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The Tartar Steppe
Often likened to Kafka's The Castle, The Tartar Steppe is both a scathing critique of military life and a meditation on the human thirst for glory. It tells of young Giovanni Drogo, who is posted to a distant fort overlooking the vast Tartar steppe. Although not intending to stay, Giovanni suddenly finds that years have passed, as, almost without his noticing, he has come to share the others' wait for a foreign invasion that never happens. Over time the fort is downgraded and Giovanni's ambitions fade until the day the enemy begins massing on the desolate steppe...
198 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1940
About the author
Dino Buzzati
264 books953 followersDino Buzzati Traverso (1906 – 1972) è stato uno scrittore, giornalista, pittore, drammaturgo, librettista, scenografo, costumista e poeta italiano.
Dino Buzzati Traverso was an Italian novelist, short story writer, painter and poet, as well as a journalist for Corriere della Sera. His worldwide fame is mostly due to his novel Il deserto dei Tartari, translated into English as The Tartar Steppe.
Dino Buzzati Traverso was an Italian novelist, short story writer, painter and poet, as well as a journalist for Corriere della Sera. His worldwide fame is mostly due to his novel Il deserto dei Tartari, translated into English as The Tartar Steppe.
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April 5, 2023
The Tartar Steppe is about waiting. It is a tale of the wasted life and a parable of time lost.
Youth is full of hopes and expectations…
Time flies and expectations are withering and hopes are dying slowly. A stronghold guards an empty space and the lives of the soldiers are full of emptiness. Their existence is as barren as the Tartar Steppe. Time keeps flying…
Waiting is easy – everything is calm and nothing happens… Life inexorably passes by and nothing is left behind.
Youth is full of hopes and expectations…
Of course with the others, with his colleagues, he had to be a man, had to laugh with them and tell swashbuckling stories about women and the soldier’s life. But to whom could he tell the truth if not to his mother? And that evening the truth as Drogo saw it was not what you would have expected from a good soldier – probably it was unworthy of the austere Fort, and his companions would have laughed at it. The truth was that he was tired from the journey, that the gloomy walls weighed upon him, that he felt completely alone.
Time flies and expectations are withering and hopes are dying slowly. A stronghold guards an empty space and the lives of the soldiers are full of emptiness. Their existence is as barren as the Tartar Steppe. Time keeps flying…
Thick, thick snow fell from the sky and lay on the terraces and made them white. As he looked at it Drogo felt his old worry more acutely than ever and sought in vain to dispel it by thinking of his youthfulness, of the number of years that lay before him. For some inexplicable reason time had begun to pass more and more quickly and engulfed the days one after another. You had barely time to look about and the night was falling, the sun was travelling below the horizon and would reappear in the opposite direction to illuminate the snow-clad world.
Waiting is easy – everything is calm and nothing happens… Life inexorably passes by and nothing is left behind.
December 15, 2022
Update 2022: While reading Zambra’s “Not to Read” I stumbled over a quote from this novel. I thought I should put it here:
‘It doesn’t hurt to remember, by the way, the passage in The Tartar Steppe when, with tepid good judgement, Giovanni Drogo intuits his fate: ‘It is difficult to believe in a thing when one is alone and there is no one to speak to. It was at this period that Drogo realized how far apart men are whatever their affection for each other, that if you suffer the pain is yours and yours alone, no one else can take upon himself the least part of it; that if you suffer it does not mean that others feel pain, and that brings about life’s loneliness.’
Previous comments: The most haunting metaphor of life and death that I've ever read. It is an incredible book but it leaves you spent, desolated at the end of it, like the tartar steppe.
‘It doesn’t hurt to remember, by the way, the passage in The Tartar Steppe when, with tepid good judgement, Giovanni Drogo intuits his fate: ‘It is difficult to believe in a thing when one is alone and there is no one to speak to. It was at this period that Drogo realized how far apart men are whatever their affection for each other, that if you suffer the pain is yours and yours alone, no one else can take upon himself the least part of it; that if you suffer it does not mean that others feel pain, and that brings about life’s loneliness.’
Previous comments: The most haunting metaphor of life and death that I've ever read. It is an incredible book but it leaves you spent, desolated at the end of it, like the tartar steppe.
October 3, 2023
في صحراء العمر
جفاف وغربة
ومشاهد مترامية
تتوارى فيها سيرة بشرية حزينة غامضة
لا تملك لنفسها شيئا
يفتح دينو بوتزاتي كراسته
ينظر في أوراقه، وقلمه بين أصابعه
ويده مطبقة عليه كقلب يتمسك بأمل
في المسافة بين عينه والصفحة يرى مساحة رحبة ولانهائية
هي في نظر غيره محض فراغ
يرى دينو في تلك المساحة شيئا غريبا عميقا مثل كائنات المرايا
تكوينا لا يمكن إدراكه ومخاطبته كأنه ظلال لأشخاص بعيدة
كأنه الفجوة بين الحقيقة والصورة
بين ما نتمنى وما يتاح
منطقة مرعبة من الغموض المخيف الملتف في ضباب ثلجي مسائي داكن
تتخفى في تكويناته المائية كائنات من عصور بعيدة
وأشباح من أوقات مندثرة
وعبارات نطقت بها قلوب أصحابها
ولم تستطع أن تفر من عقال ألسنتهم المستكينة في حجرية الاستسلام للمألوف
دينو يرى ما يخطه قلمه وكأنه ليس ما يريد أن يكتبه
في أعماقه كائن يريد أن يتحرر في زرقة المداد وبياض الورقة
يكتشف أنه مقيد بمفاهيم عن السرد، والنقد
وطليعة الحداثة القائدة ركب التطور
وجحافل التقليد المكرّسة لهيمنة الرجعية
يبتسم دينو فتسري ابتسامته شهابا في مساحة الضباب الملتبسة الممتدة في مدى رؤيته الخفية بين مشاعره وعقله، والسارية في مضمار منظوره بين عينيه اللامعتين وصفحته شبه البيضاء
يكتب دينو الذي يجيد صياغة العناوين الإعلامية عنوان روايته
صحراء التتار
يكتب دينو الذي يتقن الفن التشكيلي فيرسم لوحات عن عالم متخيّل يراه في نفسه، ويضعه أمامه محتشدا بالصور الحيوية الممتدة بين السكون والصخب
يكتب دينو الفيلسوف الذي يتحدث عن فن الحياة قصة شاب يبدأ حياته حاميا لحصن قديم مهجور، يتمنى أن يحقق هناك مجدا
وأن يلتمس الحقائق الكونية
وأن يدرك خفايا نفوس البشر، ونفسه الغائمة في نفسه
يكتب دينو عن عدو عبر التاريخ لا يأتي مع أن الجميع يشعر بوجوده
يكتب دينو عن الزمن الزاحف على الشباب والصحاب والأغراب
يكتب دينو عن الذي يرحل في مطلع الحياة تاركا صورته كما هي نضرة جميلة متشرّبة بآمال لم تتنفس في كلماتها القليلة المبهمة
يكتب دينو عن الصلف الجليدي الذي لا تشرق عليه شمس التعاطف
يكتب دينو عن القادمين من الطفولة يحملون براءته هو نفسه المتوارية في تمائم العمر
يكتب دينو عن نفسه النائمة في عيني طفل لم تتلوّث أحلامه
يكتب دينو عن صحراء التتار التي تغطي كلماتنا وصمتنا وتنتشر فيها ��خاوفنا وتنطوي في تلافيفها أشواق لم تبرح مكامنها في حديقة أخيلتنا
يكتب دينو بوتزاتي فإذا بمواعيد أحبتك السجينة في ساعتك المركونة فوق جدار التناسي تدق محذّرة إياك من إهدار الفرص
لأن الحياة لا يوجد بها وقت ضائع
ولا تعرف الوقت الإضافي
صحراء التتار وقت مستقطع
تحفّزنا لإعادة النظر في علاقتنا بالزمان والمكان
ربما نستعيد إنسانية هائمة كشبح في أفضية التاريخ
ربما تساعدنا على مقاومة التصحّر الذي يغرق مسارات العالم بالجهل الذي نستضيفه في منظورنا العاجز عن رؤية أنفسنا في الآخرين
ورؤية الآخرين في أنفسنا
رواية صحراء التتار لدينو بوتزاتي ترسم عالما لا توجد به صحراء، لا يوجد به تتار، لكنه الفضاء الكوني الذي تتفاعل في أثيره عناصر بلا عدد، والفضاء النفسي الذي تتعايش فيه مشاعر بلا حصر، قليل من يشعر بتلك المعاني التي تؤلف بينها قوانين مازلنا نحبو لكي نفك رموزها
مثل رواية نقلب صفحة فننسى السابقة، ونعود لنستعيدها بعد أن تساعدنا الفقرات المتوالية في فهم ما غاب عن افقنا، وأحيانا ينضاف مزيد من الغموض الرائع يستمتع به حدسنا المسكون بوحدته
صحراء التتار هي الفراغ الشعوري الذي يباعد بين مداركنا وبهاء الحقيقة
لن تجد فيها صحراء ولا تتار، ستجد الزمن وقد تجسد في ذرات مكانية تتشكل في صور أشباح تزحف على فضاء التصور
جفاف وغربة
ومشاهد مترامية
تتوارى فيها سيرة بشرية حزينة غامضة
لا تملك لنفسها شيئا
يفتح دينو بوتزاتي كراسته
ينظر في أوراقه، وقلمه بين أصابعه
ويده مطبقة عليه كقلب يتمسك بأمل
في المسافة بين عينه والصفحة يرى مساحة رحبة ولانهائية
هي في نظر غيره محض فراغ
يرى دينو في تلك المساحة شيئا غريبا عميقا مثل كائنات المرايا
تكوينا لا يمكن إدراكه ومخاطبته كأنه ظلال لأشخاص بعيدة
كأنه الفجوة بين الحقيقة والصورة
بين ما نتمنى وما يتاح
منطقة مرعبة من الغموض المخيف الملتف في ضباب ثلجي مسائي داكن
تتخفى في تكويناته المائية كائنات من عصور بعيدة
وأشباح من أوقات مندثرة
وعبارات نطقت بها قلوب أصحابها
ولم تستطع أن تفر من عقال ألسنتهم المستكينة في حجرية الاستسلام للمألوف
دينو يرى ما يخطه قلمه وكأنه ليس ما يريد أن يكتبه
في أعماقه كائن يريد أن يتحرر في زرقة المداد وبياض الورقة
يكتشف أنه مقيد بمفاهيم عن السرد، والنقد
وطليعة الحداثة القائدة ركب التطور
وجحافل التقليد المكرّسة لهيمنة الرجعية
يبتسم دينو فتسري ابتسامته شهابا في مساحة الضباب الملتبسة الممتدة في مدى رؤيته الخفية بين مشاعره وعقله، والسارية في مضمار منظوره بين عينيه اللامعتين وصفحته شبه البيضاء
يكتب دينو الذي يجيد صياغة العناوين الإعلامية عنوان روايته
صحراء التتار
يكتب دينو الذي يتقن الفن التشكيلي فيرسم لوحات عن عالم متخيّل يراه في نفسه، ويضعه أمامه محتشدا بالصور الحيوية الممتدة بين السكون والصخب
يكتب دينو الفيلسوف الذي يتحدث عن فن الحياة قصة شاب يبدأ حياته حاميا لحصن قديم مهجور، يتمنى أن يحقق هناك مجدا
وأن يلتمس الحقائق الكونية
وأن يدرك خفايا نفوس البشر، ونفسه الغائمة في نفسه
يكتب دينو عن عدو عبر التاريخ لا يأتي مع أن الجميع يشعر بوجوده
يكتب دينو عن الزمن الزاحف على الشباب والصحاب والأغراب
يكتب دينو عن الذي يرحل في مطلع الحياة تاركا صورته كما هي نضرة جميلة متشرّبة بآمال لم تتنفس في كلماتها القليلة المبهمة
يكتب دينو عن الصلف الجليدي الذي لا تشرق عليه شمس التعاطف
يكتب دينو عن القادمين من الطفولة يحملون براءته هو نفسه المتوارية في تمائم العمر
يكتب دينو عن نفسه النائمة في عيني طفل لم تتلوّث أحلامه
يكتب دينو عن صحراء التتار التي تغطي كلماتنا وصمتنا وتنتشر فيها ��خاوفنا وتنطوي في تلافيفها أشواق لم تبرح مكامنها في حديقة أخيلتنا
يكتب دينو بوتزاتي فإذا بمواعيد أحبتك السجينة في ساعتك المركونة فوق جدار التناسي تدق محذّرة إياك من إهدار الفرص
لأن الحياة لا يوجد بها وقت ضائع
ولا تعرف الوقت الإضافي
صحراء التتار وقت مستقطع
تحفّزنا لإعادة النظر في علاقتنا بالزمان والمكان
ربما نستعيد إنسانية هائمة كشبح في أفضية التاريخ
ربما تساعدنا على مقاومة التصحّر الذي يغرق مسارات العالم بالجهل الذي نستضيفه في منظورنا العاجز عن رؤية أنفسنا في الآخرين
ورؤية الآخرين في أنفسنا
رواية صحراء التتار لدينو بوتزاتي ترسم عالما لا توجد به صحراء، لا يوجد به تتار، لكنه الفضاء الكوني الذي تتفاعل في أثيره عناصر بلا عدد، والفضاء النفسي الذي تتعايش فيه مشاعر بلا حصر، قليل من يشعر بتلك المعاني التي تؤلف بينها قوانين مازلنا نحبو لكي نفك رموزها
مثل رواية نقلب صفحة فننسى السابقة، ونعود لنستعيدها بعد أن تساعدنا الفقرات المتوالية في فهم ما غاب عن افقنا، وأحيانا ينضاف مزيد من الغموض الرائع يستمتع به حدسنا المسكون بوحدته
صحراء التتار هي الفراغ الشعوري الذي يباعد بين مداركنا وبهاء الحقيقة
لن تجد فيها صحراء ولا تتار، ستجد الزمن وقد تجسد في ذرات مكانية تتشكل في صور أشباح تزحف على فضاء التصور
January 31, 2022
'Time has slipped by so quickly,
that his heart has not had a chance to grow old'
While Dino Buzzati was putting the finishing touches to his 1938 novel, the world outside began a slow and oblivious path, looming towards a war that shook the very foundations of mother Earth. Is it possible Buzzati knew what lied ahead?, as his story here revolves around anticipating war, waiting, watching, fearful of what may appear over the horizon.
The Tartar Steppe is both a scathing critique of military life pre-war, and a meditation on the independent thirst for glory. Giovanni Drogo a young officer is posted to a remote mountain garrison, an anomalously surreal fort, smack bang in the middle of nowhere, known as 'fort Bastiani, which sits overlooking the vast and eerie 'Tartar Steppe' baron landscape (gaining it's title as supposedly Tartars once lived on the other side of the desert). Leaving the city by horseback, Drogo has no idea what to expect on arrival, and starts conjuring up thoughts of just what his life is going to be like.
Never thinking on staying long, he is suddenly overtaken by the passing of time, leading to weeks, months, and years of service, and never seeing any signs what so ever, that a possible army could be looming far off in the distance, biding time, ready to strike.
Becoming distinguished with fellow guards, he would rise in rank over the years, and slowly come to terms with his empty existence.
Over the course of many years the fort would be downgraded, and almost forgotten about by the powers that be, and the world around it, a place of solitude, but an important place of solitude nonetheless, as there is always, no matter how small, a chance an invading army will march through the mist, and take those holding the fort by surprise.
On a mysterious level the novel works so well at never specifying time or place, it could be 20th century, but then again as nothing is ever related to this, we could be going back much further.
When you here of the "the Northern Kingdom", it gets me thinking of centuries ago, but again it's a clever way to add even greater dimension, to it's already quite bizarre story.
The namelessness of the setting was surely deliberate: not only are the hopes and ambitions of the characters in total vain, but just as we are struggling to care about their fate, we also cannot care about their country, which, after all, doesn't even exist. This is easy to get over, as Buzzati writes with a big heart, you truly feel ever step, every though, and every action of Giovanni Drogo, and I am not ashamed to admit, was left close to moist eyes by the final haunting passages.
This is very much the epitome of the literary novel, by which I mean that Buzzati wasn't trying to tell a story but express something deeper through the medium of a novel. This is the sort of novel that professors of literature love, because it begs for a close reading, and that most genre readers hate, because the plot and the characters are just symbols to express the author's intent. Camus, Kafka and Calvino spring to mind when thinking of similarities, with Kafka's 'The Castle' a good point of reference in terms of overall tone.
On the one hand, this is a bleak, desolate and droll story of the wasting away of ones life, but on the other an unseen tension is lurking, even though it would appear the novel has absolutely no tension of any sort. Something just bothered me the whole way through, but can't put my finger on what that something is, there is obviously more to this work than meets the eye.
The leaden prose is not lacking in descriptive detail and the dialog is expressive enough (with help from an authorial style that tells us exactly what each character is actually thinking) to capture the empty years and desolation, for which the Tartar Steppe is a metaphor.
For all his boredom, Drogo is always anticipating war with an excitement, but also a lingering sadness, that his day will never come, and one day he will be cast off into oblivion having never any heights.
This was a read where going into it was a complete unknown, I knew nothing of Buzzati, or his Tartar Steppe, but have come out on the other side realizing a quite unique piece of writing has passed before my eyes.
October 14, 2023
This novel is not one; it is a long and magnificent poem. Well, that's what I felt because Giovanni is universal. He's me here; he's you (and anyone who wants him. Um, I'm going out). It embodies our desires, regrets, wanderings, and a life that could be ours as we take a perverse pleasure in wasting. By an extensive range (for that, the ideas are never lacking) - this precious time, which crumbles and escapes like the sand of our vacation beach, slips through our carefree toes.
A downside for me, however, is that I have already spent a lot of time ;-) On these questions and pondered a lot on "Cute, let's go see if the rose" and others, "Happiness is in the meadow. Run fast. It goes. Spin". Since then, I have tried to keep in mind this quote from Seneca, which could perhaps have helped Giovanni:" Life is not to wait for thunderstorms to pass, it is to learn how to dance in the rain."
In the end, I must admit that even if I do not necessarily want to go over these somewhat weighty themes. It is quite another thing to approach them with Dino Buzzati because there you are; being indifferent is well-written, mastered, and impressive. Nevertheless, I must admit that I took great pleasure in reading it. No doubt, this novel is a masterpiece.
A downside for me, however, is that I have already spent a lot of time ;-) On these questions and pondered a lot on "Cute, let's go see if the rose" and others, "Happiness is in the meadow. Run fast. It goes. Spin". Since then, I have tried to keep in mind this quote from Seneca, which could perhaps have helped Giovanni:" Life is not to wait for thunderstorms to pass, it is to learn how to dance in the rain."
In the end, I must admit that even if I do not necessarily want to go over these somewhat weighty themes. It is quite another thing to approach them with Dino Buzzati because there you are; being indifferent is well-written, mastered, and impressive. Nevertheless, I must admit that I took great pleasure in reading it. No doubt, this novel is a masterpiece.
August 6, 2023
Time has a strange quality; scientists would say it has always been relative, but we are not discussing here the relativity of life, rather we would be more interested in exploring how we perceive time. When we have time in excess it may be cruel and unforgiving but when it passes quickly as the mundanity of life takes over and keep us engaged, then it may be choking life out of us, the commonness and mediocrity of life may keep our soul imprisoned in routine and not allowing it to be assuaged by realizing the adventures of passion. The excruciating speed of time as it passes by us does not allow us to assimilate life and when we realize it, many years are already spent. Life becomes an inexhaustible spree of mundane wherein we seem to lose knowledge of time and youth.
What about hope? Is hope necessary to brave the existential angst of life? Generally, we maintain in life that hope is a prerequisite to have an optimistic state of mind amidst our eternal anxiety and angst towards life. Our consciousness forges it as a powerful tool when crisis looms over us and in fact, it enables us to manufacture creative possibilities in those times of cataclysm. But can hope be futile and even counterproductive? At times, hope can be very exhausting, especially at a certain age when one could not muster the faith one has in youth, our eyes become stoned and indifferent towards the trivial beauties of life since they have seen too many ordeals of life. You wait your entire lifetime, riding upon the optimism of hope, for just a moment of glory which may pull out from the sea of mundane so that your existence springs up from the hell of nothingness and your life leapfrogs from mediocrity to extraordinary.
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Giovanni Drogo, encountering the usual cloud of skepticism one faces while entering an unknown realm of life, embarks upon a sojourn to Fort Bastiani. He summons the courage of his entire being and mobilizes himself to make peace with the situation. The flames of youth forces him to seek escape from Fort Bastiani in which complete silence seems to be the undisputed master. A frightening sensation surrounds his soul, having seen various examples of life which gets stuck here for their lifetime, inspiring him to contemplate that what if he would never be able to get free from the fort, a darkness fell over his consciousness as he becomes a prey of his own desire to escape. The eternal wheel of time makes indefatigable and relentless rounds and Drogo (having initially unwillingly decided to stay at the fort) gets marooned at Fort Bastiani and his fate gets fastened to the fate of the fort, as the river of time passes over in vain.
The fort turns out to be an intimidating and terrifying place wherein the rules are so strong and rigid that it is humanely not possible for a mortal life form to break them, even if someone has to pay the price with his life. Days become months, months get transformed into years, years into decades but the fate of Drogo and the fort remain untouched by the dash of change. Fort Bastiani and Giovanni Drogo, like every captive of the fort, keep waiting for a moment of glory which may spring them up from the hell of nothingness to give meaning to their existence. Why is the moment of glory or valor so important, is it because of the military conditioning or is it because of the basic human need to provide essence to his life. And how would that moment of glory arrive, a seemingly possible war presents a gleam of light in the sea of darkness. How could war bring us glory, how our conscience would allow us to seek glory from it? I guess the confined walls of constrained thinking probably make men the ruthless machines, riding upon the tides of valor and fame interspersed among the emotions of patriotism and bravery. These colossal gargantuan commemorations of wars take inspiration from the fire of pride, grace, and dignity, burning in the heart of people. The flames of the holy fire are so vigorous and impregnable that crumbs of reason, doubt, probe, and contemplation are blazed to nothingness in it.
source
As youth fades away, the hope and expectations give in to the waves of frustration and the walls of the fort become the walls of prison. The memories of past, childhood and youth, may be excruciating, so piercing and tormenting at times that they engulf you in a sort of nostalgia (drawn from the riveting delights of the past) which springs up as a painful reminder of joy, exultation, exuberance and youthfulness, life used to have. However, a man, having been into the regulated space of likeminded, becomes stranger to not only the rest of the world but to the old times (and perhaps also to possible future) too since something comes in between the people who used to be deeply connected in past and youthful hopes of love and affection often return to disappointment.
How far apart are men from each other, despite living on this overcrowded blue planet; and their affection for each other, how constrained it may seem at times that their emotions could not traverse the gap of space or time. The solitude of human existence is anxious and frightening reality man has to live with, the suffering of a man cannot be felt by others even if love and affection are there which underlines the loneliness of existence; and fast pacing of time as if it becomes an impasse, keeps one reminding of life reducing to just passing hours. Drogo gradually becomes an outsider, a complete stranger to the outside world so much so that he gets imprisoned in his life writhing in the walls of the fort. The future of his life becomes terribly short, and he is being reduced to just anybody easily replaceable and replicable who is fulfilling mundane jobs, perhaps his entire life has become a ‘living death’ which has already succumbed to the vagaries of being and nothingness and has been unleashed with just an extended existence.
The eternal cycle of life repeats itself and the man is replaced by another one as if he is nobody but just a small cog in the wheel of life, what does his existence mean then, and why this cry for valor and glory. Life becomes a perpetual inferno wherein men are churned out of hell of nothingness to a borrowed existence, only to fall eventually into the hell itself. Eventually, the great persistence with hope prevails, and Drogo finds himself at the door of an opportunity to give his inauthentic existence some essence, his soul gets filled with zeal and enthusiasm to prepare itself for the divine occasion, but Drogo has been robbed even from the grand opportune. The rare glimpse of hope which death of glory provides, has been snatched away with disdain from Drogo, and he has again thrown into the searing hell of nothingness, just as he tastes the authentic existence. But is death capable of providing meaning to someone’s life, his inauthentic existence? Perhaps the death of bravery and honor may provide you momentous comfort, even that mean in the last breaths of your life, to pull you up from the inferno of non-being to the marvelous airs of substance and essence.
source
Our beloved Drogo has been denied even the comfort the death of eminence and heroism may provide. We need to ask ourselves what it means to live authentically or die with valor of life. Perhaps the man has to imbibe a Sisyphean attitude and die authentically, which essentially means to look into the eyes of death with passion and valor without showing any signs of weakness and to accept it with open hands as if it is just a phase of life; probably in such a manner, a man dies bravely with an air of real heroism without requiring the worthless assistance of war.
What about hope? Is hope necessary to brave the existential angst of life? Generally, we maintain in life that hope is a prerequisite to have an optimistic state of mind amidst our eternal anxiety and angst towards life. Our consciousness forges it as a powerful tool when crisis looms over us and in fact, it enables us to manufacture creative possibilities in those times of cataclysm. But can hope be futile and even counterproductive? At times, hope can be very exhausting, especially at a certain age when one could not muster the faith one has in youth, our eyes become stoned and indifferent towards the trivial beauties of life since they have seen too many ordeals of life. You wait your entire lifetime, riding upon the optimism of hope, for just a moment of glory which may pull out from the sea of mundane so that your existence springs up from the hell of nothingness and your life leapfrogs from mediocrity to extraordinary.
source
Giovanni Drogo, encountering the usual cloud of skepticism one faces while entering an unknown realm of life, embarks upon a sojourn to Fort Bastiani. He summons the courage of his entire being and mobilizes himself to make peace with the situation. The flames of youth forces him to seek escape from Fort Bastiani in which complete silence seems to be the undisputed master. A frightening sensation surrounds his soul, having seen various examples of life which gets stuck here for their lifetime, inspiring him to contemplate that what if he would never be able to get free from the fort, a darkness fell over his consciousness as he becomes a prey of his own desire to escape. The eternal wheel of time makes indefatigable and relentless rounds and Drogo (having initially unwillingly decided to stay at the fort) gets marooned at Fort Bastiani and his fate gets fastened to the fate of the fort, as the river of time passes over in vain.
The fort turns out to be an intimidating and terrifying place wherein the rules are so strong and rigid that it is humanely not possible for a mortal life form to break them, even if someone has to pay the price with his life. Days become months, months get transformed into years, years into decades but the fate of Drogo and the fort remain untouched by the dash of change. Fort Bastiani and Giovanni Drogo, like every captive of the fort, keep waiting for a moment of glory which may spring them up from the hell of nothingness to give meaning to their existence. Why is the moment of glory or valor so important, is it because of the military conditioning or is it because of the basic human need to provide essence to his life. And how would that moment of glory arrive, a seemingly possible war presents a gleam of light in the sea of darkness. How could war bring us glory, how our conscience would allow us to seek glory from it? I guess the confined walls of constrained thinking probably make men the ruthless machines, riding upon the tides of valor and fame interspersed among the emotions of patriotism and bravery. These colossal gargantuan commemorations of wars take inspiration from the fire of pride, grace, and dignity, burning in the heart of people. The flames of the holy fire are so vigorous and impregnable that crumbs of reason, doubt, probe, and contemplation are blazed to nothingness in it.
source
As youth fades away, the hope and expectations give in to the waves of frustration and the walls of the fort become the walls of prison. The memories of past, childhood and youth, may be excruciating, so piercing and tormenting at times that they engulf you in a sort of nostalgia (drawn from the riveting delights of the past) which springs up as a painful reminder of joy, exultation, exuberance and youthfulness, life used to have. However, a man, having been into the regulated space of likeminded, becomes stranger to not only the rest of the world but to the old times (and perhaps also to possible future) too since something comes in between the people who used to be deeply connected in past and youthful hopes of love and affection often return to disappointment.
How far apart are men from each other, despite living on this overcrowded blue planet; and their affection for each other, how constrained it may seem at times that their emotions could not traverse the gap of space or time. The solitude of human existence is anxious and frightening reality man has to live with, the suffering of a man cannot be felt by others even if love and affection are there which underlines the loneliness of existence; and fast pacing of time as if it becomes an impasse, keeps one reminding of life reducing to just passing hours. Drogo gradually becomes an outsider, a complete stranger to the outside world so much so that he gets imprisoned in his life writhing in the walls of the fort. The future of his life becomes terribly short, and he is being reduced to just anybody easily replaceable and replicable who is fulfilling mundane jobs, perhaps his entire life has become a ‘living death’ which has already succumbed to the vagaries of being and nothingness and has been unleashed with just an extended existence.
The eternal cycle of life repeats itself and the man is replaced by another one as if he is nobody but just a small cog in the wheel of life, what does his existence mean then, and why this cry for valor and glory. Life becomes a perpetual inferno wherein men are churned out of hell of nothingness to a borrowed existence, only to fall eventually into the hell itself. Eventually, the great persistence with hope prevails, and Drogo finds himself at the door of an opportunity to give his inauthentic existence some essence, his soul gets filled with zeal and enthusiasm to prepare itself for the divine occasion, but Drogo has been robbed even from the grand opportune. The rare glimpse of hope which death of glory provides, has been snatched away with disdain from Drogo, and he has again thrown into the searing hell of nothingness, just as he tastes the authentic existence. But is death capable of providing meaning to someone’s life, his inauthentic existence? Perhaps the death of bravery and honor may provide you momentous comfort, even that mean in the last breaths of your life, to pull you up from the inferno of non-being to the marvelous airs of substance and essence.
source
Our beloved Drogo has been denied even the comfort the death of eminence and heroism may provide. We need to ask ourselves what it means to live authentically or die with valor of life. Perhaps the man has to imbibe a Sisyphean attitude and die authentically, which essentially means to look into the eyes of death with passion and valor without showing any signs of weakness and to accept it with open hands as if it is just a phase of life; probably in such a manner, a man dies bravely with an air of real heroism without requiring the worthless assistance of war.
December 12, 2021
“No hay temor sin esperanza, ni esperanza sin temor.” (La Rochefoucauld)Todas estas frases y muchísimas más pueden aplicarse a la obra de Buzzati. Los temas que aquí encontrarán han sido tratados, analizados y representados infinidad de veces y en infinidad de formas, no es la originalidad ni tampoco la profundidad lo que hace grande a esta novela. Lo que la hace extraordinaria es la belleza sobria del relato, su aire de leyenda atemporal, la fuerza sutil con la que logra mantenerte absorto y fascinado a pesar de que la anécdota se pueda explicar en una frase.
“Lo mejor es enemigo de lo bueno.” (Voltaire)
“La vida es aquello que te pasa mientras estas ocupado haciendo otros planes.” (Lennon)
La anécdota: Drogo ha alcanzado el grado de teniente y empieza su primer servicio en una fortaleza de frontera que vivió tiempos mejores y donde los que permanecen en ella, por decisión propia o no, anhelan un ataque enemigo eternamente esperado en el que puedan demostrar sus dotes y encontrar un sentido a sus vidas.
Los temas: la novela es una sencilla alegoría de la soledad, del paso del tiempo, de la esperanza y, en definitiva, del sentido y el propósito de la vida.
La esperanza, nos viene a decir la novela, nos ayuda a levantarnos cada mañana…
“Era la hora de las esperanzas y él meditaba sobre las heroicas historias que probablemente no se harían realidad nunca, pero que, aun así, servían para alentar la vida.”… y, sin embargo, puede constituir una trágica trampa en la que el posible gozo futuro, siempre por vernir, se antepone al modesto disfrute presente, que así pronto se convierte en un pasado olvidable, dando como resultado una vida desaprovechada. Como muy bien dice Borges acerca de la obra, muchas veces esperamos multitudes en un desierto que ha estado, está y estará siempre vacío. Una característica humana explotada profusamente y con gran éxito por los altos poderes.
“¿Queda aún mucho? No, basta con atravesar aquel río de allá al fondo, con franquear aquellas verdes colinas. ¿No habremos llegado ya, por casualidad? ¿No son quizá estos árboles, estos prados, esta blanca casa lo que buscábamos? Por unos instantes da la impresión de que sí y uno quisiera detenerse. Después se oye decir que delante es mejor, y se reanuda sin pensar el camino.“Toda la novela está envuelta en el halo de tristeza que caracteriza la personalidad de Drogo y que se nos revela desde sus sombríos presagios iniciales. Nos compadecemos de su soledad, de su inocencia ante el mundo y los que lo habitan, por su apatía, por su renuncia, por la fatalidad que le aguarda y puede verse en sus ojos, por la jugada final que le depara el destino, por hacer verdad la dura y pesimista verdad que le comunica su superior: “Después de todo, a uno le toca siempre lo que se merece.”
Al concluir la novela, sentimos algo de consuelo con la, sí, también, triste victoria que consigue Drogo con una sonrisa en los labios.
September 25, 2023
În Deșertul tătarilor, Giovanni Drogo așteaptă, în fortăreața de la graniță, un atac al seminției sălbatice de la miazănoapte, o invazie a „tătarilor”, o bătălie nemaipomenită, demnă de analele istoricilor, o bătălie care va rămîne în memoria umanității.
Atacul se amînă, tătarii nu sosesc, totul este numai o idee a celor din fortăreață (o idee pe care o acceptă, treptat, și Drogo), un „presentiment întunecat al unor întîmplări fatale”, menite să-i justifice, să le ofere o rațiune de a trăi sau un soi de mîntuire profană. Așteptarea goală nu oferă niciodată un sens pozitiv vieții, nici măcar așteptarea morții sau a Turneului de la Doha. Ca și John Marcher - protagonistul din Fiara din junglă, povestirea lui Henry James -, Drogo își irosește viața așteptînd. Măcar dacă ar fi iubit pe cineva...
Transcriu îndemnul naratorului către eroul său muribund:
Aceasta este ultima bătălie a lui Giovanni Drogo. Din păcate, din ea nu poți ieși învingător. Nimeni n-a ieșit.
Alte cărți pe tema așteptării:
● Samuel Beckett, Așteptîndu-l pe Godot (1952), traducere de Gellu Naum, București: Editura Univers, 1970, 96p.
● J. M. Coetzee, Așteptîndu-i pe barbari, traducere de Michaela Niculescu, București: Humanitas, 2014, 198p.
● Henry James, „Fiara din junglă”, in Daisy Miller, traducere de Antoaneta Ralian, Iași: Polirom, 2003, 456p.
P. S. Poetul Konstantinos Kavafis a scris, în decembrie 1898, un splendid poem intitulat „Așteptîndu-i pe barbari”. L-a publicat abia în 1904. Titlul în engleză: „Waiting for the Barbarians”. J.M. Coetzee face, probabil, aluzie la el...
Atacul se amînă, tătarii nu sosesc, totul este numai o idee a celor din fortăreață (o idee pe care o acceptă, treptat, și Drogo), un „presentiment întunecat al unor întîmplări fatale”, menite să-i justifice, să le ofere o rațiune de a trăi sau un soi de mîntuire profană. Așteptarea goală nu oferă niciodată un sens pozitiv vieții, nici măcar așteptarea morții sau a Turneului de la Doha. Ca și John Marcher - protagonistul din Fiara din junglă, povestirea lui Henry James -, Drogo își irosește viața așteptînd. Măcar dacă ar fi iubit pe cineva...
Transcriu îndemnul naratorului către eroul său muribund:
„Dar nimic nu este mai greu decît să mori într-un ţinut străin şi necunoscut, într-un pat oarecare de han, bătrîn şi urîţit, fără să laşi pe nimeni în urma ta pe lume. Curaj, Drogo, asta e ultima carte, ieşi în întîmpinarea morţii ca un adevărat soldat, în aşa fel încît existenţa ta ratată cel puţin să sfîrşească bine! Răzbună-te, în sfîrşit, pe soartă, nimeni nu-ţi va cînta osanale, nimeni nu te va socoti erou sau ceva asemănător, dar tocmai din pricina asta merită osteneala s-o faci! Păşeşte cu pas hotărît în împărăţia întunericului” (p.217).
Aceasta este ultima bătălie a lui Giovanni Drogo. Din păcate, din ea nu poți ieși învingător. Nimeni n-a ieșit.
Alte cărți pe tema așteptării:
● Samuel Beckett, Așteptîndu-l pe Godot (1952), traducere de Gellu Naum, București: Editura Univers, 1970, 96p.
● J. M. Coetzee, Așteptîndu-i pe barbari, traducere de Michaela Niculescu, București: Humanitas, 2014, 198p.
● Henry James, „Fiara din junglă”, in Daisy Miller, traducere de Antoaneta Ralian, Iași: Polirom, 2003, 456p.
P. S. Poetul Konstantinos Kavafis a scris, în decembrie 1898, un splendid poem intitulat „Așteptîndu-i pe barbari”. L-a publicat abia în 1904. Titlul în engleză: „Waiting for the Barbarians”. J.M. Coetzee face, probabil, aluzie la el...
April 21, 2017
Απόλυτη μοναξιά μέσα κι έξω. Ανεπίδοτες χαρές και χλωμές αναμνήσεις καταδικασμένες στην εξαφάνιση.
Μελαγχολία,απογοήτευση,θλίψη και νεκρές ελπίδες,
στη χώρα της λησμονιάς.
Στα σύνορα της χώρας ακοίμητοι φρουροί είναι οι δέσμιοι των ίδιων τους των ονείρων.
Είναι όλοι οι φοβισμένοι στρατιώτες που αρνούνται να δεχτούν την εγκατάλειψη απο εχθρούς και φίλους,ελπίζοντας στη δόξα.
Προσμένουν μάχες που θα κερδίσουν και θα κατακτήσουν όσα πιστεύουν πως αξίζουν.
Όσα νομίζουν πως τους χρωστάει η ζωή.
Όλα αυτά για τα οποία με άπειρη υπομονή και επιμονή προσπαθούν στηρίζοντας την ίδια την ύπαρξη τους.
Και φτιάχνουν ουτοπίες που τις στολίζουν με ευσεβείς πόθους,με μεγάλες προσδοκίες.
Και γοητεύονται απο τα υψηλά ιδανικά,τα μεγάλα οράματα,τις πιθανές δόξες που έρχονται.
Και περιμένουν...Αρνούνται τα απλά τα καθημερινά. Ακυρώνουν την ευτυχία της κάθε στιγμής που μπορεί να τους γεμίσει ευτυχία.
Αναμένουν την πεμπτουσία της ύπαρξης τους.
Μόνο τότε θα χαμογελάσουν στη ζωή.
Μόνο τότε θα ζήσουν τα ανείπωτα.
Μόνο τότε θα εκπληρώσουν τις προσδοκίες τους,θα δικαιωθούν οι θυσίες τους.
Και περιμένουν...και όλα επαναλαμβάνονται και όλα αλλάζουν και όλα αναπόφευκτα συνεχίζονται.
Η αναμονή φέρνει την αγανάκτηση που γεννάει την κούραση κι οδηγεί στην απελπισία.
Περνούν τα χρόνια,οι ελπίδες γερνάνε μαζί με τους ανθρώπους που τις τρέφουν.
Και γιατί να σε ζήσει η ουτοπία όταν διαλέγεις τον αληθινό θάνατο πέφτοντας στα κενά της ύπαρξης σου;
Γιατί να σε περιμένει το μικρό όνειρο, η κοινότοπη ευτυχία,η γλυκιά πονηριά του έρωτα,η ασήμαντη γοητεία του περιττού,τα άπειρα αστέρια του προσωπικού σου ουρανού,όταν ονειρεύεσαι μόνο υπεργαλαξιακά ταξίδια;
Όταν φοβάσαι να βασιλέψεις στο απλό παραμύθι σου,τότε σίγουρα πεθαίνεις άδοξα στο θρυλικό σου μύθο.
Ένα βιβλίο οχυρό,επανδρωμένο με αξίες καθημερινές και διαχρονικές που είναι χτισμένο στην αχανή έρημο της ζωής όλων μας για να μας προστατέψει απο τη βάρβαρη ουτοπία,την απόλυτη μοναξιά και την αναμονή του θανάτου πριν την προσμονή της ζωής.
Μια ιστορία ξεχωριστή,μελαγχολική και εκφραστική ανάμεσα σε πραγματική ζωή και αλληγορία. Οι αναφορές σε πρόσωπα και καταστάσεις καλύπτουν όλους εμάς,όλους τους ανθρώπους που μέσα απο φίλους και εχθρούς,ανάμεσα σε όνειρα και ελπίδες,κάπου μεταξύ πόθου και φόβου αιτιολογούμε την ύπαρξη μας.
Καλή ανάγνωση!
Πολλούς ασπασμούς!!
Running before time took our dreams away.
Μελαγχολία,απογοήτευση,θλίψη και νεκρές ελπίδες,
στη χώρα της λησμονιάς.
Στα σύνορα της χώρας ακοίμητοι φρουροί είναι οι δέσμιοι των ίδιων τους των ονείρων.
Είναι όλοι οι φοβισμένοι στρατιώτες που αρνούνται να δεχτούν την εγκατάλειψη απο εχθρούς και φίλους,ελπίζοντας στη δόξα.
Προσμένουν μάχες που θα κερδίσουν και θα κατακτήσουν όσα πιστεύουν πως αξίζουν.
Όσα νομίζουν πως τους χρωστάει η ζωή.
Όλα αυτά για τα οποία με άπειρη υπομονή και επιμονή προσπαθούν στηρίζοντας την ίδια την ύπαρξη τους.
Και φτιάχνουν ουτοπίες που τις στολίζουν με ευσεβείς πόθους,με μεγάλες προσδοκίες.
Και γοητεύονται απο τα υψηλά ιδανικά,τα μεγάλα οράματα,τις πιθανές δόξες που έρχονται.
Και περιμένουν...Αρνούνται τα απλά τα καθημερινά. Ακυρώνουν την ευτυχία της κάθε στιγμής που μπορεί να τους γεμίσει ευτυχία.
Αναμένουν την πεμπτουσία της ύπαρξης τους.
Μόνο τότε θα χαμογελάσουν στη ζωή.
Μόνο τότε θα ζήσουν τα ανείπωτα.
Μόνο τότε θα εκπληρώσουν τις προσδοκίες τους,θα δικαιωθούν οι θυσίες τους.
Και περιμένουν...και όλα επαναλαμβάνονται και όλα αλλάζουν και όλα αναπόφευκτα συνεχίζονται.
Η αναμονή φέρνει την αγανάκτηση που γεννάει την κούραση κι οδηγεί στην απελπισία.
Περνούν τα χρόνια,οι ελπίδες γερνάνε μαζί με τους ανθρώπους που τις τρέφουν.
Και γιατί να σε ζήσει η ουτοπία όταν διαλέγεις τον αληθινό θάνατο πέφτοντας στα κενά της ύπαρξης σου;
Γιατί να σε περιμένει το μικρό όνειρο, η κοινότοπη ευτυχία,η γλυκιά πονηριά του έρωτα,η ασήμαντη γοητεία του περιττού,τα άπειρα αστέρια του προσωπικού σου ουρανού,όταν ονειρεύεσαι μόνο υπεργαλαξιακά ταξίδια;
Όταν φοβάσαι να βασιλέψεις στο απλό παραμύθι σου,τότε σίγουρα πεθαίνεις άδοξα στο θρυλικό σου μύθο.
Ένα βιβλίο οχυρό,επανδρωμένο με αξίες καθημερινές και διαχρονικές που είναι χτισμένο στην αχανή έρημο της ζωής όλων μας για να μας προστατέψει απο τη βάρβαρη ουτοπία,την απόλυτη μοναξιά και την αναμονή του θανάτου πριν την προσμονή της ζωής.
Μια ιστορία ξεχωριστή,μελαγχολική και εκφραστική ανάμεσα σε πραγματική ζωή και αλληγορία. Οι αναφορές σε πρόσωπα και καταστάσεις καλύπτουν όλους εμάς,όλους τους ανθρώπους που μέσα απο φίλους και εχθρούς,ανάμεσα σε όνειρα και ελπίδες,κάπου μεταξύ πόθου και φόβου αιτιολογούμε την ύπαρξη μας.
Καλή ανάγνωση!
Πολλούς ασπασμούς!!
Running before time took our dreams away.
January 12, 2024
4.5 stars
This story follows two protagonists - a man and a fort. Their fates become inseparable for better and for worse.
A young man named Giovanni Drogo is sent to a distant fort to serve there. He intends to spend in the fortress no more than a few years, but life decided otherwise. Drogo's fate will be tied with the Fort for the rest of his days. And Drogo is not an exception. His fellow officers are also connected to the Fort and the vast Tartar steppe that stretches in front of it. This steppe serves as a sort of buffer zone that separates the fort and its defenders from their enemies. Giovanni and others see those on the other side of the steppe not as fellow human beings but as their adversaries, barbaric and cruel.
The world is divided into the two categories - 'us' and 'them'. The images of division, fear, and glory occupy the mind of the soldiers and officers of the Fort. If the enemy finally attacks, they will be relieved from the burden of constant waiting and will have a chance for glory.
"Twenty-two months are a long time and a lot of things can happen in them- there is time for new families to be formed, for babies to be born and even begin to talk, for a great house to rise where once there was only a field, for a beautiful woman to grow old and no one desire her any more, for an illness- for a long illness- to ripen (yet men live on heedlessly), to consume the body slowly, to recede for short periods as if cured, to take hold again more deeply and drain away the last hopes; there is time for a man to die and be buried, for his son to be able to laugh again and in the evening take the girls down the avenues and past the cemetery gates without a thought. But it seemed as if Drogo’s existence had come to a halt."
The story takes us on a trip down the river of time. Time, which is the third protagonist, flows and evaporates day after day, hour after hour. These days and hours constitute a life of a sentient being. It explores how impactful and destructive the relationship both between the man and the object (the Fort) and between the man and the idea (waiting for the “barbarians” to invade) may be.
The defenders of the Fort fear and eagerly anticipate the foreign invasion that keeps failing to happen. They do not ask themselves what their expected adversaries wish to gain from the attack except for acquiring power over the steppe. The fact that this supposedly so much desired steppe is just bare soil adds a bitter irony to the narrative.
The main character and the situation in which he finds himself embody a pattern of detrimental behavior. Drogo's experiences could serve as a warning to the reader who is not accustomed to appreciating the present moment and tends to postpone their life. Giovanni’s story imprints on us the simple yet important truth. We should not sacrifice our time to the gods of waiting and to illusions, even if we surmise that a countless number of days are ahead of us.
Likewise, the novel implies that it is never too late to attempt to start a new page from scratch. The task may turn out too challenging, you may experience disillusionment and ultimately fail. But all these would be better than simply not trying and giving up. Giovanni in the novel has never come to do something to change the course of his life. He has always been afraid of change.
The end of the story tricks Giovanni for the last time.
This story follows two protagonists - a man and a fort. Their fates become inseparable for better and for worse.
A young man named Giovanni Drogo is sent to a distant fort to serve there. He intends to spend in the fortress no more than a few years, but life decided otherwise. Drogo's fate will be tied with the Fort for the rest of his days. And Drogo is not an exception. His fellow officers are also connected to the Fort and the vast Tartar steppe that stretches in front of it. This steppe serves as a sort of buffer zone that separates the fort and its defenders from their enemies. Giovanni and others see those on the other side of the steppe not as fellow human beings but as their adversaries, barbaric and cruel.
The world is divided into the two categories - 'us' and 'them'. The images of division, fear, and glory occupy the mind of the soldiers and officers of the Fort. If the enemy finally attacks, they will be relieved from the burden of constant waiting and will have a chance for glory.
"Twenty-two months are a long time and a lot of things can happen in them- there is time for new families to be formed, for babies to be born and even begin to talk, for a great house to rise where once there was only a field, for a beautiful woman to grow old and no one desire her any more, for an illness- for a long illness- to ripen (yet men live on heedlessly), to consume the body slowly, to recede for short periods as if cured, to take hold again more deeply and drain away the last hopes; there is time for a man to die and be buried, for his son to be able to laugh again and in the evening take the girls down the avenues and past the cemetery gates without a thought. But it seemed as if Drogo’s existence had come to a halt."
The story takes us on a trip down the river of time. Time, which is the third protagonist, flows and evaporates day after day, hour after hour. These days and hours constitute a life of a sentient being. It explores how impactful and destructive the relationship both between the man and the object (the Fort) and between the man and the idea (waiting for the “barbarians” to invade) may be.
The defenders of the Fort fear and eagerly anticipate the foreign invasion that keeps failing to happen. They do not ask themselves what their expected adversaries wish to gain from the attack except for acquiring power over the steppe. The fact that this supposedly so much desired steppe is just bare soil adds a bitter irony to the narrative.
The main character and the situation in which he finds himself embody a pattern of detrimental behavior. Drogo's experiences could serve as a warning to the reader who is not accustomed to appreciating the present moment and tends to postpone their life. Giovanni’s story imprints on us the simple yet important truth. We should not sacrifice our time to the gods of waiting and to illusions, even if we surmise that a countless number of days are ahead of us.
Likewise, the novel implies that it is never too late to attempt to start a new page from scratch. The task may turn out too challenging, you may experience disillusionment and ultimately fail. But all these would be better than simply not trying and giving up. Giovanni in the novel has never come to do something to change the course of his life. He has always been afraid of change.
The end of the story tricks Giovanni for the last time.
January 14, 2012
Poi nel buio, benché nessuno lo veda, sorride.
Ho sempre odiato entrare nel personale quando scrivo una recensione. Qui però va fatta una doverosa premessa. Fino a qualche mese fa io ero ingarbugliato nella mia routine quotidiana e non osavo fare mezzo passo avanti per timore che, una volta spezzata, mi ritrovassi sperduto. Quando ho fatto questo passo, esattamente verso la fine dello scorso novembre, ho scoperto che cambiare è necessario. È necessario fare una scelta. Anche se può essere sbagliata. Ma quella scelta è un simbolo, sta a significare che tu non sei una macchina che ripete a pappagallo ogni movimento e ogni parola che prevede un determinato stile di vita. Quella scelta è il tempio in tuo favore che ti dice: tu esisti.
Ecco, io credo che se avessi letto questo libro un paio d'anni fa - e l'avessi capito - magari avrei fatto prima quel passo. Magari non avrei perso così tanto tempo.
In realtà Giovanni Drogo è ancora in me, così come è in tutti noi, persino i più intraprendenti.
Ma chi è Giovanni Drogo?
Uno stupido?
Un eroe?
Uno sfortunato?
Giovanni Drogo è un uomo. È un personaggio terribilmente reale, così reale da apparire angosciante. Questo libro è vero e noi lo sappiamo, negarlo sarebbe inutile. Il tempo passa per tutti, giovani e anziani, e col tempo si consumano le occasioni. [...] una giornata identica all'altra, ripetendosi all'infinito, come soldato che segni il passo. Eppure il tempo soffiava; senza curarsi degli uomini passava su e giù per il mondo mortificando le cose belle; e nessuno riusciva a sfuggirgli, nemmeno i bambini appena nati, ancora sprovvisti di nome. Agghiaccante pensare che proprio nessuno è al riparo dallo scorrere del tempo. Non siamo immortali. O agiamo adesso, o un giorno, anche se vorremo agire, sarà ormai troppo tardi.
Ho trovato irrealmente triste tutta la storia. Una narrazione ricca e una buona dose di poesia hanno reso farraginosa la lettura in parecchi punti, ma il risultato finale è eccezionale. Drogo, arrivato al termine della sua vita, nel momento in cui accade l'evento che attende da sempre, deve lasciare il mondo. La speranza del libro si concentra tutta nelle ultime pagine, nell'affrontare la morte con dignità, senza disperarsi perché l'esistenza è andata sprecata inutilmente. Nella sua ultima ora, a Drogo si è aperto uno spiraglio di luce. E lui sa quant'è difficile andarsene quando si è soli: A poco a poco la fiducia si affievoliva. Difficile è credere in una cosa quando si è soli, e non se ne può parlare con alcuno. Proprio in quel tempo Drogo si accorse come gli uomini, per quanto possano volersi bene, rimangano sempre lontani; che se uno soffre, il dolore è completamente suo, nessun altro può prenderne su di sé una minima parte; che se uno soffre, gli altri per questo non sentono male, anche se l'amore è grande, e questo provoca la solitudine della vita. Anche il fatto che i giovani non si rendano conto di cosa vale la loro età è fondamentale. Drogo continua a ripetersi, per ben quattro anni, che di tempo per tornare a casa ne ha, che è ancora giovane, ha tutta la vita davanti. Giovanni aspetta paziente la sua ora che non è mai venuta, non pensa che il futuro si è terribilmente accorciato, non è più come una volta quando il tempo avvenire gli poteva sembrare un periodo immenso, una ricchezza inesauribile che non si rischiava niente a sperperare.
Credetemi quando dico che le parole di questo libro danno fastidio. Ognuno ogni tanto pensa che la vita sia monotona e che i piccoli momenti che la costituiscono si ripetano incessantemente. E non è forse vero che abbiamo una paura del diavoloa a interrompere tutto questo buttare via la vita, gli anni, i mesi, le settimane, i giorni, le ore, i minuti? Non ci diciamo forse che a volte un istante solo vale tutta la vita. Sarebbe ora di chiedersi il perché. Ed è così semplice. Abbiamo paura a cambiare. È normale. Ma è una paura così grande che ci paralizza e a volte ce la teniamo, gettando l'esistenza al vento.
Il tempo intanto correva, il suo battito silenzioso scandisce sempre più precipitoso la vita, non ci si può fermare neanche un attimo, neppure per un'occhiata indietro. "Ferma, ferma!" si vorrebbe gridare, ma si capisce ch'è inutile. Tutto fugge via, gli uomini, le stagioni, le nubi; e non serve aggrapparsi alle pietre, resistere in cima a qualche scoglio, le dita stanche si aprono, le braccia si afflosciano inerti, si è trascinati ancora nel fiume, che pare lento ma non si ferma mai. Questo fiume che pare lento e non si ferma mai mette un'ansia incredibile. Viene voglia di correre fuori a urlare: io voglio vivere. Eppure rimandiamo sempre a domani, ed è questo rimandare a domani che ogni volta ci frega, ci bastona. Invece di fermare il rimandare, andiamo a curare la ferita, ben consapevoli che non sarà l'ultima.
Di Giovanni Drogo c'è però da dire che ha fatto il suo tentativo. Ha provato a ritornare indietro, ma era già troppo tardi. Una volta i suoi passi la raggiungevano nel sonno come un richiamo stabilito. Tutti gli altri rumori della notte, anche se molto più forti, non bastavano a svegliarla, né i carri giù nella strada, né il pianto di un bambino, né gli ululati dei cani, né le civette, né l'imposta che sbatte, né il vento dentro le gronde, né la pioggia o lo scricchiolare dei mobili. Soltanto il passo di lui la svegliava, non perché fosse rumoroso (Giovanni anzi andava in punta di piedi). Nessuna speciale ragione, soltanto che lui era il suo figliuolo. Quattro anni di attesa sono bastati perché la madre di Drogo non lo riconsocesse più, perché un cambiamento si insinuasse in suo figlio senza che lui avesse potuto un giorno porvi rimedio.
Tirando le somme: se noi non andiamo a cercarci quello che vogliamo, pretendiamo forse che questo qualcosa venga da noi per un fortuito caso? La legge che vige nel proverbio di Maometto e la montagna è ridicola. Disse Ortiz: «Io alle volte penso: noi desideriamo la guerra, aspettiamo l'occasione buona, ce la prendiamo con la sfortuna, perché non succede mai niente. [...]». Esatto. Le cose belle non ci verranno mai incontro. Noi potremo lamentarci finché vorremo, potremo pretendere per non so quale ragione che stare fermi e aspettare sia la cosa migliore. Però così perderemo solo tempo. E potremmo perderne troppo.
Allora, io non voglio stare qui a fare l'avvocato del diavolo di Buzzati e ripetervi come un mantra che questo libro contiene duecentodue pagine di angosciante verità esistenziale. Sapete benissimo voi se siete capaci o meno di mettervi in gioco. E potrete decidere di conseguenza.
Ho sempre odiato entrare nel personale quando scrivo una recensione. Qui però va fatta una doverosa premessa. Fino a qualche mese fa io ero ingarbugliato nella mia routine quotidiana e non osavo fare mezzo passo avanti per timore che, una volta spezzata, mi ritrovassi sperduto. Quando ho fatto questo passo, esattamente verso la fine dello scorso novembre, ho scoperto che cambiare è necessario. È necessario fare una scelta. Anche se può essere sbagliata. Ma quella scelta è un simbolo, sta a significare che tu non sei una macchina che ripete a pappagallo ogni movimento e ogni parola che prevede un determinato stile di vita. Quella scelta è il tempio in tuo favore che ti dice: tu esisti.
Ecco, io credo che se avessi letto questo libro un paio d'anni fa - e l'avessi capito - magari avrei fatto prima quel passo. Magari non avrei perso così tanto tempo.
In realtà Giovanni Drogo è ancora in me, così come è in tutti noi, persino i più intraprendenti.
Ma chi è Giovanni Drogo?
Uno stupido?
Un eroe?
Uno sfortunato?
Giovanni Drogo è un uomo. È un personaggio terribilmente reale, così reale da apparire angosciante. Questo libro è vero e noi lo sappiamo, negarlo sarebbe inutile. Il tempo passa per tutti, giovani e anziani, e col tempo si consumano le occasioni. [...] una giornata identica all'altra, ripetendosi all'infinito, come soldato che segni il passo. Eppure il tempo soffiava; senza curarsi degli uomini passava su e giù per il mondo mortificando le cose belle; e nessuno riusciva a sfuggirgli, nemmeno i bambini appena nati, ancora sprovvisti di nome. Agghiaccante pensare che proprio nessuno è al riparo dallo scorrere del tempo. Non siamo immortali. O agiamo adesso, o un giorno, anche se vorremo agire, sarà ormai troppo tardi.
Ho trovato irrealmente triste tutta la storia. Una narrazione ricca e una buona dose di poesia hanno reso farraginosa la lettura in parecchi punti, ma il risultato finale è eccezionale. Drogo, arrivato al termine della sua vita, nel momento in cui accade l'evento che attende da sempre, deve lasciare il mondo. La speranza del libro si concentra tutta nelle ultime pagine, nell'affrontare la morte con dignità, senza disperarsi perché l'esistenza è andata sprecata inutilmente. Nella sua ultima ora, a Drogo si è aperto uno spiraglio di luce. E lui sa quant'è difficile andarsene quando si è soli: A poco a poco la fiducia si affievoliva. Difficile è credere in una cosa quando si è soli, e non se ne può parlare con alcuno. Proprio in quel tempo Drogo si accorse come gli uomini, per quanto possano volersi bene, rimangano sempre lontani; che se uno soffre, il dolore è completamente suo, nessun altro può prenderne su di sé una minima parte; che se uno soffre, gli altri per questo non sentono male, anche se l'amore è grande, e questo provoca la solitudine della vita. Anche il fatto che i giovani non si rendano conto di cosa vale la loro età è fondamentale. Drogo continua a ripetersi, per ben quattro anni, che di tempo per tornare a casa ne ha, che è ancora giovane, ha tutta la vita davanti. Giovanni aspetta paziente la sua ora che non è mai venuta, non pensa che il futuro si è terribilmente accorciato, non è più come una volta quando il tempo avvenire gli poteva sembrare un periodo immenso, una ricchezza inesauribile che non si rischiava niente a sperperare.
Credetemi quando dico che le parole di questo libro danno fastidio. Ognuno ogni tanto pensa che la vita sia monotona e che i piccoli momenti che la costituiscono si ripetano incessantemente. E non è forse vero che abbiamo una paura del diavoloa a interrompere tutto questo buttare via la vita, gli anni, i mesi, le settimane, i giorni, le ore, i minuti? Non ci diciamo forse che a volte un istante solo vale tutta la vita. Sarebbe ora di chiedersi il perché. Ed è così semplice. Abbiamo paura a cambiare. È normale. Ma è una paura così grande che ci paralizza e a volte ce la teniamo, gettando l'esistenza al vento.
Il tempo intanto correva, il suo battito silenzioso scandisce sempre più precipitoso la vita, non ci si può fermare neanche un attimo, neppure per un'occhiata indietro. "Ferma, ferma!" si vorrebbe gridare, ma si capisce ch'è inutile. Tutto fugge via, gli uomini, le stagioni, le nubi; e non serve aggrapparsi alle pietre, resistere in cima a qualche scoglio, le dita stanche si aprono, le braccia si afflosciano inerti, si è trascinati ancora nel fiume, che pare lento ma non si ferma mai. Questo fiume che pare lento e non si ferma mai mette un'ansia incredibile. Viene voglia di correre fuori a urlare: io voglio vivere. Eppure rimandiamo sempre a domani, ed è questo rimandare a domani che ogni volta ci frega, ci bastona. Invece di fermare il rimandare, andiamo a curare la ferita, ben consapevoli che non sarà l'ultima.
Di Giovanni Drogo c'è però da dire che ha fatto il suo tentativo. Ha provato a ritornare indietro, ma era già troppo tardi. Una volta i suoi passi la raggiungevano nel sonno come un richiamo stabilito. Tutti gli altri rumori della notte, anche se molto più forti, non bastavano a svegliarla, né i carri giù nella strada, né il pianto di un bambino, né gli ululati dei cani, né le civette, né l'imposta che sbatte, né il vento dentro le gronde, né la pioggia o lo scricchiolare dei mobili. Soltanto il passo di lui la svegliava, non perché fosse rumoroso (Giovanni anzi andava in punta di piedi). Nessuna speciale ragione, soltanto che lui era il suo figliuolo. Quattro anni di attesa sono bastati perché la madre di Drogo non lo riconsocesse più, perché un cambiamento si insinuasse in suo figlio senza che lui avesse potuto un giorno porvi rimedio.
Tirando le somme: se noi non andiamo a cercarci quello che vogliamo, pretendiamo forse che questo qualcosa venga da noi per un fortuito caso? La legge che vige nel proverbio di Maometto e la montagna è ridicola. Disse Ortiz: «Io alle volte penso: noi desideriamo la guerra, aspettiamo l'occasione buona, ce la prendiamo con la sfortuna, perché non succede mai niente. [...]». Esatto. Le cose belle non ci verranno mai incontro. Noi potremo lamentarci finché vorremo, potremo pretendere per non so quale ragione che stare fermi e aspettare sia la cosa migliore. Però così perderemo solo tempo. E potremmo perderne troppo.
Allora, io non voglio stare qui a fare l'avvocato del diavolo di Buzzati e ripetervi come un mantra che questo libro contiene duecentodue pagine di angosciante verità esistenziale. Sapete benissimo voi se siete capaci o meno di mettervi in gioco. E potrete decidere di conseguenza.
September 6, 2017
A powerful novel, The Tartar Steppe’s writing and context made an impression on me from the start. I read it many years back, and now as I revisited it all came back. It's about looking for the meanings of life, and much more. The Italian Dino Buzzati immerses the reader in a story of hope and how cruelly such feeling can be wasted leading to disappointment. It's the story of a young officer dispatched to serve on a remote fort overlooking the desert. It's about waiting for the enemy at the frontier, in hope of glory.
In a sense this is about mundane existence, about not finding meaning in everyday life and thus expecting to face death empty handed when all hopes were for nothing.
According to Tim Parks, in the introduction in the English edition, “…The Tartar Steppe was submitted to the publishers in January 1939. There is no need to comment on what followed. In any event, the book still serves as an alarming reminder that the century that discovered nothingness would go to any lengths, however catastrophic, to fill that nothingness." He could not be more accurate!
"One September morning, Giovanni Drogo, being newly commissioned, set out from the city for Fort Bastiani; it was his first posting. ...This was the day he had looked forward for years - the beginning of his real life."He paints a scenario of frustration and impotence, that should not come as a surprise:
"It was true that his heart was full with the bitterness of leaving the old house for the first time... full with the fears which every change brings with it, with emotion at saying goodbye to his mother; but on top of this there came an insistent thought to which he could not quite give a name but which was like a vague foreboding as if he were to set out on journey of no return."A sequence of events start to be set and Drogo cannot escape. He knows that he must not stay in the Fort but is unable to leave. He slips into a routine, and we can fell it all happening as if we are there with him:
"But it seemed as if Drogo’s existence had come to a halt. The same day, the same things, had repeated themselves hundreds of times without taking a step forward. The river of time flowed over the Fort, crumbled the walls, swept down dust and fragments of stone, wore away the stairs and the chain, but over Drogo it passed in vain- it had not yet succeeded in catching him, bearing him with it as it flowed.”The Tartar Steppe is beautiful and poetical, and it could be labelled an anti-war novel. Drogo is continually waiting in the fronteirs for the tartars, who are supposed to arrive any day. But they never do. And life goes on everywhere else, but the hero is always waiting. With time, Drogo comes to feel strange when among family and friends, those that are not part of his destiny anymore. Even I that only moved from one country to another and from city to city, know how easy it is to feel out of place with friends that stayed behind as we drifted away.
In a sense this is about mundane existence, about not finding meaning in everyday life and thus expecting to face death empty handed when all hopes were for nothing.
According to Tim Parks, in the introduction in the English edition, “…The Tartar Steppe was submitted to the publishers in January 1939. There is no need to comment on what followed. In any event, the book still serves as an alarming reminder that the century that discovered nothingness would go to any lengths, however catastrophic, to fill that nothingness." He could not be more accurate!
September 14, 2020
Le Désert des Tartares est un roman de l’attente et de l’irréversible. Le récit est assez simple, quoiqu’ étrange : Drogo, jeune officier d’un royaume fictif, est affecté à un poste frontière, dans une vieille citadelle, à la lisière d’une étendue désertique, d’où, dit-on, pourraient surgir des hordes d’ennemis, les Tartares, à tout moment. Drogo, tout d’abord, souhaite être muté ailleurs, mais sans conviction et finalement sans succès. En définitive, il restera au fort presque toute sa vie, dans l’attente d’une guerre qui tardera toujours à s’annoncer.
La vertu principale de ce roman est, en effet, de faire sentir le passage inéluctable du temps et, sous-jacente, l'approche de la mort. L’auteur y parvient, non seulement par les réflexions existentielles de son protagoniste, mais surtout (Buzzati était également peintre) à travers des descriptions contemplatives d’objets parfois imperceptibles, des natures mortes: la course d’une étoile à travers le cadre d’une fenêtre, le parcours d’un rayon de lune sur le sol, un cheval immobile dans le désert, les rituels militaires mille et mille fois répétés, des mouvements de troupes à l’horizon, la fonte des neiges, la fuite des nuages dans l’atmosphère. Les interactions entre les soldats du fort et, occasionnellement, avec les bourgeois de la ville, sont presque toujours captivantes par leur caractère à la fois concret et insolite, leur mesquinerie dérisoire. Un trait d’écriture qui, cela a été souligné à juste titre, fait souvent penser au Kafka du Procès et du Château.
Je connais peu d’exemples de romans qui se comparent à ce petit chef-d’œuvre de la littérature italienne. Peut-être Le Rivage des Syrtes de Julien Gracq, Sur les falaises de marbre de Ernst Jünger ou encore Waiting for the Barbarians de Coetzee. La forteresse de Minas Tirith, attendant des assaillants de Mordor dans The Return of the King, me revient également à l’esprit.
La vertu principale de ce roman est, en effet, de faire sentir le passage inéluctable du temps et, sous-jacente, l'approche de la mort. L’auteur y parvient, non seulement par les réflexions existentielles de son protagoniste, mais surtout (Buzzati était également peintre) à travers des descriptions contemplatives d’objets parfois imperceptibles, des natures mortes: la course d’une étoile à travers le cadre d’une fenêtre, le parcours d’un rayon de lune sur le sol, un cheval immobile dans le désert, les rituels militaires mille et mille fois répétés, des mouvements de troupes à l’horizon, la fonte des neiges, la fuite des nuages dans l’atmosphère. Les interactions entre les soldats du fort et, occasionnellement, avec les bourgeois de la ville, sont presque toujours captivantes par leur caractère à la fois concret et insolite, leur mesquinerie dérisoire. Un trait d’écriture qui, cela a été souligné à juste titre, fait souvent penser au Kafka du Procès et du Château.
Je connais peu d’exemples de romans qui se comparent à ce petit chef-d’œuvre de la littérature italienne. Peut-être Le Rivage des Syrtes de Julien Gracq, Sur les falaises de marbre de Ernst Jünger ou encore Waiting for the Barbarians de Coetzee. La forteresse de Minas Tirith, attendant des assaillants de Mordor dans The Return of the King, me revient également à l’esprit.
January 16, 2019
Bazen okuduğumuz kitaplar hayatımızı etkilemekten öteye gidiyor. Bizi sıkıca kavrıyor, sallıyor ve altüst ediyor. Tatar Çölü böyle bir kitap. Bir kez Bastiani Kalesi'nin içine girince aniden Drogo'nun kendisi oluyor okuyucu. Drogo gibiyiz hepimiz. Ertelediklerimiz, yarına bıraktıklarımız, eylemsizliklerimiz, korkularımız ve kaygılarımızla hayatın içinde kendimizin bile farkına varmadığı kısır bir döngünün silik kahramanlarıyız. Ve kitabı okurken sarsıcı gerçekler teker teker çıkıyor ortaya.
Basit gerçeklerle yüzleşmek daha acı oluyor sanırım. Aslında hep gözümüzun önündeler ama her nasılsa onları görmezden geliyoruz.
Müthiş bir sadelikle yazılmış çok güçlü bir roman Tatar Çölü. Herkes üzerinde böyle bir etkisi olur mu bilmiyorum ama hala 'zamanınız' varken okumanızı öneririm. Çünkü aynen şöyle ;
“Yine de zaman geçiyordu; insanları hiç düşünmeden, dünyada gidip geliyor, güzel şeyleri solduruyor; ve henüz adı bile konmamış yeni doğmuş bebekler de dahil olmak üzere hiç kimse onun elinden kurtulamıyordu.”
Nefis çeviriyi de atlamayayım. Hülya Tufan’ın incelikli çevirisi çok güzel.
Basit gerçeklerle yüzleşmek daha acı oluyor sanırım. Aslında hep gözümüzun önündeler ama her nasılsa onları görmezden geliyoruz.
Müthiş bir sadelikle yazılmış çok güçlü bir roman Tatar Çölü. Herkes üzerinde böyle bir etkisi olur mu bilmiyorum ama hala 'zamanınız' varken okumanızı öneririm. Çünkü aynen şöyle ;
“Yine de zaman geçiyordu; insanları hiç düşünmeden, dünyada gidip geliyor, güzel şeyleri solduruyor; ve henüz adı bile konmamış yeni doğmuş bebekler de dahil olmak üzere hiç kimse onun elinden kurtulamıyordu.”
Nefis çeviriyi de atlamayayım. Hülya Tufan’ın incelikli çevirisi çok güzel.
April 24, 2021
وقتی هیچ امیدی توی زندگی نداری، شروع میکنی به خلق کردن یه چیزی که به زندگیت معنا بده. هرچیزی که باشه. فقط میخوای یه چیزی باشه. فقط میخوای یه کاری کنی. خلق میکنی. بهش دل میبندی. و بعد امید ازش زاییده میشه. میتونی دوام بیاری. و باز خلق میکنی. اینجوری گذر روزهای عادی و ملالت بار هم آسون تر میشه.
کسی چه میدونه. شاید خدا یه روز که خیلی ناامید بوده مارو خلق کرده.
کسی چه میدونه. شاید خدا یه روز که خیلی ناامید بوده مارو خلق کرده.
July 11, 2020
Il Deserto dei Tartari = The desert of the Tartars = The Tartar Steppe, Dino Buzzati
The Tartar Steppe is a novel by Italian author Dino Buzzati, published in 1940.
The novel tells the story of a young officer, Giovanni Drogo, and his life spent guarding the Bastiani Fortress, an old, unmaintained border fortress. The plot of the novel is Drogo's lifelong wait for a great war in which his life and the existence of the fort can prove its usefulness.
The human need for giving life meaning and the soldier's desire for glory are themes in the novel. Drogo is posted to the remote outpost overlooking a desolate Tartar desert; he spends his career waiting for the barbarian horde rumored to live beyond the desert.
Without noticing, Drogo finds that in his watch over the fort he has let years and decades pass and that, while his old friends in the city have had children, married, and lived full lives, he has come away with nothing except solidarity with his fellow soldiers in their long, patient vigil.
When the attack by the Tartars finally arrives, Drogo gets ill and the new chieftain of the fortress dismisses him. Drogo, on his way back home, dies lonely in an inn.
عنوانها: بیابان تاتارها؛ صحرای تاتارها؛ نویسنده: دینو بوتزاتی؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: سال 1972 میلادی
عنوان: بیابان تاتارها؛ نویسنده: دینو بوتزاتی؛ مترجم سروش حبیبی؛ تهران، نیل، 1349؛ در 227ص؛ چاپ دیگر تهران، روزنه، 1380؛ در 195ص؛ شابک 9643340813؛ چاپ دیگر تهران، کتاب خورشید، 1389؛ در 255ص؛ شابک 9789647081498؛ چاپ سوم 1393؛ چاپ چهارم 1395؛ چاپ دیگر انتشارات ماهی، 1398؛ در 232ص؛ شابک 9789642093212؛ موضوع داستانهای نویسندگان ایتالیایی - سده 20م
عنوان: صحرای تاتارها؛ نویسنده: دینو بوتزاتی؛ مترجم: مهشید یهروزی؛ تهران، انجمن فرهنگی ایتالیا، 1365؛ در 240ص؛
عنوان: صحرای تاتارها؛ نویسنده: دینو بوتزاتی؛ مترجم: محسن ابراهیم؛ تهران، نشر مرکز؛ 1379؛ در 264ص؛ شابک 9643055493؛ چاپ دوم 1387؛ شابک 9789643055493؛
رمان بیابان تاتارها داستانِ غمانگیز سرنوشت افسرى جوان به نام «دروگو جووانى» است که براى خدمت به قلعه اى دور افتاده، در حاشیه بیابانى معروف به «بیابان تاتارها» اعزام مىشود؛ «بوتزاتى» با ترسیم دنیاى روزمره و خاکسترى «دروگو» توانست برنده ی جایزه ادبى «استرگا» شود؛ «والریو زورلینى»، کارگردان نامدار ایتالیایى، براساس همین رمان فیلمى به همین نام ساخته است که بخشهایى از آن در ایران و ارگ بم فیلمبردارى شده است
نقل از پشت جلد کتاب: «همه چیز در گریز است؛ آدمها، فصلها، ابرها، همه شتابانند…؛ و این شط به ظاهر کُند حرکت که هرگز باز نمیایستد، پیوسته تو را با خود میبرد.» پایان نقل
دروگو با عزمى جزم راهىِ قلعه کهن باستیانى مىشود؛ قلعه اى که در دل بیابانى خشک و لم یزرع قرار دارد؛ او جوان است و رویاى دلاورى در سر مىپروراند؛ با این امید پا در رکاب اسب گذاشته که با مدال شجاعتى نزد مادر چشم انتظارش بازگردد؛ اما از همان ابتدا شماى کلى داستان پیش چشم خواننده مىآید: «جز حرمان بىپایان بیابانى بریان و نامسکون چیزى نبود (بیابان تاتاره�� – صفحه 23)»؛
اینگونه در ناخودآگاه خوانشگر بذرى کاشته مىشود که نشان از تلخى و تلخکامى داستان پیش رو دارد؛ هماندم که «دروگو» پای بر دژ مىگذارد، درمىیابد اینجا با آن قلعه لجستیکى که همیشه در ذهن مىپروراند، تفاوتها دارد؛ اینجا بالى براى پرواز نمىماند، راهى براى پیشرفت نیست، و مدال شجاعتى بر سینه کسى نمىدرخشد؛ گرد روزمرگى بر همه چیز و همه کس بنشسته و چاره اى نیست جز یکرنگ شدن با جماعت؛ «دروگو» بلافاصله درخواستِ انتقالى میدهد؛ اما سرهنگ کوشش میکند نظر او را براى ماندن در قلعه جلب کند؛ اینجا همان لحظه تاریخى است که در زندگى هر شخصى نظیرش بسیار یافت مىشود
ماندن بر سر دو راهى؛ راهى که «دروگو» برمىگزیند تحت تاثیرِ جادوى ملال قلعه است: «با این همه نیرویى ناشناخته مانع از بازگشت او به شهر مىشد و شاید هم این نیرو از ضمیر خودش سرچشمه مىگرفت و او خود از آن خبر نداشت. (بیابان تاتارها – صفحه 39)»؛
نویسنده دست خود را رو مىکند و به خوانشگر نهیب مىزند که منتظر حادثه اى شگفت نباشد: «چند ماه بعد که چون واپس بنگرد، تازه خواهد دید که چیزهایى که اسیر قلعه اش کرده اند، سخت مسکین اند. (بیابان تاتارها – صفحه 79)»؛
ادامه داستان روایت هر روزه ملال و روزمرگى بىپایانى است، که فضاى قلعه را آکنده است. تا اینکه بالاخره روزى انتظار آنها ثمر مىدهد، و در بیابان تاتارها سایه هایى دیده مىشوند، که در چشم دیدهبانها تهدیدى براى قلعه به حساب مىآیند؛ آیا این آغاز یک تغییر بزرگ در زندگى قلعگیان است؟ آیا رخدادی هر چند خرد باعث مىشود اژدهاى شوم روزمرگى از روى قلعه به پرواز درآید؟ «سالهاى انتظار به هدر نرفته بود و قلعه کهن عاقبت به کارى مىآمد. (بیابان تاتارها – صفحه 120)»؛
انسان به امید زنده است اما این براى توجیه سکون و تنبلى به کار نمىرود؛ اینکه خود را به دست تقدیر بسپاریم و از کوشش براى تغییر اوضاع دست بشوییم تنها پیچیدگى مسائل را بیشتر مىکند؛ بیابان تاتارها داستانى درباره انتظار است؛ انتظارى که حاصلى جز تنهایى، درد و مرگ ندارد؛
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 20/04/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
The Tartar Steppe is a novel by Italian author Dino Buzzati, published in 1940.
The novel tells the story of a young officer, Giovanni Drogo, and his life spent guarding the Bastiani Fortress, an old, unmaintained border fortress. The plot of the novel is Drogo's lifelong wait for a great war in which his life and the existence of the fort can prove its usefulness.
The human need for giving life meaning and the soldier's desire for glory are themes in the novel. Drogo is posted to the remote outpost overlooking a desolate Tartar desert; he spends his career waiting for the barbarian horde rumored to live beyond the desert.
Without noticing, Drogo finds that in his watch over the fort he has let years and decades pass and that, while his old friends in the city have had children, married, and lived full lives, he has come away with nothing except solidarity with his fellow soldiers in their long, patient vigil.
When the attack by the Tartars finally arrives, Drogo gets ill and the new chieftain of the fortress dismisses him. Drogo, on his way back home, dies lonely in an inn.
عنوانها: بیابان تاتارها؛ صحرای تاتارها؛ نویسنده: دینو بوتزاتی؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: سال 1972 میلادی
عنوان: بیابان تاتارها؛ نویسنده: دینو بوتزاتی؛ مترجم سروش حبیبی؛ تهران، نیل، 1349؛ در 227ص؛ چاپ دیگر تهران، روزنه، 1380؛ در 195ص؛ شابک 9643340813؛ چاپ دیگر تهران، کتاب خورشید، 1389؛ در 255ص؛ شابک 9789647081498؛ چاپ سوم 1393؛ چاپ چهارم 1395؛ چاپ دیگر انتشارات ماهی، 1398؛ در 232ص؛ شابک 9789642093212؛ موضوع داستانهای نویسندگان ایتالیایی - سده 20م
عنوان: صحرای تاتارها؛ نویسنده: دینو بوتزاتی؛ مترجم: مهشید یهروزی؛ تهران، انجمن فرهنگی ایتالیا، 1365؛ در 240ص؛
عنوان: صحرای تاتارها؛ نویسنده: دینو بوتزاتی؛ مترجم: محسن ابراهیم؛ تهران، نشر مرکز؛ 1379؛ در 264ص؛ شابک 9643055493؛ چاپ دوم 1387؛ شابک 9789643055493؛
رمان بیابان تاتارها داستانِ غمانگیز سرنوشت افسرى جوان به نام «دروگو جووانى» است که براى خدمت به قلعه اى دور افتاده، در حاشیه بیابانى معروف به «بیابان تاتارها» اعزام مىشود؛ «بوتزاتى» با ترسیم دنیاى روزمره و خاکسترى «دروگو» توانست برنده ی جایزه ادبى «استرگا» شود؛ «والریو زورلینى»، کارگردان نامدار ایتالیایى، براساس همین رمان فیلمى به همین نام ساخته است که بخشهایى از آن در ایران و ارگ بم فیلمبردارى شده است
نقل از پشت جلد کتاب: «همه چیز در گریز است؛ آدمها، فصلها، ابرها، همه شتابانند…؛ و این شط به ظاهر کُند حرکت که هرگز باز نمیایستد، پیوسته تو را با خود میبرد.» پایان نقل
دروگو با عزمى جزم راهىِ قلعه کهن باستیانى مىشود؛ قلعه اى که در دل بیابانى خشک و لم یزرع قرار دارد؛ او جوان است و رویاى دلاورى در سر مىپروراند؛ با این امید پا در رکاب اسب گذاشته که با مدال شجاعتى نزد مادر چشم انتظارش بازگردد؛ اما از همان ابتدا شماى کلى داستان پیش چشم خواننده مىآید: «جز حرمان بىپایان بیابانى بریان و نامسکون چیزى نبود (بیابان تاتاره�� – صفحه 23)»؛
اینگونه در ناخودآگاه خوانشگر بذرى کاشته مىشود که نشان از تلخى و تلخکامى داستان پیش رو دارد؛ هماندم که «دروگو» پای بر دژ مىگذارد، درمىیابد اینجا با آن قلعه لجستیکى که همیشه در ذهن مىپروراند، تفاوتها دارد؛ اینجا بالى براى پرواز نمىماند، راهى براى پیشرفت نیست، و مدال شجاعتى بر سینه کسى نمىدرخشد؛ گرد روزمرگى بر همه چیز و همه کس بنشسته و چاره اى نیست جز یکرنگ شدن با جماعت؛ «دروگو» بلافاصله درخواستِ انتقالى میدهد؛ اما سرهنگ کوشش میکند نظر او را براى ماندن در قلعه جلب کند؛ اینجا همان لحظه تاریخى است که در زندگى هر شخصى نظیرش بسیار یافت مىشود
ماندن بر سر دو راهى؛ راهى که «دروگو» برمىگزیند تحت تاثیرِ جادوى ملال قلعه است: «با این همه نیرویى ناشناخته مانع از بازگشت او به شهر مىشد و شاید هم این نیرو از ضمیر خودش سرچشمه مىگرفت و او خود از آن خبر نداشت. (بیابان تاتارها – صفحه 39)»؛
نویسنده دست خود را رو مىکند و به خوانشگر نهیب مىزند که منتظر حادثه اى شگفت نباشد: «چند ماه بعد که چون واپس بنگرد، تازه خواهد دید که چیزهایى که اسیر قلعه اش کرده اند، سخت مسکین اند. (بیابان تاتارها – صفحه 79)»؛
ادامه داستان روایت هر روزه ملال و روزمرگى بىپایانى است، که فضاى قلعه را آکنده است. تا اینکه بالاخره روزى انتظار آنها ثمر مىدهد، و در بیابان تاتارها سایه هایى دیده مىشوند، که در چشم دیدهبانها تهدیدى براى قلعه به حساب مىآیند؛ آیا این آغاز یک تغییر بزرگ در زندگى قلعگیان است؟ آیا رخدادی هر چند خرد باعث مىشود اژدهاى شوم روزمرگى از روى قلعه به پرواز درآید؟ «سالهاى انتظار به هدر نرفته بود و قلعه کهن عاقبت به کارى مىآمد. (بیابان تاتارها – صفحه 120)»؛
انسان به امید زنده است اما این براى توجیه سکون و تنبلى به کار نمىرود؛ اینکه خود را به دست تقدیر بسپاریم و از کوشش براى تغییر اوضاع دست بشوییم تنها پیچیدگى مسائل را بیشتر مىکند؛ بیابان تاتارها داستانى درباره انتظار است؛ انتظارى که حاصلى جز تنهایى، درد و مرگ ندارد؛
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 20/04/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
November 7, 2019
Wake me up when September ends...
One September morning Giovanni starts the journey of his professional life, "the beginning of his real-life". Recalling his dull days at Military academy, left him wondering if his best youth years were over. This may sound like he has learned his lesson. HELL NO, he didn't. Did I? Did you? Did anyone of us learn our lesson? We keep waiting for that miracle for that hero for that very moment, yet deep down we know it is an illusion and will never show up, and we linger on. Giovanni waited for those four months to end, for September to end, for all those "just another year", which seemed so distant to end. We do the same!
We keep on waiting until the drab sluggish birth of habit. Then it comes the stinky sticky hands of a lifetime of pathetic repetition of habits, which leads to paralyzing one to stay trapped in his comfort zone. Giovanni derived special pleasure from his mastery of the routine, we all do! So Go away while there is still time...
Which side are you on?
Lazzari or Moretto?
The military is a messed up business! A password vital now and gone tomorrow, the stupid rules and roles, how people put their lives in jeopardy for the sake of nothing are heartbreaking. The foundation of this unabashed business is well depicted by the scene in two and a half men:
It's exactly like a video game. Except we blow up real people!
This could be generalized to any role one would take in any position. How deep is one drowned into the roles imposed by society?
The death of Ivan Ilych(1886)/The castle(1926)/The tartar steppe(1940)/The stranger(1942)/Waiting for Godot(1953)
They all resemble one another, if you enjoyed one of them, you will enjoy the rest.
Little boxes on the hillside
Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes on the hillside
Little boxes all the same
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same
And the people in the houses All went to the university
Where they are put in boxes, and they come out all the same
And there's doctors and there's lawyers
And business executives
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same
And they all play on the golf course and drink their martini dry
And they all have pretty children And the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university
Where they are put in boxes, and they come out all the same
And the boys go into business and marry and raise a family
And boxes made out of ticky tacky, and there all look just the same
There's a pink one and a green one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same
The way Buzzati illustrates one's emptiness is by emphasizing the importance of having a career as one's comrades, getting married, having kids and even grandchildren. I disagree. No boxes, no limitations. If you wanna go for the weirdest kind of lifestyle, stay single, marry the chubby fat ass shorty guy or gal, have no kids, feel free and do whatever serves you best, yet don't wait, Just move, take action, LIVE, I will do the same:
One September morning Giovanni starts the journey of his professional life, "the beginning of his real-life". Recalling his dull days at Military academy, left him wondering if his best youth years were over. This may sound like he has learned his lesson. HELL NO, he didn't. Did I? Did you? Did anyone of us learn our lesson? We keep waiting for that miracle for that hero for that very moment, yet deep down we know it is an illusion and will never show up, and we linger on. Giovanni waited for those four months to end, for September to end, for all those "just another year", which seemed so distant to end. We do the same!
We keep on waiting until the drab sluggish birth of habit. Then it comes the stinky sticky hands of a lifetime of pathetic repetition of habits, which leads to paralyzing one to stay trapped in his comfort zone. Giovanni derived special pleasure from his mastery of the routine, we all do! So Go away while there is still time...
Which side are you on?
Lazzari or Moretto?
The military is a messed up business! A password vital now and gone tomorrow, the stupid rules and roles, how people put their lives in jeopardy for the sake of nothing are heartbreaking. The foundation of this unabashed business is well depicted by the scene in two and a half men:
It's exactly like a video game. Except we blow up real people!
This could be generalized to any role one would take in any position. How deep is one drowned into the roles imposed by society?
The death of Ivan Ilych(1886)/The castle(1926)/The tartar steppe(1940)/The stranger(1942)/Waiting for Godot(1953)
They all resemble one another, if you enjoyed one of them, you will enjoy the rest.
Little boxes on the hillside
Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes on the hillside
Little boxes all the same
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same
And the people in the houses All went to the university
Where they are put in boxes, and they come out all the same
And there's doctors and there's lawyers
And business executives
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same
And they all play on the golf course and drink their martini dry
And they all have pretty children And the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university
Where they are put in boxes, and they come out all the same
And the boys go into business and marry and raise a family
And boxes made out of ticky tacky, and there all look just the same
There's a pink one and a green one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same
The way Buzzati illustrates one's emptiness is by emphasizing the importance of having a career as one's comrades, getting married, having kids and even grandchildren. I disagree. No boxes, no limitations. If you wanna go for the weirdest kind of lifestyle, stay single, marry the chubby fat ass shorty guy or gal, have no kids, feel free and do whatever serves you best, yet don't wait, Just move, take action, LIVE, I will do the same:
February 27, 2021
One of those classic books that sat on my TBR list for many years. I’ve heard that Dino Buzzatti originally called his book “The Fort”. I think the revised title was a big improvement. I don’t know how it sounds in the original Italian, but in English the phrase “The Tartar Steppe” conjures up mysterious and romantic images that would have helped the book to stand out. Incidentally the author doesn’t attempt to anchor this story in any sort of geopolitical reality, but that’s not a criticism on my part. This novel is about the human experience.
It’s a difficult novel to talk about without introducing spoilers. At the outset the main character, Giovanni Drogo, is a newly commissioned Lieutenant assigned to a frontier post that overlooks the aforementioned steppe. Hardly anything ever happens in the fort. The land on the other side of the frontier is an uninhabited part of the neighbouring Kingdom. Even the appearance of a riderless horse on the other side of the frontier is a major event. Initially Drogo is appalled at the idea of spending time in this backwater, but gradually he makes friends with the other officers and settles into a life of comfortable routine and lack of challenge. When he goes on leave, he finds he no longer has anything in common with his old friends, and he is faced with decisions to make about his career and his personal life.
It might be best to read The Tartar Steppe as a young person, preferably when in your twenties. The message is too late for anyone at my stage of life. On the plus side, the book is still a good literary experience.
It’s a difficult novel to talk about without introducing spoilers. At the outset the main character, Giovanni Drogo, is a newly commissioned Lieutenant assigned to a frontier post that overlooks the aforementioned steppe. Hardly anything ever happens in the fort. The land on the other side of the frontier is an uninhabited part of the neighbouring Kingdom. Even the appearance of a riderless horse on the other side of the frontier is a major event. Initially Drogo is appalled at the idea of spending time in this backwater, but gradually he makes friends with the other officers and settles into a life of comfortable routine and lack of challenge. When he goes on leave, he finds he no longer has anything in common with his old friends, and he is faced with decisions to make about his career and his personal life.
It might be best to read The Tartar Steppe as a young person, preferably when in your twenties. The message is too late for anyone at my stage of life. On the plus side, the book is still a good literary experience.
March 10, 2023
The first posting for the newly qualified junior officer Giovanni Drogo is a distant border fortress, Fort Bastiani, a kind of military Gormenghast with vast corridors, distant redoubts and an ancient regime of mindless inflexible ritual. It guards the kingdom against the enemy to the north. The forlorn wilderness overlooked by the fortress is called the Tartar Steppe. Where was that ? This was Tartary
but the name had been discarded by the 19th century. So this is not a historical novel.
Our unheroic hero asks an officer about this wilderness.
“A desert. Stones and parched earth – the call it the Tartar steppe.”
“Why Tartar?” asked Drogo. “Were there ever Tartars there?”
“Long, long ago I believe. But it is a legend more than anything else.”
“So the Fort has never been any use?”
“None at all,” said the captain.
There are three parts to the universe of this novel. There is the city – source of the pleasures of ordinary life, of taverns, pretty women, dancing, of business careers; there is the fort itself, austere, useless, monotonous and soul-destroying; and there is the wasteland to the north, a terrifying, blank mystery.
But strangely, the Fort is also clothed in magic :
Then he seemed to see the yellowing walls of the courtyard rise up into the crystal sky, with above then, higher till, solitary tower, crooked battlements crowned with snow, airy outworks and redoubts which he had never seen before. … Never before had Drogo noticed that the Fort was so complicated and immense. At an almost incredible height he saw a window… In the abyss between bastion and bastion he saw geometrical shadows, frail bridges suspended among rooftops, strange postern gates barred and flush with the walls, ancient machicolations now blocked up, long rooftrees curved with the years.
The sense of time spiraling away in pointless ritual, in perpetual maintenance of readiness for an enemy which never arrives, and the sense of a normal life voluntarily jettisoned for this utter uselessness, and the hypnosis that seems to pin poor Drogo to his drudgery, is the whole story of this melancholy book. You can make various meanings from it should you be so inclined. You can see it as a parable - Drogo waiting forever for the Answer to arrive from the Tartar steppe – a philosophic or religious answer, maybe; Ingmar Bergman fans might want to read it as an extended metaphor for the silence of God; but others may prefer to find here a beautiful meditation on disappointment, institutionalization, unfulfillment and resignation. Unheroic virtues.
(So many other writers and their buildings were interweaving with Dino Buzzati as I read this – everyone says Kafka, but also Dracula’s castle, Mervyn Peake, Ballard’s lonely landscapes, JG Farrell’s Majestic Hotel, even Tolkien’s Minas Morgul, there are many of these great constructions of the mind.)
And there are several long passages that lift off into exquisitely sad canticles of how spendthrift human life is, how the hours, the days and the years fall through our fingers.
Recommended. 4.5 stars.
(Great thanks to my friend Selma in Istanbul who pretty much ordered me to read this one.)
but the name had been discarded by the 19th century. So this is not a historical novel.
Our unheroic hero asks an officer about this wilderness.
“A desert. Stones and parched earth – the call it the Tartar steppe.”
“Why Tartar?” asked Drogo. “Were there ever Tartars there?”
“Long, long ago I believe. But it is a legend more than anything else.”
“So the Fort has never been any use?”
“None at all,” said the captain.
There are three parts to the universe of this novel. There is the city – source of the pleasures of ordinary life, of taverns, pretty women, dancing, of business careers; there is the fort itself, austere, useless, monotonous and soul-destroying; and there is the wasteland to the north, a terrifying, blank mystery.
But strangely, the Fort is also clothed in magic :
Then he seemed to see the yellowing walls of the courtyard rise up into the crystal sky, with above then, higher till, solitary tower, crooked battlements crowned with snow, airy outworks and redoubts which he had never seen before. … Never before had Drogo noticed that the Fort was so complicated and immense. At an almost incredible height he saw a window… In the abyss between bastion and bastion he saw geometrical shadows, frail bridges suspended among rooftops, strange postern gates barred and flush with the walls, ancient machicolations now blocked up, long rooftrees curved with the years.
The sense of time spiraling away in pointless ritual, in perpetual maintenance of readiness for an enemy which never arrives, and the sense of a normal life voluntarily jettisoned for this utter uselessness, and the hypnosis that seems to pin poor Drogo to his drudgery, is the whole story of this melancholy book. You can make various meanings from it should you be so inclined. You can see it as a parable - Drogo waiting forever for the Answer to arrive from the Tartar steppe – a philosophic or religious answer, maybe; Ingmar Bergman fans might want to read it as an extended metaphor for the silence of God; but others may prefer to find here a beautiful meditation on disappointment, institutionalization, unfulfillment and resignation. Unheroic virtues.
(So many other writers and their buildings were interweaving with Dino Buzzati as I read this – everyone says Kafka, but also Dracula’s castle, Mervyn Peake, Ballard’s lonely landscapes, JG Farrell’s Majestic Hotel, even Tolkien’s Minas Morgul, there are many of these great constructions of the mind.)
And there are several long passages that lift off into exquisitely sad canticles of how spendthrift human life is, how the hours, the days and the years fall through our fingers.
Recommended. 4.5 stars.
(Great thanks to my friend Selma in Istanbul who pretty much ordered me to read this one.)
June 15, 2022
L'attesa nella rinuncia
"In uno spiraglio delle vicine rupi, già ricoperte di buio, dietro una caotica scalinata di creste, a una lontananza incalcolabile, immerso ancora nel rosso sole del tramonto, come uscito da un incantesimo, Giovanni Drogo vide allora un nudo colle e sul ciglio di esso una striscia regolare e geometrica, di uno speciale colore giallastro: il profilo della Fortezza."
"Dal deserto del nord doveva giungere la loro fortuna, l'avventura, l'ora miracolosa che almeno una volta tocca a ciascuno. Per questa eventualità vaga, che pareva farsi sempre più incerta col tempo, uomini fatti consumavano lassù la migliore parte della vita."
"Nel sogno c’è sempre qualcosa di assurdo e confuso, non ci si libera mai dalla vaga sensazione ch'è tutto falso, che un bel momento ci si dovrà svegliare."
"Drogo capì di voler ancora bene a Maria e di amare il suo mondo: ma tutte le cose che nutrivano la sua vita di un tempo si erano fatte lontane; un mondo di altri dove il suo posto era stato facilmente occupato. E lo considerava oramai dal di fuori, pur con rimpianto; rientrarvi lo avrebbe messo a disagio, facce nuove, diverse abitudini, nuovi scherzi, nuovi modi dire, a cui egli non era allenato."
"Proprio in quel tempo Drogo si accorse come gli uomini, per quanto possano volersi bene, rimangano sempre lontani; che se uno soffre, il dolore è completamente suo, nessun altro può prenderne su di sé una minima parte; che se uno soffre, gli altri per questo non sentono male, anche se l'amore è grande, e questo provoca la solitudine della vita."
L'orologio rimbomba nella stanza con i suoi ticchetii; la sabbia della clessidra precipita inesorabile, ogni granello una scelta che si sarebbe potuta fare, una svolta che avrebbe rotto la perpetua e rassicurante normalità degli anni che corrono via.
In eterna attesa dell'irraggiungibile, il tempo corrode i sogni e consuma i ricordi finché l'unica possibilità che resta è quella di congedarsi con dignità e sorridere alla morte che bussa alla porta.
Più di cinque anni dalla prima lettura non hanno minimamente scalfito la forza di questo romanzo, che non esito a definire capolavoro. Perché all'interno delle pagine non vi è solo la Fortezza Bastiani, inespugnabile baluardo e araldo delle promesse che albergano oltre le terre che sorveglia; né la minaccia silenziosa del tempo, l'unica - e reale - valuta che permette di tributare la giusta importanza al percorso di cui siamo i soli depositari. La parabola di Giovanni Drogo si intreccia irrimediabilmente con la condizione esistenziale dell'uomo moderno: ne mette a nudo la solitudine dinnanzi all'attesa - pavida e al contempo confortante - che precorre il fatidico riscatto. Un'opera dolorosa e necessaria, capace dell'impossibile: sconfiggere il tempo diventando essa stessa eterna, fuori dal tempo.
"In uno spiraglio delle vicine rupi, già ricoperte di buio, dietro una caotica scalinata di creste, a una lontananza incalcolabile, immerso ancora nel rosso sole del tramonto, come uscito da un incantesimo, Giovanni Drogo vide allora un nudo colle e sul ciglio di esso una striscia regolare e geometrica, di uno speciale colore giallastro: il profilo della Fortezza."
"Dal deserto del nord doveva giungere la loro fortuna, l'avventura, l'ora miracolosa che almeno una volta tocca a ciascuno. Per questa eventualità vaga, che pareva farsi sempre più incerta col tempo, uomini fatti consumavano lassù la migliore parte della vita."
"Nel sogno c’è sempre qualcosa di assurdo e confuso, non ci si libera mai dalla vaga sensazione ch'è tutto falso, che un bel momento ci si dovrà svegliare."
"Drogo capì di voler ancora bene a Maria e di amare il suo mondo: ma tutte le cose che nutrivano la sua vita di un tempo si erano fatte lontane; un mondo di altri dove il suo posto era stato facilmente occupato. E lo considerava oramai dal di fuori, pur con rimpianto; rientrarvi lo avrebbe messo a disagio, facce nuove, diverse abitudini, nuovi scherzi, nuovi modi dire, a cui egli non era allenato."
"Proprio in quel tempo Drogo si accorse come gli uomini, per quanto possano volersi bene, rimangano sempre lontani; che se uno soffre, il dolore è completamente suo, nessun altro può prenderne su di sé una minima parte; che se uno soffre, gli altri per questo non sentono male, anche se l'amore è grande, e questo provoca la solitudine della vita."
L'orologio rimbomba nella stanza con i suoi ticchetii; la sabbia della clessidra precipita inesorabile, ogni granello una scelta che si sarebbe potuta fare, una svolta che avrebbe rotto la perpetua e rassicurante normalità degli anni che corrono via.
In eterna attesa dell'irraggiungibile, il tempo corrode i sogni e consuma i ricordi finché l'unica possibilità che resta è quella di congedarsi con dignità e sorridere alla morte che bussa alla porta.
Più di cinque anni dalla prima lettura non hanno minimamente scalfito la forza di questo romanzo, che non esito a definire capolavoro. Perché all'interno delle pagine non vi è solo la Fortezza Bastiani, inespugnabile baluardo e araldo delle promesse che albergano oltre le terre che sorveglia; né la minaccia silenziosa del tempo, l'unica - e reale - valuta che permette di tributare la giusta importanza al percorso di cui siamo i soli depositari. La parabola di Giovanni Drogo si intreccia irrimediabilmente con la condizione esistenziale dell'uomo moderno: ne mette a nudo la solitudine dinnanzi all'attesa - pavida e al contempo confortante - che precorre il fatidico riscatto. Un'opera dolorosa e necessaria, capace dell'impossibile: sconfiggere il tempo diventando essa stessa eterna, fuori dal tempo.
September 12, 2022
Después de todo, a uno le toca siempre lo que se merece.
El desierto de los tártaros (1940), de Dino Buzzati (1906-1972), narra la vida de un joven militar que es destinado a una Fortaleza perdida en la frontera de su país, para vigilar un inmenso desierto por el que se supone que van a ser invadidos por los tártaros del título.
Lo primero que me ha llamado la atención es cómo el autor consigue envolvernos en el ambiente de la novela. Sin excesos, con sencillas pinceladas descriptivas, con detalles sutiles, originales y sabiamente elegidos, aun cuando lo descrito no resulta especialmente atrayente: un austero y sórdido edificio, un monótono desierto y una estricta y rutinaria vida cuartelera. El estilo es realmente hermoso, cuidado, evocador, y el tono melancólico, casi triste, acorde con una obra que habla de soledad, de renuncia, de fracaso, del tiempo perdido, de vidas dedicadas a conseguir un único propósito que nunca sucede.
Pero, por si esto no fuera suficiente, está acompañado por la inquietante evolución del protagonista. El bisoño joven que al principio queda horrorizado por la Fortaleza y no piensa más que en regresar a la comodidad de la ciudad, pero que, paulatinamente, se va sintiendo atraído por ella, hasta quedar atrapado en ese mundo aislado donde no cabe la individualidad, al mismo tiempo que el lector se va quedando también atrapado entre las páginas de esta novela.
En El desierto de los tártaros , además del viaje hacía ese lugar lejano, hacia la inmensidad del inmutable desierto, encontramos otro viaje más fascinante hacía las profundidades del alma inocente, insegura e insatisfecha del joven oficial Giovanni Drogo, nuestro protagonista. Dos viajes que avanzan en armonía, mientras acompañamos a nuestro antihéroe en la tediosa rutina de una fortaleza miliar.
¿Qué es lo que pretende mostrarnos Buzzati en esta obra? La obstinación de la especie humana por alcanzar la gloria, por ser recordados, por un destino heroico, por el honor, la fama, hasta llegar a derrochar por ello toda una vida o, todo lo contrario, la fascinación por la propia singularidad de la Fortaleza, por lo diferente, por el aislamiento, por el rechazo a la vida ociosa de la civilización. Será la atracción por lo previsible, por una vida reglada, rígida, sin contratiempos: la vida como una sucesión de actos aprendidos, de obediencia ciega, sin la necesidad de tomar decisiones individuales y con un único y claro objetivo.
Yo no he conseguido adivinarlo, pero no me ha importado demasiado, porque creo que El desierto de los tártaros, esta historia de una vida malgastada por un absurdo ideal, posee atractivos suficientes para ser considerada una novela excepcional.
El desierto de los tártaros (1940), de Dino Buzzati (1906-1972), narra la vida de un joven militar que es destinado a una Fortaleza perdida en la frontera de su país, para vigilar un inmenso desierto por el que se supone que van a ser invadidos por los tártaros del título.
Lo primero que me ha llamado la atención es cómo el autor consigue envolvernos en el ambiente de la novela. Sin excesos, con sencillas pinceladas descriptivas, con detalles sutiles, originales y sabiamente elegidos, aun cuando lo descrito no resulta especialmente atrayente: un austero y sórdido edificio, un monótono desierto y una estricta y rutinaria vida cuartelera. El estilo es realmente hermoso, cuidado, evocador, y el tono melancólico, casi triste, acorde con una obra que habla de soledad, de renuncia, de fracaso, del tiempo perdido, de vidas dedicadas a conseguir un único propósito que nunca sucede.
Pero, por si esto no fuera suficiente, está acompañado por la inquietante evolución del protagonista. El bisoño joven que al principio queda horrorizado por la Fortaleza y no piensa más que en regresar a la comodidad de la ciudad, pero que, paulatinamente, se va sintiendo atraído por ella, hasta quedar atrapado en ese mundo aislado donde no cabe la individualidad, al mismo tiempo que el lector se va quedando también atrapado entre las páginas de esta novela.
En El desierto de los tártaros , además del viaje hacía ese lugar lejano, hacia la inmensidad del inmutable desierto, encontramos otro viaje más fascinante hacía las profundidades del alma inocente, insegura e insatisfecha del joven oficial Giovanni Drogo, nuestro protagonista. Dos viajes que avanzan en armonía, mientras acompañamos a nuestro antihéroe en la tediosa rutina de una fortaleza miliar.
¿Qué es lo que pretende mostrarnos Buzzati en esta obra? La obstinación de la especie humana por alcanzar la gloria, por ser recordados, por un destino heroico, por el honor, la fama, hasta llegar a derrochar por ello toda una vida o, todo lo contrario, la fascinación por la propia singularidad de la Fortaleza, por lo diferente, por el aislamiento, por el rechazo a la vida ociosa de la civilización. Será la atracción por lo previsible, por una vida reglada, rígida, sin contratiempos: la vida como una sucesión de actos aprendidos, de obediencia ciega, sin la necesidad de tomar decisiones individuales y con un único y claro objetivo.
Yo no he conseguido adivinarlo, pero no me ha importado demasiado, porque creo que El desierto de los tártaros, esta historia de una vida malgastada por un absurdo ideal, posee atractivos suficientes para ser considerada una novela excepcional.
May 5, 2020
Η Έρημος των Ταρτάρων ήρθε σαν καλοδεχούμενο χαστούκι για να μου σφυρίξει: «You, big shit, στη ζωή είσαι απόλυτα και ανελέητα ΜΟΝΟΣ, οι Τάρταροι που περιμένεις για να εκπληρώσεις τη φιλοδοξία σου δε θα’ρθουν ποτέ, αλίμονο, σύρε τα πόδια σου και ζήσε τη μικρή ζωή σου. Μόνος εχθρός ο εαυτός σου.»
Κι έπειτα ο θάνατος. Πάντα ο θάνατος. Και η μοναξιά. Η μοναξιά της ζωής και του θανάτου.
«Δεν ήταν, λοιπόν, ο στρατιώτης που σιγοτραγουδούσε, όχι ένας άντρας ευαίσθητος στο κρύο, στις τιμωρίες και στον έρωτα, αλλά το εχθρικό βουνό. Τι θλιβερό λάθος, σκέφτηκε ο Ντρόγκο, ίσως όλα είναι έτσι, πιστεύουμε ότι γύρω μας υπάρχουν πλάσματα ίδια μ’εμάς κι αντιθέτως δεν υπάρχει παρά πάγος, πέτρες που μιλάνε μια ξένη γλώσσα, ετοιμαζόμαστε να χαιρετήσουμε τον φίλο, αλλά το χέρι ξαναπέφτει νωθρό, το χαμόγελο σβήνει, γιατί αντιλαμβανόμαστε ότι είμαστε εντελώς μόνοι.»
Μάταιες ελπίδες τέτοιες
Μην καταδεχτείς
Κι έπειτα ο θάνατος. Πάντα ο θάνατος. Και η μοναξιά. Η μοναξιά της ζωής και του θανάτου.
«Δεν ήταν, λοιπόν, ο στρατιώτης που σιγοτραγουδούσε, όχι ένας άντρας ευαίσθητος στο κρύο, στις τιμωρίες και στον έρωτα, αλλά το εχθρικό βουνό. Τι θλιβερό λάθος, σκέφτηκε ο Ντρόγκο, ίσως όλα είναι έτσι, πιστεύουμε ότι γύρω μας υπάρχουν πλάσματα ίδια μ’εμάς κι αντιθέτως δεν υπάρχει παρά πάγος, πέτρες που μιλάνε μια ξένη γλώσσα, ετοιμαζόμαστε να χαιρετήσουμε τον φίλο, αλλά το χέρι ξαναπέφτει νωθρό, το χαμόγελο σβήνει, γιατί αντιλαμβανόμαστε ότι είμαστε εντελώς μόνοι.»
Μάταιες ελπίδες τέτοιες
Μην καταδεχτείς
November 26, 2020
کتابی سخت تکان دهنده
ما انسانها موجودات عجیبی هستیم. در عین اینکه میل به کمالگرایی داریم و مایلیم خیالبافی کنیم، برای آینده نقشه و طرح بریزیم و خودمون رو در رویای آیندهای درخشان مستغرق کنیم، در عین حال، این توانایی عجیب و ناشناخته رو هم داریم که به هر چیزی، حتی بدترین وضعیتها هم، عادت میکنیم. اینها هر دو از ذات انسان بودن ما نشات میگیرن و بدون این تواناییها موجود بشر نمیتونست به جایی که الان هست برسه.
بیابان تاتارها تقابل این دو تمایل در وجود جوانی به نام "جووانی دروگو" هستش که به قصد آیندهای درخشان و در جستوجوی افتخار، به خدمت نظام میره. طی داستان، خواننده مدت زمان طولانی با دروگو همراه خواهد شد و از نزدیک شاهد نزاع این دو تمایل در وجود اون خواهد بود. کشاکشی بسیار آشنا که محاله خوانندهای با اون همذاتپنداری نکنه. گذر ایام و بدنی که به تدریج پیر و فرسوده میشه و قلبی که هنوز جوونه و تو رو به سمت رویاهات فرا میخونه و از طرف دیگه خزیدن تدریجی عادتها از سمت پاها به سوی قلب آدمی تا زمانی که اونقدر به دورش سخت میپیچه که اون رو خشک، و خالی از شور و شوق میکنه.
تا زمانی که نهایتا مرگ از دور پدیدار میشه و تو از دیدنش شوکه میشی و غبار ایام دراز از روی قلبت زدوده میشه. دلت دوباره به تپش میافته و شور و خواهش زندگی دوباره در وجودت جریان میگیره و رویاهات دوباره زنده میشن. فکر میکنی که هنوز فرصت هست و میخوای زندگی کنی اما افسوس که زمانی باقی نمونده..................................؛
پ.ن: به طور کاملا اتفاقی سه کتاب "درباره معنای زندگی"، "بیابان تاتارها" و "آبلوموف" رو با هم خوندم و چاک خوردم! خواستم بگم از این کارا نکنید. آخر عاقبت نداره. نه اینکه بگم خیلی به هم ربط دارن این کتابا، ولی هر کتابی یک سری افکار بخصوصی رو در سر آدم تیز میکنه. این سر رو تو یک کتاب دیگه فرو کردن ممکنه تلاطمی در سر آدم ایجاد کنه که شاید در حالت عادی رخ نمیداد. خلاصه خواستم هشدار بدم همونطوری که آدم از خوردن چند چیز ناسازگار با هم رودل میکنه، با خوندن چند چیز با همدیگه هم ممکنه رومغز (!) کنه 😵ا
ما انسانها موجودات عجیبی هستیم. در عین اینکه میل به کمالگرایی داریم و مایلیم خیالبافی کنیم، برای آینده نقشه و طرح بریزیم و خودمون رو در رویای آیندهای درخشان مستغرق کنیم، در عین حال، این توانایی عجیب و ناشناخته رو هم داریم که به هر چیزی، حتی بدترین وضعیتها هم، عادت میکنیم. اینها هر دو از ذات انسان بودن ما نشات میگیرن و بدون این تواناییها موجود بشر نمیتونست به جایی که الان هست برسه.
بیابان تاتارها تقابل این دو تمایل در وجود جوانی به نام "جووانی دروگو" هستش که به قصد آیندهای درخشان و در جستوجوی افتخار، به خدمت نظام میره. طی داستان، خواننده مدت زمان طولانی با دروگو همراه خواهد شد و از نزدیک شاهد نزاع این دو تمایل در وجود اون خواهد بود. کشاکشی بسیار آشنا که محاله خوانندهای با اون همذاتپنداری نکنه. گذر ایام و بدنی که به تدریج پیر و فرسوده میشه و قلبی که هنوز جوونه و تو رو به سمت رویاهات فرا میخونه و از طرف دیگه خزیدن تدریجی عادتها از سمت پاها به سوی قلب آدمی تا زمانی که اونقدر به دورش سخت میپیچه که اون رو خشک، و خالی از شور و شوق میکنه.
تا زمانی که نهایتا مرگ از دور پدیدار میشه و تو از دیدنش شوکه میشی و غبار ایام دراز از روی قلبت زدوده میشه. دلت دوباره به تپش میافته و شور و خواهش زندگی دوباره در وجودت جریان میگیره و رویاهات دوباره زنده میشن. فکر میکنی که هنوز فرصت هست و میخوای زندگی کنی اما افسوس که زمانی باقی نمونده..................................؛
پ.ن: به طور کاملا اتفاقی سه کتاب "درباره معنای زندگی"، "بیابان تاتارها" و "آبلوموف" رو با هم خوندم و چاک خوردم! خواستم بگم از این کارا نکنید. آخر عاقبت نداره. نه اینکه بگم خیلی به هم ربط دارن این کتابا، ولی هر کتابی یک سری افکار بخصوصی رو در سر آدم تیز میکنه. این سر رو تو یک کتاب دیگه فرو کردن ممکنه تلاطمی در سر آدم ایجاد کنه که شاید در حالت عادی رخ نمیداد. خلاصه خواستم هشدار بدم همونطوری که آدم از خوردن چند چیز ناسازگار با هم رودل میکنه، با خوندن چند چیز با همدیگه هم ممکنه رومغز (!) کنه 😵ا
April 23, 2024
صحراء التتار رواية للكاتب الإيطالي دينو بوتزاتي ..نشرت الرواية عام ١٩٤٠ و كانت السبب في جعل مؤلفها واحداً من كبار الروائيين في القرن العشرين..
الرواية عادية جداً...حوارات عادية..سرد عادي...أحداث عادية دة لو افترضنا إن في أحداث يعني...
رواية هادية أو ممكن حتي أقول ميتة و دة مقصود من الكاتب لتوصيل الفكرة بس ده لم يمنع إن الرواية كانت فعلا مملة جداً في قراءتها...
أحلي ما في الرواية فكرتها...فكرة إنك ممكن تضيع عمرك كله منتظر إن ثمة شيئاً ما سيحدث... وفي حالة بطل الرواية كان منتظر حرب عظيمة يشارك فيها لكي تجعل لحياته معني وهدف ...
٣٠ سنة و هو منتظر...منتظر الوهم..فاكر إن ده اللي حيسعده..
الرواية كمان بتتكلم عن إعتيادنا لحاجات معينة حتي لو كانت مملة و بنكون مش قادرين نتغير أو حتي نبعد عنها و إن إزاي أحياناً بنجد في عزلتنا الراحة و الطمأنينة بعيداً عن كل الناس..
مين فينا مش زي جوفاني دروغو؟
مين فينا مش بيقعد طول حياته ينتظر اللاشيء الذي نظن معظم الوقت إنه كلّ شيء؟
مين فينا مش بيجري وراء أوهام و نكتشف بعد فوات الآوان إننا ضيعنا عمرنا علي الفاضي و إن سعادتنا ممكن تكون في أبسط الأشياء؟
فكرة الرواية اديها ٥ نجوم لكن الرواية نفسها وطريقة كتابتها مش حقدر اديها أكتر من نجمتين..
الرواية عادية جداً...حوارات عادية..سرد عادي...أحداث عادية دة لو افترضنا إن في أحداث يعني...
رواية هادية أو ممكن حتي أقول ميتة و دة مقصود من الكاتب لتوصيل الفكرة بس ده لم يمنع إن الرواية كانت فعلا مملة جداً في قراءتها...
أحلي ما في الرواية فكرتها...فكرة إنك ممكن تضيع عمرك كله منتظر إن ثمة شيئاً ما سيحدث... وفي حالة بطل الرواية كان منتظر حرب عظيمة يشارك فيها لكي تجعل لحياته معني وهدف ...
٣٠ سنة و هو منتظر...منتظر الوهم..فاكر إن ده اللي حيسعده..
الرواية كمان بتتكلم عن إعتيادنا لحاجات معينة حتي لو كانت مملة و بنكون مش قادرين نتغير أو حتي نبعد عنها و إن إزاي أحياناً بنجد في عزلتنا الراحة و الطمأنينة بعيداً عن كل الناس..
مين فينا مش زي جوفاني دروغو؟
مين فينا مش بيقعد طول حياته ينتظر اللاشيء الذي نظن معظم الوقت إنه كلّ شيء؟
مين فينا مش بيجري وراء أوهام و نكتشف بعد فوات الآوان إننا ضيعنا عمرنا علي الفاضي و إن سعادتنا ممكن تكون في أبسط الأشياء؟
فكرة الرواية اديها ٥ نجوم لكن الرواية نفسها وطريقة كتابتها مش حقدر اديها أكتر من نجمتين..
November 7, 2017
L’irreparabile fuga del tempo
Per ogni libro esiste un particolare periodo della propria vita.
Credo di aver letto questo romanzo di Dino Buzzati al momento giusto: non sono ancora così avanti negli anni, ma mi ritrovo comunque sulla soglia di un’età in cui è naturale fare un bilancio esistenziale e, pertanto, rivolgere più di un pensiero agli anni lasciati alle spalle; insomma, tutti cerchiamo di fare i conti con la vita e col tempo che passa, anzitutto per poter andare avanti. Ecco perché, fin dal principio, sono stata affascinata da “Il deserto dei Tartari”, che se avessi letto a quindici anni, probabilmente, non mi avrebbe coinvolta allo stesso modo né l’avrei potuto comprendere appieno.
È infatti il tempo il grande protagonista di questa storia tanto semplice quanto spiazzante. Né l’ufficiale Giovanni Drogo, consacratosi in toto alla carriera militare, né la Fortezza Bastiani, estremo baluardo di frontiera. No, soltanto il tempo, con il suo lento ma inarrestabile incedere, la sua fuga appunto irreparabile, i suoi silenzi che, indifferenti, si mescolano ad altri vasti silenzi solcati dalla voce del vento e dai sussurri notturni ammantati di stelle, così come essi si confondono col greve pallore della neve e col rosso vivo dei tramonti sempre uguali, con i palpiti di vita a primavera che lusingano gli animi facendo loro nuove e ingannatrici promesse. Quella di Drogo esemplifica al meglio la vicenda umana in generale: aggrappati a un presentimento più o meno vago di cose grandi, si aspetta la vita. Ma la vita, in verità, non aspetta e così il dolce sapore dei sogni e delle speranze si tramuta presto in quello amarissimo delle illusioni.
“Il tempo intanto correva, il suo battito silenzioso scandisce sempre più precipitoso la vita, non ci si può fermare neanche un attimo, neppure per un'occhiata indietro. "Ferma, ferma!" si vorrebbe gridare, ma si capisce ch'è inutile. Tutto quanto fugge via, gli uomini, le stagioni, le nubi; e non serve aggrapparsi alle pietre, resistere in cima a qualche scoglio, le dita stanche si aprono, le braccia si afflosciano inerti, si è trascinati ancora nel fiume, che pare lento ma non si ferma mai.”
Magnifico e portentoso romanzo, la cui narrazione, non estranea, a mio parere, a sfumature kafkiane, è calata in una perfetta dimensione spazio-temporale fantastica e indefinita.
Scrittura semplice e incisiva, per nulla prolissa, decisamente diversa rispetto a quella che si ritrova tra le pagine di “Un amore”, altra celebre opera di Buzzati letta di recente.
Un messaggio, quello lanciato dall’autore, che forse, alla luce di certi suoi passaggi, non è poi di assoluto pessimismo: se è vero che alla fuga del tempo non ci è possibile resistere, è però anche vero che questo stesso tempo, intanto che fugge, possiamo riempirlo di piccole grandi soddisfazioni quotidiane, senza ostinarci nella frustrante e inutile ricerca di successo e gloria a vario titolo; e, soprattutto, di affetti, amicizia e amore, affinché la nostra esistenza non diventi una landa arida e desolata come quella sconfinata del deserto dei Tartari.
Per ogni libro esiste un particolare periodo della propria vita.
Credo di aver letto questo romanzo di Dino Buzzati al momento giusto: non sono ancora così avanti negli anni, ma mi ritrovo comunque sulla soglia di un’età in cui è naturale fare un bilancio esistenziale e, pertanto, rivolgere più di un pensiero agli anni lasciati alle spalle; insomma, tutti cerchiamo di fare i conti con la vita e col tempo che passa, anzitutto per poter andare avanti. Ecco perché, fin dal principio, sono stata affascinata da “Il deserto dei Tartari”, che se avessi letto a quindici anni, probabilmente, non mi avrebbe coinvolta allo stesso modo né l’avrei potuto comprendere appieno.
È infatti il tempo il grande protagonista di questa storia tanto semplice quanto spiazzante. Né l’ufficiale Giovanni Drogo, consacratosi in toto alla carriera militare, né la Fortezza Bastiani, estremo baluardo di frontiera. No, soltanto il tempo, con il suo lento ma inarrestabile incedere, la sua fuga appunto irreparabile, i suoi silenzi che, indifferenti, si mescolano ad altri vasti silenzi solcati dalla voce del vento e dai sussurri notturni ammantati di stelle, così come essi si confondono col greve pallore della neve e col rosso vivo dei tramonti sempre uguali, con i palpiti di vita a primavera che lusingano gli animi facendo loro nuove e ingannatrici promesse. Quella di Drogo esemplifica al meglio la vicenda umana in generale: aggrappati a un presentimento più o meno vago di cose grandi, si aspetta la vita. Ma la vita, in verità, non aspetta e così il dolce sapore dei sogni e delle speranze si tramuta presto in quello amarissimo delle illusioni.
“Il tempo intanto correva, il suo battito silenzioso scandisce sempre più precipitoso la vita, non ci si può fermare neanche un attimo, neppure per un'occhiata indietro. "Ferma, ferma!" si vorrebbe gridare, ma si capisce ch'è inutile. Tutto quanto fugge via, gli uomini, le stagioni, le nubi; e non serve aggrapparsi alle pietre, resistere in cima a qualche scoglio, le dita stanche si aprono, le braccia si afflosciano inerti, si è trascinati ancora nel fiume, che pare lento ma non si ferma mai.”
Magnifico e portentoso romanzo, la cui narrazione, non estranea, a mio parere, a sfumature kafkiane, è calata in una perfetta dimensione spazio-temporale fantastica e indefinita.
Scrittura semplice e incisiva, per nulla prolissa, decisamente diversa rispetto a quella che si ritrova tra le pagine di “Un amore”, altra celebre opera di Buzzati letta di recente.
Un messaggio, quello lanciato dall’autore, che forse, alla luce di certi suoi passaggi, non è poi di assoluto pessimismo: se è vero che alla fuga del tempo non ci è possibile resistere, è però anche vero che questo stesso tempo, intanto che fugge, possiamo riempirlo di piccole grandi soddisfazioni quotidiane, senza ostinarci nella frustrante e inutile ricerca di successo e gloria a vario titolo; e, soprattutto, di affetti, amicizia e amore, affinché la nostra esistenza non diventi una landa arida e desolata come quella sconfinata del deserto dei Tartari.
April 16, 2020
Ποιοι είναι τελικά οι Τάρταροι και γιατί οι φρουροί του Οχυρού Μπαστιάνι ανέκαθεν πίστευαν πως θα σημάνει η ώρα που ορδές από δαύτους θα εισβάλλουν στο βασίλειό τους; Τι υπάρχει πέρα από την Έρημο και γιατί χωρίς τους Ταρτάρους κάθε ελπίδα των στρατιωτών θα φάνταζε μάταιη;
Διότι, οιβάρβαροιΤάρταροι «ήσαν μια κάποια λύσις». Χωρίς την προσμονή της έλευσής τους, δεν θα υπήρχε τίποτε άλλο, παρά η αργή ανάσα του Οχυρού κι οι φόβοι που φώλιαζαν στους ετοιμόρροπους τοίχους του• η αδράνεια της συνήθειας που εμπόδιζε τους ενοίκους του να "κινήσουν" και η αέναη αλληλουχία των ημερών που κυλούσανε, απαράλλαχτες, η μία πίσω από την άλλη• ένας θάνατος αργός, διόλου ηρωϊκός και μεγάλος, ένα τέλος που καθόλου δεν άρμοζε σε στρατιώτες.
Είναι η αναμονή των Ταρτάρων που νοηματοδοτεί την ακινησία. Η προσδοκία ότι κάτι θα γίνει που οπλίζει με καρτερικότητα τους στρατιώτες. Όμως, αυτή η επιθυμία για δράση γεννά παραισθήσεις και φαντασιοκοπίες. Οποιοδήποτε νέο οπτικό ερέθισμα (ένα αδέσποτο μαύρο άλογο στα ριζά του βράχου του Οχυρού ή κάμποσες μικρές φωτεινές κουκίδες στα πέρατα της Ερήμου) γίνεται αφορμή για συνωμοσιολογίες και σενάρια πολέμου. Όλοι περίμεναν τους Μήδους να διαβούνε, αλλά οι Μήδοι δεν έρχονταν και τα χρόνια περνούσαν…
Αριστούργημα; Το δίχως άλλο! Έργο βαθιά υπαρξιακό και έντονα αλληγορικό, πίσω και πέρα από την (ονειρική) αφήγηση της ιστορίας του νεαρού αξιωματικού Τζοβάνι Ντρόγκο που διάβηκε τις πύλες του Οχυρού Μπαστιάνι για να αναλάβει υπηρεσία υπολογίζοντας ότι η θητεία του στο απομονωμένο αυτό φρούριο δεν θα διαρκούσε περισσότερο από τέσσερις μήνες, αλλά κατέληξε να περάσει στις οχυρώσεις του τριάντα ολόκληρα χρόνια, διακρίνει κανείς μια φιλοσοφική αποτίμηση των εννοιών του χρόνου, της συνήθειας, της μοναξιάς και της ανθρώπινης μοίρας. Υπέροχο, υπέροχο, υπέροχο!
Διότι, οι
Είναι η αναμονή των Ταρτάρων που νοηματοδοτεί την ακινησία. Η προσδοκία ότι κάτι θα γίνει που οπλίζει με καρτερικότητα τους στρατιώτες. Όμως, αυτή η επιθυμία για δράση γεννά παραισθήσεις και φαντασιοκοπίες. Οποιοδήποτε νέο οπτικό ερέθισμα (ένα αδέσποτο μαύρο άλογο στα ριζά του βράχου του Οχυρού ή κάμποσες μικρές φωτεινές κουκίδες στα πέρατα της Ερήμου) γίνεται αφορμή για συνωμοσιολογίες και σενάρια πολέμου. Όλοι περίμεναν τους Μήδους να διαβούνε, αλλά οι Μήδοι δεν έρχονταν και τα χρόνια περνούσαν…
«Ήταν φανερό ότι οι ελπίδες του παρελθόντος, οι πολεμικές ψευδαισθήσεις, η προσμονή του εχθρού απ’ τον βορρά δεν ήταν παρά μια αφορμή για να αποκτά ένα νόημα η ζωή. Τώρα που υπήρχε η δυνατότητα να επιστρέψουν στον πραγματικό κόσμο αυτές οι ιστορίες έμοιαζαν με παιδιάστικες εμμονές, κανένας δεν ήθελε να παραδεχτεί ότι τις είχε πιστέψει, ούτε δίσταζε να τις χλευάσει. Αυτό που είχε σημασία ήταν να φύγουν….»
Αριστούργημα; Το δίχως άλλο! Έργο βαθιά υπαρξιακό και έντονα αλληγορικό, πίσω και πέρα από την (ονειρική) αφήγηση της ιστορίας του νεαρού αξιωματικού Τζοβάνι Ντρόγκο που διάβηκε τις πύλες του Οχυρού Μπαστιάνι για να αναλάβει υπηρεσία υπολογίζοντας ότι η θητεία του στο απομονωμένο αυτό φρούριο δεν θα διαρκούσε περισσότερο από τέσσερις μήνες, αλλά κατέληξε να περάσει στις οχυρώσεις του τριάντα ολόκληρα χρόνια, διακρίνει κανείς μια φιλοσοφική αποτίμηση των εννοιών του χρόνου, της συνήθειας, της μοναξιάς και της ανθρώπινης μοίρας. Υπέροχο, υπέροχο, υπέροχο!
March 15, 2015
La prima volta che ho letto Il deserto dei Tartari di Buzzati era il 1977. E’ stato amore a prima vista. Da allora, l’ho riletto diverse volte, con immutato piacere. Un libro “senza tempo”, in cui il tempo pesa come un macigno.
Giovanni Drogo, tenente di prima nomina, dopo l’Accademia Militare si appresta a lasciare la sua casa per raggiungere la Fortezza, destinazione assegnatagli d’ufficio. La Fortezza … luogo imprecisato ed ignoto, pieno di fascino e repulsivo al contempo. Qui, giorno dopo giorno, si consuma la vita del protagonista, nell’attesa del grande momento, della grande occasione: lo scontro con i Tartari. Ma quel momento clou non arriva. O meglio, arriva, ma troppo tardi per Giovanni, che morirà senza aver, in fondo, vissuto nient’altro che un’attesa di vita.
Molte sono le chiavi di lettura applicabili a questo libro, molteplici i simboli in esso racchiusi. Non a caso, l’accostamento che più frequentemente viene fatto è con Kafka. E’ stato letto come una critica al militarismo, come una descrizione delle ambizioni frustrate, come una canzone sullo scorrere della vita, come una malinconica interpretazione della gioventù e in tanti altri modi diversi. Ma la genesi del libro è l’autore stesso che ce la racconta, nelle interviste da lui rilasciate. Quando Buzzati iniziò a scrivere questa storia, lavorava nella redazione del “Corriere della sera”, un impiego pesante e monotono. I mesi si succedevano senza apportare mutamenti. Attorno a sé vedeva i colleghi più anziani, che presto sarebbero andati in pensione senza lasciare alcun ricordo duraturo del loro passaggio. E si chiese, allora, se anche per lui sarebbe andata avanti così, in un lento atrofizzarsi degli entusiasmi tipici della gioventù. Un grido di allarme, dunque, per sé, ma anche per noi.
Ciò che più colpisce nel testo è la forza del tempo, la scansione micrometrica dei minuti e degli attimi, la presenza quasi ossessiva di un orologio fuori campo che emette il suo inesorabile “tic tac”, come il “clop” della goccia d’acqua che Drogo sente ogni sera cadere nella camera in cui dorme. Un rumore fastidioso, inizialmente, ma che diventa poco a poco tanto famigliare da non poterne fare a meno, da trasformarsi in assuefazione e necessità. Così come necessaria ed indispensabile diventa la routine quotidiana del servizio, un succedersi previsto e prevedibile di azioni sempre uguali, compiute e ripetute ad orari precisi. Una ripetitività che non si converte in noia, bensì in una specie di ninna nanna consolatoria, che appesantisce le palpebre ed induce al sonno. Ed è proprio in questa coazione a ripetere che si annida, non visto, il pericolo. E’ qui che si aprono le piccole crepe attraverso le quali il tempo, senza che ce ne si accorga, scappa via e va inesorabilmente perso. Fuga silenziosa e furtiva, che trascina con sé sogni e speranze.
Senza l’insistente ed onnipresente fattore “tempo”, le pagine di questo libro perderebbero tutto il loro senso. Ecco perché, a mio modo di vedere, la trasposizione cinematografica di Valerio Zurlini del 1976, interpretata da Vittorio Gassman, Giuliano Gemma e Philippe Noiret, non è stata un’operazione del tutto riuscita. Benché la pellicola rimanga piuttosto fedele al testo originale, il tempo “tecnico” del film (150’) finisce per prevalere sul tempo del libro (la vita di Drogo) e va così in parte perso il senso di attesa, l’immobilità ed il rimuginio interiore del protagonista, che vede sfumare i suoi giorni in uno stillicidio di ore e minuti sprecati.
La lentezza, dunque, è il ritmo che domina queste pagine, sapientemente resa dallo stile di scrittura di Buzzati. Ma non è una lentezza positiva. Al contrario, è una lentezza che parla di decomposizione, di festa appassita, di aspettative deluse, di desideri non colti, di uno spegnersi solitario ed angoscioso. Una lentezza che ci racconta un progressivo morire mentre ancora si vive.
Giovanni Drogo, tenente di prima nomina, dopo l’Accademia Militare si appresta a lasciare la sua casa per raggiungere la Fortezza, destinazione assegnatagli d’ufficio. La Fortezza … luogo imprecisato ed ignoto, pieno di fascino e repulsivo al contempo. Qui, giorno dopo giorno, si consuma la vita del protagonista, nell’attesa del grande momento, della grande occasione: lo scontro con i Tartari. Ma quel momento clou non arriva. O meglio, arriva, ma troppo tardi per Giovanni, che morirà senza aver, in fondo, vissuto nient’altro che un’attesa di vita.
Molte sono le chiavi di lettura applicabili a questo libro, molteplici i simboli in esso racchiusi. Non a caso, l’accostamento che più frequentemente viene fatto è con Kafka. E’ stato letto come una critica al militarismo, come una descrizione delle ambizioni frustrate, come una canzone sullo scorrere della vita, come una malinconica interpretazione della gioventù e in tanti altri modi diversi. Ma la genesi del libro è l’autore stesso che ce la racconta, nelle interviste da lui rilasciate. Quando Buzzati iniziò a scrivere questa storia, lavorava nella redazione del “Corriere della sera”, un impiego pesante e monotono. I mesi si succedevano senza apportare mutamenti. Attorno a sé vedeva i colleghi più anziani, che presto sarebbero andati in pensione senza lasciare alcun ricordo duraturo del loro passaggio. E si chiese, allora, se anche per lui sarebbe andata avanti così, in un lento atrofizzarsi degli entusiasmi tipici della gioventù. Un grido di allarme, dunque, per sé, ma anche per noi.
Ciò che più colpisce nel testo è la forza del tempo, la scansione micrometrica dei minuti e degli attimi, la presenza quasi ossessiva di un orologio fuori campo che emette il suo inesorabile “tic tac”, come il “clop” della goccia d’acqua che Drogo sente ogni sera cadere nella camera in cui dorme. Un rumore fastidioso, inizialmente, ma che diventa poco a poco tanto famigliare da non poterne fare a meno, da trasformarsi in assuefazione e necessità. Così come necessaria ed indispensabile diventa la routine quotidiana del servizio, un succedersi previsto e prevedibile di azioni sempre uguali, compiute e ripetute ad orari precisi. Una ripetitività che non si converte in noia, bensì in una specie di ninna nanna consolatoria, che appesantisce le palpebre ed induce al sonno. Ed è proprio in questa coazione a ripetere che si annida, non visto, il pericolo. E’ qui che si aprono le piccole crepe attraverso le quali il tempo, senza che ce ne si accorga, scappa via e va inesorabilmente perso. Fuga silenziosa e furtiva, che trascina con sé sogni e speranze.
Senza l’insistente ed onnipresente fattore “tempo”, le pagine di questo libro perderebbero tutto il loro senso. Ecco perché, a mio modo di vedere, la trasposizione cinematografica di Valerio Zurlini del 1976, interpretata da Vittorio Gassman, Giuliano Gemma e Philippe Noiret, non è stata un’operazione del tutto riuscita. Benché la pellicola rimanga piuttosto fedele al testo originale, il tempo “tecnico” del film (150’) finisce per prevalere sul tempo del libro (la vita di Drogo) e va così in parte perso il senso di attesa, l’immobilità ed il rimuginio interiore del protagonista, che vede sfumare i suoi giorni in uno stillicidio di ore e minuti sprecati.
La lentezza, dunque, è il ritmo che domina queste pagine, sapientemente resa dallo stile di scrittura di Buzzati. Ma non è una lentezza positiva. Al contrario, è una lentezza che parla di decomposizione, di festa appassita, di aspettative deluse, di desideri non colti, di uno spegnersi solitario ed angoscioso. Una lentezza che ci racconta un progressivo morire mentre ancora si vive.
August 5, 2023
در حین خواندن کتاب چه بسیار افسوس خوردم که چرا اینقد دیر به سراغش آمده ام و چه قدر این کتاب محجور است و نادیده گرفته شده. کتاب داستان امید و انتظار است هرچند که پوچ باشد، داستانِ ناکامی است. جووانی دروگو برای خدمت در ارتش به یک پادگان مرزی، قلعه باستیانی، اعزام می شود، قلعه ای که هیچ نشان و ابهتی از یک قلعه را ندارد. در بدو ورود متوجه می شود که ماندن در آن جا بیهوده است و باید آن جا را ترک کند ولی متوجه می شود که حداقل باید چهار ماه درقلعه بماند. آن سوی قلعه مشرف بیابانی است معروف به بیابان تاتارها، تنها امید سربازان و افسران برای خدمت در جای پرت و بی اهمیتی مانند قلعه باستیانی یک افسانه است. افسانه حمله تاتارها از بیابان. تمامی افراد حاضر در قلعه صبح خود را به این امید به شب می رسانند که حمله ای اتفاق بیفتد. در کتاب به هیچ وجه به اثرات و ترس از جنگ حرفی به میان آورده نمی شود، همه شور است و اشتیاق به مانند وصال معشوق. کتاب ریتم سریعی ندارد که اتفاقا همین باعث تاثیرگذاری بیشتر آن است چون در روند داستان هم اتفاق مهمی نمی افتد و خواننده هم به مانند حاضرین قلعه کلافه و ناامید می شود. سال ها سپری می شود جووانی دروگو هنوز در قلعه ماندگار است و هنوز امیدوار. شب ها و روزها خیره به بیابان در پی جنبش سایه ای در دوردست ها یا درخشش نوری اندک تا انتظارشان پایان یابد و حمله اتفاق بیفتد. ولی این اتفاق سی سال به طول می انجامد و حال دروگو بیمار و نزار در تخت افتاده که خبر می رسد تاتارها حمله کرده اند و در حال نزدیک شدن هستند، ولی انتظار دروگو به وصال ختم نمی شود و او را از قلعه خارج می کنند تا جا برای جوانان سالم و سرزنده و تازه نفس باز شود. دروگو بین لذت از حال انتظار از آینده را انتخاب کرد، انتظار جنگ، انتظاری بیهوده و پوچ. چگونه می شود انسان ها به این چنین انتظار تباهی را داشته باشند و آن را به مثابه شکوه و افتخارشان بپندارند؟؟ بوتزاتی با دیدگاهی کاملا نهیلیستی و پوچ گرایی کتاب را به بهترین شکل ممکن برای ما روایت می کند. جایی که همگی در انتظار اند، در انتظار تباهی. همگی از زندگی و لذایذ آن دل کنده و خود را در قلعه ای حبس کرده اند تا شاید با شروع جنگ و تباهی برای خود کسب لذت و افتخار کنند. و کتاب داستان فرسایش روزهای زندگی انسانیست، روزهایی که مدام تکرار شوند تا بالاخره در یک نقطه به پایان برسند، زندگی ما چیزی نیست جز فرسایش پایان ناپذیر روزهایمان.
October 29, 2020
هذه رواية عن انتظار ما لا يحدث، أو.. في حالة جيوفاني دروغو، فهو يحدث بعد فوات الأوان، عندما تتحوّل كل المعاني - التي اكتنزت في الانتظار - إلى هشيم. وهي أيضًا رواية عن نزعة البشر إلى اختراعِ القصص، لأننا"كائنات مدمنة على المعنى"، كما قال غوتشل في (الحيوان الحكاء)، فما معنى أن تكون جنديّ حراسة في حصنٍ حدوديّ لا يمثل قيمة استراتيجية ولا يردع أي خطر حقيقي؟ سوف تبدأ في اختراع الخطر، تخيّله، ورؤيته، فهذا الخطر (ممثلا بالأعداء أو التتار أو أوسيانيا أو البرابرة حتى) هو الشيء الوحيد الذي يمنح وجودك قيمة.
رواية (صحراء التتار) تسبق عمل كويتزي المفضل لديّ؛ (في انتظار البرابرة). وقد تكون الأخيرة هي تنويعٌ على ثيمة انتظار ما لا يأتي. لكن كويتزي يأخذ الفرضية الروائية إلى منحى مغاير، حيث الدولة هي التي تخترع العدوّ، لا الناس. فهي بحاجة إلى خطر يمنحها الضرورة والشرعية. وهنا أستطيع أن أضع كويتزي في رفٍ واحد مع أورويل في 1984 وإيكو في مقبرة براغ. في صحراء التتار كانت الدولة هي التي تعيد العساكر إلى صوابهم، وهي التي تبلغهم بأنه ما من تتار، ما من عدوّ، لا داعي لاختراع الحكايات.
وأيضًا.. لا أستطيع ألا أنظر إلى هذا العمل بشكل منفصل عما تمثله الوظيفة لإنسان القرن، فقد "أصبحنا نحن وظائفنا" كما قيل، ويحدث.. أن تمضي ثلاثين سنة في وظيفة لا تمنحك أي شكلٍ من أشكال النموّ (النمو الداخلي وليس الترقيات الجوفاء)، ولا تمنحك معنى تفهم به وجودك. إنها مسرحية سمجة لغيابِ المعنى، والمعنى لا يأتي أبدًا، مثل البرابرة وغودو.
الرواية وصفية، مشدودة، مضادة للاقتباس، وجميلة. هذه النسخة مستعارة ولا أعرف أين تتوفر.. صادرة عن دار حوران في سوريا 2003.
August 6, 2021
Io sono un recensore 'buono'. Do sempre un minimo di due stelline, anche ai libri che non mi sono piaciuti per niente, perché penso che forse ho sbagliato io a non leggerci ciò che ci doveva essere letto, magari la colpa è della mia miopia selettiva da lettore. Quando do cinque stelline, invece, non significa che stia necessariamente urlando al capolavoro imprescindibile. Proprio come faceva Robert Eger con le recensioni dei film, le mie stelline vanno sempre contestualizzate: così come dare 5 stelle a una commedia natalizia, perché è un'ottima commedia natalizia, non significa metterla sullo stesso livello di Quarto Potere o La Dolce Vita, così dare 5 stelle a un libro di Stephen King, David Mitchell o alla saga dell'Amica Geniale non significa metterli sullo stesso livello del Don Chisciotte o della Divina Commedia. Le mie cinque stelline indicano una soddisfazione, vogliono essere un incoraggiamento per quel libro che mi è piaciuto e mi ha incuriosito, sono un suggerimento di lettura per tutti quelli che hanno il buon cuore di lasciarsi distrarre per qualche minuto da una delle mie recensioni.
Poi, però, ti trovi inghiottito da un buco nero: le galassie collidono e la luce si sfilaccia, tutte quelle stelline diventano inutili e rimane il silenzio. E questo, per me, è stato il Deserto dei Tartari. Libro che forse molti conoscono dai tempi della scuola, ma a me a scuola non l'avevano fatto leggere, così ho dovuto scoprirlo io, per conto mio e con troppo ritardo. Il Deserto dei Tartari parla di me, e quest'affermazione non è altro che il frutto della mia ipertrofia da lettore, un male della vista ancor peggiore della miopia, perché ti fa vedere te stesso in libri e pagine scritte da chi non ti pensava, non ti conosceva, non ti concepiva. Eppure tu continui a guardare, con quei tuoi occhi che la lettura ha fatto ammalare e reso non ciechi, ma addirittura inutili, continui a scoprirti fra le pagine della Montagna Incantata di Thomas Mann, libro che ho odiato perché ho odiato la polvere dei miei anni dissipati e malati. Allora, ho chiuso quel libro scritto da un tedesco, tradotto in inglese e comprato in una libreria del Messico, e mi sono detto «Basta, quest'anno voglio leggere solo scrittori italiani, perché è bella la letteratura italiana, checché ne dicano gli italiani, e a me manca molto». E intanto ero già a Parigi. Allora incappo in quel fiume d'ombra e sospiri che è Il Male Oscuro, di Giuseppe Berto, e non posso sfuggire, anche lì trovo me stesso, e sono deluso da questo nuovo incontro, mi arrabbio, provo pena. E scopro che le quarte di copertina sono una menzogna: "è la storia di una lunga psicoanalisi", avevo letto, ed è in parte vero, ma in parte no. Nel romanzo di Berto, la psicoanalisi arriva dopo le prime centinaia di pagine, quando forse è troppo tardi. E poi, non va neppure a buon fine, questa psicoanalisi. Il protagonista passa anni in terapia, spende un sacco di soldi, poi la terapia finisce, è guarito?, sta bene?, no, scopre che la moglie lo tradisce, lo sta lasciando, sono passati gli anni e lui non ha combinato nulla in tutta la sua vita, alla fine rimane così, solo, senza una famiglia, senza una carriera, senza soldi, senza soddisfazioni, e si rifugia in una campagna lontana, abbandonata, dove lui trascorre gli ultimi anni della sua vita in solitudine, ai margini della vita, invischiato nella melma nera della sua morte psichica, culmine di un moto depressivo, un 'male oscuro', appunto, che non è mai guarito. Allora mi viene l'angoscia, faccio gli incubi e urlo di notte, cerco riparo nel Divino Mari, mi tuffo dove l'acqua è più blu, ma il naufragar non è sempre dolce, perché nei mari di Mari ci sono pesci magici che mi raccontano la morte. Quindi mi rimetto in marcia, vado a caccia di altri scrittori italiani, ne scopro alcuni di cui non avevo mai sentito parlare, che bravi che sono, ma perché non sono più conosciuti?, perché non hanno il successo che meritano?, e allora penso che il male oscuro di Berto travolge un po' tutti. E alla fine monto a cavallo, in compagnia di Giovanni Drogo, e scopro che Giovanni Drogo sono io, e che non sono più nemmeno arrabbiato, perché come puoi arrabbiarti col deserto? Il deserto è lì, ce lo hai di fronte, ti ha sempre chiamato con la sua voce di vento e di sabbia, la sabbia delle clessidre viene da quel deserto e come il vento non si ferma mai. Allora capisci, e ti chiedi: com'è potuto succedere? com'è stato possibile? Ma il deserto non risponde, le tue domande diventano eco nella notte e anche le stelle, oramai, non si vedono più.
Il tempo intanto correva, il suo battito silenzioso scandisce sempre più precipitoso la vita, non ci si può fermare neanche un attimo, neppure per un'occhiata indietro. "Ferma, ferma!" si vorrebbe gridare, ma si capisce ch'è inutile. Tutto quanto fugge via, gli uomini, le stagioni, le nubi; e non serve aggrapparsi alle pietre, resistere in cima a qualche scoglio, le dita stanche si aprono, le braccia si afflosciano inerti, si è trascinati ancora nel fiume, che pare lento ma non si ferma mai. Di giorno in giorno Drogo sentiva aumentare questa misteriosa rovina, e invano cercava di trattenerla.
Poi, però, ti trovi inghiottito da un buco nero: le galassie collidono e la luce si sfilaccia, tutte quelle stelline diventano inutili e rimane il silenzio. E questo, per me, è stato il Deserto dei Tartari. Libro che forse molti conoscono dai tempi della scuola, ma a me a scuola non l'avevano fatto leggere, così ho dovuto scoprirlo io, per conto mio e con troppo ritardo. Il Deserto dei Tartari parla di me, e quest'affermazione non è altro che il frutto della mia ipertrofia da lettore, un male della vista ancor peggiore della miopia, perché ti fa vedere te stesso in libri e pagine scritte da chi non ti pensava, non ti conosceva, non ti concepiva. Eppure tu continui a guardare, con quei tuoi occhi che la lettura ha fatto ammalare e reso non ciechi, ma addirittura inutili, continui a scoprirti fra le pagine della Montagna Incantata di Thomas Mann, libro che ho odiato perché ho odiato la polvere dei miei anni dissipati e malati. Allora, ho chiuso quel libro scritto da un tedesco, tradotto in inglese e comprato in una libreria del Messico, e mi sono detto «Basta, quest'anno voglio leggere solo scrittori italiani, perché è bella la letteratura italiana, checché ne dicano gli italiani, e a me manca molto». E intanto ero già a Parigi. Allora incappo in quel fiume d'ombra e sospiri che è Il Male Oscuro, di Giuseppe Berto, e non posso sfuggire, anche lì trovo me stesso, e sono deluso da questo nuovo incontro, mi arrabbio, provo pena. E scopro che le quarte di copertina sono una menzogna: "è la storia di una lunga psicoanalisi", avevo letto, ed è in parte vero, ma in parte no. Nel romanzo di Berto, la psicoanalisi arriva dopo le prime centinaia di pagine, quando forse è troppo tardi. E poi, non va neppure a buon fine, questa psicoanalisi. Il protagonista passa anni in terapia, spende un sacco di soldi, poi la terapia finisce, è guarito?, sta bene?, no, scopre che la moglie lo tradisce, lo sta lasciando, sono passati gli anni e lui non ha combinato nulla in tutta la sua vita, alla fine rimane così, solo, senza una famiglia, senza una carriera, senza soldi, senza soddisfazioni, e si rifugia in una campagna lontana, abbandonata, dove lui trascorre gli ultimi anni della sua vita in solitudine, ai margini della vita, invischiato nella melma nera della sua morte psichica, culmine di un moto depressivo, un 'male oscuro', appunto, che non è mai guarito. Allora mi viene l'angoscia, faccio gli incubi e urlo di notte, cerco riparo nel Divino Mari, mi tuffo dove l'acqua è più blu, ma il naufragar non è sempre dolce, perché nei mari di Mari ci sono pesci magici che mi raccontano la morte. Quindi mi rimetto in marcia, vado a caccia di altri scrittori italiani, ne scopro alcuni di cui non avevo mai sentito parlare, che bravi che sono, ma perché non sono più conosciuti?, perché non hanno il successo che meritano?, e allora penso che il male oscuro di Berto travolge un po' tutti. E alla fine monto a cavallo, in compagnia di Giovanni Drogo, e scopro che Giovanni Drogo sono io, e che non sono più nemmeno arrabbiato, perché come puoi arrabbiarti col deserto? Il deserto è lì, ce lo hai di fronte, ti ha sempre chiamato con la sua voce di vento e di sabbia, la sabbia delle clessidre viene da quel deserto e come il vento non si ferma mai. Allora capisci, e ti chiedi: com'è potuto succedere? com'è stato possibile? Ma il deserto non risponde, le tue domande diventano eco nella notte e anche le stelle, oramai, non si vedono più.
Il tempo intanto correva, il suo battito silenzioso scandisce sempre più precipitoso la vita, non ci si può fermare neanche un attimo, neppure per un'occhiata indietro. "Ferma, ferma!" si vorrebbe gridare, ma si capisce ch'è inutile. Tutto quanto fugge via, gli uomini, le stagioni, le nubi; e non serve aggrapparsi alle pietre, resistere in cima a qualche scoglio, le dita stanche si aprono, le braccia si afflosciano inerti, si è trascinati ancora nel fiume, che pare lento ma non si ferma mai. Di giorno in giorno Drogo sentiva aumentare questa misteriosa rovina, e invano cercava di trattenerla.
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