieces act much as the Golem in the Jewish legends of Prague - to protect, if not one’s body, at least one’s mind from the threats of power which abound in life. So, for Utz, “this world of little figures was the real world.” And like the Golem, and for that matter Adam himself, isn’t porcelain created from clay and water? These precisely crafted fragments of clay are our links to the supernatural which permit us to ignore the minor irritations of bureaucrats and customs officials no matter how expertly applied. “‘So you see,' said Utz, 'not only was Adam the first human person. He was also the first ceramic sculpture’.” Porcelain is a philosophy of primal mankind, of freedom.
Nevertheless, an aesthetic obsession, like a Golem, is prone to get out of hand unless there is a control mechanism. Utz In fact has two such controls: sex and an annual two weeks abroad. The first keeps him grounded, the second keeps him sane. It’s a clever therapy; and he recognizes his fortunate luxury. This is a luxury which allows him to avoid the main temptation to power, that is to say power as a remedy for power’s ills. “He knew that anti-Communist rhetoric was as deadly as its Communist counterpart.” In any case, his annual visits abroad served mainly to remind him of the venality and useless worry that were the essential conditions of living in the West.
Thus Utz’s aesthetic allows him to live comfortably and without undue stress “within the lie,” not just the lie of Czechoslovakian Communism, but also the lie that there is anything permanent or permanently obtainable in life. Not at all a bad way to deal with the power that envelopes one’s existence.
How can one best deal with the reality of power, particllarly power which is obviously arbitrary and tasteless as well as unjust? This is an especially relevant issue during the regime of Trump and his vulgarising influence in world affairs. Utz is wonderful comedic farce about how to deal with power - at a personal as well as a political level - not by confronting it but by treating it with utter disdain.
The eponymous Utz is a Czech survivor - of two world wars and a subsequent communist regime. What sustains him is an aesthetic, specifically his appreciation for Meissen porcelain. “Wars, pogroms and revolutions', he used to say, 'offer excellent opportunities for the collector.” He is savvy enough to understand that power is never permanently held and that its machinations need not impede the life of the true aesthete. “Tyranny sets up its own echo-chamber; a void where confused signals buzz about at random; where a murmur or innuendo causes panic: so, in the end, the machinery of repression is more likely to vanish, not with war or revolution, but with a puff, or the voice of falling leaves.” Power is its own worst enemy; if we can just leave it alone, it dissipates.
Utz is no avaricious materialist. Collecting is a spiritual endeavour that involves treating individual pieces as if they were icons that promote entry into another world. Such appreciation is impossible in a museum or public gallery where the pieces “must suffer the de-natured existence of an animal in the zoo. In any museum the object dies —of suffocation and the public gaze -whereas private ownership confers on the owner the right and the need to touch.” His obsession with porcelain is a quest “to find the substance of immortality.” But a collection of such objects is also a constant reminder of one’s own mortality: “These things are the changeless mirror in which we watch ourselves disintegrate. Nothing is more ageing than a collection of works of art.” The collection presents both concrete reality and existential hope for the one oppressed by power..
Even more, the pieces act much as the Golem in the Jewish legends of Prague - to protect, if not one’s body, at least one’s mind from the threats of power which abound in life. So, for Utz, “this world of little figures was the real world.” And like the Golem, and for that matter Adam himself, isn’t porcelain created from clay and water? These precisely crafted fragments of clay are our links to the supernatural which permit us to ignore the minor irritations of bureaucrats and customs officials no matter how expertly applied. “‘So you see,' said Utz, 'not only was Adam the first human person. He was also the first ceramic sculpture’.” Porcelain is a philosophy of primal mankind, of freedom.
Nevertheless, an aesthetic obsession, like a Golem, is prone to get out of hand unless there is a control mechanism. Utz In fact has two such controls: sex and an annual two weeks abroad. The first keeps him grounded, the second keeps him sane. It’s a clever therapy; and he recognizes his fortunate luxury. This is a luxury which allows him to avoid the main temptation to power, that is to say power as a remedy for power’s ills. “He knew that anti-Communist rhetoric was as deadly as its Communist counterpart.” In any case, his annual visits abroad served mainly to remind him of the venality and useless worry that were the essential conditions of living in the West.
Thus Utz’s aesthetic allows him to live comfortably and without undue stress “within the lie,” not just the lie of Czechoslovakian Communism, but also the lie that there is anything permanent or permanently obtainable in life. Not at all a bad way to deal with the power that envelopes one’s existence.
May 2, 2019
I am, among other things, a dealer of 19th century porcelain (and some of them Meissen), so this book was unusually close to my everyday life. Chatwin's passages on the pleasure and insanity of collecting (particularly the intense negotiation scene) were some of my favorites, though I don't know how well they'd translate to the collective you.
But! The book's treatment of Czechoslovakia is fascinating, Utz himself is a pleasure of a character, the book is light and funny, and there's a sequence in homage to Magic Mountain that was a huge pleasure. A touch OVER-plotted (I don't think Chatwin appreciated the joy of the simplicity of his book's first half), and some really bad hair similes are the only real issues here. I read it in 80 minutes. Chatwin had an exceedingly interesting life and this is a good introduction to his talents.
But! The book's treatment of Czechoslovakia is fascinating, Utz himself is a pleasure of a character, the book is light and funny, and there's a sequence in homage to Magic Mountain that was a huge pleasure. A touch OVER-plotted (I don't think Chatwin appreciated the joy of the simplicity of his book's first half), and some really bad hair similes are the only real issues here. I read it in 80 minutes. Chatwin had an exceedingly interesting life and this is a good introduction to his talents.
May 17, 2018
La collezione proibita.
Strano romanzo questo Utz, breve quanto intenso, multiforme e cangiante.
Non avevo mai letto niente di Chatwin, ma per sentito dire o per articoli letti qua e là mi immaginavo viaggi avventurosi in terre lontane oltreoceano.
Mi sono ritrovata invece a Praga, «la più misteriosa tra le città europee», a viaggiare nella mente indecifrabile di Utz, un ricco collezionista di porcellane settecentesche della casa Meissen di Dresda; di origine tedesca, ebreo per parte di madre, Utz è un personaggio indecifrabile, ora ironico e sprezzante, ora romantico e nostalgico, barone per caso, ma che vive senza agi né sfarzo, unicamente del suo amore per la bellezza e per la perfezione dei suoi pezzi da collezione dal valore inestimabile.
Chatwin, rievoca qui un fatto realmente accadutogli verso la fine degli anni Sessanta, quando già direttore della prestigiosa casa d'aste Sotheby's si recò nella Cecoslovachia pre-invasione sovietica per incontrare il famoso collezionista Rudolf Just e scoprire i segreti della sua collezione.
In un lungo ricordo, l'io narrante del romanzo, lo stesso Chatwin appunto, cerca di scoprire che fine abbia fatto la preziosa collezione dopo la morte di Utz: quella stessa collezione che l'eccentrico protagonista aveva difeso con grande forza e determinazione, dal nazismo e dalla guerra prima e dal comunismo e dal marxismo poi, che sembra ora essersi volatilizzata o addirittura, nonostante le fitte maglie della burocrazia comunista, andata distrutta.
Quella di Utz e delle sue statuine sembra essere una danza senza tempo, ballata sulle note di una nostalgia impalpabile, una danza delle ore scandita con lentezza dalla dedizione assoluta di Utz e dalla sua incapacità di subirne un distacco: la stessa che la fedele cameriera Martha riserverà al suo padrone sino alla fine dei suoi giorni.
Alla fine, nonostante avranno attraversato i secoli e i confini degli imperi della Sassonia e degli Asburgo, nonostante avranno attraversato le frontiere del Reich e quelle della Cortina di ferro, nonostante tutto, sulle statuine Messen della collezione Utz, non si sarà mai posato nemmeno un granello di polvere.
Perché come Utz sosteneva, un oggetto chiuso nella teca di un museo deve patire l'innaturale esistenza di un animale in uno zoo. In ogni museo l'oggetto muore - di soffocamento e degli sguardi del pubblico -, mentre il possesso privato conferisce al proprietario il bisogno di toccare. Come un bimbo allunga la mano per toccare ciò di cui pronuncia il nome, così il collezionista appassionato restituisce all'oggetto, gli occhi in armonia con la mano, il tocco vivificante del suo artefice. Il nemico del collezionista è il conservatore del museo. In teoria, i musei dovrebbero essere saccheggiati ogni cinquant'anni e le loro collezioni dovrebbero tornare in circolazione...
Peccato che Chatwin non abbia mai saputo del ritorno "in circolazione" della collezione Meissen di Just, il tesoro che sembrava svanito nel nulla...
Qui , se avete un account a pagamento sul Corriere della Sera.
Un'ultima annotazione va alla scrittura colta e raffinata di Chatwin: amo i libri che fanno conoscere nuovi mondi e insegnare nuove cose; amo ancor di più i libri che sanno stimolare il lettore ad affrontare nuove letture: La montagna incantata di Thomas Mann, La signora col cagnolino di Cechov, e ancora Zweig, Schnitzler, e per finire L'immoralista di André Gide: la mia piccola collezione dopo la lettura di questo romanzo.
"E io capii, mentre Utz faceva ruotare la statuetta alla luce della candela, che lo avevo giudicato male; che anche lui stava danzando; che per lui il vero mondo era il mondo di quelle figurine, e che, paragonate a loro, la Gestapo, la polizia segreta e furfanti vari non erano che creature di latta. Gli eventi di questo fosco secolo - i bombardamenti, i Blitzkrieg, i colpi di stato, le purghe - erano, per quel che lo riguardava, altrettanti «rumori di fondo»".
Strano romanzo questo Utz, breve quanto intenso, multiforme e cangiante.
Non avevo mai letto niente di Chatwin, ma per sentito dire o per articoli letti qua e là mi immaginavo viaggi avventurosi in terre lontane oltreoceano.
Mi sono ritrovata invece a Praga, «la più misteriosa tra le città europee», a viaggiare nella mente indecifrabile di Utz, un ricco collezionista di porcellane settecentesche della casa Meissen di Dresda; di origine tedesca, ebreo per parte di madre, Utz è un personaggio indecifrabile, ora ironico e sprezzante, ora romantico e nostalgico, barone per caso, ma che vive senza agi né sfarzo, unicamente del suo amore per la bellezza e per la perfezione dei suoi pezzi da collezione dal valore inestimabile.
Chatwin, rievoca qui un fatto realmente accadutogli verso la fine degli anni Sessanta, quando già direttore della prestigiosa casa d'aste Sotheby's si recò nella Cecoslovachia pre-invasione sovietica per incontrare il famoso collezionista Rudolf Just e scoprire i segreti della sua collezione.
In un lungo ricordo, l'io narrante del romanzo, lo stesso Chatwin appunto, cerca di scoprire che fine abbia fatto la preziosa collezione dopo la morte di Utz: quella stessa collezione che l'eccentrico protagonista aveva difeso con grande forza e determinazione, dal nazismo e dalla guerra prima e dal comunismo e dal marxismo poi, che sembra ora essersi volatilizzata o addirittura, nonostante le fitte maglie della burocrazia comunista, andata distrutta.
Quella di Utz e delle sue statuine sembra essere una danza senza tempo, ballata sulle note di una nostalgia impalpabile, una danza delle ore scandita con lentezza dalla dedizione assoluta di Utz e dalla sua incapacità di subirne un distacco: la stessa che la fedele cameriera Martha riserverà al suo padrone sino alla fine dei suoi giorni.
Alla fine, nonostante avranno attraversato i secoli e i confini degli imperi della Sassonia e degli Asburgo, nonostante avranno attraversato le frontiere del Reich e quelle della Cortina di ferro, nonostante tutto, sulle statuine Messen della collezione Utz, non si sarà mai posato nemmeno un granello di polvere.
Perché come Utz sosteneva, un oggetto chiuso nella teca di un museo deve patire l'innaturale esistenza di un animale in uno zoo. In ogni museo l'oggetto muore - di soffocamento e degli sguardi del pubblico -, mentre il possesso privato conferisce al proprietario il bisogno di toccare. Come un bimbo allunga la mano per toccare ciò di cui pronuncia il nome, così il collezionista appassionato restituisce all'oggetto, gli occhi in armonia con la mano, il tocco vivificante del suo artefice. Il nemico del collezionista è il conservatore del museo. In teoria, i musei dovrebbero essere saccheggiati ogni cinquant'anni e le loro collezioni dovrebbero tornare in circolazione...
Peccato che Chatwin non abbia mai saputo del ritorno "in circolazione" della collezione Meissen di Just, il tesoro che sembrava svanito nel nulla...
Qui , se avete un account a pagamento sul Corriere della Sera.
Un'ultima annotazione va alla scrittura colta e raffinata di Chatwin: amo i libri che fanno conoscere nuovi mondi e insegnare nuove cose; amo ancor di più i libri che sanno stimolare il lettore ad affrontare nuove letture: La montagna incantata di Thomas Mann, La signora col cagnolino di Cechov, e ancora Zweig, Schnitzler, e per finire L'immoralista di André Gide: la mia piccola collezione dopo la lettura di questo romanzo.
"E io capii, mentre Utz faceva ruotare la statuetta alla luce della candela, che lo avevo giudicato male; che anche lui stava danzando; che per lui il vero mondo era il mondo di quelle figurine, e che, paragonate a loro, la Gestapo, la polizia segreta e furfanti vari non erano che creature di latta. Gli eventi di questo fosco secolo - i bombardamenti, i Blitzkrieg, i colpi di stato, le purghe - erano, per quel che lo riguardava, altrettanti «rumori di fondo»".
January 19, 2015
I've never read anything by Bruce Chatwin before, but judging from his biography he was an interesting fellow. Born in 1940, he was employed by Sotheby's to work at their art department and quickly became their expert on antique and impressionist pieces, known for his ability to discern forgeries; he eventually became the director. He was later hired by The Sunday Times and published articles for the magazine while traveling across the world and visiting its remote corners; he published a travel book, In Patagonia, and several novels. Utz is the last of them, published in 1988 - one year before the author's death from AIDS.
The eponymous Utz is Kaspar Utz, a man of forgettable face but unforgettable passion - for porcelain figurines. Utz devoted his life to collecting his porcelain treasures, and ensuring their safety throughout the years and wars. He keeps all thousand pieces in his small, two-room apartment in Prague, permitted by the Czechoslovak regime to do so on the grounds that he will bequeath the entire collection to the state after his death. Although Utz is the main protagonist, he is not the narrator - the story begins with his funeral, and is narrated by a man who spent a little more than 9 hours with Utz when he was alive, and collected the rest from his few friends.
The narrator first came to Prague to research a book about the psychology of collectors - which drew him to Utz, a Jewish man possibly descended from some minor Saxon nobility, and his passion for collecting porcelain. His devotion to Meissen porcelains is without parallel - during the war, he gave away all his other earthly belongings to secure a Czechoslovak passport and residence in Prague. The narrator meets with Utz, who talks with him about porcelain, alchemy and golems; much of the book is satire on the absurdity of totalitarian regimes of the 20th century, one of which Utz had to live in. This is best seen in the opening scene of the book - which, by the nature of being a funeral, should have been sad; but because the funeral takes place in 1974 in Czechoslovakia, it's darkly humorous. A man asks the narrator if he can play the organ, and upon hearing a negation he admits that he can't either, and resignedly goes to do exactly that. A cleaning woman refuses to move for the coffin bearers, and they have to go around her - and they have to hurry, as the state has ruled that all Christian rituals have to be done by 8.30 AM. There are many more such examples in the book, but I'll leave the fun of discovering to prospective readers.
Although Utz could have used multiple opportunities to defect to the West, he was always dragged back to Prague - not by the government, but by his precious porcelain which he couldn't leave behind. He always came back to the city, and this is where he eventually died - which is where the book opens, and the narrator reaches full circle - learning more about Utz from his friends and acquaintances, he is able to present a more complete vision of Utz as a person. But can a person such as Utz ever truly be scrutinized and understood?
Like Utz's figurines, the book itself is a miniature - it reads quickly, but but is packed with a multitude of references and observations - from the nature of humankind to specific political and social affairs of the era. I think it could be adapted excellently for stage, and for film - I'm surprised that no one has thought of it yet, given the success of last years's Grand Budapest Hotel. If you enjoyed that film, there is a chance that you will also enjoy Utz - and even if you didn't, there is little risk in dusting off this forgotten book and discovering the life of a little known Saxon baron who once held the largest porcelain collection in the whole of Bohemia.
The eponymous Utz is Kaspar Utz, a man of forgettable face but unforgettable passion - for porcelain figurines. Utz devoted his life to collecting his porcelain treasures, and ensuring their safety throughout the years and wars. He keeps all thousand pieces in his small, two-room apartment in Prague, permitted by the Czechoslovak regime to do so on the grounds that he will bequeath the entire collection to the state after his death. Although Utz is the main protagonist, he is not the narrator - the story begins with his funeral, and is narrated by a man who spent a little more than 9 hours with Utz when he was alive, and collected the rest from his few friends.
The narrator first came to Prague to research a book about the psychology of collectors - which drew him to Utz, a Jewish man possibly descended from some minor Saxon nobility, and his passion for collecting porcelain. His devotion to Meissen porcelains is without parallel - during the war, he gave away all his other earthly belongings to secure a Czechoslovak passport and residence in Prague. The narrator meets with Utz, who talks with him about porcelain, alchemy and golems; much of the book is satire on the absurdity of totalitarian regimes of the 20th century, one of which Utz had to live in. This is best seen in the opening scene of the book - which, by the nature of being a funeral, should have been sad; but because the funeral takes place in 1974 in Czechoslovakia, it's darkly humorous. A man asks the narrator if he can play the organ, and upon hearing a negation he admits that he can't either, and resignedly goes to do exactly that. A cleaning woman refuses to move for the coffin bearers, and they have to go around her - and they have to hurry, as the state has ruled that all Christian rituals have to be done by 8.30 AM. There are many more such examples in the book, but I'll leave the fun of discovering to prospective readers.
Although Utz could have used multiple opportunities to defect to the West, he was always dragged back to Prague - not by the government, but by his precious porcelain which he couldn't leave behind. He always came back to the city, and this is where he eventually died - which is where the book opens, and the narrator reaches full circle - learning more about Utz from his friends and acquaintances, he is able to present a more complete vision of Utz as a person. But can a person such as Utz ever truly be scrutinized and understood?
Like Utz's figurines, the book itself is a miniature - it reads quickly, but but is packed with a multitude of references and observations - from the nature of humankind to specific political and social affairs of the era. I think it could be adapted excellently for stage, and for film - I'm surprised that no one has thought of it yet, given the success of last years's Grand Budapest Hotel. If you enjoyed that film, there is a chance that you will also enjoy Utz - and even if you didn't, there is little risk in dusting off this forgotten book and discovering the life of a little known Saxon baron who once held the largest porcelain collection in the whole of Bohemia.
February 10, 2021
Very entertaining, easy-read novel about a seemingly unworldly collector of Meissen-porcelain: the fanatic Kaspar Utz, living in Prague under communism. But don't be misled, this has much more to offer: a portrait of the cultural desert in the former East-european bloc, an introduction into the alchemistic search that leads to the development of European porcelain, a subtle psychological portrait of people in search of love and immortality, and the story of a naive author (presumably Chatwin) who tries to solve the mistery of the loss of the Utz-collection. And even underneath all that the basic themes are the unreliability of stories, and the inability to discover real truth. In a way this booklet made me think of Eco's The Name of the Rose with Postscript. Certainly a nice read, this 'Utz'.
Read
July 4, 2019Set during the last years of Czechoslovakia before the end of communism this short novel is based around a meeting between the author, who descends down into his own novel and the character of Utz, a collector of porcelain and their discussion around his collection and the nature and history of European porcelain . The rest of the story is reconstructed after the death of Utz. Reaching for the effect of a feature in the Sunday supplements , a couple of hours worth of reading from a dead author about a vanished country and a lost world of European porcelain.
Coming back to this book and reading it again for the first time in years it strikes me how much the depiction of the main character, Kasper Utz, is a self-portrait of the author - there is an emphasis on bending and accommodating to the world as it is and against it not resisting by maintaining a layered private life, and in Utz's wish for museum collections to be broken up and regularly made available for private collectors to buy and horde I sense Chatwin the former Sotheby's man. Ostensibly the novel is Chatwin's discovery of this curious person, the Baron Utz, living with a servant and an extraordinary porcelain collection in communist Czechoslovakia, but it emerges that within that meta-fiction parts are imaginative constructions by the in-story author (the construction of the book is also layered).
I am not sure if there are words in English to describe the varieties and realities of actual lived human sexualities, and perhaps that is for the best as it obliges us to engage with realities rather than always beginning able to shelter behind the safety of nouns, Chatwin was as far as I understand mostly gay but was married to an American woman (I suppose her passport was not particularly relevant to the relationship), he died eventually of AIDS, but, if I remember correctly spent some time claiming to be suffering from some kind of illness which was if not unique but very rare and while contracted adventurously it was from his persona as an explorer, dipping in and out of caves in search of buried treasure or curious manuscripts, ahem. He managed his public persona very carefully, and this is what we see Utz doing too - the great narrative shift is when he moves from being a canny survivor to being a collaborator, and I wonder if this reflected some guilt on Chatwin's part too - by not being open about his sexuality wasn't he too perpetuating the need to wear masks and tacitly enforcing the intolerance in 1980s Britain? Perhaps the novel says that it is improper to make such judgements. Perhaps it is just a delicate and balance piece of writing.
Coming back to this book and reading it again for the first time in years it strikes me how much the depiction of the main character, Kasper Utz, is a self-portrait of the author - there is an emphasis on bending and accommodating to the world as it is and against it not resisting by maintaining a layered private life, and in Utz's wish for museum collections to be broken up and regularly made available for private collectors to buy and horde I sense Chatwin the former Sotheby's man. Ostensibly the novel is Chatwin's discovery of this curious person, the Baron Utz, living with a servant and an extraordinary porcelain collection in communist Czechoslovakia, but it emerges that within that meta-fiction parts are imaginative constructions by the in-story author (the construction of the book is also layered).
I am not sure if there are words in English to describe the varieties and realities of actual lived human sexualities, and perhaps that is for the best as it obliges us to engage with realities rather than always beginning able to shelter behind the safety of nouns, Chatwin was as far as I understand mostly gay but was married to an American woman (I suppose her passport was not particularly relevant to the relationship), he died eventually of AIDS, but, if I remember correctly spent some time claiming to be suffering from some kind of illness which was if not unique but very rare and while contracted adventurously it was from his persona as an explorer, dipping in and out of caves in search of buried treasure or curious manuscripts, ahem. He managed his public persona very carefully, and this is what we see Utz doing too - the great narrative shift is when he moves from being a canny survivor to being a collaborator, and I wonder if this reflected some guilt on Chatwin's part too - by not being open about his sexuality wasn't he too perpetuating the need to wear masks and tacitly enforcing the intolerance in 1980s Britain? Perhaps the novel says that it is improper to make such judgements. Perhaps it is just a delicate and balance piece of writing.
March 26, 2025
“Um objecto fechado numa redoma de museu,” escreveu então, “leva a desgraçada existência de um animal num jardim zoológico. Em qualquer museu o objecto morre – de asfixia e do olhar fixo do público -, enquanto a propriedade particular confere ao dono de uma peça o direito e a necessidade de lhe tocar. (…) A solução ideal seria saquear os museus todos os 50 anos e repor em circulação as suas colecções…”
“Utz” é um livro encantador sobretudo pela forma como me transportou para outras referências e pelas ligações que estabeleci com outras obras lidas há não muito tempo. Protagonizado por um excêntrico colecionador de porcelanas de ascendência aristocrática, esta novela trouxe-me reverberações do programa “Antiques Roadshow”, descontando o factor surpresa dos grandes achados, e de “A Lebre com os Olhos de Âmbar”, ainda que a uma escala menor, mas demonstrando também o peso das circunstâncias históricas sobre o paradeiro dos objectos de arte e a forma como os seus proprietários se tornam joguetes nas mãos dos vários regimes.
“Guerras, ‘pogroms’ e revoluções – costumava ele dizer, - oferecem excelentes oportunidades ao colecionador.” O colapso da Bolsa constituíra uma dessas oportunidades. A Noite de Cristal foi outra. Na mesma semana, Utz deslocou-se apressadamente a Berlim a fim de comprar, em dólares americanos, louça de porcelana aos conhecedores judeus que desejavam emigrar. No fim da guerra, ofereceu idênticos serviços aos aristocratas que fugiam do exército soviético.
“Utz”, finalista do Booker Prizer em 1988, pode ser considerado o canto do cisne de Bruce Chatwin, que durante quase uma década trabalhou para os famosos leiloeiros Sotheby’s e foi instigado pela mulher, numa altura em que o seu corpo já conhecia os efeitos devastadores da Sida, a ficcionar um encontro que teve em 1967 com um negociante de arte. E que personagem tão castiça que ele criou!
Kaspar Joachim, à primeira vista um bon vivant e um oportunista frívolo, é à sua maneira um resistente, lembrando que, tal como no “Silêncio do Mar” de Vercors, a oposição à tirania se manifesta de muitos modos.
- Através do seu silêncio – prosseguiu o meu amigo – inflingem um insulto definitivo ao Estado, pretendendo [‘sic’ – fingindo] que este não existe.
Confrontado com a hipótese de lhe ser confiscada a sua preciosa colecção de porcelanas de Meissen, “uma perversão como qualquer outra”, opta pela via diplomática, mas tendo a oportunidade de se exilar num país fora da Cortina de Ferro, recusa-se a ser um refugiado e a abdicar dos seus tesouros, aquilo que faz dele o indivíduo único que é. Afinal, os nossos bens materiais, por mais insignificantes que sejam, não contribuem também para a nossa personalidade e, sem eles, não corremos o risco de nos tornarmos meros espectros?
Não menos brilhantes que Utz são as duas personagens que gravitam em torno dele: Orlík, o coleccionador de moscas, uma escolha nada inocente; e Marta, a empregada que, antes de ser salva por Utz, era guardadora de gansos, num subtil piscar de olho aos irmãos Grimm.
À medida que escrevo isto no meu caderno de apontamentos, parece-me ouvir o sussurro anasalado de Utz: “Eles escutam, escutam tudo, mas… não ouvem nada!”
“Utz” é um livro encantador sobretudo pela forma como me transportou para outras referências e pelas ligações que estabeleci com outras obras lidas há não muito tempo. Protagonizado por um excêntrico colecionador de porcelanas de ascendência aristocrática, esta novela trouxe-me reverberações do programa “Antiques Roadshow”, descontando o factor surpresa dos grandes achados, e de “A Lebre com os Olhos de Âmbar”, ainda que a uma escala menor, mas demonstrando também o peso das circunstâncias históricas sobre o paradeiro dos objectos de arte e a forma como os seus proprietários se tornam joguetes nas mãos dos vários regimes.
“Guerras, ‘pogroms’ e revoluções – costumava ele dizer, - oferecem excelentes oportunidades ao colecionador.” O colapso da Bolsa constituíra uma dessas oportunidades. A Noite de Cristal foi outra. Na mesma semana, Utz deslocou-se apressadamente a Berlim a fim de comprar, em dólares americanos, louça de porcelana aos conhecedores judeus que desejavam emigrar. No fim da guerra, ofereceu idênticos serviços aos aristocratas que fugiam do exército soviético.
“Utz”, finalista do Booker Prizer em 1988, pode ser considerado o canto do cisne de Bruce Chatwin, que durante quase uma década trabalhou para os famosos leiloeiros Sotheby’s e foi instigado pela mulher, numa altura em que o seu corpo já conhecia os efeitos devastadores da Sida, a ficcionar um encontro que teve em 1967 com um negociante de arte. E que personagem tão castiça que ele criou!
Kaspar Joachim, à primeira vista um bon vivant e um oportunista frívolo, é à sua maneira um resistente, lembrando que, tal como no “Silêncio do Mar” de Vercors, a oposição à tirania se manifesta de muitos modos.
- Através do seu silêncio – prosseguiu o meu amigo – inflingem um insulto definitivo ao Estado, pretendendo [‘sic’ – fingindo] que este não existe.
Confrontado com a hipótese de lhe ser confiscada a sua preciosa colecção de porcelanas de Meissen, “uma perversão como qualquer outra”, opta pela via diplomática, mas tendo a oportunidade de se exilar num país fora da Cortina de Ferro, recusa-se a ser um refugiado e a abdicar dos seus tesouros, aquilo que faz dele o indivíduo único que é. Afinal, os nossos bens materiais, por mais insignificantes que sejam, não contribuem também para a nossa personalidade e, sem eles, não corremos o risco de nos tornarmos meros espectros?
Não menos brilhantes que Utz são as duas personagens que gravitam em torno dele: Orlík, o coleccionador de moscas, uma escolha nada inocente; e Marta, a empregada que, antes de ser salva por Utz, era guardadora de gansos, num subtil piscar de olho aos irmãos Grimm.
À medida que escrevo isto no meu caderno de apontamentos, parece-me ouvir o sussurro anasalado de Utz: “Eles escutam, escutam tudo, mas… não ouvem nada!”
Read
April 7, 2023Um ou dois dias antes de iniciar esta leitura, estava a discutir Dvořák, Márai e a generalidade das personalidades que estão ligadas à Checoslováquia - e mesmo República Checa - como sendo pessoas altamente melancólicas (não, por força, medicamente tristes), facto que parece ser alimentado pelas próprias cidades, vivências e cultura daquele país.
E então, por qualquer razão, umas horas depois, fui atraída para este livro, sem conhecer outra obra do autor, sem espreitar sinopses, sem desfazer o mistério do que esta leitura poderia vir a ser. E aquilo que encontrei foi uma extensão, um prolongamento da reflexão que vinha a fazer dias antes.
Utz é um (sobrevivente) judeu checo, velho colecionador de figurinhas de porcelana Meissen* que vem a morrer "uma hora antes de raiar a madrugada do dia 7 de Março de 1974 (...) de uma segunda e há muito prevista apoplexia, no seu apartamento da rua Široká, n.° 5, que dava para o Velho Cemitério Judeu em Praga" - e atenção que não há aqui nenhum spoiler porque este é, literalmente, o primeiro parágrafo do livro.
Perante esta abertura tão saturnina - e novamente sem correr o risco de estragar a leitura a alguém, creio -, o foco e cerne do narrador desta história, está em [re]construir quem Kaspar Joachim Utz foi, numa Checoslováquia assolada pelo(s) totalitarismo(s).
"Utz contou-me como o gueto antigo - esse labirinto de passagens secretas e recintos esquecidos tão vivamente descrito por Meyrink! - fora substituído por edifícios de apartamentos após ter sido arrasado, por volta de 1890. As sinagogas, o cemitério e a velha Câmara Municipal eram quase os únicos monumentos que tinham sobrevivido. Estes, continuou, longe de serem destruídos pelos nazis, foram poupados para fazerem parte de um museu judaico que os turistas arianos do futuro visitariam para ver as relíquias de um povo tão extinto como os Aztecas ou os Hotentotes."
Sujeito desagradável, de trato difícil e pouco agradável à vista, Utz passa por ser um colecionador intelectual reservado que nos surpreende quando, depois de pintado o seu retrato, somos confrontados com afirmações menos ortodoxas sobre a sua pessoa. Quem é este Utz, afinal? é a pergunta que acompanha todo o texto. Como o narrador, também nós nos deixamos tentar a [re]compor toda a figura deste homem, através de fragmentos que nos são dados, sejam eles mais ou menos divergentes, ora terrenos ora mitológicos, numa espécie de experiência alquímica de onde esperamos ver surgir uma figura com pés e cabeça:
"Contava-se que os golens usavam uma tira de metal, chamada shem, à volta da testa ou debaixo da língua. O shem tinha inscrita a palavra hebraica emeth, a verdade divina. Quando um rabino queria destruir o golem por ele criado, apagava a primeira letra de modo a que emeth se lesse meth, 'morte', e o golem dissolvia-se."
Para conseguir recuperar essa imagem, para [re]criar o colecionador a partir do barro - ou neste caso, da cerâmica -, o narrador procurará compreender a vida e, nela, o lugar que ocupa a paixão maior de Utz, paixão essa que não está isenta da interpretação que esse narrador, e mesmo o leitor, farão dela.
"As coisas, pensei, são mais resistentes do que as pessoas. As coisas, pensei, são o espelho imutável no qual nos vemos desintegrar. Nada nos envelhece mais do que uma colecção de objectos de arte."
As suas indagações acabam por traçar um curioso paralelo entre o regime autoritário que subjuga os checos e a tirania que as figuras de porcelana exercem sobre o colecionador; entre o mundo fechado pelo totalitarismo e as vitrinas de vidro que encerram a valiosa coleção Meissen. Não admira, pois, que Utz se posicione de forma tão etérea nesta história...
"Sabia que a retórica anticomunista era tão mortal como a sua contrapartida comunista."
Todavia, estes não são os únicos paralelismos/ referências culturais e artísticas/ piscadelas de olho com que Chatwin nos presenteia. A realidade é que, em apenas 100 páginas, o autor consegue reunir material literário suficiente para alimentar dois ou três volumes de estudos político-antropológicos. E, se nos demorarmos um bocadinho, percebemos que a preocupação maior deste livro se prende com a análise social, temperada sempre de uma boa dose de ironia e filosofia: note-se que Utz é um esteta preso num mundo onde o marxismo-leninismo, preocupado com as questões da propriedade privada, não sabe como se posicionar quanto às coleções particulares, e por isso lhe permite sobreviver no limbo; e é também um judeu idólatra: a sua veneração ("mania", "perversão", "doença") das figuras - segundo a lei sagrada, uma "criatura criada pelo homem é uma blasfémia" - embora espiritual e não material, não deixa de ser pecado; e por aí fora, os momentos de reflexão são muitos como são muitas as referências e analogias inteligentes.
Também não deixa de ser curiosa a forma como cheguei a este livro e as respostas que o mesmo me trouxe. Debatia eu o facto de todos os grandes artistas checos que consigo nomear serem (mais que os eslovacos) criaturas melancólicas por natureza; Chatwin acabou por confirmar que existe, na própria estrutura histórica e identitária desta geografia, uma propensão para essa melancolia, uma certa sensibilidade, delicadeza emocional e desenvolvimento intelectual que culminam em personalidades banhadas de uma certa tristeza inata. Personalidades que, como Utz, se rodeiam do belo/real para melhor suportar a fealdade/irrealidade da vida.
"E, enquanto Utz examinava a estatueta à luz da vela, compreendi, de repente, que o tinha julgado mal;(...) que, para ele, este mundo de pequenas figuras era o mundo real. E que, em comparação, a Gestapo, a Polícia Secreta, e outro que tais, eram bugigangas. E os acontecimentos deste século sombrio - os bombardeamentos, as guerras, as revoltas, as perseguições - não passavam, quanto a ele, de «ruídos longinquos.»"
À parte a edição da Quetzal, embora datada de 1991, oferecer uma tradução excessivamente antiquada e habitada de opções altamente questionáveis (em que os "falsos amigos" fazem repetidas aparições), Utz é um livro magnífico, leve no seu tamanho, mas denso no seu conteúdo. Um livrinho que adoraria ver mais vezes mencionado e esmiuçado de tão rico que é!
*Estas peças, embora hoje muitas vezes vistas como artigos kitsch, escondem não só uma história rica e uma qualidade artística inigualável, como etiquetas de preço astronómicas. Até aos nossos dias a fábrica, do mesmo nome, detém o título de mais antiga fábrica de porcelana europeia mantendo as técnicas de manufatura tradicionais.
E então, por qualquer razão, umas horas depois, fui atraída para este livro, sem conhecer outra obra do autor, sem espreitar sinopses, sem desfazer o mistério do que esta leitura poderia vir a ser. E aquilo que encontrei foi uma extensão, um prolongamento da reflexão que vinha a fazer dias antes.
Utz é um (sobrevivente) judeu checo, velho colecionador de figurinhas de porcelana Meissen* que vem a morrer "uma hora antes de raiar a madrugada do dia 7 de Março de 1974 (...) de uma segunda e há muito prevista apoplexia, no seu apartamento da rua Široká, n.° 5, que dava para o Velho Cemitério Judeu em Praga" - e atenção que não há aqui nenhum spoiler porque este é, literalmente, o primeiro parágrafo do livro.
Perante esta abertura tão saturnina - e novamente sem correr o risco de estragar a leitura a alguém, creio -, o foco e cerne do narrador desta história, está em [re]construir quem Kaspar Joachim Utz foi, numa Checoslováquia assolada pelo(s) totalitarismo(s).
"Utz contou-me como o gueto antigo - esse labirinto de passagens secretas e recintos esquecidos tão vivamente descrito por Meyrink! - fora substituído por edifícios de apartamentos após ter sido arrasado, por volta de 1890. As sinagogas, o cemitério e a velha Câmara Municipal eram quase os únicos monumentos que tinham sobrevivido. Estes, continuou, longe de serem destruídos pelos nazis, foram poupados para fazerem parte de um museu judaico que os turistas arianos do futuro visitariam para ver as relíquias de um povo tão extinto como os Aztecas ou os Hotentotes."
Sujeito desagradável, de trato difícil e pouco agradável à vista, Utz passa por ser um colecionador intelectual reservado que nos surpreende quando, depois de pintado o seu retrato, somos confrontados com afirmações menos ortodoxas sobre a sua pessoa. Quem é este Utz, afinal? é a pergunta que acompanha todo o texto. Como o narrador, também nós nos deixamos tentar a [re]compor toda a figura deste homem, através de fragmentos que nos são dados, sejam eles mais ou menos divergentes, ora terrenos ora mitológicos, numa espécie de experiência alquímica de onde esperamos ver surgir uma figura com pés e cabeça:
"Contava-se que os golens usavam uma tira de metal, chamada shem, à volta da testa ou debaixo da língua. O shem tinha inscrita a palavra hebraica emeth, a verdade divina. Quando um rabino queria destruir o golem por ele criado, apagava a primeira letra de modo a que emeth se lesse meth, 'morte', e o golem dissolvia-se."
Para conseguir recuperar essa imagem, para [re]criar o colecionador a partir do barro - ou neste caso, da cerâmica -, o narrador procurará compreender a vida e, nela, o lugar que ocupa a paixão maior de Utz, paixão essa que não está isenta da interpretação que esse narrador, e mesmo o leitor, farão dela.
"As coisas, pensei, são mais resistentes do que as pessoas. As coisas, pensei, são o espelho imutável no qual nos vemos desintegrar. Nada nos envelhece mais do que uma colecção de objectos de arte."
As suas indagações acabam por traçar um curioso paralelo entre o regime autoritário que subjuga os checos e a tirania que as figuras de porcelana exercem sobre o colecionador; entre o mundo fechado pelo totalitarismo e as vitrinas de vidro que encerram a valiosa coleção Meissen. Não admira, pois, que Utz se posicione de forma tão etérea nesta história...
"Sabia que a retórica anticomunista era tão mortal como a sua contrapartida comunista."
Todavia, estes não são os únicos paralelismos/ referências culturais e artísticas/ piscadelas de olho com que Chatwin nos presenteia. A realidade é que, em apenas 100 páginas, o autor consegue reunir material literário suficiente para alimentar dois ou três volumes de estudos político-antropológicos. E, se nos demorarmos um bocadinho, percebemos que a preocupação maior deste livro se prende com a análise social, temperada sempre de uma boa dose de ironia e filosofia: note-se que Utz é um esteta preso num mundo onde o marxismo-leninismo, preocupado com as questões da propriedade privada, não sabe como se posicionar quanto às coleções particulares, e por isso lhe permite sobreviver no limbo; e é também um judeu idólatra: a sua veneração ("mania", "perversão", "doença") das figuras - segundo a lei sagrada, uma "criatura criada pelo homem é uma blasfémia" - embora espiritual e não material, não deixa de ser pecado; e por aí fora, os momentos de reflexão são muitos como são muitas as referências e analogias inteligentes.
Também não deixa de ser curiosa a forma como cheguei a este livro e as respostas que o mesmo me trouxe. Debatia eu o facto de todos os grandes artistas checos que consigo nomear serem (mais que os eslovacos) criaturas melancólicas por natureza; Chatwin acabou por confirmar que existe, na própria estrutura histórica e identitária desta geografia, uma propensão para essa melancolia, uma certa sensibilidade, delicadeza emocional e desenvolvimento intelectual que culminam em personalidades banhadas de uma certa tristeza inata. Personalidades que, como Utz, se rodeiam do belo/real para melhor suportar a fealdade/irrealidade da vida.
"E, enquanto Utz examinava a estatueta à luz da vela, compreendi, de repente, que o tinha julgado mal;(...) que, para ele, este mundo de pequenas figuras era o mundo real. E que, em comparação, a Gestapo, a Polícia Secreta, e outro que tais, eram bugigangas. E os acontecimentos deste século sombrio - os bombardeamentos, as guerras, as revoltas, as perseguições - não passavam, quanto a ele, de «ruídos longinquos.»"
À parte a edição da Quetzal, embora datada de 1991, oferecer uma tradução excessivamente antiquada e habitada de opções altamente questionáveis (em que os "falsos amigos" fazem repetidas aparições), Utz é um livro magnífico, leve no seu tamanho, mas denso no seu conteúdo. Um livrinho que adoraria ver mais vezes mencionado e esmiuçado de tão rico que é!
*Estas peças, embora hoje muitas vezes vistas como artigos kitsch, escondem não só uma história rica e uma qualidade artística inigualável, como etiquetas de preço astronómicas. Até aos nossos dias a fábrica, do mesmo nome, detém o título de mais antiga fábrica de porcelana europeia mantendo as técnicas de manufatura tradicionais.
August 7, 2017
"Le cose, riflettei, sono meno fragili delle persone. Le cose sono lo specchio immutabile in cui osserviamo la nostra disgregazione. Nulla ci invecchia più di una collezione di opere d'arte"
Il barone Kaspar von Utz, discendente da una nobile famiglia di proprietari terrieri, si rifugia nel collezionismo quasi maniacale di porcellane, che inizia ad acquistare pian piano fin da giovane. La sua collezione, composta da un numero esorbitante di pezzi importantissimi, grazie alla sua perspicacia ed attenzione riesce a sopravvivere agli orrori della guerra ed arrivare a Praga, durante il regime cecoslovacco.
Nelle difficili condizioni di Praga, Utz cerca di passare inosservato insieme alla sua preziosa collezione che attira ovviamente i burocrati di regime. Nonostante abbia continuamente la possibilità di fuggire in occidente, l'amore per la sua collezione lo blocca a Praga, città che da una parte ama ma dall'altra non sopporta più per la grettezza del regime.
Utz alla fine si rovina la vita rimanendo aggrappato ed intrappolato dalla meravigliosa collezione che non si sente di abbandonare; è come se fosse la collezione a possedere lui, piuttosto che il viceversa.
Meravigliosa l'erudizione di Chatwin; la sua capacità di destare interesse, di insegnare e di ironizzare è formidabile. In questo suo piccolo ultimo libro, originale e avvincente, si passa dalle filosofie antiche all'alchimia, dalla pietra filosofale e del suo legame con le porcellane all'attinenza del nome porcellana con il maiale, dalla leggenda dei Golem all'ebraismo, dalla storia europea del '900 alle bellezze di Praga.
Chatwin, tramite Utz che dedica la sua vita a collezionare cose belle ma fragili e inutili, ci suggerisce che nella vita non dobbiamo solo lavorare e guadagnare, ma dedicarci anche al culto della cultura e del bello. Curiosamente, le relazioni non sono prese in considerazione...
Un libro estremamente raffinato, suggestivo e appassionante.
Il barone Kaspar von Utz, discendente da una nobile famiglia di proprietari terrieri, si rifugia nel collezionismo quasi maniacale di porcellane, che inizia ad acquistare pian piano fin da giovane. La sua collezione, composta da un numero esorbitante di pezzi importantissimi, grazie alla sua perspicacia ed attenzione riesce a sopravvivere agli orrori della guerra ed arrivare a Praga, durante il regime cecoslovacco.
Nelle difficili condizioni di Praga, Utz cerca di passare inosservato insieme alla sua preziosa collezione che attira ovviamente i burocrati di regime. Nonostante abbia continuamente la possibilità di fuggire in occidente, l'amore per la sua collezione lo blocca a Praga, città che da una parte ama ma dall'altra non sopporta più per la grettezza del regime.
Utz alla fine si rovina la vita rimanendo aggrappato ed intrappolato dalla meravigliosa collezione che non si sente di abbandonare; è come se fosse la collezione a possedere lui, piuttosto che il viceversa.
Meravigliosa l'erudizione di Chatwin; la sua capacità di destare interesse, di insegnare e di ironizzare è formidabile. In questo suo piccolo ultimo libro, originale e avvincente, si passa dalle filosofie antiche all'alchimia, dalla pietra filosofale e del suo legame con le porcellane all'attinenza del nome porcellana con il maiale, dalla leggenda dei Golem all'ebraismo, dalla storia europea del '900 alle bellezze di Praga.
Chatwin, tramite Utz che dedica la sua vita a collezionare cose belle ma fragili e inutili, ci suggerisce che nella vita non dobbiamo solo lavorare e guadagnare, ma dedicarci anche al culto della cultura e del bello. Curiosamente, le relazioni non sono prese in considerazione...
Un libro estremamente raffinato, suggestivo e appassionante.
December 10, 2016
Avevo sentito accennare a Bruce Chatwin e l'avevo collegato mentalmente ad uno scrittore di viaggi e avventure. Incuriosita, ho voluto assaggiare... e ho scelto, non so per quali motivi inspiegabili, "Utz". E mi sono ritrovata non in luoghi di possibili mete, né in posti esotici, né a conoscere gente per il mondo, ma, inaspettatamente, a percorrere un viaggio a ritroso per alcuni anni dell'ultimo secolo, tramite le porcellane Meissen.
Il barone Kaspar von Utz ne possiede infatti, a Praga, una spettacolare collezione che, grazie alle sue abili manovre, era sopravvissuta alla seconda guerra mondiale e agli anni dello stalinismo in Cecoslovacchia. Nel 1967 contava più di mille pezzi, tutti stipati nel minuscolo appartamento di due stanze in via Siroka.
Orlìk, studioso di arte rinascimentale, sulle tracce dell'Imperatore Rodolfo II viene a contatto con Utz; ed è Orlìk a raccontarci dunque la vita solitaria dell'appassionato e maniacale collezionista sempre in fuga tra Praga, Dresda, Vichy per riuscire a conservare intatto il suo fragile tesoro; finché situazioni varie lo portano a una decisione drastica.
La scrittura è essenziale, pulita, efficace, e con veli di ironia. Ben organizzato il racconto, benché passi da un tempo all'altro, da un luogo all'altro. Le vicende storiche che ne costituiscono la struttura chiariscono bene l'ambiente e l'atmosfera, pur rimanendo nello sfondo. Pochi i personaggi, ma ben caratterizzati. Con discrezione viene presentato anche il rapporto con la domestica con la quale Utz condivide fino alla morte peripezie e risoluzioni. Molti poi i riferimenti culturali con cui Chatwin arricchisce la narrazione. Ma sempre rimane nel lettore un alone di mistero, come se il narratore avesse voluto rispecchiare e riprodurre quella reticenza che per le necessità contingenti i personaggi attuavano; un che di vago che dà completezza e forza alla storia.
Il barone Kaspar von Utz ne possiede infatti, a Praga, una spettacolare collezione che, grazie alle sue abili manovre, era sopravvissuta alla seconda guerra mondiale e agli anni dello stalinismo in Cecoslovacchia. Nel 1967 contava più di mille pezzi, tutti stipati nel minuscolo appartamento di due stanze in via Siroka.
Orlìk, studioso di arte rinascimentale, sulle tracce dell'Imperatore Rodolfo II viene a contatto con Utz; ed è Orlìk a raccontarci dunque la vita solitaria dell'appassionato e maniacale collezionista sempre in fuga tra Praga, Dresda, Vichy per riuscire a conservare intatto il suo fragile tesoro; finché situazioni varie lo portano a una decisione drastica.
La scrittura è essenziale, pulita, efficace, e con veli di ironia. Ben organizzato il racconto, benché passi da un tempo all'altro, da un luogo all'altro. Le vicende storiche che ne costituiscono la struttura chiariscono bene l'ambiente e l'atmosfera, pur rimanendo nello sfondo. Pochi i personaggi, ma ben caratterizzati. Con discrezione viene presentato anche il rapporto con la domestica con la quale Utz condivide fino alla morte peripezie e risoluzioni. Molti poi i riferimenti culturali con cui Chatwin arricchisce la narrazione. Ma sempre rimane nel lettore un alone di mistero, come se il narratore avesse voluto rispecchiare e riprodurre quella reticenza che per le necessità contingenti i personaggi attuavano; un che di vago che dà completezza e forza alla storia.
October 18, 2021
Das kleine Büchlein hat mich mit Chatwin versöhnt, dessen Traumpfade ich als Teenager vergeblich versuchte zu lesen.
Nicht nur mag ich die Prag-Beschreibungen (denn ich mag die Stadt sehr), sondern ich verstehe auch die Sammelleidenschaft und dass Utz sein Porzellan nicht verlassen mag. Dabei mag ich selbst Porzellan nicht besonders, aber als Bücherenthusiast kann ich mich einfühlen. Und an der Schnittmenge von Prag und Porzellanherstellung liegen dann auch die Episoden, die die Porzellanherstellung bzw. die Entdeckung des Herstellungsverfahrens thematisieren. Ich fand von jeher faszinierend, wie Alchimisten einerseits Dinge taten, die wir heute als Nonsens identifiziert haben, die aber gleichzeitig auch zu den Naturwissenschaften und Entdeckungen beitrugen; seien es die Wissenschaftler, die Rudolf II. in Prag um sich scharte oder eben der Erfinder des Porzellans Böttger, der eigentlich auf der Suche nach dem Rezept der Goldherstellung war.
Auch die feine Ironie, mit der das Leben in einem sozialistischen Land beschrieben wird, gefiel mir. So heißt es gleich zu Beginn anläßlich von Utz‘ Beerdigung: um die Aufmerksamkeit des Volkes von rückständigen christlichen Ritualen abzulenken, hatten die Behörden angeordnet, daß alle Taufen, Trauungen und Beerdigungen um 8 Uhr 30 beendet sein müßten.
Nicht nur mag ich die Prag-Beschreibungen (denn ich mag die Stadt sehr), sondern ich verstehe auch die Sammelleidenschaft und dass Utz sein Porzellan nicht verlassen mag. Dabei mag ich selbst Porzellan nicht besonders, aber als Bücherenthusiast kann ich mich einfühlen. Und an der Schnittmenge von Prag und Porzellanherstellung liegen dann auch die Episoden, die die Porzellanherstellung bzw. die Entdeckung des Herstellungsverfahrens thematisieren. Ich fand von jeher faszinierend, wie Alchimisten einerseits Dinge taten, die wir heute als Nonsens identifiziert haben, die aber gleichzeitig auch zu den Naturwissenschaften und Entdeckungen beitrugen; seien es die Wissenschaftler, die Rudolf II. in Prag um sich scharte oder eben der Erfinder des Porzellans Böttger, der eigentlich auf der Suche nach dem Rezept der Goldherstellung war.
Auch die feine Ironie, mit der das Leben in einem sozialistischen Land beschrieben wird, gefiel mir. So heißt es gleich zu Beginn anläßlich von Utz‘ Beerdigung: um die Aufmerksamkeit des Volkes von rückständigen christlichen Ritualen abzulenken, hatten die Behörden angeordnet, daß alle Taufen, Trauungen und Beerdigungen um 8 Uhr 30 beendet sein müßten.
March 8, 2024
7 Mart 1974’te Kaspar Joachim Utz hayata gözlerini yumar. Hayatına birkaç saatliğine girmiş biri ise onun hayatını anlatmaya başlar. Varlıklı ailesini, gittiği ülkeleri ve hayatını şekillendiren en büyük tutkusunu: Meissen porselenlerini.
Utz bir koleksiyonerdir evet bunu anlayabiliriz. Koleksiyonu için tüm yaşamını biçimlendirmek mi? İşte onu anlamlandırmak pek kolay değil..
.
Bruce Chatwin anlattığı şeyler kadar gölgede bıraktıklarıyla da merak unsurunu koruyan bir hikayeye çekiyor okuru. Utz’un porselenlerini anlatırken porselen tarihine de götürüyor, İkinci Dünya Savaşı ve Soğuk Savaş etkilerine de değiniyor..
Kısa ama oldukça keyifli bir okumaydı~
.
Çiğdem Erkal çevirisi, Utku Lomlu kapak tasarımıyla ~
Utz bir koleksiyonerdir evet bunu anlayabiliriz. Koleksiyonu için tüm yaşamını biçimlendirmek mi? İşte onu anlamlandırmak pek kolay değil..
.
Bruce Chatwin anlattığı şeyler kadar gölgede bıraktıklarıyla da merak unsurunu koruyan bir hikayeye çekiyor okuru. Utz’un porselenlerini anlatırken porselen tarihine de götürüyor, İkinci Dünya Savaşı ve Soğuk Savaş etkilerine de değiniyor..
Kısa ama oldukça keyifli bir okumaydı~
.
Çiğdem Erkal çevirisi, Utku Lomlu kapak tasarımıyla ~
October 19, 2021
Relativ am Anfang des Romans gibt es eine Szene in einem Fischrestaurant. Dr. Václav Orlík – Mammut- und Fliegenforscher! – sagt dort: "The fly is an anarchist. He is an individualist. He is a Don Juan." Eine kurze Passage, über die man ziemlich schnell hinwegliest. Doch ist sie weit tiefsinniger, als auf den ersten Blick zu vermuten wäre. Was als scherzhafte Bemerkung über die Natur der gemeinen Stubenfliege erscheint, entpuppt sich im Rückblick als treffende Charakterisierung der Hauptfigur Utz.
Ich weiß zwar nicht, ob Bruce Chatwin jemals Ernst Jünger gelesen hat. Aber an dieser Stelle musste ich sofort an den passionierten Entomologen denken. Der sprach einmal davon, dass sich in jedem echten Sammler ein Don Juan verberge. Ein Sammler sei ein Liebhaber in Potenz, oder zumindest sei er in Gefahr einer zu werden. Denn die Sammelleidenschaft sei nichts anderes als die Freude des Liebhabers, nur in gewandelter Form. Seine durch keine Menge zu befriedigende Leidenschaft, deute freilich an, dass ihn Unerschöpfliches im Hintergrund bewegt.
Auch Utz ist ein derart Besessener, einer unstillbaren Leidenschaft für das weiße Gold verfallen. In seiner winzigen Wohnung in Prag, beherbergt er eine umfangreiche Sammlung kostbarster Porzellanfiguren. Hinübergerettet aus seinem ehemals aristokratischen Leben, in die triste Realität der kommunistischen Tschechoslowakei. Permanent bedroht von den Schlägen der Staatsmacht, der er listenreich auszuweichen versucht, um seine Sammlung zu erhalten. Utz ist ein Anarchist, ein Individualist und ein Don Juan – kurz gesagt, die personifizierte Stubenfliege.
Bruce Chatwin hat aus einer wahren Vorlage eine tragikomische Geschichte gemacht, die vom Verhältnis des Menschen zu den Dingen erzählt. Gleichzeitig ist sie ein faszinierendes Psychogramm eines Sammlers, der wie seine Preziosen ein Relikt aus einer längst vergangenen Zeit ist.
Ich weiß zwar nicht, ob Bruce Chatwin jemals Ernst Jünger gelesen hat. Aber an dieser Stelle musste ich sofort an den passionierten Entomologen denken. Der sprach einmal davon, dass sich in jedem echten Sammler ein Don Juan verberge. Ein Sammler sei ein Liebhaber in Potenz, oder zumindest sei er in Gefahr einer zu werden. Denn die Sammelleidenschaft sei nichts anderes als die Freude des Liebhabers, nur in gewandelter Form. Seine durch keine Menge zu befriedigende Leidenschaft, deute freilich an, dass ihn Unerschöpfliches im Hintergrund bewegt.
Auch Utz ist ein derart Besessener, einer unstillbaren Leidenschaft für das weiße Gold verfallen. In seiner winzigen Wohnung in Prag, beherbergt er eine umfangreiche Sammlung kostbarster Porzellanfiguren. Hinübergerettet aus seinem ehemals aristokratischen Leben, in die triste Realität der kommunistischen Tschechoslowakei. Permanent bedroht von den Schlägen der Staatsmacht, der er listenreich auszuweichen versucht, um seine Sammlung zu erhalten. Utz ist ein Anarchist, ein Individualist und ein Don Juan – kurz gesagt, die personifizierte Stubenfliege.
Bruce Chatwin hat aus einer wahren Vorlage eine tragikomische Geschichte gemacht, die vom Verhältnis des Menschen zu den Dingen erzählt. Gleichzeitig ist sie ein faszinierendes Psychogramm eines Sammlers, der wie seine Preziosen ein Relikt aus einer längst vergangenen Zeit ist.
October 16, 2021
Chatwin bietet seinen Lesern einen kleinen Scherbenhaufen an Rückblicken, Schilderungen, Dialogen und Mutmaßungen über den Porzellansammler Baron Utz. Die erste Scherbe, die betrachtet wird, ist Utz’ Tod und Begräbnis im Jahr 1974 in Prag. Danach wechseln die weiteren Einblicke in das Leben des kauzigen Sammlers in nicht chronologischer Reihenfolge, aber am Ende dieses kurzen Romans hat man eigentlich alle Einzelteile zusammen, um ein ganzes Bild davon zu bekommen, was es bedeutete, in Zeiten des Sozialismus seine individuelle Leidenschaft auszuleben und ständig sich fragen lassen musste, was Privat- und was Volkseigentum ist. Auch wenn man an Porzellan keinen Gefallen findet, ist dies eine lohnende Lektüre, die nach meinem Geschmack auch durchaus etwas breiter hätte erzählt werden können.
October 22, 2021
Ein kleines Buch (167 S.) mit großem Inhalt, jedes Wort ist bewusst eingesetzt. Im Laufe der Handlung werden immer mehr Bedeutungsebenen klar, immer mehr Zusammenhänge und verschiedene Sichtweisen deutlich, die meinen anfäglichen Eindruck immer wieder veränderten.
Zuerst liest man Episoden aus dem Leben Kaspar Baron von Utz, so wie der Erzähler, der ihm in Prag begegnet ist, sie erfahren oder sich vorgestellt hat. Letzterer sollte über Rudolf den II., den Sammler von Exotika, recherchieren und beabsichtigte, allgemein zu Sammlerpersönlichkeiten zu forschen. Utz liebte seit seiner Kindheit Porzellan und besaß in der sozialistischen Tschechoslowakei eine beachtliche Sammlung überwiegend Meißner Porzellan, wobei er besonders Harlekin und andere Figuren der Commedia der Arte verehrte. Um seine Sammlung, die er zunächst in Dresden, später in einem böhmischen Schloss und zuletzt in einer Prager 2-Zimmerwohnung deponierte und aussstellte, durch Kriege und Enteignungen zu bringen, musste er wachsam und gerissen sein sowie sein ganzes Leben dem Porzellan unterordnen.
Im Laufe des Lesens blätterte ich immer wieder zurück, las eingestreute Geschichten z. B. über den Rabbi Löw, der sich einen Golem erschafft oder über den Harlekin erneut, und stellte fest, dass spätere Aussagen und Handlungen zuvor bereits angedeutet werden, dass sich manches im Nachhinein ganz anders darstellt, als es zuerst scheint. So setzt sich Stück für Stück das Bild eines Menschen mit enormer Sammelleidenschaft zusammen, das dennoch unscharf bleibt und einige Fragen aufwirft, z. B.wieviel Kollaboration notwendig war, um die kostbare Sammlung durch die Zeitläufe zu bringen, ob die Zusammentarbeit mit den Regimen immer verurteilenswert war, oder ob, neben der Liebe zum Porzellan, auch Liebe zum anderen Geschlecht möglich war oder nur Mittel zum Zweck. Konnte die Liebe zur Frau die Porzellanliebe beeinflussen oder verdrängen?
Ich habe das Buch in einer Leserunde gelesen, hätte es vermutlich nie gewählt, da ich mich dem Sammeln nicht verbunden fühle und Porzellanfiguren nicht mag, war aber durch den Bezug zu Dresden und Prag neugierig und bin sehr froh, das Buch entdeckt zu haben. Es ist eine ganz besondere Geschichte, die Sammelleidenschaft in einen historischen Kontext stellt und doch aktuelle Fragen aufwirft, die mich noch weiter beschäftigen werden.
Zuerst liest man Episoden aus dem Leben Kaspar Baron von Utz, so wie der Erzähler, der ihm in Prag begegnet ist, sie erfahren oder sich vorgestellt hat. Letzterer sollte über Rudolf den II., den Sammler von Exotika, recherchieren und beabsichtigte, allgemein zu Sammlerpersönlichkeiten zu forschen. Utz liebte seit seiner Kindheit Porzellan und besaß in der sozialistischen Tschechoslowakei eine beachtliche Sammlung überwiegend Meißner Porzellan, wobei er besonders Harlekin und andere Figuren der Commedia der Arte verehrte. Um seine Sammlung, die er zunächst in Dresden, später in einem böhmischen Schloss und zuletzt in einer Prager 2-Zimmerwohnung deponierte und aussstellte, durch Kriege und Enteignungen zu bringen, musste er wachsam und gerissen sein sowie sein ganzes Leben dem Porzellan unterordnen.
Im Laufe des Lesens blätterte ich immer wieder zurück, las eingestreute Geschichten z. B. über den Rabbi Löw, der sich einen Golem erschafft oder über den Harlekin erneut, und stellte fest, dass spätere Aussagen und Handlungen zuvor bereits angedeutet werden, dass sich manches im Nachhinein ganz anders darstellt, als es zuerst scheint. So setzt sich Stück für Stück das Bild eines Menschen mit enormer Sammelleidenschaft zusammen, das dennoch unscharf bleibt und einige Fragen aufwirft, z. B.wieviel Kollaboration notwendig war, um die kostbare Sammlung durch die Zeitläufe zu bringen, ob die Zusammentarbeit mit den Regimen immer verurteilenswert war, oder ob, neben der Liebe zum Porzellan, auch Liebe zum anderen Geschlecht möglich war oder nur Mittel zum Zweck. Konnte die Liebe zur Frau die Porzellanliebe beeinflussen oder verdrängen?
Ich habe das Buch in einer Leserunde gelesen, hätte es vermutlich nie gewählt, da ich mich dem Sammeln nicht verbunden fühle und Porzellanfiguren nicht mag, war aber durch den Bezug zu Dresden und Prag neugierig und bin sehr froh, das Buch entdeckt zu haben. Es ist eine ganz besondere Geschichte, die Sammelleidenschaft in einen historischen Kontext stellt und doch aktuelle Fragen aufwirft, die mich noch weiter beschäftigen werden.
April 3, 2023
Man leidyklos "Lapas" knygos kaip gurmaniškas skanėstas - visad žinai, kad bus kažkas neeilinio, kitokio, įdomaus. Paskutinė skaityta "Šaltinis" iki šiol į mane žvelgia iš lentynos ir primena su kokiu didžiuliu malonumu ją suskaičiau. "Lapas" leidėjai patikino, kad ir "Utzas" turėtų patikti. Buvo teisūs.
Tai pasakojimas apie išties aistringą porceliano kolekcionierių Utzą. Kolekcijos kolekcijomis, bet rėžimas į tokią tuštybę kaip menas žiūri kreivokai. Vis tik Utzas gudrus - jam leidžiama kolekciją laikyti namuose su sąlyga, kad po mirties ji bus palikta valstybei.
Geras kūrinys yra tas, kuris kelia daugiau klausimų nei atsakymų. Pritariate? Jei taip, ši knyga kaip tik Jums. Peno pamąstyti čia bus iki valiai: ar kolekcinikui priklauso kolekcija ar kolekcijai kolekcininkas, kam gali ryžtis žmogus pametęs galvą dėl savo aistros, kiek galima išlikti laisvu rėžimo gniaužtuose ir dar daug daug daug klausimų.
Sakyčiau itin nišinė knyga, kuri patiks sofistikuotam skaitytojui. Maloniai jaučiasi Mariaus Buroko braižas. Juntamas britiškas lakoniškumas ir tam tikras savotiškas humoras (scena restorane su neteisingai parašytu žodžiu privertė kvatotis balsu). Keistai nustebino brito autoriaus puikus išmanymas ir pajautimas Rytų Europos realybės. Puikiai pavyko atskleisti atsmosferą ir to laikotarpio išskirtinumus.
Buvo įdomu skaityti. Nieko panašaus nesu skaičiusi. Neperdėsiu pasakiusi, kad ko tikėjausi, tą ir gavau - nišinė knyga pretenzingam ir mąstyti mėgstančiam skaitytojui. Lakoniška, šiek tiek fragmentiška su netikėtais humoro blyksniais.
Tai pasakojimas apie išties aistringą porceliano kolekcionierių Utzą. Kolekcijos kolekcijomis, bet rėžimas į tokią tuštybę kaip menas žiūri kreivokai. Vis tik Utzas gudrus - jam leidžiama kolekciją laikyti namuose su sąlyga, kad po mirties ji bus palikta valstybei.
Geras kūrinys yra tas, kuris kelia daugiau klausimų nei atsakymų. Pritariate? Jei taip, ši knyga kaip tik Jums. Peno pamąstyti čia bus iki valiai: ar kolekcinikui priklauso kolekcija ar kolekcijai kolekcininkas, kam gali ryžtis žmogus pametęs galvą dėl savo aistros, kiek galima išlikti laisvu rėžimo gniaužtuose ir dar daug daug daug klausimų.
Sakyčiau itin nišinė knyga, kuri patiks sofistikuotam skaitytojui. Maloniai jaučiasi Mariaus Buroko braižas. Juntamas britiškas lakoniškumas ir tam tikras savotiškas humoras (scena restorane su neteisingai parašytu žodžiu privertė kvatotis balsu). Keistai nustebino brito autoriaus puikus išmanymas ir pajautimas Rytų Europos realybės. Puikiai pavyko atskleisti atsmosferą ir to laikotarpio išskirtinumus.
Buvo įdomu skaityti. Nieko panašaus nesu skaičiusi. Neperdėsiu pasakiusi, kad ko tikėjausi, tą ir gavau - nišinė knyga pretenzingam ir mąstyti mėgstančiam skaitytojui. Lakoniška, šiek tiek fragmentiška su netikėtais humoro blyksniais.
Read
November 12, 2013Chatwin's sentences are as chiseled little jewels in museum cases. He's part of that wonderful tradition of chilly literary craftsmanship that counts Borges, Sebald, and Nabokov among its members.
Utz is the first of Chatwin's fiction works I've read, and it bears much in common with his travel writing. To be, like, ultra-lame, I would make the comparison between his prose and the Meissen porcelain he writes about, but I'm not. Instead, I'll say that it is brilliantly, deceptively simple. He just says things with as straight a face as you can imagine. And the effects stay with you for a long time after, especially on that lonely train ride home, especially on that return to an empty apartment.
Utz is the first of Chatwin's fiction works I've read, and it bears much in common with his travel writing. To be, like, ultra-lame, I would make the comparison between his prose and the Meissen porcelain he writes about, but I'm not. Instead, I'll say that it is brilliantly, deceptively simple. He just says things with as straight a face as you can imagine. And the effects stay with you for a long time after, especially on that lonely train ride home, especially on that return to an empty apartment.
March 11, 2024
Un gioiellino mitteleuropeo.
E fa strano pensare sia stato scritto da Chatwin, sia perchè è un vero e proprio romanzo - e non si tratta di narrativa di viaggio - sia perchè non ha niente a che fare con l'inghilterra, ma si svolge bensì a Praga.
Tra vari aneddoti della città e della storia ceca, ovvero europea, questo romanzetto sa come soddisfare la sete di informazioni.
E fa strano pensare sia stato scritto da Chatwin, sia perchè è un vero e proprio romanzo - e non si tratta di narrativa di viaggio - sia perchè non ha niente a che fare con l'inghilterra, ma si svolge bensì a Praga.
Tra vari aneddoti della città e della storia ceca, ovvero europea, questo romanzetto sa come soddisfare la sete di informazioni.
December 14, 2022
Koks šiltas kandumas! Labai patiko ta meilė, humoras, su kuriuo Chatwinas vaizduoja savo veikėjus. Dar knygoje yra nuostabių detalių, palyginimų, kurie labai nustebino. Ekscentriškas ne tik Utzas, bet ir pats pasakotojas :) Pavyzdžiui, jis mato "avietinių ledų spalvos sakyklą" bažnyčioje. :) Vertimas 10 balų.
July 21, 2016
Se Fredrik Sjöberg dice che esistono altri libri in cui compaiono collezionisti di mosche, io devo recuperare subito quei libri.
Utz però è un collezionista di ceramiche e forse è ancora meglio, la sua ossessione sinistra, inquietante e malata lo porta a spostarsi, a mercanteggiare, a giungere a compromessi, a mentire ed imbrogliare, a nascondersi e a scappare. Utz è un personaggio estremamente affascinante e, seppur esplorato attentamente nei meandri della sua mente, non del tutto comprensibile e razionalizzabile. Inoltre la scrittura di Chatwin è intensa e trascinante, in questo romanzo mi ha ricordato Zweig, con quella sua abilità a condurre il lettore nelle profondità più oscure dell'animo umano.
Quindi, ottimo consiglio Fredrik, grazie.
Utz però è un collezionista di ceramiche e forse è ancora meglio, la sua ossessione sinistra, inquietante e malata lo porta a spostarsi, a mercanteggiare, a giungere a compromessi, a mentire ed imbrogliare, a nascondersi e a scappare. Utz è un personaggio estremamente affascinante e, seppur esplorato attentamente nei meandri della sua mente, non del tutto comprensibile e razionalizzabile. Inoltre la scrittura di Chatwin è intensa e trascinante, in questo romanzo mi ha ricordato Zweig, con quella sua abilità a condurre il lettore nelle profondità più oscure dell'animo umano.
Quindi, ottimo consiglio Fredrik, grazie.
October 3, 2012
About 3/4 of the way in and I'm finding it really easy to read. It's sneakily subversive, witty, elegant in a quiet way and really gets its hooks into you. Absorbing, slightly absurd, legitimately funny and slyly knowing.
It was pressed on me by a drunken friend who insisted that I check it out. It was also among the 5,000 books namedropped by Hitchens (in a personal essay, though, and I think he probably knew the author well) so that's always a plus.
So far at least it's the kind of book that feels longer than its actual page or plot length, but not in a lugubrious, dragging kind of way.
I'm savoring it and am trying to finish it with a suitable mindset- hushed, receptive and open. Like...I don't know...a collector of antique porcelain might be. (Sorry if you already know what I'm talking about, I had to do it)
In an effort to really explain what I mean about how great this book is, here's some wonderful quotes and scene-setting:
The story opens with the titular character's funeral:
"The bearers- employees of a rubber factory who worked night-shift and doubled for the undertaker by day- had shouldered the coffin and were advancing up the main aisle: to music that reminded Orlik of the tramp of soldiers on parade.
Halfway to the altar the procession met the cleaning woman, who, with soap, water and a scrubbing-brush, was scrubbing at the blazon of the Rozemberk family, inlaid into the floor in many-coloured marbles.
The leading bearer asked the woman, most politely, to allow the coffin to pass. She scowled and went on scrubbing.
The bearers had no alternative but to take a left turn between two pews, a right turn up the side aisle, and another right to pass the pulpit. Eventually, they arrived before the altar where a youngish priest, his surplice stained with sacramental wine, was anxiously biting his fingernails.
They set down the coffin with a show of reverence. Then, attracted by the smell of hot bread from a bakery along the street, they strolled off to get breakfast leaving Orlik and the faithful Marta as the only mourners.
The priest mumbled the service at the speed of a patter number and, from time to time, lifted his eyes towards a fresco of the Heavenly Heights. After commending the dead man's soul, they had to wait at least ten minutes before the bearers condescended to return, at 8.26."
So the nondescript, enigmatic mister Utz is a somewhat-obsessed collector of antique porcelain, which is to say he suffers from Porzellankrankheit, and is a sort of a Bartleby the Scrivener in Communist Prague, and we and the narrator visit him and learn a bit about his whys and wherefores (such as they are, and they are indeed, as we slowly discover and come to understand, though Utz remains essentially ungraspable throughout) including his living situation:
"The room, to my surprise, was decorated in the 'modern style': almost devoid of furniture apart from a daybed, a glass-topped table and a pair of Barcelona chairs upholstered in dark green leather. Utz had 'rescued' these in Moravia, from a house built by Mies van der Rohe.
It was a narrow room, made narrower by the double bank of plate-glass shelves, all of them crammed with porcelain, that reached from floor to ceiling. The shleves were backed with mirror, so that you had the illusion of entering an enfilade of glittering chambers, a 'dream palace' multiplied to infinity, through which human forms flitted like insubstantial shadows.
The carpet was grey. You had to watch your step for fear of tripping over one of the white porcelain sculptures- a pelican, a turkey-cock, a bear, a lynx and a rhino- modelled either by Kaendler or Eberlein for the Japanese Palace in Dresden. All five were scarred with fissures caused by faults in the firing...
Utz had chosen each item to reflect the moods and facets of the 'Porcelain Century': the wit, the charm, the gallantry, the love of the exotic, the heartlessness and light-hearted gaiety- before they were swept away by revolution and the tramp of armies."
And then you get this:
"No. He was not a spy. As he explained to me in the course of our afternoon stroll, Czechoslovakia was a pleasant place to live, providing one had the possibility of leaving. At the same time he admitted, with a self-deprecating smile, that his severe case of Porzellankheit prevented him from leaving for good. The collection held him prisoner.
'And, of course, it has ruined my life!'
Ah, sure, and our obsessions do begin to wall us in a little bit, indeed, but...as we read the porcelain begins to take on a different meaning:
"'Are you trying to tell me that Shadrach, Meshach and Abendigo were cermaic figures?"
'They could have been,' he answered. 'They certainly survived the fire.'
'I see,' I said. 'So you do think the porcelains are alive?'
'I do and I do not,' he sniggered. 'Porcelains die in the fire ,and then they come alive again. The kiln, you must understand, is Hell. The temperature for firing porcelain is 1,450 degrees centigrade.'
'Yes,' I said.
Utz's flights of fancy made me feel quite dizzy. He appeared to be saying that the earliest European porcelain- Bottiger's red ware and white ware- corresponded to the red and white tinctures of the alchemists. To a superstitious old roue like Augustus, the manufacture of porcelain was an approach to the Philosopher's Stone.
If this were so: if, to the eighteenth-century imagination, porcelain was not just another exotic, but a magical and talismanic substance- the substance of longevity, of potency, of invulnerability- then it was easier to understand why the King would stuff a palace with forty thousand pieces. Or guard the 'arcanum' like a secret weapon. Or swap the six hundred giants.
Porcelain, Utz, concluded, was the antidote to decay.
The illusion was, of course, shattered by Frederick the Great who simply loaded the contents of the Meissen factory onto ox-carts and sent it, as booty, to Berlin.
'But Frederik,' Utz fluttered his eyelids, '...and with all that musical talent!...was really an absolute philistine!'
Going a little further here, pointing out the individually realized Grecian Urns of Utz's massive, world-spanning collection:
"I have said that Utz's face was 'waxy in texture', but now in the candlelight its texture seemed like melted wax. I looked at the ageless complexion of the Dresden ladies. Things, I reflected, are tougher than people. Things are the changeless mirror in which we watch ourselves disintegrate. Nothing is more age-ing than a collection of works of art.
One by one, he lifted the characters of the Commedia from the shelves, and placed them in the pool of light where they appeared to skate over the glass of the table, pioting on their bases of gilded foam, as if they would forever go on laughing, whirling, improvising.
Scaramouche would strum on his guitar.
Brighella would liberate people's purses.
The Captain would swagger childishly like all army officers.
The Doctor would kill his patient in order to rid him of his disease.
The coils of spaghetti would be eternally poised above Pulchinella's nostrils.
Pantaloon would gloat over his money-bags.
The Innamorata, like all transvestites everywhere, would be mobbed on his way to the theatre.
Columbine would be endlessly in love with Harlequin- 'absolutely mad to trust him'.
And Harlequin ...The Harlequin...the arch-improviser, the zany, trickster, master of the volte-face...would forever strut in his variegated plumage, grin through his orange mask, tiptoe into bedrooms, sell nappies for the children of the Grand Eunuch, dance in the teeth of catastrophe...Mr Chameleon himself!
And as I recalled, as Utz pivoted the figure in the candlelight, that I had misjudged him; that he, too, was dancing; that, for him, this world of little figures was the real world. And that, compared to them, the Gestapo, the Secret Police and other hooligans were creatures of tinsel. And the events of this sombre century- the bombardments, blitzkriegs, putsches, purges- were, so far as he was concernedm so many 'noises off'.
'And now,' he said, 'we shall go. We shall go for a walk.'"
If hope, if you're reading this, you've gotten an idea of what a wonderfully wry, subtle, knowing and beautiful book this is, and I sincerely hope you read it.
Do it for the collectors (I mean, come on, if you're on this site, you probably fit the bill), do it for the porcelain, do it for Utz!
December 8, 2017
I don’t know why or when I began to be suspicious of fiction, but somewhere along the line I came to look on the reading of novels as a guilty pleasure, a distraction from the business of more serious reading. This is an absurd notion, of course, and it embarrasses me to write it down. The undergraduate English major still lurking somewhere deep within me is really quite shocked. But I make no excuse for myself; I only admit the fact.
I’ve read a lot of Bruce Chatwin and enjoyed all of it, but I’ve so far limited myself to his ostensibly non-fiction works. (Admittedly, the line between fiction and non-fiction is a hazy one with Chatwin, but I’m thinking here of his travelogues like In Patagonia.) Curiously, then, it was a work of non-fiction, Frederik Sjoberg’s The Fly Trap, that sparked my interest in Utz as an example of Chatwin-the-novel-writer.
I simply loved this book. I read it in two enraptured sittings and was tempted to start over again from the beginning. Chatwin’s eccentricities are all there (the story includes memorable discursions on Renaissance alchemists, the origin of central European porcelain manufactures, and the true nature and powers of the Prague golem) but they’re given fresh shape and breath in the memorable characters of Utz himself, his friend Orlik, and his housekeeper Marta.
What’s more, I can’t remember Chatwin’s prose ever reading better than it does in Utz. And while there’s a certain pathos to the story, it’s also very funny – as in I actually laughed out loud more than once. I don’t know what to compare it to, except maybe a Werner Herzog movie. In the end, Utz may feel like a guilty pleasure, but only because I suspect it was written with me personally in mind.
I’ve read a lot of Bruce Chatwin and enjoyed all of it, but I’ve so far limited myself to his ostensibly non-fiction works. (Admittedly, the line between fiction and non-fiction is a hazy one with Chatwin, but I’m thinking here of his travelogues like In Patagonia.) Curiously, then, it was a work of non-fiction, Frederik Sjoberg’s The Fly Trap, that sparked my interest in Utz as an example of Chatwin-the-novel-writer.
I simply loved this book. I read it in two enraptured sittings and was tempted to start over again from the beginning. Chatwin’s eccentricities are all there (the story includes memorable discursions on Renaissance alchemists, the origin of central European porcelain manufactures, and the true nature and powers of the Prague golem) but they’re given fresh shape and breath in the memorable characters of Utz himself, his friend Orlik, and his housekeeper Marta.
What’s more, I can’t remember Chatwin’s prose ever reading better than it does in Utz. And while there’s a certain pathos to the story, it’s also very funny – as in I actually laughed out loud more than once. I don’t know what to compare it to, except maybe a Werner Herzog movie. In the end, Utz may feel like a guilty pleasure, but only because I suspect it was written with me personally in mind.
August 2, 2019
A quanto pare con Chatwin ho iniziato dalla fine, proprio dall'ultimo libro.
Utz è un collezionista di porcellane cecoslovacco. La sua passione per gli smalti e le ceramiche supera con tenacia l'occupazione nazista, il regime e l'occupazione russa. Tutto perché le ceramiche non sono proprietà privata ma oggetti di uso privato (quanto labili sono le differenze).
Utz ha poche passioni, il pranzo del giovedì con l'amico di sempre, la compagnia della cameriera Marta e poi loro, le sue porcellane.
Ma cosa succede alla sua collezione alla sua morte? È questo che si chiede l'io narrante, prima perplesso dal personaggio, poi comprensivo e infine completamente stupito dalla sua lungimiranza e arguzia.
Forse non il Chatwin più celebre ma un libro fuori dal comune.
Utz è un collezionista di porcellane cecoslovacco. La sua passione per gli smalti e le ceramiche supera con tenacia l'occupazione nazista, il regime e l'occupazione russa. Tutto perché le ceramiche non sono proprietà privata ma oggetti di uso privato (quanto labili sono le differenze).
Utz ha poche passioni, il pranzo del giovedì con l'amico di sempre, la compagnia della cameriera Marta e poi loro, le sue porcellane.
Ma cosa succede alla sua collezione alla sua morte? È questo che si chiede l'io narrante, prima perplesso dal personaggio, poi comprensivo e infine completamente stupito dalla sua lungimiranza e arguzia.
Forse non il Chatwin più celebre ma un libro fuori dal comune.
October 17, 2014
Don't get fooled by the shortness of the booklet: the story is quite rich. We meet this self-centered mr Utz on the day of his funeral, through the memories of an acquaintance of his. Mr Utz has been a spoiled child and an eccentric adult, a bourgeoisie in a communist country. He's a collector, and an addicted to porcelain. But the is also delusional.
I get the sophistication of the story, but I don't get the story. I've been indifferent to Utz's struggling and suffering.
I get the sophistication of the story, but I don't get the story. I've been indifferent to Utz's struggling and suffering.
December 12, 2022
Kaip rašė leidėja, jie atrinko šią knygą, nes ji nebūtina, ji nėra iš tų must read. Ji tokia hedonistiška. Labai trumpa, tokia lengva, be įsipareigojimų, savaitgalio ar kam gal dienos skaitinys. Puikus Mariaus Buroko vertimas (red. Dangė Vitkienė), konsultavo Ramutė Rachlevičiūtė (super!).
Britų autorius Bruce Chatwin (1940-1989) užsirekomendavęs kaip kelionių knygų rašytojas. Bet ši knyga visai ne apie keliones. Ši knyga apie Utzą, kurio veidas tarsi be jokių bruožų ("veidas toks neišraiškingas, kad atrodė, jo iš viso nėra", bet didžiulė aistra porcelianui, jis buvo pirklys ir kolekcionierius, turėjęs jį garbinusią tarnaitę Martą ir daug meilužių operos solisčių. Jis gyveno sovietmečiu, važinėdavo į Viši, bet visada, užuot emigravęs, grįždavo. Žadėdamas negrįžti, ruošdavo grįžimo dokumentus (kokie mieli tokie žmogiško mąstymo paradoksai ir prieštaravimai pagauti.). Jo tarnaitė, o paskui žmona Marta, baronienė von Utz, pakvietė visas operos solistes į jo laidotuves valanda vėliau :))
Man labai patiko humoras, stilius, kaifavau ir juokiausi.
"Didžiausias kolekcionieriaus priešas - muziejaus rinkinių saugotojas. Būtų idealu, jeigu visus muziejus kas penkiasdešimt metų apiplėštų, o jų kolekcijos vėl būtų paleistos į apyvartą" (22p.) Nes reikia liesti porcelianą, reikia jį naudoti - Utzui tarnaitė atnešdavo sriubą porceliano sriubinėje ir pan... Jis tuo gyveno, tai gražu.
"Utzas bjaurėjosi smurtu, tačiau džiaugėsi visais kataklizmais, dėl kurių į rinką plūstelėdavo naujų meno kūrinių." (23p.)
Knyga apie ekscentriką estetą ribotame tarybiniame pasaulyje. Šioje knygoje ekscentriškumas labai šviežias, leidžiantis vis naujus žavius švelnius daigelius. Tu matai žmones po ta ekscentrikų išore. Kartais tiesiog negali būti kitaip.
Kartais ekscentriškumas pašvinksta, esu tai patyrus gyvenime. Bet šitoj knygoj viskas labai šviežia ir gaivu.
Šiukšliavežiai čia yra nenusisekę aktoriai ir rašytojai.
Britų autorius Bruce Chatwin (1940-1989) užsirekomendavęs kaip kelionių knygų rašytojas. Bet ši knyga visai ne apie keliones. Ši knyga apie Utzą, kurio veidas tarsi be jokių bruožų ("veidas toks neišraiškingas, kad atrodė, jo iš viso nėra", bet didžiulė aistra porcelianui, jis buvo pirklys ir kolekcionierius, turėjęs jį garbinusią tarnaitę Martą ir daug meilužių operos solisčių. Jis gyveno sovietmečiu, važinėdavo į Viši, bet visada, užuot emigravęs, grįždavo. Žadėdamas negrįžti, ruošdavo grįžimo dokumentus (kokie mieli tokie žmogiško mąstymo paradoksai ir prieštaravimai pagauti.). Jo tarnaitė, o paskui žmona Marta, baronienė von Utz, pakvietė visas operos solistes į jo laidotuves valanda vėliau :))
Man labai patiko humoras, stilius, kaifavau ir juokiausi.
"Didžiausias kolekcionieriaus priešas - muziejaus rinkinių saugotojas. Būtų idealu, jeigu visus muziejus kas penkiasdešimt metų apiplėštų, o jų kolekcijos vėl būtų paleistos į apyvartą" (22p.) Nes reikia liesti porcelianą, reikia jį naudoti - Utzui tarnaitė atnešdavo sriubą porceliano sriubinėje ir pan... Jis tuo gyveno, tai gražu.
"Utzas bjaurėjosi smurtu, tačiau džiaugėsi visais kataklizmais, dėl kurių į rinką plūstelėdavo naujų meno kūrinių." (23p.)
Knyga apie ekscentriką estetą ribotame tarybiniame pasaulyje. Šioje knygoje ekscentriškumas labai šviežias, leidžiantis vis naujus žavius švelnius daigelius. Tu matai žmones po ta ekscentrikų išore. Kartais tiesiog negali būti kitaip.
Kartais ekscentriškumas pašvinksta, esu tai patyrus gyvenime. Bet šitoj knygoj viskas labai šviežia ir gaivu.
Šiukšliavežiai čia yra nenusisekę aktoriai ir rašytojai.
February 9, 2023
Ak, koks atpažįstamas leidėjo braižas, skonis - ko tikėjaus, tą ir perskaičiau. Trumpa, kupina tikslių detalių, bet sugebanti išlikti lakoniška, švelniai ironiška, estetiška visomis prasmėmis.
Ir veiksmas vyksta Prahoje, iš tiesų, tai paskutinis didelis miestas, kurį paiai teko lankyti ne Lietuvoje, tad atsiminimai dar gana šviežūs, todėl knygos siužetas piešėsi ryškiai ir aštriai. Nors koks čia siužetas - greičiau kelios scenos tarybiniame intelektualaus, ekscentriško Utzo pasaulyje. Tiesa, mūsų herojus turi išskirtinę laisvę iš to pasaulio retkarčiais pasprukti, ir štai tie du pasauliai - už geležinės uždangos ir po ja, kuria puikų rezonansą. Tik gal ne tą, kurio tikėtumėmės (vakarai - troškimų išspildymas, gerovė, rytai - skurdi ir niūri priespaudos realybė), tačiau labiau Utziška, t.y. asmeniška, individuali.
Skaitinys nebūtinai patiksiantis ir paliesiantis, jis išvis sunkiai apibrėžiamas: nei skirtas ir besitaikantis į elitinį intelektualą, nei į kasdienį knygų žiurkių. Na jis toks - kokybiškas, paprastas, bet tikrai ne prastas, kažką lyg slepiantis, bet ne perdėm gilus, metaforiškas, bet ne koks tai poetiškas, pamėginkit - o gal patiks.
Ir veiksmas vyksta Prahoje, iš tiesų, tai paskutinis didelis miestas, kurį paiai teko lankyti ne Lietuvoje, tad atsiminimai dar gana šviežūs, todėl knygos siužetas piešėsi ryškiai ir aštriai. Nors koks čia siužetas - greičiau kelios scenos tarybiniame intelektualaus, ekscentriško Utzo pasaulyje. Tiesa, mūsų herojus turi išskirtinę laisvę iš to pasaulio retkarčiais pasprukti, ir štai tie du pasauliai - už geležinės uždangos ir po ja, kuria puikų rezonansą. Tik gal ne tą, kurio tikėtumėmės (vakarai - troškimų išspildymas, gerovė, rytai - skurdi ir niūri priespaudos realybė), tačiau labiau Utziška, t.y. asmeniška, individuali.
Skaitinys nebūtinai patiksiantis ir paliesiantis, jis išvis sunkiai apibrėžiamas: nei skirtas ir besitaikantis į elitinį intelektualą, nei į kasdienį knygų žiurkių. Na jis toks - kokybiškas, paprastas, bet tikrai ne prastas, kažką lyg slepiantis, bet ne perdėm gilus, metaforiškas, bet ne koks tai poetiškas, pamėginkit - o gal patiks.
February 12, 2020
Published in 1988, Utz was Chatwin's fifth novel coming after In Patagonia(1977), The Viceroy of Ouidah(1980), On The Black Hill(1982) and The Songlines(1987). It was written and published whilst Chatwin was ill and dying from AIDS. It made the Booker list. Like the previous novels it contains elements of being almost-but-not-quite a travelogue and an examination of aspects of anthropology and sociology, but Utz is most definetly a novel.
I have problems with these mytho/pyscho/ortho-meta-para-geographers. Their own arguments seem to suggest and build on the idea that if a story is worth telling then it is worth enhancing. More than that, some even suggest that it is better than walking. Personally I would counter that this is what one naturally does when walking anyway, and that the myth alone is commonly better than the spurious enhancements made by these performance artistes, so what is their great fuss about? For these solipsistic charlatans, what is true and what is made up seem to coalesce into some frenzied mind-trip of cross-connections with a limited set of poetic concatenation allegedly offering a greater and deeper meaning at least in the mind of the mythographers. For that reason I find it hard to accept even the beautifully written works of W.G. Sebald, the ephemerata of Claudio Magris let alone the facile un-readable-ness of the faintly risible Cecile Oak /Phil Smith (Dr, Professor .... who cares) . Chatwin comes into this group, far far closer to Sebald than the others.
Utz is a skinny book. Not much more than a short story. Set in Prague it concerns the obsession with Meissen porcelain that grips Utz, our eponymous hero(?) and how his collection drives and directs his life. It is full of the ploys of all mythogeographers - overloading us, the readers, with obscure factettes, little-known locations, procedures and rituals that may-or-may-not be real (and that, of course, this is their cue for them to pipe up "Who are you to say what is real and what is not"). At least Chatwin had the good grace to call it a novel rather than a DEEP work of social anthropology! Utz too is full of this ephemerata. Do we care? Well.... maybe its just me. I actually do care enough to google some of the bollix set down as substantive fact. Quite often there are elements of truth, commonly misconstrued or disported in a way to suggest an alternative. Who IS or WAS the Emperor Rudolf? What IS a tazza? This is the stuff that makes Google money and sets the wheels of the search engines in frenzied motion - 'More coal in the furnace, Mr Google, We need more steam here!'
It begins after a while to resemble a book of motettes and anecdotes like the report of a long bibulous lunch of some affable, upper-class, well-educated friends - interesting and at the same time both tiresome and tedious. How can one INVENT porcelain!!!!! (should that be RE-INVENT at least). One can rediscover the method of manufacture of porcelain but it's not something you invent ferfuxache. And Porcelain as the Body of Christ!!!! Jesus wept!!!! It is worth reading the wiki on the history of porcelain.
I was reminded of a piece from Nic Roeg's excellent film Performance when the ageing rock star Turner attempts to trip up the gangster character of James Fox who is trying to hide out with Turner. Fox's character says he is a juggler and Turner regales him with past medieval jongleurs and magicians throughout Europe. This book feels just like that scene.
So Utz is in the end pretty scanty and skimmily thin. But it stands as an excellent piece of Chatwinian camp ephemerata. It has an immediacy that is interesting but soon fails with time and excessive consumption. The big 'reveal' is the disappearance of the collection on Utz's death and the emergence of the marriage of Utz to his servant. Has the collection been smashed or somehow whisked away? As an afterthought and observation that life and truth are commonly stranger than fiction, in 2001 Sotheby's tracked down (and sold) the missing porcelain collection of an obsessive Czech collector https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2001/o...
I have problems with these mytho/pyscho/ortho-meta-para-geographers. Their own arguments seem to suggest and build on the idea that if a story is worth telling then it is worth enhancing. More than that, some even suggest that it is better than walking. Personally I would counter that this is what one naturally does when walking anyway, and that the myth alone is commonly better than the spurious enhancements made by these performance artistes, so what is their great fuss about? For these solipsistic charlatans, what is true and what is made up seem to coalesce into some frenzied mind-trip of cross-connections with a limited set of poetic concatenation allegedly offering a greater and deeper meaning at least in the mind of the mythographers. For that reason I find it hard to accept even the beautifully written works of W.G. Sebald, the ephemerata of Claudio Magris let alone the facile un-readable-ness of the faintly risible Cecile Oak /Phil Smith (Dr, Professor .... who cares) . Chatwin comes into this group, far far closer to Sebald than the others.
Utz is a skinny book. Not much more than a short story. Set in Prague it concerns the obsession with Meissen porcelain that grips Utz, our eponymous hero(?) and how his collection drives and directs his life. It is full of the ploys of all mythogeographers - overloading us, the readers, with obscure factettes, little-known locations, procedures and rituals that may-or-may-not be real (and that, of course, this is their cue for them to pipe up "Who are you to say what is real and what is not"). At least Chatwin had the good grace to call it a novel rather than a DEEP work of social anthropology! Utz too is full of this ephemerata. Do we care? Well.... maybe its just me. I actually do care enough to google some of the bollix set down as substantive fact. Quite often there are elements of truth, commonly misconstrued or disported in a way to suggest an alternative. Who IS or WAS the Emperor Rudolf? What IS a tazza? This is the stuff that makes Google money and sets the wheels of the search engines in frenzied motion - 'More coal in the furnace, Mr Google, We need more steam here!'
'My friend,' he said, 'you know many things. But you have many things to know'.Chatwin loves his mittel-Europe history. He also knew a shitload about art from his years as an art-whore with Sothebys. So he knows his subject. But as the tale proceeds and the coal wagon empties you just get tired of following all the references. Borges it is not. Despite all the charm that Chatwin has, in my honest opinion, it is NOT great prose. Borges it is not, I say again!! And once you take away all the ephemerata, what you are left with is the bones of an interesting but consomme-thin tale on the mania of collection (something that Chatwin had observed well from Sotheby's), some politically naive statements on the Prague Spring and the USSR, and the outline of a book on mannerism and behaviours that were rapidly disappearing. Stating this I begin to feel like the child in 'The Emperor's New Clothes'.
It begins after a while to resemble a book of motettes and anecdotes like the report of a long bibulous lunch of some affable, upper-class, well-educated friends - interesting and at the same time both tiresome and tedious. How can one INVENT porcelain!!!!! (should that be RE-INVENT at least). One can rediscover the method of manufacture of porcelain but it's not something you invent ferfuxache. And Porcelain as the Body of Christ!!!! Jesus wept!!!! It is worth reading the wiki on the history of porcelain.
I was reminded of a piece from Nic Roeg's excellent film Performance when the ageing rock star Turner attempts to trip up the gangster character of James Fox who is trying to hide out with Turner. Fox's character says he is a juggler and Turner regales him with past medieval jongleurs and magicians throughout Europe. This book feels just like that scene.
So Utz is in the end pretty scanty and skimmily thin. But it stands as an excellent piece of Chatwinian camp ephemerata. It has an immediacy that is interesting but soon fails with time and excessive consumption. The big 'reveal' is the disappearance of the collection on Utz's death and the emergence of the marriage of Utz to his servant. Has the collection been smashed or somehow whisked away? As an afterthought and observation that life and truth are commonly stranger than fiction, in 2001 Sotheby's tracked down (and sold) the missing porcelain collection of an obsessive Czech collector https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2001/o...
December 21, 2024
"Le cose, riflettei, sono meno fragili delle persone. Le cose sono lo specchio immutabile in cui osserviamo la nostra disgregazione. Nulla ci invecchia più di una collezione di opere d'arte"
September 8, 2024
The enigmatic figure of the harlequin adorns the cover of my version of this book, set in Prague during the Communist era.
This is the story of Kaspar Utz, a collector of Meissen figures, and female lovers, in his two-room flat.
If he were able to sell these figurines, they'd be worth millions, but he doesn't want to sell them.
He would never defect to the West as he wouldn't be able to take the porcelain with him.
He is a prisoner twice over, first of the Communist regime and second of the Meissen porcelain, an interesting state of affairs for someone to have got themselves into. The difference is, he could leave Prague and communist Czechoslovakia behind, but he could never leave the Meissen behind.
There's also mention of the Golem, an artificial man, fashioned from the glutinous mud of the River Vltava by Rabbi Loew, who acted as a servant for the Rabbi when required.
I wonder whether these Meissen figurines are mini-golems for Utz, serving a purpose for him, making him aware of where he belongs, so that even if he were to leave Prague, his housekeeper, and his country, the lure of the figurines would bring Utz back.
This is the story of Kaspar Utz, a collector of Meissen figures, and female lovers, in his two-room flat.
If he were able to sell these figurines, they'd be worth millions, but he doesn't want to sell them.
He would never defect to the West as he wouldn't be able to take the porcelain with him.
He is a prisoner twice over, first of the Communist regime and second of the Meissen porcelain, an interesting state of affairs for someone to have got themselves into. The difference is, he could leave Prague and communist Czechoslovakia behind, but he could never leave the Meissen behind.
There's also mention of the Golem, an artificial man, fashioned from the glutinous mud of the River Vltava by Rabbi Loew, who acted as a servant for the Rabbi when required.
I wonder whether these Meissen figurines are mini-golems for Utz, serving a purpose for him, making him aware of where he belongs, so that even if he were to leave Prague, his housekeeper, and his country, the lure of the figurines would bring Utz back.
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