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Concrete
Instead of the book he's meant to write, Rudolph, a Viennese musicologist, produces this tale of procrastination, failure, and despair, a dark and grotesquely funny story of small woes writ large and profound horrors detailed and rehearsed to the point of distraction.
"Certain books—few—assert literary importance instantly, profoundly. This new novel by the internationally praised but not widely known Austrian writer is one of those—a book of mysterious dark beauty . . . . [It] is overwhelming; one wants to read it again, immediately, to re-experience its intricate innovations, not to let go of this masterful work."—John Rechy, Los Angeles Times
"Rudolph is not obstructed by some malfunctions in part of his being—his being itself is a knot. And as Bernhard's narrative proceeds, we begin to register the dimensions of his crisis, its self-consuming circularity . . . . Where rage of this intensity is directed outward, we often find the sociopath; where inward, the suicide. Where it breaks out laterally, onto the page, we sometimes find a most unsettling artistic vision."—Sven Birkerts, The New Republic
"Certain books—few—assert literary importance instantly, profoundly. This new novel by the internationally praised but not widely known Austrian writer is one of those—a book of mysterious dark beauty . . . . [It] is overwhelming; one wants to read it again, immediately, to re-experience its intricate innovations, not to let go of this masterful work."—John Rechy, Los Angeles Times
"Rudolph is not obstructed by some malfunctions in part of his being—his being itself is a knot. And as Bernhard's narrative proceeds, we begin to register the dimensions of his crisis, its self-consuming circularity . . . . Where rage of this intensity is directed outward, we often find the sociopath; where inward, the suicide. Where it breaks out laterally, onto the page, we sometimes find a most unsettling artistic vision."—Sven Birkerts, The New Republic
156 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1982
About the author
Thomas Bernhard
295 books2,199 followersThomas Bernhard was an Austrian writer who ranks among the most distinguished German-speaking writers of the second half of the 20th century.
Although internationally he's most acclaimed because of his novels, he was also a prolific playwright. His characters are often at work on a lifetime and never-ending major project while they deal with themes such as suicide, madness and obsession, and, as Bernhard did, a love-hate relationship with Austria. His prose is tumultuous but sober at the same time, philosophic by turns, with a musical cadence and plenty of black humor.
He started publishing in the year 1963 with the novel Frost. His last published work, appearing in the year 1986, was Extinction. Some of his best-known works include The Loser (about a student's fictionalized relationship with the pianist Glenn Gould), Wittgenstein's Nephew, and Woodcutters.
Although internationally he's most acclaimed because of his novels, he was also a prolific playwright. His characters are often at work on a lifetime and never-ending major project while they deal with themes such as suicide, madness and obsession, and, as Bernhard did, a love-hate relationship with Austria. His prose is tumultuous but sober at the same time, philosophic by turns, with a musical cadence and plenty of black humor.
He started publishing in the year 1963 with the novel Frost. His last published work, appearing in the year 1986, was Extinction. Some of his best-known works include The Loser (about a student's fictionalized relationship with the pianist Glenn Gould), Wittgenstein's Nephew, and Woodcutters.
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March 11, 2024
The hero of the novel is literally immured in Concrete of his inertia.
He is full of intellectual ambitions… But a lack of will prevents him from fulfilling his aspirations… And in his inability to commence writing he tends to accuse others…
Even if his sister endeavours eagerly to help him and protect him from the outside world he considers her to be a source of all his troubles and misery…
He is an amateur musicologist… He is a recluse… He does nothing… He hides… He becomes misanthropic and hypochondriacal… He buries himself alive…
On succumbing to inertia one is fated to sink slowly in despair.
He is full of intellectual ambitions… But a lack of will prevents him from fulfilling his aspirations… And in his inability to commence writing he tends to accuse others…
People exist for the sole purpose of tracking down the intellect and annihilating it. Sensing that somebody’s brain is on the point of some intellectual effort, they come along and stifle this intellectual effort at birth. And if it isn’t my wretched, malignant, deceitful sister, then it’s somebody else of her kind.
Even if his sister endeavours eagerly to help him and protect him from the outside world he considers her to be a source of all his troubles and misery…
For a year now you’ve been wittering on about Mendelssohn Bartholdy. Where’s your great work? she said. You associate only with the dead. I associate with the living. That’s the difference between us. In the society I mix with there are living people, in yours there are only dead people. Because you’re afraid of the living, she said, because you’re not willing to make the least commitment, the commitment that has to be made if one wants to associate with living people. You sit here in your house, which is nothing but a morgue, and cultivate the society of the dead…
He is an amateur musicologist… He is a recluse… He does nothing… He hides… He becomes misanthropic and hypochondriacal… He buries himself alive…
I don’t know which came first – my illness or my sudden distaste for society. I don’t know whether the distaste was there first and gave rise to the illness, or whether the illness was there first and gave rise to the distaste for this particular society, for social gatherings of this kind and for society in general.
On succumbing to inertia one is fated to sink slowly in despair.
November 9, 2023
For years I have lived in this state of self-condemnation, self-abnegation and self-mockery, in which ultimately I always have to take refuge in order to save myself.
I find it a bit ironic that I’ve been having such a difficult time beginning this review, a review for a book narrated by an aging man who has watched ten years flick by as he has attempted to write the first sentence for his own book. Thomas Bernhard’s Concrete is a darkly comical, spiraling plunge into the mind and soul of it’s narrator as he gripes and groans about his lot in life. He manages to create blockades for himself everywhere he turns, always perceiving the world around him as threat to him and as stifling his creative genius. In a sublime balance between grumpy and gorgeous, Bernhard exquisitely details a tortured mind as it projects it’s own self-dissatisfactions outward, latching on to every corner of society possible to avert any horrific inward gaze, while constructing a portrait of confined genius and giving voice to the dismay felt by those who hold the arts in high esteem.
Berhard brings such a richness of voice and character that nearly screams off the page in all the narrator’s self-righteous fury. Rudolph is aging and bitter at everything and everyone around him, viewing anything aside from the purest of intellectual pursuits to be vapid trifles. These trifles, he fears, are the objects that the general public finds the most interest in, and he rages against a society that is progressively becoming oversaturated with philistines masquerading under a guise of artistic merit.
Rudolph’s vitriolic rants help him avoid writing the music study he has been intending to write for ten years. These rants are not only mere digressions, but often digressions of digressions to the point where it seems there is little to no forward motion to the novel. However, it is through these circuitous ravings that Bernhard is able to reveal the insight into his narrator piece by piece while still bestowing an infectious desire to press on in the reader. This book is extremely hard to put down. Rudolph gripes about everything around him, from his sister, his house, publishing, society, and spitting acidic condemnations of his current residence in Peiskam as well as his former residence in Vienna.
Rudolph must inevitable come to terms that it is his jealousy that leads to his spiteful nature, jealousy of his sister’s prosperity, jealousy that society can thrive without him, and jealousy that others can fake their happiness through the world. Not long after he rages against Vienna, Rudolph writes ‘Today I envy my sister only one thing: that she can live in Vienna. That’s what constantly rouses me to anger against Vienna – envy.’ It is easy to hate something that we envy, something we cannot obtain, something that makes us feel inferior. We all do it. It is so easy to hate a popular musician when we feel we have our own musical talents, or to hate an author that becomes a best seller when we appreciate what we feel is better, more worthwhile literature. William H. Gass mentions in an interview how bitter he was towards the literary world at a young age, seeing what he considered mediocre writers making the best sellers while hearing the thump of his rejected manuscripts being returned to his front doorstep. Rudolph cannot begin his great work, so he finds excuses in everything else to sidestep any personal responsibilities. He projects his distaste towards himself onto the world at large, and while it is highly comic, it is truly tragic.
After leaving his home to vacation in peace and in hopes of beginning his book, Rudolph is flooded with memories of a poor woman who faced true hardships of life. It creates an illuminating juxtaposition: Rudolph who fears the outside world is crushing him instead of recognizing his own self-defeating perceptions and actions, and Anna who is trying to make an honest, self-motivating go of it in the world and is constantly thwarted on all sides by outside forces. Initially, Rudolph views her as a muse to make himself feel better, ‘The fact is that we immediately use someone who is still more unfortunate than we are in order to get ourselves back on our feet,’ her cruel fate sends him plummeting into throes of anxiety and fear that it is uncertain if he will ever be able to begin the book he has traveled so far to start work upon.
While Rudolph is a voice for all our inner discontent with what we find around us, he is a cautionary tale, or perhaps even a metaphorical yellow canary, that we must alter our self-defeating behaviors, claim responsibilities for our actions and shortcomings, and take charge of our lives if we ever wish to do anything great. We cannot waste our years and youth away wishing for ideal conditions, we must cut our own path through the dense foliage of reality to capture the treasure of our goals. We cannot blame others for our own failings, and the world would move much more smoothly if we could all accept who we are, learn to love ourselves even for our faults, and not project it outward into the cosmos. Bernhard displays a masterful skill over his prose and through his creation of such a cantankerous, yet charming, narrator. While this book spins itself in circle of self-defeat, it is one that will have you flipping pages, fully engrossed, entertained and desiring to know what venomous line Rudolph will spit next. This is the sort of book that really charms me, and reading it with such an enlightened and intelligent goodreads friend such as Garima (please read her incredible review found here) made this all the more of an incredible book. Bitter and beautiful, Bernhard is a master that should find his way into your bookshelf and heart.
5/5
‘There ought to be only happy people—all the necessary conditions are present—but there are only unhappy people.’
I find it a bit ironic that I’ve been having such a difficult time beginning this review, a review for a book narrated by an aging man who has watched ten years flick by as he has attempted to write the first sentence for his own book. Thomas Bernhard’s Concrete is a darkly comical, spiraling plunge into the mind and soul of it’s narrator as he gripes and groans about his lot in life. He manages to create blockades for himself everywhere he turns, always perceiving the world around him as threat to him and as stifling his creative genius. In a sublime balance between grumpy and gorgeous, Bernhard exquisitely details a tortured mind as it projects it’s own self-dissatisfactions outward, latching on to every corner of society possible to avert any horrific inward gaze, while constructing a portrait of confined genius and giving voice to the dismay felt by those who hold the arts in high esteem.
I’d always cared extremely little for public opinion because I was obsessed with my own opinion and hence had no time at all for the public’s.
Berhard brings such a richness of voice and character that nearly screams off the page in all the narrator’s self-righteous fury. Rudolph is aging and bitter at everything and everyone around him, viewing anything aside from the purest of intellectual pursuits to be vapid trifles. These trifles, he fears, are the objects that the general public finds the most interest in, and he rages against a society that is progressively becoming oversaturated with philistines masquerading under a guise of artistic merit.
The scene today is dominated by baseness and stupidity, and by the charlatanry which makes common cause with them. My Vienna has been totally ruined by tasteless, money-grubbing politicians and become unrecognizable.While he often seems like a mind that is being shorn from it’s hinge, it would be wrong to dismiss him as an utter madman (as he suspects all his acquaintances have); Bernhard manages to give birth to an eloquent voice that resides in the ambiguous region where madness and genius overlap, bestowing Rudolph with a cunning insight and a silver tongue of vast literary magnitude. I’ve always been fond of insufferable narrators, the type of people that I accept would probably be unbearable as a friend or to encounter in person, but I can’t help but loving their bitter, volatile personalities on paper. Perhaps that is one of the many gifts of literature; through books like this we come to understand the character and why they present a thorn of a personality and in turn learn tolerance and acceptance of others. Rudolph seemed reminiscent of many of my other favorite insufferable narrators, especially the one found in Hamsun’s Hunger.
Rudolph’s vitriolic rants help him avoid writing the music study he has been intending to write for ten years. These rants are not only mere digressions, but often digressions of digressions to the point where it seems there is little to no forward motion to the novel. However, it is through these circuitous ravings that Bernhard is able to reveal the insight into his narrator piece by piece while still bestowing an infectious desire to press on in the reader. This book is extremely hard to put down. Rudolph gripes about everything around him, from his sister, his house, publishing, society, and spitting acidic condemnations of his current residence in Peiskam as well as his former residence in Vienna.
Only a few people have the strength to turn their backs on Vienna soon enough, before it is too late; they remain stuck to this dangerous and poisonous city until, finally, they become tired and let themselves by crushed to death by it, as by a glistening snake. And how many geniuses have been crushed to death in this city? They simply can’t be counted.Rudolph finds faults everywhere he casts his gaze, and finds them unbearable and suffocating. Each annoyance in the world builds to stifle his self-professed creative genius, a genius his is unable to reveal to the world due to, what he believes to be, strangling stupidity and sheer blindness towards what is truly brilliant. ‘I can’t expect simple people to take me seriously anymore,’ he writes, detailing his excuses for his self-removal from society. However, no matter how hard he tries to remove himself from anything distressing, he is always able to find a new matter that is such a heavy burden to him that he cannot begin writing. Also, much like Dostoevsky’s narrator from Notes From Underground, he believes he is deathly ill. The world around him is so dissatisfactory and vile that it has planted a terminal illness in him, one that can be used at any moment to forego any progression in his work or life. ‘I don’t know which came first—my illness or my sudden distaste for society.’
Rudolph must inevitable come to terms that it is his jealousy that leads to his spiteful nature, jealousy of his sister’s prosperity, jealousy that society can thrive without him, and jealousy that others can fake their happiness through the world. Not long after he rages against Vienna, Rudolph writes ‘Today I envy my sister only one thing: that she can live in Vienna. That’s what constantly rouses me to anger against Vienna – envy.’ It is easy to hate something that we envy, something we cannot obtain, something that makes us feel inferior. We all do it. It is so easy to hate a popular musician when we feel we have our own musical talents, or to hate an author that becomes a best seller when we appreciate what we feel is better, more worthwhile literature. William H. Gass mentions in an interview how bitter he was towards the literary world at a young age, seeing what he considered mediocre writers making the best sellers while hearing the thump of his rejected manuscripts being returned to his front doorstep. Rudolph cannot begin his great work, so he finds excuses in everything else to sidestep any personal responsibilities. He projects his distaste towards himself onto the world at large, and while it is highly comic, it is truly tragic.
After leaving his home to vacation in peace and in hopes of beginning his book, Rudolph is flooded with memories of a poor woman who faced true hardships of life. It creates an illuminating juxtaposition: Rudolph who fears the outside world is crushing him instead of recognizing his own self-defeating perceptions and actions, and Anna who is trying to make an honest, self-motivating go of it in the world and is constantly thwarted on all sides by outside forces. Initially, Rudolph views her as a muse to make himself feel better, ‘The fact is that we immediately use someone who is still more unfortunate than we are in order to get ourselves back on our feet,’ her cruel fate sends him plummeting into throes of anxiety and fear that it is uncertain if he will ever be able to begin the book he has traveled so far to start work upon.
While Rudolph is a voice for all our inner discontent with what we find around us, he is a cautionary tale, or perhaps even a metaphorical yellow canary, that we must alter our self-defeating behaviors, claim responsibilities for our actions and shortcomings, and take charge of our lives if we ever wish to do anything great. We cannot waste our years and youth away wishing for ideal conditions, we must cut our own path through the dense foliage of reality to capture the treasure of our goals. We cannot blame others for our own failings, and the world would move much more smoothly if we could all accept who we are, learn to love ourselves even for our faults, and not project it outward into the cosmos. Bernhard displays a masterful skill over his prose and through his creation of such a cantankerous, yet charming, narrator. While this book spins itself in circle of self-defeat, it is one that will have you flipping pages, fully engrossed, entertained and desiring to know what venomous line Rudolph will spit next. This is the sort of book that really charms me, and reading it with such an enlightened and intelligent goodreads friend such as Garima (please read her incredible review found here) made this all the more of an incredible book. Bitter and beautiful, Bernhard is a master that should find his way into your bookshelf and heart.
5/5
‘There ought to be only happy people—all the necessary conditions are present—but there are only unhappy people.’
November 5, 2016
Concrete
Thomas Bernhard
How often does it happen to you that you pick up a book and after leafing through a few pages you feel your heart starts pounding with an unknown fear, as if your structure would no longer be able to contain it enclosed within and it would come out of your body and the world around you may collapse at once, to realize that probably the book, you're reading, is reflection of your own life or perhaps the reflection of everyone's life, and all of sudden, a chilling insight strikes you that may be the book itself has picked you up contrary to your belief that it's other way round; the world of Thomas Bernhard is dark, grotesquely funny, full of profound horrors of humanity, where the man is constantly haunted by ghosts of self-doubt (Is there any soul which is not bugged up by such anxious thoughts?) which leads to an anxious mind that is being tortured by everything around it, which avert any rendezvous with its inner self, a mind which is always discontent with life and invariably founds stumbling blocks around oneself to achieve intellectual genius a human mind can; An aging man Rudolf -a reclusive, wealthy Viennese music critic who lives alone in a large country house, suffers from sarcoidosis, occupied by seemingly futile preoccupations, who has been working for ten years on a biography of Mendelssohn, yet has failed to write even the first line of his work.
"I had been planning it for ten years and had repeatedly failed to bring it to fruition, but now had resolved to begin writing it on the twenty-seventh of January at precisely four o'clock in the morning, after the departure of my sister."
The narrator, Rudolf, seems like a mind to be oscillating between inner despair and outer distractions, this vacillation may not be labelled as madness, for it just hinges upon the region which is somewhat between stupidity and lunacy, it represents the bitterness which is wrapped inside human nature- as mentioned by Anatole France that It is human nature to think wisely and act in an absurd fashion. Rudolf thinks very highly of possibilities of human mind, for, to him, it's nothing less than intellectual genius which one should strive to achieve but he always finds one or other distractions through the lives of other people who, he believes, squander their lives for some 'meagre' achievements, who are so anti-intellectual that he despises them, and, to him, her sister is the best example of such people, the very thought of them robs him of his capacity for any intellectual activity:
There's no defense against a person like my sister, who is at once so strong and so anti-intellectual; she comes and annihilates whatever has taken shape in one's mind as a result of exerting, indeed of over-exerting one's memory for months on end, whatever it is, even the most trifling sketch on the most trifling subject.
And it's the acrimony of narrator that leads to his spiteful nature that he is not demanded in the society and it can thrive without him, he feels animosity towards other people, like his sister, that they find happiness in seemingly not intellectual trifles of life, happiness which according to him they fake around and who also take pleasure in his helplessness:
If Mendelssohn Bartholdy was to be mentioned at all, then it must be by her: that gave her pleasure because she knew, after trying it out for ten years, that it was bound to make me look ridiculous.
The narrator, Rudolf, is nothing but impressions which are also wayward and directionless, for the moment he holds on one, another pops up out of eternity, and the mind of narrator sways like lifeless creature, lying midst of powerful waves, who moves as the ripples take him as if just thoughts are splashing around in the endless sea of nothingness. He finds faults everywhere he casts his gaze, and finds them unbearable and suffocating, no matter how hard he tries to remove himself from anything annoying, it eventually leads to anxiety and fear whether he will ever be able to begin the book or not.
Rudolf, who seems to be trapped in his own mind, is a literary creation directly descended from Dostoyevsky, Kafka and Beckett, for you feel like the narrator of Notes from Underground, he has a notion that his illness is very profound and it's the people around him who are so spiteful and vile that they are the very reason of this illness: I don’t know which came first—my illness or my sudden distaste for society; like characters of Kafka he feels nauseated towards society as a whole and remains or desire to be alienated from contact with people who, to narrator, indulge in deeds which are anti-intellectual; the impact of Beckett could also be clearly seen as the story is presented as a long interior monologue, as in the case of The Unnamable, where there is no significant or hardly any event at all but only disjointed thoughts keep brimming in the verbose tsunami. Bernhard has created an overwhelming voice of our discontent with life through the story of Rudolf, the story which is an existential treatise to reiterate that we must change our subjugating attitude towards life and take responsibilities for our actions and their repercussions if we want to live an authentic existence and do anything of profoundness in our life, we must accept the fact that life itself is imperfect and that any strives for perfection are futile in their very nature themselves, and that only we are responsible for life and no body else.
I've heard a lot about Thomas Bernhard however didn't try anything by him till this book, and enjoyed every bit of it.
Thomas Bernhard
How often does it happen to you that you pick up a book and after leafing through a few pages you feel your heart starts pounding with an unknown fear, as if your structure would no longer be able to contain it enclosed within and it would come out of your body and the world around you may collapse at once, to realize that probably the book, you're reading, is reflection of your own life or perhaps the reflection of everyone's life, and all of sudden, a chilling insight strikes you that may be the book itself has picked you up contrary to your belief that it's other way round; the world of Thomas Bernhard is dark, grotesquely funny, full of profound horrors of humanity, where the man is constantly haunted by ghosts of self-doubt (Is there any soul which is not bugged up by such anxious thoughts?) which leads to an anxious mind that is being tortured by everything around it, which avert any rendezvous with its inner self, a mind which is always discontent with life and invariably founds stumbling blocks around oneself to achieve intellectual genius a human mind can; An aging man Rudolf -a reclusive, wealthy Viennese music critic who lives alone in a large country house, suffers from sarcoidosis, occupied by seemingly futile preoccupations, who has been working for ten years on a biography of Mendelssohn, yet has failed to write even the first line of his work.
"I had been planning it for ten years and had repeatedly failed to bring it to fruition, but now had resolved to begin writing it on the twenty-seventh of January at precisely four o'clock in the morning, after the departure of my sister."
The narrator, Rudolf, seems like a mind to be oscillating between inner despair and outer distractions, this vacillation may not be labelled as madness, for it just hinges upon the region which is somewhat between stupidity and lunacy, it represents the bitterness which is wrapped inside human nature- as mentioned by Anatole France that It is human nature to think wisely and act in an absurd fashion. Rudolf thinks very highly of possibilities of human mind, for, to him, it's nothing less than intellectual genius which one should strive to achieve but he always finds one or other distractions through the lives of other people who, he believes, squander their lives for some 'meagre' achievements, who are so anti-intellectual that he despises them, and, to him, her sister is the best example of such people, the very thought of them robs him of his capacity for any intellectual activity:
There's no defense against a person like my sister, who is at once so strong and so anti-intellectual; she comes and annihilates whatever has taken shape in one's mind as a result of exerting, indeed of over-exerting one's memory for months on end, whatever it is, even the most trifling sketch on the most trifling subject.
And it's the acrimony of narrator that leads to his spiteful nature that he is not demanded in the society and it can thrive without him, he feels animosity towards other people, like his sister, that they find happiness in seemingly not intellectual trifles of life, happiness which according to him they fake around and who also take pleasure in his helplessness:
If Mendelssohn Bartholdy was to be mentioned at all, then it must be by her: that gave her pleasure because she knew, after trying it out for ten years, that it was bound to make me look ridiculous.
The narrator, Rudolf, is nothing but impressions which are also wayward and directionless, for the moment he holds on one, another pops up out of eternity, and the mind of narrator sways like lifeless creature, lying midst of powerful waves, who moves as the ripples take him as if just thoughts are splashing around in the endless sea of nothingness. He finds faults everywhere he casts his gaze, and finds them unbearable and suffocating, no matter how hard he tries to remove himself from anything annoying, it eventually leads to anxiety and fear whether he will ever be able to begin the book or not.
Rudolf, who seems to be trapped in his own mind, is a literary creation directly descended from Dostoyevsky, Kafka and Beckett, for you feel like the narrator of Notes from Underground, he has a notion that his illness is very profound and it's the people around him who are so spiteful and vile that they are the very reason of this illness: I don’t know which came first—my illness or my sudden distaste for society; like characters of Kafka he feels nauseated towards society as a whole and remains or desire to be alienated from contact with people who, to narrator, indulge in deeds which are anti-intellectual; the impact of Beckett could also be clearly seen as the story is presented as a long interior monologue, as in the case of The Unnamable, where there is no significant or hardly any event at all but only disjointed thoughts keep brimming in the verbose tsunami. Bernhard has created an overwhelming voice of our discontent with life through the story of Rudolf, the story which is an existential treatise to reiterate that we must change our subjugating attitude towards life and take responsibilities for our actions and their repercussions if we want to live an authentic existence and do anything of profoundness in our life, we must accept the fact that life itself is imperfect and that any strives for perfection are futile in their very nature themselves, and that only we are responsible for life and no body else.
I've heard a lot about Thomas Bernhard however didn't try anything by him till this book, and enjoyed every bit of it.
November 4, 2018
"La vida es maravillosa, pero lo más maravilloso es pensar que tiene fin. Este es el mejor consuelo que me guardo en la manga. Pero tengo muchas ganas de vivir. Siempre las he tenido, salvo los momentos en que he pensado en el suicidio."Thomas Bernhard es ante todo un provocador, en absoluto fiable, un enredador irónico, un histriónico amante de la exageración, la frase lapidaria, la expresión furibunda que es replicada pocas palabras más allá en otra frase no menos lapidaria, no menos furibunda. Un aguafiestas aficionado al escándalo y a las contradicciones irónicas que reflejan a la perfección su espíritu impúdico, desvergonzado, insurgente. Unas contradicciones que ahondan en la falta de verdad que es la gran verdad que el escritor postula, en el fracaso que supone buscarla, en la desesperación que genera no encontrarla.
Ávidos de verdad, de vida, nos encaminamos hacia la muerte huyendo de ella; una muerte que está en nosotros, que nos confina y nos define, que nos mortifica y que, finalmente, nos salva de la infelicidad que es vivir. Porque vivir es estar enfermo y solo desde la conciencia de esa enfermedad podemos observar la vida en toda su terrible y hermosa realidad. No es extraño, pues, que los personajes de Bernhard sean enfermos, no únicamente enfermos espirituales, sino también, con mucha frecuencia, enfermos físicos, agravando su ya penosa enfermedad espiritual. Se convierten en degenerados, por utilizar una de las palabras favoritas del autor, en personas insoportables que pasan los días en una continua y morbosa observación de sí mismos, escudriñando hasta el más mínimo resquicio esa culpa que frecuentemente arrastran consigo, una culpa personal, pero a menudo, también, una culpa colectiva. Un egocentrismo que los salva y los destruye al tiempo. Su amor y su preocupación inconmensurable por ellos mismos les ayudan a seguir viviendo con los repugnantes compromisos a los que tienen que someterse y que acaban por transmutarse en un profundo odio. Se aborrecen, se desprecian, y por extensión aborrecen y desprecian al mundo entero, siendo sabedores de la injusticia que cometen al aborrecerlo y al despreciarlo ("Al fin y al cabo solo odiamos cuando no tenemos y porque no tenemos razón"). La enfermedad es su amiga y su enemiga. Enemiga porque está en la base de la terrible situación en la que se encuentran, la soledad, la misantropía, la pereza, la mediocridad; amiga porque las explica. La enfermedad es fuente de orgullo y sufrimiento, los distingue, los eleva, les impone una soledad sentida como refugio pero también padecida como castigo.
Se buscan estrategias de supervivencia, soluciones imposibles más allá de los fracasados recursos filosóficos, políticos o religiosos. Los personajes se parapetan tras un monólogo interminable con el que quieren aniquilarlo todo, con todo su poder destructor, al registrarlo todo por escrito. Lo antiguo debe ser destruido, desintegrado, extinguido totalmente para lo nuevo, aunque no sepamos qué será lo nuevo, aunque sospechemos que no hay nada nuevo. Hay que destruir este mundo convertido en algo repulsivo, repleto de gente aborrecible viviendo en edificios hipócritamente engalanados; los médicos nos debilitan, los abogados nos engañan, los maestros son grandes deformadores del espíritu; los padres torturan, los curas aplastan, el Estado anula todo lo bueno que podría haber en nosotros; todo el mundo te decepciona o te humilla o te reprime, a veces todo a la vez; el mundo entero odia lo que amamos, desprecia lo que apreciamos, y todo el mundo, siempre, se comporta de la forma más abyecta posible. Autor y personaje, personaje y autor, van tomando a todas y a cada una de las personas imaginables e inimaginables para, en su cabeza, despedazarlas y denigrarlas hasta la exageración.
Todo en Bernhard es exagerado, no hay que tomarlo muy en serio, al menos no más que al bufón que expresa lo que a los otros les está severamente prohibido. "El arte de la exageración es un arte de la superación, a mi parecer, un arte de superar la existencia”. La huida es la esperanza, la huida, aunque se sabe imposible, es la estrategia; aunque nunca se emprenda la huida, hay que huir, pero nunca se huye. El medio no es importante. Puede ser la escritura de un estudio revolucionario al que únicamente le falta concretar esa primera frase desencadenante de todo lo demás, como ocurre en la historia contada en este libro, una primera frase de la que todo y todos parecen querer separarle, que todo y todos bloquean; o, como en el caso de ”Extinción”, libro que comparte con este la edición de Alfaguara que me ha acompañado buena parte del verano, un viaje inminente que le arranque en un instante del mundo al que se aferra, un viaje que es continuamente postergado por motivos incontrolables e insuperables; o, sin más, el recurso de la felicidad que se extrae de la infelicidad, el enamoramiento del fracaso, la exaltación del malogrado; y así poder volver a respirar y seguir viviendo esta vida que tiene en la muerte una parte esencial. Una muerte que convierte a todo y a todos en algo ridículo, “todo es risible cuando se piensa en la muerte”.
Los personajes se vuelven tragicómicos en su patética protesta. Un patetismo que, no obstante, nos impresiona porque somos partícipes de esa misma vida sin sentido que se vuelve grotesca; que nos conmueve porque llegamos a ver en esos personajes desamparados, si somos honestos, tics propios que nos fuerza a reírnos de nosotros mismos y a compadecernos "porque ellos, como nosotros, viven de la forma más lamentable, tienen que vivir su existencia lamentable, lo quieran o no”.
El suicidio no es la solución, aunque en Bernhard solo sea, como ya dije en otro sitio, por su querencia a tomar siempre la dirección opuesta, completamente la opuesta.
December 2, 2013
Template for Review Writing
For the benefit of all you busy people out there who are looking to stay active within the still vital and cool Goodreads community, but in an efficient way, I’ve developed a time-saving template for writing reviews. The simple fill-in-the-blank format should prove to be a boon for those who might otherwise stare at a blinking cursor wondering how to start, or agonize over sentence structure, or waste precious brain cells trying to organize countless and fleeting thoughts. This is not a commercial product (though I wouldn’t say no to user donations). It’s offered in the spirit of goodwill, economy and karmic diffusion.
-----------------------------
Instructions: Simply provide your own content where prompted within the square brackets
I’m so [provide a brief description of your state of mind after reading this book; e.g., twitterpated, in awe, profoundly depressed; Tip – feel free to exaggerate – this is your hook] over this one. [Author’s name]’s [book title] is chock full of [list three words that you associate with this work; e.g., pathos, humor, perversity, innovation] that combine for a [provide an adjectival phrase for the overall feel of the book] reading experience. The main character, [enter name], is [describe approximate age and where he or she is from; e.g. a zit-faced teen from Ohio, an old-as-the-hills yogurt-eating Russian] and [name the character’s profession or primary activity; e.g., semiotics expert, hell-raiser, goat whisperer], [describe one of the character’s traits that the book played up; e.g., riddled by ennui, amply endowed with self-esteem, cryptic as any cruciverbalist]. [He or She] is not [provide an antithetical trait, preferably one that’s sarcastic; e.g., top of the list at the pearly gates, known for the brightest chromaticity in the box of Crayolas, the epitome of mental health].
I won’t divulge much of the plot, but I will say [say whatever you want – you can even make it seem noble if you say very little and claim it’s to avoid spoiling it for anyone]. The bigger point, it seems to me, is that [state in rather abstract terms what a possible theme might be; Tip -- the more ambiguous your wording, the more onus there is on the reader to figure it all out rather than for you to; e.g., alienation is man’s most natural state and his most unnatural one, statecraft and soulcraft rarely go hand in hand, a mind is a terrible thing to waste – so at least write a book about it – meta-wasting is one level better].
The book was [enter either ‘standard’, ‘quasi-standard’ or ‘non-standard’] [enter a description of the genre; e.g., literary, Bildungsroman, S&M] fare. [Author’s last name] wrote [enter a short compound description of the writing style; e.g., with great lyricism and musicality, in a rather pedestrian mode – void of flourishes, imaginatively with enough freedom of expression to have made James Joyce clover green with envy]. It was an effective marriage between [indicate two somewhat related authors or styles such that their average approximates the book; e.g. Dickens and Nick Hornby, Russian realism and Danielle Steel].
All in all it was [fill in a brief summary of the experience; e.g., as underwhelming as I had feared, a powerful statement about morality and justice, a labyrinthine trip down memory lane with an unreliable narrator leading the way; Tip -- don’t drone on too long here – part of the point is to allow readers to save time, too]. I was [provide an entry synonymous with your very first one; e.g., enchanted beyond words, friggin’ blown away, driven to the depths of despair only now able to take baby steps away from the void; Tip -- remember the bonus points for hyperbole – balance be damned].
[Enter precise fractional rating of the book] stars rounded to [enter the round number].
[Your name]
-----------------------------
Example output
I’m so unresolved over this one. Thomas Bernhard’s Concrete is chock full of misdirection, loneliness and dark humor that combine for a truly unique albeit dissonant reading experience. The main character, Rudolph, is a middle-aged Austrian and would-be musicologist, paralyzed by indecision and molehills disguised as mountains. He is not the least bit proactive or even functional.
I won’t divulge much of the plot, but I will say that his solipsism ultimately gives way to a bit of human outreach. His decade-long writer’s block as he sought just the right context was painful and funny in equal measure. So too was seeing his artistic sensitivity pitted against his complete inability to do anything useful with it. It would be a disservice to you dear readers to say more. The bigger point, it seems to me, is that for certain individuals and maybe for all of us to an extent, connections with other people can be tenuous, uncertain and even distasteful, but still fundamental. The aphorism about being an island still applies – no one is.
The book was quasi-standard literary fare. Bernhard wrote the entire novel, short though it was, as one uninterrupted paragraph with stream-of-consciousness coursing throughout. It was an effective marriage of modernism and existentialism, with a shaggy dog serving as witness.
All in all it was interesting to see the curmudgeonly Rudolph attempt to justify himself and become slightly more self-aware in the process. I was entertained, frustrated and made to wonder all at the same time, or, just as I said before, unresolved.
3.75 stars rounded to 4.
Review written by Phil Indablanck using SHAMS (the Steve Hotopp Assisted Manuscription System™)
------------------------------
Linked examples:
See here for Alfaniel's stellar application of the SHAMS product as he reviewed True Names... and Other Dangers by Vernor Vinge.
Stephen M's lack of success in achieving his SHAMS objective (wealth, women), shown here, is one we'll call the exception that proves the rule.
For the benefit of all you busy people out there who are looking to stay active within the still vital and cool Goodreads community, but in an efficient way, I’ve developed a time-saving template for writing reviews. The simple fill-in-the-blank format should prove to be a boon for those who might otherwise stare at a blinking cursor wondering how to start, or agonize over sentence structure, or waste precious brain cells trying to organize countless and fleeting thoughts. This is not a commercial product (though I wouldn’t say no to user donations). It’s offered in the spirit of goodwill, economy and karmic diffusion.
-----------------------------
Instructions: Simply provide your own content where prompted within the square brackets
I’m so [provide a brief description of your state of mind after reading this book; e.g., twitterpated, in awe, profoundly depressed; Tip – feel free to exaggerate – this is your hook] over this one. [Author’s name]’s [book title] is chock full of [list three words that you associate with this work; e.g., pathos, humor, perversity, innovation] that combine for a [provide an adjectival phrase for the overall feel of the book] reading experience. The main character, [enter name], is [describe approximate age and where he or she is from; e.g. a zit-faced teen from Ohio, an old-as-the-hills yogurt-eating Russian] and [name the character’s profession or primary activity; e.g., semiotics expert, hell-raiser, goat whisperer], [describe one of the character’s traits that the book played up; e.g., riddled by ennui, amply endowed with self-esteem, cryptic as any cruciverbalist]. [He or She] is not [provide an antithetical trait, preferably one that’s sarcastic; e.g., top of the list at the pearly gates, known for the brightest chromaticity in the box of Crayolas, the epitome of mental health].
I won’t divulge much of the plot, but I will say [say whatever you want – you can even make it seem noble if you say very little and claim it’s to avoid spoiling it for anyone]. The bigger point, it seems to me, is that [state in rather abstract terms what a possible theme might be; Tip -- the more ambiguous your wording, the more onus there is on the reader to figure it all out rather than for you to; e.g., alienation is man’s most natural state and his most unnatural one, statecraft and soulcraft rarely go hand in hand, a mind is a terrible thing to waste – so at least write a book about it – meta-wasting is one level better].
The book was [enter either ‘standard’, ‘quasi-standard’ or ‘non-standard’] [enter a description of the genre; e.g., literary, Bildungsroman, S&M] fare. [Author’s last name] wrote [enter a short compound description of the writing style; e.g., with great lyricism and musicality, in a rather pedestrian mode – void of flourishes, imaginatively with enough freedom of expression to have made James Joyce clover green with envy]. It was an effective marriage between [indicate two somewhat related authors or styles such that their average approximates the book; e.g. Dickens and Nick Hornby, Russian realism and Danielle Steel].
All in all it was [fill in a brief summary of the experience; e.g., as underwhelming as I had feared, a powerful statement about morality and justice, a labyrinthine trip down memory lane with an unreliable narrator leading the way; Tip -- don’t drone on too long here – part of the point is to allow readers to save time, too]. I was [provide an entry synonymous with your very first one; e.g., enchanted beyond words, friggin’ blown away, driven to the depths of despair only now able to take baby steps away from the void; Tip -- remember the bonus points for hyperbole – balance be damned].
[Enter precise fractional rating of the book] stars rounded to [enter the round number].
[Your name]
-----------------------------
Example output
I’m so unresolved over this one. Thomas Bernhard’s Concrete is chock full of misdirection, loneliness and dark humor that combine for a truly unique albeit dissonant reading experience. The main character, Rudolph, is a middle-aged Austrian and would-be musicologist, paralyzed by indecision and molehills disguised as mountains. He is not the least bit proactive or even functional.
I won’t divulge much of the plot, but I will say that his solipsism ultimately gives way to a bit of human outreach. His decade-long writer’s block as he sought just the right context was painful and funny in equal measure. So too was seeing his artistic sensitivity pitted against his complete inability to do anything useful with it. It would be a disservice to you dear readers to say more. The bigger point, it seems to me, is that for certain individuals and maybe for all of us to an extent, connections with other people can be tenuous, uncertain and even distasteful, but still fundamental. The aphorism about being an island still applies – no one is.
The book was quasi-standard literary fare. Bernhard wrote the entire novel, short though it was, as one uninterrupted paragraph with stream-of-consciousness coursing throughout. It was an effective marriage of modernism and existentialism, with a shaggy dog serving as witness.
All in all it was interesting to see the curmudgeonly Rudolph attempt to justify himself and become slightly more self-aware in the process. I was entertained, frustrated and made to wonder all at the same time, or, just as I said before, unresolved.
3.75 stars rounded to 4.
Review written by Phil Indablanck using SHAMS (the Steve Hotopp Assisted Manuscription System™)
------------------------------
Linked examples:
See here for Alfaniel's stellar application of the SHAMS product as he reviewed True Names... and Other Dangers by Vernor Vinge.
Stephen M's lack of success in achieving his SHAMS objective (wealth, women), shown here, is one we'll call the exception that proves the rule.
March 12, 2022
Svako je pojedinačno virtuoz na svom instrumentu, svi zajedno smo nepodnošljiva kakofonija.
Frustracija, empatija i čeznuće jeste Beton.
Ovaj roman sadrži emotivnu, diskruzivnu i atmosfersku komponentu koja roman drži dinamičnim u kontinuitetu i čini da bude munjevito progutan. Sve tri komponente blago svjetlucaju, i stapajući se prave krater na svakom od Bernhardovih podozrenja o okolini koja ga okružuje i koja ga je okruživala. Njegovi jedini prijatelji koje ima su pod zemljom. Oni su za sobom ostavili djela sa kojima se Bernhard druži, i o kojima vodi polemiku. Bez srodstva i ljudskog bića pored sebe, Bernhard se otvara i govori kako postaje nepodnošljiv, težak i bolestan. On nam na neki način predočava da je žrtva sopstvenog samoposmatranja i samorazmatranja. Međutim njegovo unutarnje stanje nije podložno pokleknuću, naprotiv, on voli samoću i ona mu ne smeta, posebno ako se uzme u obzir da ima i onih koji se cijelog života bore da je priušte, a ne mogu.
Međutim, potrebno je dokolicu ispuniti nečim. Bernhard će kroz čitav roman vući konac duhovnog rada o Mendelson-Bartoldiju. Taj rad je samo jedna od njegovih opsesija. Za početak tog rada pojaviće se neke smetnje koje će ga stalno sputavati. Prva prepreka je njegova sestra. Bernhard se neće ustručavati da kaže kako ona guši sve njegove planove pa čak i sama pomisao na nju. Čak i kad nije fizički prisutna pored njega, ona ga proganja, tada možda i više. Sklona poslovima i neprestanoj volji za uvećanjem novca ona predstavlja njegov antipod. Njegov neprijatelj je i Beč u kome je proveo dvadeset godina nakon čega je odlučio da se preseli u Pajskam. U prilog tome kaže: Mrzim Beč. Prođem dva puta, odozdo naviše i odozgo naniže, Kertnerštrase i Graben, bacim pogled na zelenu pijacu i to je dovoljno da mi se stomak okrene. Bolest morbus boeck će ga takođe uveliko omesti u radu. I njegova maštanja da konačno napusti Austriju i ode u topliji kraj nekog dijela Španije predstavlja će njegovu drugu opsesiju. Jedino piščeva maštanja da treba otići u neki dio Španije predstavlja će svjetliju stranu spram neprestane sumornosti i hladnoće koja obitava nad nebom Austrije. Ako tamo ode, tamo će konačno i započeti rad o Mendelson-Bartoldiju. Izgleda da ovdje Bernhard nije razmišljao da sebe nosi na drugo mjesto, svoj duh i tijelo, i da mu nigdje neće biti bolje ako prvo sa sobom ne bude dobar; što će se u romanu i pokazati.
Bernhard je izuzetno slojevit na malom prostoru. Njegova mišljenja su uvijek potkrepljena ličnim anegdotama. U ovoj knjizi iznosi da je sa malo više od dvadeset godina bio član Socijalističke partije, i to člantsvo je kratko trajalo. Završnica romana je teatralno izvedena. Tragična u svojoj suštini, ali istovremeno i komična na neki Bernhardovski način. Ona indikativano i simbolično oslikava sam naslov romana.
March 1, 2021
Beton gibi kitap. Hacmine bakıp aldanmamak gerek, ufacık tefecik yapısına rağmen, yazarın özellikle öfkesini kendine yönelttiği, kendine acımasız olduğu bölümlerin hepsinde beton yutkundum resmen.
Ve hiçbir zaman değişmeyen bir hissi yine yaşattı Bernhard, iyi ki var, iyi ki öfkeli, iyi ki aykırı, iyi ki tüm aykırılığının ardında zaman zaman da olsa derdinin kendiyle olduğunu fısıldıyor ve kendimizi, sahip olduklarımızı adeta birer tanrı gibi sunan bizleri de yerle bir etmeyi, betondan un ufak hale balyoz etkisiyle getirmeyi başarabiliyor.
"Gerçek zaten her zaman en korkunç olan şey, ama gene de yalana, kendi kendini aldatmaya dayanacağına gerçeğe dayanmak her zaman daha iyi."
Tavsiye ederim.
Ve hiçbir zaman değişmeyen bir hissi yine yaşattı Bernhard, iyi ki var, iyi ki öfkeli, iyi ki aykırı, iyi ki tüm aykırılığının ardında zaman zaman da olsa derdinin kendiyle olduğunu fısıldıyor ve kendimizi, sahip olduklarımızı adeta birer tanrı gibi sunan bizleri de yerle bir etmeyi, betondan un ufak hale balyoz etkisiyle getirmeyi başarabiliyor.
"Gerçek zaten her zaman en korkunç olan şey, ama gene de yalana, kendi kendini aldatmaya dayanacağına gerçeğe dayanmak her zaman daha iyi."
Tavsiye ederim.
July 26, 2013
I’m going to say that I am an observer of myself, which is stupid, since I am my own observer anyway: I’ve actually been observing myself for years, if not for decades; my life now consists only of self-observation and self-contemplation, which naturally leads to self-condemnation, self-rejection and self-mockery, in which ultimately I always have to take refuge in order to save myself.I knew it would happen. I knew that whatever little I missed on my first outing with Bernhard would no longer remain obscure this second time around. I knew that sooner than later, I would happily include another writer in ‘one of my favorites’ list and that writer would secure another devout fan. Here I am and Here He is. Take a bow, Mr. Bernhard. I’m delighted for both of us.
The fact that this review you’re reading right now is finalized after several failed attempts at formulating something that can vaguely express my views about this book can marginally be used to signify one of the highlights of Concrete. Our narrator, Rudolph, wants to write a book about Mendelssohn Bartholdy but can’t even begin to write its first sentence. He has been planning to write it for ten years but his senses are blocked by the dreadful writer’s block. A block which is not only a culmination of his circumstances, his ill health, or his family problems but is primarily the result of Rudolph’s personality. His life is full of worldly comforts and yet it is supremely empty. The closest person he can turn to in his hour of need is his elder sister whom he simply detests but she’s the only one who has the ability to keep his life together.
Sometimes we need someone, sometimes no one, and sometimes we need someone and no one.
Although it represents a typical example of ‘can’t live with you or without you’, the way Bernhard has depicted the said relationship is enough to prove his virtuosity as a writer. Then of course, there’s Rudolph himself. His cynicism towards everything and everybody, his unconventional philosophical discourses, his procrastinations, his anxieties, his interior monologue and his endless meanderings in a book so short is a perfect recipe for claustrophobia for its readers but this is where Bernhard emerges as a winner. He’s an excellent juggler of various themes where initially he concentrates on one thing and before we know it, he’s onto another while simultaneously maintaining the effect of first one and by the end; we witness a masterful show on display. He also manages to indulge in digressions without hampering his performance.
Everyone is a virtuoso on his own instrument, but together they add up to an intolerable caco-phany. The word cacophony was incidentally a favourite of my maternal grandfather’s. And the phrase he hated more than any other was thought process. Another of his favourite words was character. During these reflections it suddenly struck me for the first time how extraordinarily comfortable my armchair is.
His unapologetic humor which usually takes birth out of his unrelenting commentary on the hypocrisy of human race, his hatred towards his native country and his impeccable observations about his surroundings, makes this book a perfect reading companion.
But Concrete is a lot more than derisiveness and the laughs it bring about. It’s an interesting and addictive contemplation about all the unfortunate things that exist in this world and an honest admission that they do exist. That everyone has their share of good and bad lucks is something we can know when we allow ourselves to step out of the boundaries of our customized lives made out of fantasies and nightmares where we declare victims and survivors based on our wishful thinking and the weak criteria like: what we have and what we don’t; what we can do and what we can’t; what we look for and what we find and in the process reducing our lives to a mere game of hide n seek without giving much thought that there is an alternate reality waiting for us to get recognized. May be that reality is waiting for you in the form of this book. Read it and Relish it.
P.S. Do visit Here for Sven’s Brilliant review.
November 9, 2010
The World of Thomas Bernhard is one populated almost exclusively by obsessive losers. These are the kind of hair-pulling people who hunker down for years at a time in a single musty room in some rambling country manor bemoaning their fate or fretting about countless things, including but not limited to the stupidity or cruelty of others, the general horribleness of Austria, or accomplishing some esoteric goal. In other words, except for the anti-Austria sentiment, Bernhard was a man who spoke my language. His selective world is a nation of my strange countrymen. And mostly, this recognition of fellowship alarms more than comforts me.
A more neurotic person than I would see his novels as a prognosis. In fifteen -- or fewer -- years, perhaps my derangement will be within arm's length of Rudolph's, the narrator of Concrete. He spends much of his idle time (which is apparently all of his waking hours) cloistered from society and jotting down his condemnations of the world [his 'notes']. (I need to keep reminding myself, as does Rudolph, that the world really doesn't care how idiotic it is. It is a fat, dozing, complacent populace. It's eating something batter-fried and smiling into the abyss.) (Whoops. There I go again.)
Rudolph is attempting to write some sort of magnum opus on Felix Mendelssohn, but he has spent the last ten years agonizing over the first sentence. He is also 'ill' -- as he frequently reminds us -- but we are never quite sure about the validity of his claims, or which species of illness he means. He is quite certain he will be dead within a few years, and therefore he must hurry up and get this damn Mendelssohn thing finished! But he isn't sure of the optimal conditions for writing. In his home or in Mallorca? With his terrible sister visiting him or in Vienna? In the morning or in the evening? Those who are frustrated with wishy-washy, hand-wringing, neurotic types had better avoid this book -- and me, personally -- because we will both try your patience. Without apology.
Thomas Bernhard's writing -- which includes no paragraphs or chapter breaks and often embarks upon obsessive, repetitive run-on sentences -- can't help but remind me of Gertrude Stein's. This isn't to imply that Bernhard was inspired by her, or even read her work. But they both employ a maddened, rhythmic, obsessive narrative style -- a linguistic echolalia, maybe -- that I like to think of as the transliteration of consciousness into written form. In other words, I don't believe that the human mind always -- or even often -- 'thinks' in words, but Bernhard's and Stein's are the best examples of literature which allude effectively to the neurosis of human thought processes, unencumbered by the censure of propriety.
A more neurotic person than I would see his novels as a prognosis. In fifteen -- or fewer -- years, perhaps my derangement will be within arm's length of Rudolph's, the narrator of Concrete. He spends much of his idle time (which is apparently all of his waking hours) cloistered from society and jotting down his condemnations of the world [his 'notes']. (I need to keep reminding myself, as does Rudolph, that the world really doesn't care how idiotic it is. It is a fat, dozing, complacent populace. It's eating something batter-fried and smiling into the abyss.) (Whoops. There I go again.)
Rudolph is attempting to write some sort of magnum opus on Felix Mendelssohn, but he has spent the last ten years agonizing over the first sentence. He is also 'ill' -- as he frequently reminds us -- but we are never quite sure about the validity of his claims, or which species of illness he means. He is quite certain he will be dead within a few years, and therefore he must hurry up and get this damn Mendelssohn thing finished! But he isn't sure of the optimal conditions for writing. In his home or in Mallorca? With his terrible sister visiting him or in Vienna? In the morning or in the evening? Those who are frustrated with wishy-washy, hand-wringing, neurotic types had better avoid this book -- and me, personally -- because we will both try your patience. Without apology.
Thomas Bernhard's writing -- which includes no paragraphs or chapter breaks and often embarks upon obsessive, repetitive run-on sentences -- can't help but remind me of Gertrude Stein's. This isn't to imply that Bernhard was inspired by her, or even read her work. But they both employ a maddened, rhythmic, obsessive narrative style -- a linguistic echolalia, maybe -- that I like to think of as the transliteration of consciousness into written form. In other words, I don't believe that the human mind always -- or even often -- 'thinks' in words, but Bernhard's and Stein's are the best examples of literature which allude effectively to the neurosis of human thought processes, unencumbered by the censure of propriety.
August 9, 2024
I think it is possible to read only a few hundred words of a book by Thomas Bernhard, and then giddily wonder at how much you have actually read: was it thousands, tens of thousands, dozens. I grasp its meaning, I think, and then I am whooshed away again, on another round of logorrhoea (a continuous stream of words, as in an inability or compulsion to speech). It’s exhilarating like nothing else. While he uses paragraphs, breaks, chapters, full stops, I would not be surprised if such devices exist to disorient or derange you. They are meant to give you pause. But you crash into these punctuating elements like rocky outcrops along a rapidly moving mountain river. There is no rest in a Bernhard novel. You can pause, check your wounds, keep going. I can come away from several dozen words and feel completely overwhelmed.
Which makes me wonder, is there a word for a continuous stream of thoughts? Like we find here, or in Jon Fosse, or Jen Craig and that lot. Ideorrhea, perhaps, or skeptorrhea (from the Greek, I’m really inventing here). I bet the Germans have a word for it.
It's hard to get a footing in Bernhard. I keep wanting to devise similes. Here's another: reading him is like attempting to walk down a mountain side made of ice, you don’t really do any walking. So reading this prose is like slipping from one thoughtsentence right into the next one, trying to grip hold of something. None of the prose is difficult, we are not exposed to fancy, or difficult, language. Just everyday language. It’s not magical or mystical.
Half way through, I realised something. Time. As though it doesn't exist because it seems to have no action that can indicate its passage. At one point, around page fifty, the narrator refers to the notes he is writing about his sister and him. The act of writing notes suggests the passage of time. But no other detail is provided. Not an intake of air, the opening of the page of a notebook, the movement of pen across the page to signal time in motion.
So because Concrete begins with no time, all things all at once can be true. Imagine all the thoughts that come to you when you are in a mental reverie, an inescapable internal frisson, a vortex. And in that place you can feel contradictory things all at once. You don’t have hindsight or 20-20 vision of yourself. So, our narrator hates his sister (much of the book's time is spent on this hatred). He is repulsed by her and her narcissistic, money grubbing, manipulative, personality disordered ways. Yet, he is touched by her when she thinks about him, and does something for him, he is disarmed and thoughtful of her in return.
Similarly, Vienna is repulsive, and yet it was the place where he lived the 20 best years of his life. He loathes people, yet had a deep friendship with Paul Wittgenstein, nephew of the philosopher, an artist friend who committed suicide.
Despite what looks like a first-person narrative, the entire work is structured inside a parenthesis, a primary narrator begins the story and ends it. This kind of shocked me because I had forgotten this method at the beginning. It’s strange because, none of the ideas in the book bother me. Just that I was seduced by one narrative having lost track of its source.
December 1, 2021
What to expect
Keywords: failure, annihilation, destruction, vomit, nausea, madness, dirt, morgue, death, repulsive, cesspit - and their multitudinous variations, alternately applied to everything and anything.
For the past ten years, "tiresome, unbearable, sick — impossible" Rudolf has been working his way to writing his best intellectual piece yet. He has meticulously researched Mendelssohn Bartholdy, travelled extensively to gather the very best material out there, and obsessively (re)arranged his desk in Peiskam to create all the (un)necessary conditions for productive writing, while increasingly isolating himself from the whole of society. And yet, the first sentence eludes him, and he remains paralysed in perpetual procrastination: "If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after, and so on."
Concrete by Thomas Bernhard is a story in which nothing happens. Or, perhaps, everything?
The coherence within the disjointed composition is in the repetition, in which every word is in turn caught in the clutches of contradiction, alive and almighty in the "unbearable farce" that is Rudolf's existence, that replicates the constant relapse into the underworld of interiority, traversing the full spectrum of human emotions.
'Concrete' here is possibly the hardcore, chilling consciousness of existence's emptiness; the thoroughly apprehended implacability of humanness - that sense you also get with Kafka of all-consuming, self-diminishing contradiction. One does suspect that the relationship with the sister, compulsively returned to in none other that absurd, demonising, and esecrable terms, operates at the service of this perceived split between people and within the heavily distorted, irreparably fragmented self. The private sphere extends to and imposes itself on - indiscriminately engulfing - the public sphere: Christianity, politics, and all institutions alike, are assiduously exposed for the dirt that they really are, as are human double standards. Nothing escapes critical deconstruction, as Rudolf becomes the ultimate embodiment of human waste, perennially one (or both) foot in the grave, utterly given to distraction and ennui.
Curiously, the doom and gloom feel is exquisitely tempered by the subtlest of comedy, in itself seen as inherent to all that is seemingly tragic in human existence. It could be said that the narrative flow is symphonic, capturing the poetry of the human's eternally vacillating subjectivity amidst an impossibly cacophonous world ("everybody makes too much noise — and doesn’t notice it! People brutalise everything. They get up noisily, go about noisily all day, and go to bed noisily. And they constantly talk far too noisily."), building up to a climactic tension that smoothly slips into irony and "self-laughter":
"We want to achieve everything, and we achieve nothing. And naturally we make the highest, the very highest demands of ourselves, completely leaving out of account human nature, which is after all not made to meet the highest demands. The world spirit, as it were, overestimates the human spirit. We are always bound to fail because we set our sightsa few hundred per cent higher than is appropriate. And if we look, wherever we look, we see only people who have failed because they set their sights too high. But on the other hand, I reflect, where should we be if we constantly set our sights too low? I looked at my suitcases, the intellectual one and the unintellectual one, so to speak, from my armchair, and if at that moment I’d had the strength I could have burst into uproarious laughter at myself, or else into tears. I was caught up once more in my own personal comedy."
And giving way to the poignant:
"I’ve never got over this parting. But if I’d stayed in Vienna I should have lived only for a very short time longer. [...] I’d had to give up Vienna and all it meant to me — which was literally everything — at the very moment when I believed I was inseparably linked with the city for ever, a city which admittedly I already hated and which I knew I’d always hated, but which I also loved like no other."
The narrative advances in this fashion, whereby concepts, thoughts, decisions are pushed to their limits, submitted to hyperbole, until the moment of comical reveal. And, ultimately, ex-as-per-ation.
🥀🥀🥀
Concrete is my idea of good contemporary literature, in its abundant auto-poeitic compulsivity and aesthetic (im)perfection. In its clean and impeccable prose, that resembles one huge philosophical insert.
Rudolf, the Bernhardian inept, will join the other Greats of literary kindred spirits.
5 schizophrenic stars ⭐
Keywords: failure, annihilation, destruction, vomit, nausea, madness, dirt, morgue, death, repulsive, cesspit - and their multitudinous variations, alternately applied to everything and anything.
For the past ten years, "tiresome, unbearable, sick — impossible" Rudolf has been working his way to writing his best intellectual piece yet. He has meticulously researched Mendelssohn Bartholdy, travelled extensively to gather the very best material out there, and obsessively (re)arranged his desk in Peiskam to create all the (un)necessary conditions for productive writing, while increasingly isolating himself from the whole of society. And yet, the first sentence eludes him, and he remains paralysed in perpetual procrastination: "If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after, and so on."
Concrete by Thomas Bernhard is a story in which nothing happens. Or, perhaps, everything?
The coherence within the disjointed composition is in the repetition, in which every word is in turn caught in the clutches of contradiction, alive and almighty in the "unbearable farce" that is Rudolf's existence, that replicates the constant relapse into the underworld of interiority, traversing the full spectrum of human emotions.
'Concrete' here is possibly the hardcore, chilling consciousness of existence's emptiness; the thoroughly apprehended implacability of humanness - that sense you also get with Kafka of all-consuming, self-diminishing contradiction. One does suspect that the relationship with the sister, compulsively returned to in none other that absurd, demonising, and esecrable terms, operates at the service of this perceived split between people and within the heavily distorted, irreparably fragmented self. The private sphere extends to and imposes itself on - indiscriminately engulfing - the public sphere: Christianity, politics, and all institutions alike, are assiduously exposed for the dirt that they really are, as are human double standards. Nothing escapes critical deconstruction, as Rudolf becomes the ultimate embodiment of human waste, perennially one (or both) foot in the grave, utterly given to distraction and ennui.
Curiously, the doom and gloom feel is exquisitely tempered by the subtlest of comedy, in itself seen as inherent to all that is seemingly tragic in human existence. It could be said that the narrative flow is symphonic, capturing the poetry of the human's eternally vacillating subjectivity amidst an impossibly cacophonous world ("everybody makes too much noise — and doesn’t notice it! People brutalise everything. They get up noisily, go about noisily all day, and go to bed noisily. And they constantly talk far too noisily."), building up to a climactic tension that smoothly slips into irony and "self-laughter":
"We want to achieve everything, and we achieve nothing. And naturally we make the highest, the very highest demands of ourselves, completely leaving out of account human nature, which is after all not made to meet the highest demands. The world spirit, as it were, overestimates the human spirit. We are always bound to fail because we set our sightsa few hundred per cent higher than is appropriate. And if we look, wherever we look, we see only people who have failed because they set their sights too high. But on the other hand, I reflect, where should we be if we constantly set our sights too low? I looked at my suitcases, the intellectual one and the unintellectual one, so to speak, from my armchair, and if at that moment I’d had the strength I could have burst into uproarious laughter at myself, or else into tears. I was caught up once more in my own personal comedy."
And giving way to the poignant:
"I’ve never got over this parting. But if I’d stayed in Vienna I should have lived only for a very short time longer. [...] I’d had to give up Vienna and all it meant to me — which was literally everything — at the very moment when I believed I was inseparably linked with the city for ever, a city which admittedly I already hated and which I knew I’d always hated, but which I also loved like no other."
The narrative advances in this fashion, whereby concepts, thoughts, decisions are pushed to their limits, submitted to hyperbole, until the moment of comical reveal. And, ultimately, ex-as-per-ation.
🥀🥀🥀
Concrete is my idea of good contemporary literature, in its abundant auto-poeitic compulsivity and aesthetic (im)perfection. In its clean and impeccable prose, that resembles one huge philosophical insert.
Rudolf, the Bernhardian inept, will join the other Greats of literary kindred spirits.
5 schizophrenic stars ⭐
November 23, 2021
More concrete evidence that Bernhard was a genius.
Wouldn't have wanted to be his sibling though.
Wouldn't have wanted to be his sibling though.
December 12, 2022
Hükmeden, zihni aşırı zorlayan, güçlü, kabus gibi bir kurmaca karakter olan abla. En az abla kadar sorunlu, kendisiyle barışık olmayan, üstelik fizyolojik hastalığı da bulunan, zayıf, müzik eğitimi almış bir anlatıcı, yazarın kendisi olabilir. Zaten anlatıcıdaki akciğer tutulumlu sarkoidoz hastalığı (Morbus Boeck) yazarın hastalığıdır.
Kendi kendisiyle kavgalı, devamlı gel-git fikirlerle kendini yoran bir adam. Parayı önemsemeyen, kürklerini ve giysilerini dağıtan, temizlikçisine veren bir adam. Bütün yaşamları boyunca ablasıyla beraber kendi kendilerine “ne istediklerini” soran ama bunu söylemeyen bir adam. Yıllardır kendi kendini lanetleyen, inkar eden ve alaya alan ve bunları kaçış alanları olarak gören, burjuva yaşamına verip veriştiren ama kendisi bırjuva olan bir adam.
Doktorlara güvenmeyen “doktorların vicdanı yoktur,sadece tıbbi dışkılarını fırlatırlar” diyen ama onlarsız yapamayan bir adam. Mutsuzluklarından kurtarılamayan milyonlarca umutsuz insanı düşünen bir adam. Pessoa’nın “Huzursuzluğun Kitabı”nın resmini çizen bir adam. Şimdi sorma sırası okurda ; böyle bir insan on yıldır tasarladığı ancak ilk cümlesini bile yazamadığı Mendelssohn hakkındaki kitabı yazabilir mi ?
T. Bernhard yaşamındaki bazı olayları hikayesine yerleştirmiş ancak ne kadarı gerçek ne kadarı kurmaca söylemek mümkün değil, bu nedenle bu romanı da otobiyografik olarak görülmemekte.
Kitabın adının neden “Beton” olduğu kitabın son sayfalarında ortaya çıkıyor. Sosyal, psikolojik, siyaset, insan ilişkileri gibi birçok konuyu nefis harmanlamış Thomas Bernhard. Tabii klasik yazım tarzıyla başlayıp paragrafsız ve aralıksız akan blok yazımıyla. Sezer Duru’nun duru çevirisi de övgüye değer.
Mutlaka okunmalı Bernhard usta.
Kendi kendisiyle kavgalı, devamlı gel-git fikirlerle kendini yoran bir adam. Parayı önemsemeyen, kürklerini ve giysilerini dağıtan, temizlikçisine veren bir adam. Bütün yaşamları boyunca ablasıyla beraber kendi kendilerine “ne istediklerini” soran ama bunu söylemeyen bir adam. Yıllardır kendi kendini lanetleyen, inkar eden ve alaya alan ve bunları kaçış alanları olarak gören, burjuva yaşamına verip veriştiren ama kendisi bırjuva olan bir adam.
Doktorlara güvenmeyen “doktorların vicdanı yoktur,sadece tıbbi dışkılarını fırlatırlar” diyen ama onlarsız yapamayan bir adam. Mutsuzluklarından kurtarılamayan milyonlarca umutsuz insanı düşünen bir adam. Pessoa’nın “Huzursuzluğun Kitabı”nın resmini çizen bir adam. Şimdi sorma sırası okurda ; böyle bir insan on yıldır tasarladığı ancak ilk cümlesini bile yazamadığı Mendelssohn hakkındaki kitabı yazabilir mi ?
T. Bernhard yaşamındaki bazı olayları hikayesine yerleştirmiş ancak ne kadarı gerçek ne kadarı kurmaca söylemek mümkün değil, bu nedenle bu romanı da otobiyografik olarak görülmemekte.
Kitabın adının neden “Beton” olduğu kitabın son sayfalarında ortaya çıkıyor. Sosyal, psikolojik, siyaset, insan ilişkileri gibi birçok konuyu nefis harmanlamış Thomas Bernhard. Tabii klasik yazım tarzıyla başlayıp paragrafsız ve aralıksız akan blok yazımıyla. Sezer Duru’nun duru çevirisi de övgüye değer.
Mutlaka okunmalı Bernhard usta.
June 11, 2019
İsmiyle müsemma bir kitap.
"Sadece iki saat uyumuştum ve beş buçukta şu düşünceyle uyandım: şimdi kırk sekiz yaşındayım ve bıktım. Sonunda ne kendimizi ne de başkaca bir şeyi haklı çıkarmak durumundayız. Kendimizi biz yapmadık."
"Sadece iki saat uyumuştum ve beş buçukta şu düşünceyle uyandım: şimdi kırk sekiz yaşındayım ve bıktım. Sonunda ne kendimizi ne de başkaca bir şeyi haklı çıkarmak durumundayız. Kendimizi biz yapmadık."
December 10, 2024
فضا و جهانی که توماس برنهارد در کتاب بتن خلق کرده بود یک فضای غمآلود سیاه به شدت بی رحمی بود که این حجم سیاهی باعث میشد این اثر کم حجم برای من به اثر سخت خوانی تبدیل بشه. در دنیای شخصیت اصلی داستان ما اثری از نسبی گرایی نمیبینیم و همه چیز به طور مطلق سیاه و منفی است. رودلف شخصیت اصلی داستان قصد داره کتابی در مورد آهنگساز و پیانیست شهیر آلمانی یعنی مندلسون بارتولدی بنویسه. او ده سال انواع و اقسام منابع و مدارک مورد نیاز در مورد نوشتن چنین اثری رو جمع آوری کرده اما حتی یک کلمه هم ننوشته. کمالگرایی و وسواس مخربی که دچارش هست و باهاش دست و پنجه نرم میکنه که منجر به اهمال و هیچ کاری کردن شده، مانع اصلی رودلف برای نوشتن کتاب مدنظرشه. او خواهری داره که هر چه صفت بد در دنیا وجود داره بهش نسبت میده! و در این کار هیچ امساکی نمیورزه. داستان ماجرا و اتفاق محور نیست و در طول قصه ما بیشتر با درونیات این شخصیت آشنا میشیم. درونیاتی که به خوبی مطلق گرایی او، انزوا و جدا بودنش از جامعه و کمالگرایی و بازنده بودن او رو به خوبی و در سطح کمال نشون میده. خواندن درونیات و تفکرات و هذیان های شخصیت اصلی کار ساده ای نیست چون دز سیاهی عقایدش بسیار بالاست. داستان در حقیقت شرحی است از علل نتوانستن نوشتن اثر توسط شخصیت اصلی با یک کند و کاو اساسی در درون او. .حتی سفری که در پیش میگیره گره ای از مشکلات او باز نمیکنه. در واقع شخصیت 48 ساله داستان زندگیاش در یک بتن سخت گیر کرده و امکان هرگونه حرکت،تغییر و پیشروی رو از او گرفته. او محصور در عقاید تیره و تاری است که به مثابه تار عنکبوت بر زندگیاش چنبره انداخته. مشکل او خواهر ثروتمندش نیست. خواهری که علی رغم صفت های منفی که بهش نسبت میده، گاهی اوقات حرفهای او رو در خلوت خودش در وصف خودش تایید میکنه!! کل داستان انگار در یک پاراگراف 128 صفحه ای نوشته شده و نویسنده یک نفس بدون اینکه به مخاطب فرصتی بده او رو وارد باتلاق خودساخته خودش میکنه..همیشه سعی میکنم فاصله خودم رو با اثر حفظ کنم تا هم نظری که میدم کمتر احساسی و بیشتر منطقی باشه و هم بتونم به این روش خوبی و بدیهای اثر رو با هم ببینم، اما این مهم در خلال مطالعه بتن انجام نشد و برنهارد نویسنده مچ من خواننده رو حسابی خوابوند! داستان بتن این پتانسیل رو داره که اگر در بهترین حالت روحی باشید،حسابی مودتون رو پایین بیاره. دنیایی به این قدر سیاه و سرد و نشان دادن کمالگرایی به این شکل، تا به حال تجربه اش نکرده بودم. برنهارد چنان در ساخت دنیای خودش قوی عمل کرده که من خواننده چاره ای جز تماشای با تمام وجودم به اثر نداشتم و اگر هم بسیاری از چیزها رو دوست نداشتم، منتهی توانایی عبور و ندیدن این اثر رو هم نداشتم.جایی در کتاب میگه : حقیقت این است که ما بلافاصله از کسی به هر حال بدبخت تر از خود ماست استفاده میکنیم تا دوباره سرپا شویم.. شاید من هم به عنوان کسی به زندگی و دنیا و آدمها دید چندان مثبتی نداره برای این تحت تاثیر داستان قرار گرفتم که به خودم نشون بدم که نه، اوضاع من اینقدرام خراب نیست.هنوز زیبایی ها و قشنگی های زیادی رو تو دنیا میبینم و به اندازه شخصیت اصلی داستان، جهانم تیره و تار نیست.برنهارد راست میگه!! خوندن این کتاب با همه تلخی و دردناکیش، نمیگم سرپا، اما یه نور امیدی تو دلم روشن کرد که خداروشکر هنوز به این حد نرسیدم و انگاری دلم هنوز زنده است!! هفته پیش تو قسمت دوم برنامه اکنون، سروش صحت از ایرج طهماسب پرسید چه رمز و رازی تو قصه است که همه آدمها تو ��نین مختلف دوست دارند؟ ایرج طهماسب گفت: چون تجربهی بی دردسره... آقای مجری راس میگه.جهانی که برنهارد تو این کتاب ساخته شاید یک هشداری باشه برای من و امثال من که اگر جلوی منفی نگریهاشون گرفته نشه، تهش میشه این!! پس چه بهتر که از این تجربه ی بی دردسر استفاده بشه! اگر همتی باشه و توانی!! والسلام
September 29, 2014
Some years ago a colleague of mine suggested I read Thomas Bernhard, and in the random impetuousness of my callow youth I read, no, devoured, a number of his novels without first devising a method of “attack”, for whenever I first encounter an author it has been my practice, since my early days in the gymnasium if not before, to proceed systematically so as to maximize my experience and avoid any need to read through authors again, since it is my belief that every artist’s (and I do consider novelists poets and playwrights artists) creative path follows a certain arc of development and by sniffing out this arc at the outset I can maximize my overall absorption of knowledge of that particular artist. This arc need not be chronological, it could be any arcane or cryptic or even illogical organizing principle. For some reason, be it a momentary elation due to the overbrimming of healthful energy in my feverish youth, or even an arrogant defiance of my own methods and standards, I did not read my first works by Thomas Bernhard with any system whatsoever. And now in my ailing middle age, surrounded by pisspots and a pathetic pharmacopeia designed by pharmaceutical giants to create the illusion among us poor shrimp of a brighter healthier future even as our wallets that could actually buy this future are systematically drained, and stranded here in a dead-end job on a campus teeming with eager young flesh striding with rapidly snipping scissor legs through four years of insanely overpriced job training disguised as the pursuit of knowledge, my only consolation is the incredibly well stocked library I have round-the-clock access to because of my years of indentured servitude and paper shuffling. It is no small consolation. So now as I once again have received the suggestion to read Thomas Bernhard I find myself in a quandary, for having already missed my initial chance to proceed in my reading systematically it is too late to do so now, and not only because of my ailing health, which could any day snip my reading life tragically short - Tragically! who am I kidding! Personal tragedy requires compassionate witnesses, or at least fond memories of one somewhere out there in the world, but I have and have had no one in my life either to have fond memories of me or to even care if I were to keel over dead into an unfinished book – but also because having already read a number of Bernhard’s books unsystematically that portion of my brain labeled “Knowledge of Bernhard” is hopelessly disorganized and hazy and lost; so now not only must I read Bernhard and attempt to restore my knowledge of Bernhard, I must devise a system that facilitates this restoration and allows me to realize those books of his which I have already read in the most expeditious way possible (due of course to my rapidly declining health, declining rapidly even as I type this). So two nights ago in a bolt of inspiration flashing through the viscous murkiness of my bed- cum sickroom I realized what I must do. The following morning I rose at dawn and rushed geriatrically to the library and began my newly devised systematic reading of Bernhard. I will read his novels forward and backward alphabetically simultaneously, that is I will read all of his novels on the library shelf beginning with the leftmost and rightmost books. In this way I can attack his oeuvre in a “pincer movement” that will leave no page unturned and will satisfy my need for a system and expedite the recovery of memories of which books of his I have already read. This realization has filled me with no small amount of exhilaration, and though my doctor has warned me away from unnecessary exhilaration, the happiness I now feel is worth all the dangers, and even now as I type this I see myself amid all that young scissoring flesh and my two legs are two scissors among many in a sea of health and purpose and systematic conquering of the future; and now having completed this review of Concrete I will now begin my review of The Woodcutters, but please know that if the Woodcutters review does not appear that my health would not allow it, and that perhaps I have even died, face down in my own unfinished review, but that I died as happy as it was possible for me in my many years of misery to be. Tragedy? Perhaps.
April 8, 2014
An Austrian musicologist has been trying to begin work on a book about a favorite composer for ten years, but he's blocked. He lives in a rather grand family house bequeathed to him by his parents. He's the most equivocating, self-contradictory man on earth. He hates his sister, despises the Viennese social life and business career she's made for herself, but at the same time he loves her and believes her correct in everything she says. He extends this vacillation to himself and his projects, the Austrian winter, the house he lives in, his country's politicians, on and on. It all makes him want to "vomit" For the first 100 pages or so the writing is very chatty. It's all voice with little description, certainly no plot or development of other characters. It's a monologue, a single individual's solipsistic rant about how difficult and awful his life is (how he's suffered and why he deserves better). He's oddly loquacious on the subject of his misery, but he can write nothing about the maestro. So he turns the dysfunctional critical apparatus on himself and others. He's nothing if not opinionated. The only problem is that no opinion he possesses ever holds for long. He's always eager to quickly embrace its opposite. He has no set positions in his view of himself. Nothing is known, nothing can be known. There is no center, no balance, no perspective. Just a continual acceptance and subsequent rejection of self, work, society, family and so on. The critics I have read tend to embrace positions only after years of deliberation. Our narrator possesses nothing like this capability. Everything's in flux. There's the sense of someone's thoughts hurtling along at breakneck speed, not knowing from one moment to next how they will change. Finally he is able to get himself out of Austria and to a favorite vacation haunt: Palma, Majorca. Once there the velocity of the narration slows as he begins to tell us the story of someone he met in that city 18 months before. Her name is Anna Hardtl. A year and a half ago Anna told him the story of the death of her 23 year old husband. Our narrator's own travails seem truly puny by comparison. Worse is the implied understanding on his part that he could have helped Anna 18 months before but chose not to do so. The opportunity for compassion was there, but he fails to follow up on it. This is the note on which the novel ends.
April 15, 2020
Za poređenje Betona sa drugim Bernhardovim romanima koje sam čitala - jer se Bernhard ne može ni porediti sa mnogo kim - poslužiću se jezgrovitošću neznannog internet oglašivača koji je nekoć prodavao tri mačeta i to "dva različita i jedno isto".
Dakle, skoro isto kao Gubitnik, malo različitije od Poremećaja i Vitgenštajnovog nećaka, a opet potpuno odvojeno od svega, takoreći svaka vaška - obaška. Kao i mačka.
Nećete, dakle, ni ovde naći ništa što već niste videli pod slapovima Bernhardove ozlojeđenosti, srdžbe i mizantropije, ali ćete se jednako fascinirati, makar i pitanjem koliko još ovaj pisac toga ima da izbaci iz sebe. Nećete, takođe, biti uskraćreni ni za njemu svojstvenu monolitnost i muzikalnost, sarkastičnost, neurastenični narativ i atmosferu ledene samice u ludari, ali i brilijantni i do dezintegracije presuptilni crni humor. Ako već volite Bernharda, izvolite najsrdačniju preporuku, ako ga ne volite, Beton vas neće preobratiti. Ako ste još uvek niste sreli sa ovim piscem (to je, mislim, jedini moguć razlog za neopredeljenost), možda i nije loše da počnete upravo odavde. Ukratko, nadžak introvert truli bogataš sa autoimunim oboljenjem, izopšten iz sveta u svojoj seoskoj kući (ledara, šume, naravno), namerava da počne da piše esej o Feliksu Mendelsonu, kljuka se hormonskim terapijama, hipohondriše i preslaže fioke, nema snage ni volje za životom, manje zbog toga što mu zdravstvene prognoze nisu baš sjajne, a više zbog toga što ne zna šta će sa sobom, pa kad se izgnuša nad svim što mu padne na um, reši da otputuje.
Tomas Bernhard je jevađelista mržnje: pravi, do koske iskren i nemerno talentovan, i kad bi ispod komentara širom neta, uz lajk i dislajk bilo i bernhard indžekš dugme koje i najokorelijeg hejtera u trenu suočava sa sopstvenom mizernošću, ovaj svet bi stajao na mnogo čvršćim nogama.
Dakle, skoro isto kao Gubitnik, malo različitije od Poremećaja i Vitgenštajnovog nećaka, a opet potpuno odvojeno od svega, takoreći svaka vaška - obaška. Kao i mačka.
Nećete, dakle, ni ovde naći ništa što već niste videli pod slapovima Bernhardove ozlojeđenosti, srdžbe i mizantropije, ali ćete se jednako fascinirati, makar i pitanjem koliko još ovaj pisac toga ima da izbaci iz sebe. Nećete, takođe, biti uskraćreni ni za njemu svojstvenu monolitnost i muzikalnost, sarkastičnost, neurastenični narativ i atmosferu ledene samice u ludari, ali i brilijantni i do dezintegracije presuptilni crni humor. Ako već volite Bernharda, izvolite najsrdačniju preporuku, ako ga ne volite, Beton vas neće preobratiti. Ako ste još uvek niste sreli sa ovim piscem (to je, mislim, jedini moguć razlog za neopredeljenost), možda i nije loše da počnete upravo odavde. Ukratko, nadžak introvert truli bogataš sa autoimunim oboljenjem, izopšten iz sveta u svojoj seoskoj kući (ledara, šume, naravno), namerava da počne da piše esej o Feliksu Mendelsonu, kljuka se hormonskim terapijama, hipohondriše i preslaže fioke, nema snage ni volje za životom, manje zbog toga što mu zdravstvene prognoze nisu baš sjajne, a više zbog toga što ne zna šta će sa sobom, pa kad se izgnuša nad svim što mu padne na um, reši da otputuje.
Tomas Bernhard je jevađelista mržnje: pravi, do koske iskren i nemerno talentovan, i kad bi ispod komentara širom neta, uz lajk i dislajk bilo i bernhard indžekš dugme koje i najokorelijeg hejtera u trenu suočava sa sopstvenom mizernošću, ovaj svet bi stajao na mnogo čvršćim nogama.
July 30, 2022
In all of Bernhard's books, everything is one big monologue. His characters are introspective and reason about everyday life or high culture at a dizzying speed that numbs the reader with countless parallel references.
May 18, 2021
47th book of 2021. Artist for this review is Austrian painter Egon Schiele again. Ultimately, he's most consistently fitting for Bernhard.
Bernhardian madness, another single 155-page paragraph that is repetitive, spiteful... But eventually has the faintest impression of warmth and compassion, even if just for a moment. I found this to be slightly less enjoyable than my first Bernhard, Wittgenstein's Nephew, purely because this was missing some of the humour and wit. Our narrator here, Rudolf (who does share similarities between Bernhard anyway, like having sarcoidosis), is a musicologist (amateur) and mostly complains and whines for the first chunk of the novel about never having started the book he wants to write and mostly blames it on his sister, as her very presence seems to falter his progress. Of course, there are still moments of sly humour,
The novel comes into its own in the latter half, where a new character is introduced and her story is told. The nature of the title becomes clear. It's surprisingly sad and poignant, and quite the shift from the previous tone of Rudolf's ramblings. I found this part the most rewarding element of the novel, though, I also adored (buried within Rudolf's anger towards his sister) the reflections on perfection, on work, on procrastination (the latter could really be the sum of the novel). A few quotes and a Rudolf-looking-Schiele-painting to finish. I'll read some more Bernhard this year yet. Interestingly, he seems to reference his other books, like building a mini-universe. Wittgenstein's nephew is alluded to at one point within the pages, and so are some woodcutters, so maybe Woodcutters needs to be my next Bernhard read.
This is my attempt at a review. It will never be completed.
Bernhardian madness, another single 155-page paragraph that is repetitive, spiteful... But eventually has the faintest impression of warmth and compassion, even if just for a moment. I found this to be slightly less enjoyable than my first Bernhard, Wittgenstein's Nephew, purely because this was missing some of the humour and wit. Our narrator here, Rudolf (who does share similarities between Bernhard anyway, like having sarcoidosis), is a musicologist (amateur) and mostly complains and whines for the first chunk of the novel about never having started the book he wants to write and mostly blames it on his sister, as her very presence seems to falter his progress. Of course, there are still moments of sly humour,
People love animals because they are incapable of loving themselves. Those with the very basest of souls keep dogs, allowing themselves to be tyrannised and finally ruined by their dogs. They give the dog pride of place in their hypocrisy, which in the end becomes a public menace. They would rather save their dog from the guillotine than Voltaire.
The novel comes into its own in the latter half, where a new character is introduced and her story is told. The nature of the title becomes clear. It's surprisingly sad and poignant, and quite the shift from the previous tone of Rudolf's ramblings. I found this part the most rewarding element of the novel, though, I also adored (buried within Rudolf's anger towards his sister) the reflections on perfection, on work, on procrastination (the latter could really be the sum of the novel). A few quotes and a Rudolf-looking-Schiele-painting to finish. I'll read some more Bernhard this year yet. Interestingly, he seems to reference his other books, like building a mini-universe. Wittgenstein's nephew is alluded to at one point within the pages, and so are some woodcutters, so maybe Woodcutters needs to be my next Bernhard read.
At the same time I had to tell myself that we invariably made excessive demands of everything and everybody: nothing is done thoroughly enough, everything is imperfect, everything has been merely attempted, nothing completed. My unhealthy craving for perfection had come to the surface again. It actually makes us ill if we always demand the highest standards, the most thorough, the most fundamental, the most extraordinary, when all we find are the lowest, the most superficial, the most ordinary. It doesn't get us anywhere, except into the grave. We see decline where we expect improvement, we see hopelessness where we still have hope: that's our mistake, our misfortune. We always demand everything, when in the nature of things we should demand little, and that depresses us. We see somebody on the heights, and he comes to grief while he is still on the low ground. We want to achieve everything, and we achieve nothing.
This is my attempt at a review. It will never be completed.
February 13, 2011
Morrissey said about James Dean, "He was incredibly miserable and obviously doomed. People who feel this are quite special." I thought about this quote for some reason about Rudolph from Concrete. (I couldn't remember the word "rockabilly" and searched Morrissey fashions. "Something something billy. Banana fanna fo billy!" Didn't help. [My twin is more helpful than google.] This quote came up. That's honestly how it happened. I like to trace trains of thought. It's an exhausting and preventive hobby, sometimes.)
I haven't found my own way of putting this feeling of self-grief nostalgia yet (I am going to make a point to remember Rudolph's term "self-laughter". How he laughed to himself because he only had himself, for always). I can feel nostalgia for times past that I KNOW must have been exactly like now (depressingly the same. Will it always be like this?). My "like now" means going around in circles of doom and gloomy paranoid anxiety. Wanting to curl up with a blanket over my head (and doing that, often. I won't lie). Fixation to spare, too. Concrete had an underlying humorous nostalgia for that times past that went around in circles. Rudolph is worked up into quite a state. It's been getting to that place for some time (maybe always). I relate way too much being able to talk yourself into anything. Why do I feel nostalgia for Rudolph's past? Maybe it isn't all coming to a final head now. But fuck if I haven't been there at the end when he takes his tablet and shrinks up in bed to face the worst dark corners the mind can back itself into. Where did it all go wrong?
Damn if I don't feel affection for Mendelssohn Bartholdy now. (I'd never heard of him before.) Damn if I haven't had my own Mendelssohn Bartholdys.
I don't know how to start this review. I'm tongue-tied (finger-tied. Maybe it's a chinese finger thingie). I'm going to talk myself into forgetting what it is I wanted to say. It is exhausting to be like that. Where did it all go wrong? Was it always like that? It will always be like that.
I haven't found my own way of putting this feeling of self-grief nostalgia yet (I am going to make a point to remember Rudolph's term "self-laughter". How he laughed to himself because he only had himself, for always). I can feel nostalgia for times past that I KNOW must have been exactly like now (depressingly the same. Will it always be like this?). My "like now" means going around in circles of doom and gloomy paranoid anxiety. Wanting to curl up with a blanket over my head (and doing that, often. I won't lie). Fixation to spare, too. Concrete had an underlying humorous nostalgia for that times past that went around in circles. Rudolph is worked up into quite a state. It's been getting to that place for some time (maybe always). I relate way too much being able to talk yourself into anything. Why do I feel nostalgia for Rudolph's past? Maybe it isn't all coming to a final head now. But fuck if I haven't been there at the end when he takes his tablet and shrinks up in bed to face the worst dark corners the mind can back itself into. Where did it all go wrong?
Damn if I don't feel affection for Mendelssohn Bartholdy now. (I'd never heard of him before.) Damn if I haven't had my own Mendelssohn Bartholdys.
I don't know how to start this review. I'm tongue-tied (finger-tied. Maybe it's a chinese finger thingie). I'm going to talk myself into forgetting what it is I wanted to say. It is exhausting to be like that. Where did it all go wrong? Was it always like that? It will always be like that.
February 9, 2019
Ninguém como Bernhard para descrever falhados da classe alta que vivem uma vida inútil num mundo abjeto. Um mestre a enxovalhar a Áustria (e todas as sociedades ocidentais). Porém, Bernhard não se fica por aí e, com o seu estilo característico, leva-nos ao fundo da desilusão humana.
Faz-me sempre rir (mais só o Céline). Brilhante.
Faz-me sempre rir (mais só o Céline). Brilhante.
November 3, 2024
Well, I tried.
After having read The Loser and being less than impressed, I chose to wait before going back into the world of Thomas Berhard. Unfortunately, I essentially had the same experience again, his bland prose presented as a wall of text representing the mundane rambling thoughts of a man ranting about the mediocre trivialities of life. The interesting thing about Bernhard is that he has a style which suggests stream-of-consciousness but never actually is. His prose is very prosaic, possessing no meaningful flourishes, no Proustian beauty, not even the staggered scattergun stream of thoughts I tend to dislike and which one associates with this kind of writing; but instead he produces a very standard, almost perfunctory, level of writing and grammar. It's somewhat bewildering that he has such an impressive reputation when the writing is, for all intents and purposes, no more creative than what you'd expect from an accountant who works at Dixons. It isn't challenging, it isn't difficult, it's just very basic.
Does any of the above strike you as difficult? Not really. And yet Bernhard has this reputation as a writer above the commonplace herd, a writer of difficult prose and challenging works. But why? It doesn't make sense. Well, I've come to the conclusion that it's for the same reason that Jon Fosse also gets endlessly praised. Because they both engage in what I like to call "Manic Monologue." It essentially involves being endlessly repetitive until you feel dizzy with swirling madness. While Fosse will literally just repeat sentences OVER AND OVER again to manufacture this dire sense of being inside a man's anxious mind, Berhard uses a slightly different yet equally irksome approach. Bernhard will write standard, uninteresting (non-repetitive) prose, but will return to the same handful of themes again and again. So in this book, for example, the narrator, Rudolf, talks about his sister, then a few pages later talks about the book he's working on about Bartholdy, then a few pages later talks about going to Palma, then a few pages later talks about his sister again, then a few pages later talks about Bartholdy again, and so on, and so forth. It's slightly less deranging than Fosse but it's ultimately the same technique -- just cover the same ground relentlessly ad nauseam until you're so befuddled and mesmerised that you completely forget that what you're reading is actually... not very interesting.
Apparently, this is great literature to many of you. To me, it's time wasted. Aside from the fact that I don't believe this is actually how people think (even when manic) -- the lack of personal context or abstract thinking, the lack of visuals or incoherent notions incapable of being turned into expressions of thought -- there is also the fact that it's just not very fun to read. Where is my reward for enduring this false, slightly self-congratulatory style?
I once heard someone say that Berhard doesn't have chapters because life doesn't have chapters. To which I would respond, it's a book, dear, not life.
So yeah, this isn't for me.
After having read The Loser and being less than impressed, I chose to wait before going back into the world of Thomas Berhard. Unfortunately, I essentially had the same experience again, his bland prose presented as a wall of text representing the mundane rambling thoughts of a man ranting about the mediocre trivialities of life. The interesting thing about Bernhard is that he has a style which suggests stream-of-consciousness but never actually is. His prose is very prosaic, possessing no meaningful flourishes, no Proustian beauty, not even the staggered scattergun stream of thoughts I tend to dislike and which one associates with this kind of writing; but instead he produces a very standard, almost perfunctory, level of writing and grammar. It's somewhat bewildering that he has such an impressive reputation when the writing is, for all intents and purposes, no more creative than what you'd expect from an accountant who works at Dixons. It isn't challenging, it isn't difficult, it's just very basic.
PAGE 29 - "I believed fervently that I needed my sister in order to be able to start my work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy. And then, when she was there, I knew that I didn't need her, that I could start work only if she wasn't there. But now she's gone and I'm really unable to start. At first it was because she was there, and now it's because she isn't."
PAGE 50 - "We must commit ourselves one hundred per cent to everything we do, my father always said. He said it to everybody - to my mother, to my sisters, to me. If we don't commit ourselves one hundred per cent we fail even before we've begun. But what is one hundred per cent in this case? Haven't I prepared for this work one hundred per cent?
PAGE 60 - "How long it is since I last took these cases out of the chest! I said to myself. Far too long. In fact the cases were dusty, even though they had been in the chest ever since my last trip, that is my last trip to Palma."
PAGE 124 "At two o' clock in the afternoon, when the car came to collect me, it was still eleven degrees below zero in Peiskam, but on my arrival in Palma, where I am writing these notes, the thermometer showed eighteen degrees above."
Does any of the above strike you as difficult? Not really. And yet Bernhard has this reputation as a writer above the commonplace herd, a writer of difficult prose and challenging works. But why? It doesn't make sense. Well, I've come to the conclusion that it's for the same reason that Jon Fosse also gets endlessly praised. Because they both engage in what I like to call "Manic Monologue." It essentially involves being endlessly repetitive until you feel dizzy with swirling madness. While Fosse will literally just repeat sentences OVER AND OVER again to manufacture this dire sense of being inside a man's anxious mind, Berhard uses a slightly different yet equally irksome approach. Bernhard will write standard, uninteresting (non-repetitive) prose, but will return to the same handful of themes again and again. So in this book, for example, the narrator, Rudolf, talks about his sister, then a few pages later talks about the book he's working on about Bartholdy, then a few pages later talks about going to Palma, then a few pages later talks about his sister again, then a few pages later talks about Bartholdy again, and so on, and so forth. It's slightly less deranging than Fosse but it's ultimately the same technique -- just cover the same ground relentlessly ad nauseam until you're so befuddled and mesmerised that you completely forget that what you're reading is actually... not very interesting.
Apparently, this is great literature to many of you. To me, it's time wasted. Aside from the fact that I don't believe this is actually how people think (even when manic) -- the lack of personal context or abstract thinking, the lack of visuals or incoherent notions incapable of being turned into expressions of thought -- there is also the fact that it's just not very fun to read. Where is my reward for enduring this false, slightly self-congratulatory style?
I once heard someone say that Berhard doesn't have chapters because life doesn't have chapters. To which I would respond, it's a book, dear, not life.
So yeah, this isn't for me.
February 22, 2011
It is always a pleasant experience to be able to immediately recognize one's surroundings when you enter into a literary work by an author you are familiar with. In Concrete this was provided by the opening announcement of the narrator, Rudolf, that [a] he was suffering considerably from the effects of an illness, one for which he thankfully was in possession of the requisite pharmaceuticals required to ameliorate the condition; [b] a family member of a decidedly malicious bent who seemed to function as the bane of his existence had recently departed his premises, a fact which lead to [c] the glorious opportunity to finally take the vital-but-long-delayed first step of actually putting to paper the first sentence of the important and intellectual magnum opus on a somewhat obscure subject - (Felix) Mendelssohn Bartholdy - that has been gestating in various stages of completion within the tortured confines of Rudolf's mind for a decade. I contentedly settled myself into this spartan-but-comfortable setting and leaned back to let the Bernhardian torrent stream forth in manic energy the single paragraph of solipsistic and obsessive railing against a world singularly configured to put the narrator through trials of an enduring severity that would make those of Job look like elementary school pranks by comparison that I knew would be coming. And I'll tell you, folks, Tommy B. delivered the goods like he always does. That's how he rolls.
It's not like I give Bernhard's books five-stars in the same manner that I do, say, gorgeous character pieces like Joseph Roth's Austro-Hungarian heavyweight. Rather, I consider him the best at what he does - the pulverizing digressions that follow one upon the other from the maze-form mind of a narrator who delicately treads that fogbound border between neurosis and madness, delivering the goods in a mixture of razor-blade rage and strangled despair that is at once hilarious, compelling and troubling. This is a drive along narrative streets hemmed in by tall, dark buildings where the vehicle will suddenly and sharply veer right and left down previously unseen lanes, entering new territory and discovering new neighborhoods that all share the same lack of healthy sunlight and expose the rather disturbing denizens and decrepitude that line the way: and at the end of the journey, you realize that you have somehow wound up right back where you started. This is the dialectic as plot point, where sisters are loved and then hated, harmful and helpful, dogs are cherished and now despised, narrators are global travelers and now housebound, neighbors are shunned before visited, and so on. This constant progress by negation is always upheld by the narrator's - in this case Rudolf's - inability to take the prime obsession of their life - in this case a musicologist study of the composer Mendelssohn Bartholdy - from the mental labyrinth where it has long been trapped and release it onto the page; the inability to take the perfect cerebral idea and allow it to become imperfect by being actualized in the world. It's a forceful tour through the exquisite intellectual and physical - because the body always let's down the mind, just as the latter always disappoints or betrays the former - pain of a self-obsessed loner who seemingly lives only to suffer, and can look forward only to a premature death by illness or suicide.
Concrete, being at the midpoint of Bernhard's novelistic output, shows Rudolf as being slightly more aware of the complex web of paranoia, compulsions, and half-truths or misapprehensions that he has spun to cocoon himself off from a hostile and cruel world - and the haunting final pages, wherein Rudolf, always eager to take on new troubles to torment himself with and impede his ever beginning his grand study, recounts the sad tale of a young German woman who possessed far less natural advantages in life than were given to the narrator, close the book with a slightly different slant than was to be expected. This is Bernhard really excelling at what he does, and with each book doing so in a way I find to be more troubling, in that I increasingly come to recognize myself in so many of those despairing and tortured plaints emitted in endless succession by his literary voices. Is this a common feature amongst those who love Bernhard? That he augments their own dissatisfactions and misgivings and obsessions and mental agonies in a manner that proves cathartic while it entertains and amazes? At one point early in the book, Rudolf admits that his sister might be right when she says that his work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy is just a pretence to justify my absurd way of life. It makes me wonder how many pretences I have created.
It's not like I give Bernhard's books five-stars in the same manner that I do, say, gorgeous character pieces like Joseph Roth's Austro-Hungarian heavyweight. Rather, I consider him the best at what he does - the pulverizing digressions that follow one upon the other from the maze-form mind of a narrator who delicately treads that fogbound border between neurosis and madness, delivering the goods in a mixture of razor-blade rage and strangled despair that is at once hilarious, compelling and troubling. This is a drive along narrative streets hemmed in by tall, dark buildings where the vehicle will suddenly and sharply veer right and left down previously unseen lanes, entering new territory and discovering new neighborhoods that all share the same lack of healthy sunlight and expose the rather disturbing denizens and decrepitude that line the way: and at the end of the journey, you realize that you have somehow wound up right back where you started. This is the dialectic as plot point, where sisters are loved and then hated, harmful and helpful, dogs are cherished and now despised, narrators are global travelers and now housebound, neighbors are shunned before visited, and so on. This constant progress by negation is always upheld by the narrator's - in this case Rudolf's - inability to take the prime obsession of their life - in this case a musicologist study of the composer Mendelssohn Bartholdy - from the mental labyrinth where it has long been trapped and release it onto the page; the inability to take the perfect cerebral idea and allow it to become imperfect by being actualized in the world. It's a forceful tour through the exquisite intellectual and physical - because the body always let's down the mind, just as the latter always disappoints or betrays the former - pain of a self-obsessed loner who seemingly lives only to suffer, and can look forward only to a premature death by illness or suicide.
Concrete, being at the midpoint of Bernhard's novelistic output, shows Rudolf as being slightly more aware of the complex web of paranoia, compulsions, and half-truths or misapprehensions that he has spun to cocoon himself off from a hostile and cruel world - and the haunting final pages, wherein Rudolf, always eager to take on new troubles to torment himself with and impede his ever beginning his grand study, recounts the sad tale of a young German woman who possessed far less natural advantages in life than were given to the narrator, close the book with a slightly different slant than was to be expected. This is Bernhard really excelling at what he does, and with each book doing so in a way I find to be more troubling, in that I increasingly come to recognize myself in so many of those despairing and tortured plaints emitted in endless succession by his literary voices. Is this a common feature amongst those who love Bernhard? That he augments their own dissatisfactions and misgivings and obsessions and mental agonies in a manner that proves cathartic while it entertains and amazes? At one point early in the book, Rudolf admits that his sister might be right when she says that his work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy is just a pretence to justify my absurd way of life. It makes me wonder how many pretences I have created.
January 18, 2016
Ο Ρούντολφ είναι ένας σκεπτόμενος και προβληματισμένος άνθρωπος. Προσπαθεί να γράψει εδώ και δέκα χρόνια μια μελέτη για τον μουσικοσυνθέτη Μέντελσον...
Ο Μπέρνχαρντ μας δίνει έναν φιλοσοφικό μονόλογο σφιχτοδεμένο και συμπαγή σαν μπετόν...
Ο πρωταγωνιστής πνίγεται, αηδιάζει, κουράζεται από την υποκρισία και την "ασχήμια" του κόσμου. Σταδιακά απομονώνεται στον εαυτό του βρίσκοντας σαν δικαιολογία την ολοκλήρωση της μελέτης του.. Οι χαρακτήρες φωτίζονται όσο ακριβώς χρειάζεται για να καταλάβουμε την πολυεπίπεδη σκέψη του συγγραφέα..
Ουσιαστικά, περιγράφει την ισόβια δυστυχία των προβληματισμένων ανθρώπων.
Έτσι λοιπόν φτιάχνει και εκ διαμέτρου αντίθετους χαρακτήρες για να τονίσει μέσω της σύγκρισης πόσο δύσκολη γίνεται η συνύπαρξη για ορισμένους ανθρώπους.
Η γραφή του Μπέρνχαντ είναι κάπως δύσκολη... 171 σελίδες χωρίς καμια παράγραφο χωρίς καμιά διακοπή ίσως κουράσουν.. Παρόλα αυτά προσωπικά θεωρώ πως πρόκειται περί υψηλής λογοτεχνίας δημιούργημα και πολλές φορές η κυνικότητα του συγγραφέα μου θύμισε την Πτώση του Κάμι...
4,5*
ΥΓ: Ελπίζω το άτομο που μου πρότεινε το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο να διαβάσει τα παραπάνω σχόλια!!!
Ο Μπέρνχαρντ μας δίνει έναν φιλοσοφικό μονόλογο σφιχτοδεμένο και συμπαγή σαν μπετόν...
Ο πρωταγωνιστής πνίγεται, αηδιάζει, κουράζεται από την υποκρισία και την "ασχήμια" του κόσμου. Σταδιακά απομονώνεται στον εαυτό του βρίσκοντας σαν δικαιολογία την ολοκλήρωση της μελέτης του.. Οι χαρακτήρες φωτίζονται όσο ακριβώς χρειάζεται για να καταλάβουμε την πολυεπίπεδη σκέψη του συγγραφέα..
Ουσιαστικά, περιγράφει την ισόβια δυστυχία των προβληματισμένων ανθρώπων.
Έτσι λοιπόν φτιάχνει και εκ διαμέτρου αντίθετους χαρακτήρες για να τονίσει μέσω της σύγκρισης πόσο δύσκολη γίνεται η συνύπαρξη για ορισμένους ανθρώπους.
Η γραφή του Μπέρνχαντ είναι κάπως δύσκολη... 171 σελίδες χωρίς καμια παράγραφο χωρίς καμιά διακοπή ίσως κουράσουν.. Παρόλα αυτά προσωπικά θεωρώ πως πρόκειται περί υψηλής λογοτεχνίας δημιούργημα και πολλές φορές η κυνικότητα του συγγραφέα μου θύμισε την Πτώση του Κάμι...
4,5*
ΥΓ: Ελπίζω το άτομο που μου πρότεινε το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο να διαβάσει τα παραπάνω σχόλια!!!
April 1, 2020
"Gerçek zaten her zaman en korkunç olan şey, ama gene de yalana, kendi kendini aldatmaya dayanacağına gerçeğe dayanmak her zaman daha iyi."
"Sahip olduğum tek dostlarım ölüler, bana edebiyatlarını bırakanlar, başkaca dostum yok."
Çok iyi. 🌟
"Sahip olduğum tek dostlarım ölüler, bana edebiyatlarını bırakanlar, başkaca dostum yok."
Çok iyi. 🌟
December 17, 2020
من در 25 سالگی، تقریبا خودِ راویِ میانسال رمان بتن هستم؛ اگر به میانسالی برسم، شبیه کدام کتاب میشوم؟
September 7, 2021
Bernhard’ın bu kitabını okuduğumda şahsıma bu kadar kafa kol dalıp beni rahatsız edeceğini hiç düşünmemiştim. Ayna tutmasından çok, başka bir durum ile karşı karşıya kaldım. Resmen tarif ediyor bizi ve günümüz insanını. Uyumsuzluktan, iç çekişmelere, bağlar ile içten bir çatışmaya, hiç bitmeyen erteleme ve mükemmeliyetçi takıntısının hastalık derecesine ulaşan boyutuna ve yazı yazmak isteyip güzellemeler yapıp hiç yazamamaya tüm bunları ve buna benzer içine düştüğümüz kuytunun üzerine beton etkisinde bir rahatsızlık boşaltıyor. Rahatsızlık duyarak okudum ama tatlı ve tutkulu bir rahatsızlıktı.
October 2, 2024
«با خود گفتم هر چقدر هم که پیر باشیم انگار کماکان منتظریم چیزی تغییر کند، همیشه منتظر تغییری اساسی هستیم، چون ذهنمان هر چه میخواهد باشد اما شفاف نیست. تمام تغییرات اساسی سالها قبل رخ دادهاند اما موقع رخ دادنشان نفهمیدیم که اساسیاند.»
راوی رمان «بتُن» یا سیمان مردیست ۴۸ ساله و تعجبی نیست که مجرد است. این روزها در انزوا زندگی میکند، در روستایی در اتریش، دور از وین، در خانهای که ۹ اتاق دارد و رودلف همهی آنها را گرم نگه میدارد. وضعش خوب است. کار خاصی نمیکند اما ارث و میراث خوبی داشته. شروع داستان اینجوریست که رودلف میخواهد مقالهاش دربارهی مندلسون را بنویسد. مقالهای که نوشتنش را ده سالیست به تعویق انداخته. به دلایل مختلف نتوانسته بنویسد، شاید این رمان شرح دلایل نتوانستنش باشد. اصلاً همان اول کتاب اشاره میکند که خواهرش، خواهر منفورش، مدتها مهمانش بوده و تازه چند ساعت پیش روستا را به مقصد وین ترک کرده و حالا دیگر رودلف آماده است که، بالاخره، جملهی اولش را بنویسد. اما نمیتواند. گاهی دچار نفستنگی میشود، گاهی دراز به دراز میافتد. بیماریهایش همینقدر گنگند، اسم ندارند، اما اسم قرصهایی که مشتمشت میخورد را میگوید و کلی هم تشکر میکند از شرکتهای معظم داروسازی سوییس که با داروهایشان این مردم بیمار و افسرده را نجات دادهاند. رودلف دنیا را اینچنین میبیند و از آن دلزده است. بیشتر از همه از خواهر میلیاردر و پولپرستش دلزده است. خواهری که همیشه او را دست انداخته و خصوصی و عمومی مسخرهاش میکند، درگیری رودلف با موسیقی و فلسفه و ریاضی و کلاً فعالیتهای متعالی انتلکتوئل به نظرش مسخره است. خواهرش دنبال شهرت و ثروت است و هر دو را هم خوب دارد. با این حال نفرت از خواهر یک روی سکه است، روی دیگرش طبعا عشق و علاقه است، حتی جایی اعتراف میکند این دیدار اخیر خواهر از روستا به دعوت خود رودلف بوده، اما بعد رودلف دادش در میآید که دعوتی چند روزه مدنظرش بوده، نه اینقدر طولانی، و همین شده که نتوانسته مقالهاش دربارهی مندلسون بارتولدی را بنویسد (مومنانه پسوند بارتولدی را از قلم نمیاندازد). سالها یادداشت جمع کرده دربارهی مندلسون و همین حالا که خواهر رفته و گویا همه چیز مناسب باز هم نمیشود، چون هنوز خانه آلوده به حضور اوست. حتی پسماندِ حضورِ خواهر او را قفل میکند. بتن داستان همین قفل ماندن است و تقلاهای رودلف برای شکستنش. قصد سفر میکند، پا سست میکند، آخر سر میرود و البته پایان رمانش را چنان غریب و استادانه جمع و جور میکند که دیگر نمیتوان کتاب را صرفا به هذیانات و وسواسهای رودلف تقلیل داد.
شخصیت رودلف مشابه مابقی شخصیتهاییست که برنارد خلق کرده. خواندن مونولوگهای هذیانگونهشان مرا شیفته میکند و گاهی هم کلافه. چند سال پیش همین جذبه بود که پشت سر هم چهار-پنج کتابش را خواندم، و بعد احساس کردم دیگر نمیتوانم، نمیکشم. فضای تنگ رمانهایش پسم میزد. بدبینیها و بیماریهای آدمهایش جذبم میکرد اما از آنور روان خودم را هم پریشان میکرد. همینهاست که حالا چند سال یکبار میروم سراغ برنارد. نویسندهایست که نه میشود فراموشش کرد و نه میشود مدام مصرفش کرد.
راوی رمان «بتُن» یا سیمان مردیست ۴۸ ساله و تعجبی نیست که مجرد است. این روزها در انزوا زندگی میکند، در روستایی در اتریش، دور از وین، در خانهای که ۹ اتاق دارد و رودلف همهی آنها را گرم نگه میدارد. وضعش خوب است. کار خاصی نمیکند اما ارث و میراث خوبی داشته. شروع داستان اینجوریست که رودلف میخواهد مقالهاش دربارهی مندلسون را بنویسد. مقالهای که نوشتنش را ده سالیست به تعویق انداخته. به دلایل مختلف نتوانسته بنویسد، شاید این رمان شرح دلایل نتوانستنش باشد. اصلاً همان اول کتاب اشاره میکند که خواهرش، خواهر منفورش، مدتها مهمانش بوده و تازه چند ساعت پیش روستا را به مقصد وین ترک کرده و حالا دیگر رودلف آماده است که، بالاخره، جملهی اولش را بنویسد. اما نمیتواند. گاهی دچار نفستنگی میشود، گاهی دراز به دراز میافتد. بیماریهایش همینقدر گنگند، اسم ندارند، اما اسم قرصهایی که مشتمشت میخورد را میگوید و کلی هم تشکر میکند از شرکتهای معظم داروسازی سوییس که با داروهایشان این مردم بیمار و افسرده را نجات دادهاند. رودلف دنیا را اینچنین میبیند و از آن دلزده است. بیشتر از همه از خواهر میلیاردر و پولپرستش دلزده است. خواهری که همیشه او را دست انداخته و خصوصی و عمومی مسخرهاش میکند، درگیری رودلف با موسیقی و فلسفه و ریاضی و کلاً فعالیتهای متعالی انتلکتوئل به نظرش مسخره است. خواهرش دنبال شهرت و ثروت است و هر دو را هم خوب دارد. با این حال نفرت از خواهر یک روی سکه است، روی دیگرش طبعا عشق و علاقه است، حتی جایی اعتراف میکند این دیدار اخیر خواهر از روستا به دعوت خود رودلف بوده، اما بعد رودلف دادش در میآید که دعوتی چند روزه مدنظرش بوده، نه اینقدر طولانی، و همین شده که نتوانسته مقالهاش دربارهی مندلسون بارتولدی را بنویسد (مومنانه پسوند بارتولدی را از قلم نمیاندازد). سالها یادداشت جمع کرده دربارهی مندلسون و همین حالا که خواهر رفته و گویا همه چیز مناسب باز هم نمیشود، چون هنوز خانه آلوده به حضور اوست. حتی پسماندِ حضورِ خواهر او را قفل میکند. بتن داستان همین قفل ماندن است و تقلاهای رودلف برای شکستنش. قصد سفر میکند، پا سست میکند، آخر سر میرود و البته پایان رمانش را چنان غریب و استادانه جمع و جور میکند که دیگر نمیتوان کتاب را صرفا به هذیانات و وسواسهای رودلف تقلیل داد.
شخصیت رودلف مشابه مابقی شخصیتهاییست که برنارد خلق کرده. خواندن مونولوگهای هذیانگونهشان مرا شیفته میکند و گاهی هم کلافه. چند سال پیش همین جذبه بود که پشت سر هم چهار-پنج کتابش را خواندم، و بعد احساس کردم دیگر نمیتوانم، نمیکشم. فضای تنگ رمانهایش پسم میزد. بدبینیها و بیماریهای آدمهایش جذبم میکرد اما از آنور روان خودم را هم پریشان میکرد. همینهاست که حالا چند سال یکبار میروم سراغ برنارد. نویسندهایست که نه میشود فراموشش کرد و نه میشود مدام مصرفش کرد.
September 22, 2020
“... não escapamos à vaidade e à procura de glória, vamos por esse caminho fora, a direito, de cabeça erguida, como se a vaidade e o sucesso nos fossem indispensáveis apesar de sabermos que essa nossa maneira de agir é imperdoável e perversa.”
“... não acredito na generosidade nem no amor ao próximo. A chamada generosidade humana é uma impostura pura e simples e quem a proclamar, quem afirmar o contrário, é um refinado explorador ou um imbecil sem perdão.”
“Amizade, que palavra tão conspurcada! As pessoas têm-na na boca, todos os dias, até enfastiam, por isso ela perdeu todo o seu valor...”
“... sou feliz com a minha solidão, sei com o que posso contar, observo os outros, os que não têm uma solidão assim, os que não se podem dar ao luxo de a ter...”
“... não acredito na generosidade nem no amor ao próximo. A chamada generosidade humana é uma impostura pura e simples e quem a proclamar, quem afirmar o contrário, é um refinado explorador ou um imbecil sem perdão.”
“Amizade, que palavra tão conspurcada! As pessoas têm-na na boca, todos os dias, até enfastiam, por isso ela perdeu todo o seu valor...”
“... sou feliz com a minha solidão, sei com o que posso contar, observo os outros, os que não têm uma solidão assim, os que não se podem dar ao luxo de a ter...”
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