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Too Loud a Solitude
TOO LOUD A SOLITUDE is a tender and funny story of Haňťa - a man who has lived in a Czech police state - for 35 years, working as compactor of wastepaper and books. In the process of compacting, he has acquired an education so unwitting he can't quite tell which of his thoughts are his own and which come from his books. He has rescued many from jaws of hydraulic press and now his house is filled to the rooftops. Destroyer of the written word, he is also its perpetrator.
But when a new automatic press makes his job redundant there's only one thing he can do - go down with his ship.
This is an eccentric romp celebrating the indestructability- against censorship, political opression etc - of the written word.
112 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1976
About the author
Bohumil Hrabal
174 books1,179 followersBorn in Brno-Židenice, Moravia, he lived briefly in Polná, but was raised in the Nymburk brewery as the manager's stepson.
Hrabal received a Law degree from Prague's Charles University, and lived in the city from the late 1940s on.
He worked as a manual laborer alongside Vladimír Boudník in the Kladno ironworks in the 1950s, an experience which inspired the "hyper-realist" texts he was writing at the time.
His best known novels were Closely Watched Trains (1965) and I Served the King of England. In 1965 he bought a cottage in Kersko, which he used to visit till the end of his life, and where he kept cats ("kočenky").
He was a great storyteller; his popular pub was At the Golden Tiger (U zlatého tygra) on Husova Street in Prague, where he met the Czech President Václav Havel, the American President Bill Clinton and the then-US ambassador to the UN Madeleine Albright on January 11th, 1994.
Several of his works were not published in Czechoslovakia due to the objections of the authorities, including The Little Town Where Time Stood Still (Městečko, kde se zastavil čas) and I Served the King of England (Obsluhoval jsem anglického krále).
He died when he fell from a fifth floor hospital where he was apparently trying to feed pigeons. It was noted that Hrabal lived on the fifth floor of his apartment building and that suicides by leaping from a fifth-floor window were mentioned in several of his books.
He was buried in a family grave in the cemetery in Hradištko. In the same grave his mother "Maryška", step father "Francin", uncle "Pepin", wife "Pipsi" and brother "Slávek" were buried.
He wrote with an expressive, highly visual style, often using long sentences; in fact his work Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age (1964) (Taneční hodiny pro starší a pokročilé) is made up of just one sentence. Many of Hrabal's characters are portrayed as "wise fools" - simpletons with occasional or inadvertent profound thoughts - who are also given to coarse humour, lewdness, and a determination to survive and enjoy oneself despite harsh circumstances. Political quandaries and their concomitant moral ambiguities are also a recurrent theme.
Along with Jaroslav Hašek, Karel Čapek, and Milan Kundera - who were also imaginative and amusing satirists - he is considered one of the greatest Czech writers of the 20th century. His works have been translated into 27 languages.
Hrabal received a Law degree from Prague's Charles University, and lived in the city from the late 1940s on.
He worked as a manual laborer alongside Vladimír Boudník in the Kladno ironworks in the 1950s, an experience which inspired the "hyper-realist" texts he was writing at the time.
His best known novels were Closely Watched Trains (1965) and I Served the King of England. In 1965 he bought a cottage in Kersko, which he used to visit till the end of his life, and where he kept cats ("kočenky").
He was a great storyteller; his popular pub was At the Golden Tiger (U zlatého tygra) on Husova Street in Prague, where he met the Czech President Václav Havel, the American President Bill Clinton and the then-US ambassador to the UN Madeleine Albright on January 11th, 1994.
Several of his works were not published in Czechoslovakia due to the objections of the authorities, including The Little Town Where Time Stood Still (Městečko, kde se zastavil čas) and I Served the King of England (Obsluhoval jsem anglického krále).
He died when he fell from a fifth floor hospital where he was apparently trying to feed pigeons. It was noted that Hrabal lived on the fifth floor of his apartment building and that suicides by leaping from a fifth-floor window were mentioned in several of his books.
He was buried in a family grave in the cemetery in Hradištko. In the same grave his mother "Maryška", step father "Francin", uncle "Pepin", wife "Pipsi" and brother "Slávek" were buried.
He wrote with an expressive, highly visual style, often using long sentences; in fact his work Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age (1964) (Taneční hodiny pro starší a pokročilé) is made up of just one sentence. Many of Hrabal's characters are portrayed as "wise fools" - simpletons with occasional or inadvertent profound thoughts - who are also given to coarse humour, lewdness, and a determination to survive and enjoy oneself despite harsh circumstances. Political quandaries and their concomitant moral ambiguities are also a recurrent theme.
Along with Jaroslav Hašek, Karel Čapek, and Milan Kundera - who were also imaginative and amusing satirists - he is considered one of the greatest Czech writers of the 20th century. His works have been translated into 27 languages.
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July 31, 2017
بورخس: لذتی پیچیده تر از لذت تفکر وجود ندارد
هاینریش هاینه شاعری یهودی- آلمانی دو پیشگویی دارد که صریح تر از پیشگویی های نوستراداموس و بسیار وحشتناکتر از آنان است: یکی درباره سوزاندن کتابها و انسانها بدست فاشیست های آلمانی و دیگری درباره آینده هنر و کتابها در جهانی کمونیستی. او یک قرن پیش از بوقوع پیوستن چنین وقایع دردناک و خونینی در تاریخ بشریت، آن را با اندیشه بلندپروازانه‌ی خود و شناختی که از مفاهیم کمونیستی و خوی خودبرتربینی ژرمن ها داشت، پیش بینی کرد. درباره حاکمیت کمونیست ها می گوید
این اعتراف را که آینده از آن کمونیست ها خواهد بود با بیم فراوان و نگرانی شدید ابراز می دارم و افسوس!... با وحشت و هراس در فکر زمانی هستم که آیکونوکلاست‌ها به قدرت برسند: آنها با مشت های زمختشان همه‌ی نغمه های تخیل برانگیز کودکانه ای را که شاعران دوستدار آن بودند، از میان می برند، جنگل تمشکم را اره می کنند و جای آن سیب زمینی می کارند. و افسوس که کتاب "نغمه ها"یم را بقال های دوره گرد ورق ورق خواهند کرد و برای پیرزنان آینده در آن قهوه یا انفیه خواهند ریخت. آه! وقتی به افولی فکر می کنم که با آن شعرهای من و همه‌ی نظم کهن جهانی از سوی کمونیسم تهدید می شود همه چیز را پیشاپیش می بینم و اندوهی ناگفتنی بر دلم چنگ می زند
کتاب تنهایی پر هیاهو شاهدی است بر این پیش بینی؛
داستانی در مورد مرگ ِ کتابها و آثار هنری نقاشان
...که در جامعه کمونیستی نقش کاغذ باطله را پیدا کرده اند
هانتا یکی از کسانی است که با پرس کردن این بظاهر کاغذ باطله ها زندگیش را می گذراند؛ سی و پنج سال است که در کار کاغذ باطله هستم و این «قصه‌ی عاشقانه» من است
قصه عاشقانه او آشنایی با کتابها و شاهکار های بزرگ ادبی است و چیزهایی که از این آثار می آموزد. او برخی از این کتابها را به خانه اش می برد تا از نابود شدن نجات پیدا کنند
اما همانطور که هاینه می گوید: و افسوس که کتاب "نغمه ها"یم را بقال های دوره گرد ورق ورق خواهند کرد و برای پیرزنان آینده در آن قهوه یا انفیه خواهند ریخت
پیش بینی هاینه به وقوع می پیوندد و عاقبت دستگاه های بزرگتری ساخته می شود تا با سرعت بیشتری کتابها از بین بروند. و کارگران سوسیالیستی که جای هانتا را می گیرند و آخرین کسانی هستند که این کتابها را می بینند، فقط به فکر سریع کار کردن و خمیر کردن کتابها هستند؛ به آنچه فکر نمی کنند نگاه کردن و خواندن و غرق شدن در کتابهاست
در این جامعه کسی به فکر لذت های پیچیده و عمیق اندیشیدن نیست و در آوردن نان و لذت های زودگذر و سطحی مهمتر از هر چیزی است
همه این چیزها، هانتا به این نتیجه تلخ می رساند که انسان اندیشمند در این جامعه جایی ندارد
و در می یابد در این سرزمین یک بی قابلیت است همچون همه کتابهایی که از بین می روند
او آنقدر می نوشد تا دیگر شکی در تصمیمش نداشته باشد
...تا کاملا از پا در نیامده ایم جوهر واقعی خود را بروز نمی دهیم
به جای بسته بندی کاغذهای سفید در چاپخانه ملانتریخ دنبال راه سقراط و سه نه کا خواهم رفت، و اینجا، در این سردابه و در این پرس، خود، سقوط خویش را برخواهم گزید، سقوطی که عروج است
قسمت هایی از کتاب
خود را چنان با کلمات عجین کرده ام که دیگر به هیئت دانشنامه هایی در آمده ام که طی این سالها سه تُنی از آنها خمیر کرده ام. سبویی هستم پر از آب زندگانی و مردگانی، که کافی است کمی به یک سو خم شوم تا از من سیل افکار زیبا جاری شود. آموزشم چنان ناخودآگاه صورت گرفته که نمی دانم کدام فکری از خودم است و و کدام از کتابهایم ناشی شده. وقتی چیزی را می خوانم، در واقع نمی خوانم. جمله ای زیبا را به دهان می اندازم و مثل آب نبات می‌مکم، یا مثل لیکوری می‌نوشم، تا آنکه اندیشه، مثل الکل، در وجود من حل شود، تا در دلم نفوذ کند و در رگهایم جاری شود و به ریشه هر گلبول خونی برسد
وقتی چشمانم به کتاب درست و حسابی می افتد و کلمات چاپ شده را کنار می زنم، از متن چیزی جز اندیشه های مجرد باقی نمی ماند. اندیشه هایی که در هوا جریان و سیلان دارند، از هوا زنده اند و به هوا بر می گردند، چون که آخر و عاقبت هر چیزی هواست، هم ظرف و هم مظروف. نان در مراسم عشاء ربانی از هواست و نه از خون مسیح
سی و پنج سال است که دارم بی وقفه آبجو می خورم. نه انکه از این کار خوشم بیاد. از میخواره ها بیزارم. می نوشم تا بهتر فکر کنم، تا به قلب آنچه می خوانم بهتر راه بیابم، چونکه من وقتی چیزی می خوانم برای تفنن و وقت کشی یا بهتر خوابیدن نیست، می نوشم تا آنچه می خوانم خواب را از چشم من بگیرد، که مرا به رعشه بیندازد، چونکه با هگل در این عقیده همراهم که انسان شریف هرگز به اندازه کافی شریف نیست و هیچ تبهکاری هم تمام و کمال تبهکار نیست. اگر می توانستم بنویسم کتابی می نوشتم درباره لذات و بزرگترین اندوهای بشری. از کتاب و به مدد کتاب است که آموخته ام که آسمان بکلی از عاطفه بی بهره است
:هانتا و دخترک کولی
در یک لحظه، آرتور شوپنهاور به نظرم رسید که گفت: بالاترین همه قوانین عشق است، و عشق شفقت است
ما انگار در تاریک-روشن به هم بیشتر نگاه می کردیم تا در روشنایی روز، و من همیشه تاریک-روشن را دوست داشتم... در تاریک-روشن همه چیز زیباتر جلوه می کند، همه‌ی خیابانها و میدانها و مردمانی که در آنها گذر نی کردند، و حتی خودم هم این حس را داشتم که زیباترم، جوان و زیبا... در تاریک-روشن لحظه هایی در زندگی روزمره فرا می رسد که به آن زیبا می گویند. در نوری که از آتش بخاری می تابید دخترک کولی از جا بر می خاست و راه که می رفت می دیدم که دور پیکرش که طرحی از طلا داشت هاله ای پیچیده است... دخترک بعد از آنکه چند تکه چوب دیگر در آتش می انداخت می آمد و کنار من دراز می کشید و رو به من بر می گرداند و به نیمرخم چشم می دوخت و با نوک انگشت طرح بینی و دهانم را دنبال می کرد. هیچوقت همدیگر ار نیم بوسیدیم. همه چیز را با دستهایمان بهم می گفتیم، بعد همانطور دراز کشیده در بستر، به زبانه ها و انعکاس آتش در بخاری کهنه، نگاه می کردیم و به حلقه هایا نور که از جان دادن چوبها بر می خاست. هیچ چیزی نمی خواستیم جز اینکه تا ابد به همین صورت به زندگی ادامه بدهیم، انگار که قبلا همه چیز به هم گفته باشیم. انگار که توامان به دنیا آمده ایم و هرگز از هم جدا نشده ایم
یک شب سرشب که به خانه برگشتم دیدم که دخترک کولی در خانه نیست. چراغ روشن کردم و رفتم بیرون و تا صبح طول خیابان جلوی خانه را بالا و پایین رفتم، ولی اثری از او پیدا نشد، نه ان روز و نه روز بعدش و نه دیگر هیچ وقت... بعدها فهمیدم که گشتاپو در گشتهای خیابانی‌اش او را دستگیر کرده و با یک عده کولی دیگر به بازداشتگاه فرستاده و این دختر را یا دربازداشتگاه مایدانک یا در آشویتس در کوره های آدم سوزی سوزانده یا در اتاق گاز خفه کرده بودند. دختر دیگر برنگشت. آسمان عاطفه ندارد
او از زندگی چیزی جز این نمی خواست که هیزم در بخاری بریزد، که گوشه ای از نانش را مثل تکه نانی در مراسم عشا ربانی بشکند و به آتش درون بخاری نگاه کند، مجذوب و مبهوت حرارت و زمزمه ی اهنگین آتشی که از کودکی می شناخت و با قوم او پیوندی دیرین و مقدس داشت. آتشی که در حرارت و روشنایی اش، رنجها را فراموش می کرد و لبخندی اندوهگین به لبان او می آورد. انعکاس خوشبختی در اوج
نه، آسمان عاطفه ندارد، ولی احتمالا چیزی بالاتر از آسمان وجود دارد که عشق و شفقت است، چیزی که من مدتهاست که آن را از یاد برده ام
هاینریش هاینه شاعری یهودی- آلمانی دو پیشگویی دارد که صریح تر از پیشگویی های نوستراداموس و بسیار وحشتناکتر از آنان است: یکی درباره سوزاندن کتابها و انسانها بدست فاشیست های آلمانی و دیگری درباره آینده هنر و کتابها در جهانی کمونیستی. او یک قرن پیش از بوقوع پیوستن چنین وقایع دردناک و خونینی در تاریخ بشریت، آن را با اندیشه بلندپروازانه‌ی خود و شناختی که از مفاهیم کمونیستی و خوی خودبرتربینی ژرمن ها داشت، پیش بینی کرد. درباره حاکمیت کمونیست ها می گوید
این اعتراف را که آینده از آن کمونیست ها خواهد بود با بیم فراوان و نگرانی شدید ابراز می دارم و افسوس!... با وحشت و هراس در فکر زمانی هستم که آیکونوکلاست‌ها به قدرت برسند: آنها با مشت های زمختشان همه‌ی نغمه های تخیل برانگیز کودکانه ای را که شاعران دوستدار آن بودند، از میان می برند، جنگل تمشکم را اره می کنند و جای آن سیب زمینی می کارند. و افسوس که کتاب "نغمه ها"یم را بقال های دوره گرد ورق ورق خواهند کرد و برای پیرزنان آینده در آن قهوه یا انفیه خواهند ریخت. آه! وقتی به افولی فکر می کنم که با آن شعرهای من و همه‌ی نظم کهن جهانی از سوی کمونیسم تهدید می شود همه چیز را پیشاپیش می بینم و اندوهی ناگفتنی بر دلم چنگ می زند
کتاب تنهایی پر هیاهو شاهدی است بر این پیش بینی؛
داستانی در مورد مرگ ِ کتابها و آثار هنری نقاشان
...که در جامعه کمونیستی نقش کاغذ باطله را پیدا کرده اند
هانتا یکی از کسانی است که با پرس کردن این بظاهر کاغذ باطله ها زندگیش را می گذراند؛ سی و پنج سال است که در کار کاغذ باطله هستم و این «قصه‌ی عاشقانه» من است
قصه عاشقانه او آشنایی با کتابها و شاهکار های بزرگ ادبی است و چیزهایی که از این آثار می آموزد. او برخی از این کتابها را به خانه اش می برد تا از نابود شدن نجات پیدا کنند
اما همانطور که هاینه می گوید: و افسوس که کتاب "نغمه ها"یم را بقال های دوره گرد ورق ورق خواهند کرد و برای پیرزنان آینده در آن قهوه یا انفیه خواهند ریخت
پیش بینی هاینه به وقوع می پیوندد و عاقبت دستگاه های بزرگتری ساخته می شود تا با سرعت بیشتری کتابها از بین بروند. و کارگران سوسیالیستی که جای هانتا را می گیرند و آخرین کسانی هستند که این کتابها را می بینند، فقط به فکر سریع کار کردن و خمیر کردن کتابها هستند؛ به آنچه فکر نمی کنند نگاه کردن و خواندن و غرق شدن در کتابهاست
در این جامعه کسی به فکر لذت های پیچیده و عمیق اندیشیدن نیست و در آوردن نان و لذت های زودگذر و سطحی مهمتر از هر چیزی است
همه این چیزها، هانتا به این نتیجه تلخ می رساند که انسان اندیشمند در این جامعه جایی ندارد
و در می یابد در این سرزمین یک بی قابلیت است همچون همه کتابهایی که از بین می روند
او آنقدر می نوشد تا دیگر شکی در تصمیمش نداشته باشد
...تا کاملا از پا در نیامده ایم جوهر واقعی خود را بروز نمی دهیم
به جای بسته بندی کاغذهای سفید در چاپخانه ملانتریخ دنبال راه سقراط و سه نه کا خواهم رفت، و اینجا، در این سردابه و در این پرس، خود، سقوط خویش را برخواهم گزید، سقوطی که عروج است
قسمت هایی از کتاب
خود را چنان با کلمات عجین کرده ام که دیگر به هیئت دانشنامه هایی در آمده ام که طی این سالها سه تُنی از آنها خمیر کرده ام. سبویی هستم پر از آب زندگانی و مردگانی، که کافی است کمی به یک سو خم شوم تا از من سیل افکار زیبا جاری شود. آموزشم چنان ناخودآگاه صورت گرفته که نمی دانم کدام فکری از خودم است و و کدام از کتابهایم ناشی شده. وقتی چیزی را می خوانم، در واقع نمی خوانم. جمله ای زیبا را به دهان می اندازم و مثل آب نبات می‌مکم، یا مثل لیکوری می‌نوشم، تا آنکه اندیشه، مثل الکل، در وجود من حل شود، تا در دلم نفوذ کند و در رگهایم جاری شود و به ریشه هر گلبول خونی برسد
وقتی چشمانم به کتاب درست و حسابی می افتد و کلمات چاپ شده را کنار می زنم، از متن چیزی جز اندیشه های مجرد باقی نمی ماند. اندیشه هایی که در هوا جریان و سیلان دارند، از هوا زنده اند و به هوا بر می گردند، چون که آخر و عاقبت هر چیزی هواست، هم ظرف و هم مظروف. نان در مراسم عشاء ربانی از هواست و نه از خون مسیح
سی و پنج سال است که دارم بی وقفه آبجو می خورم. نه انکه از این کار خوشم بیاد. از میخواره ها بیزارم. می نوشم تا بهتر فکر کنم، تا به قلب آنچه می خوانم بهتر راه بیابم، چونکه من وقتی چیزی می خوانم برای تفنن و وقت کشی یا بهتر خوابیدن نیست، می نوشم تا آنچه می خوانم خواب را از چشم من بگیرد، که مرا به رعشه بیندازد، چونکه با هگل در این عقیده همراهم که انسان شریف هرگز به اندازه کافی شریف نیست و هیچ تبهکاری هم تمام و کمال تبهکار نیست. اگر می توانستم بنویسم کتابی می نوشتم درباره لذات و بزرگترین اندوهای بشری. از کتاب و به مدد کتاب است که آموخته ام که آسمان بکلی از عاطفه بی بهره است
:هانتا و دخترک کولی
در یک لحظه، آرتور شوپنهاور به نظرم رسید که گفت: بالاترین همه قوانین عشق است، و عشق شفقت است
ما انگار در تاریک-روشن به هم بیشتر نگاه می کردیم تا در روشنایی روز، و من همیشه تاریک-روشن را دوست داشتم... در تاریک-روشن همه چیز زیباتر جلوه می کند، همه‌ی خیابانها و میدانها و مردمانی که در آنها گذر نی کردند، و حتی خودم هم این حس را داشتم که زیباترم، جوان و زیبا... در تاریک-روشن لحظه هایی در زندگی روزمره فرا می رسد که به آن زیبا می گویند. در نوری که از آتش بخاری می تابید دخترک کولی از جا بر می خاست و راه که می رفت می دیدم که دور پیکرش که طرحی از طلا داشت هاله ای پیچیده است... دخترک بعد از آنکه چند تکه چوب دیگر در آتش می انداخت می آمد و کنار من دراز می کشید و رو به من بر می گرداند و به نیمرخم چشم می دوخت و با نوک انگشت طرح بینی و دهانم را دنبال می کرد. هیچوقت همدیگر ار نیم بوسیدیم. همه چیز را با دستهایمان بهم می گفتیم، بعد همانطور دراز کشیده در بستر، به زبانه ها و انعکاس آتش در بخاری کهنه، نگاه می کردیم و به حلقه هایا نور که از جان دادن چوبها بر می خاست. هیچ چیزی نمی خواستیم جز اینکه تا ابد به همین صورت به زندگی ادامه بدهیم، انگار که قبلا همه چیز به هم گفته باشیم. انگار که توامان به دنیا آمده ایم و هرگز از هم جدا نشده ایم
یک شب سرشب که به خانه برگشتم دیدم که دخترک کولی در خانه نیست. چراغ روشن کردم و رفتم بیرون و تا صبح طول خیابان جلوی خانه را بالا و پایین رفتم، ولی اثری از او پیدا نشد، نه ان روز و نه روز بعدش و نه دیگر هیچ وقت... بعدها فهمیدم که گشتاپو در گشتهای خیابانی‌اش او را دستگیر کرده و با یک عده کولی دیگر به بازداشتگاه فرستاده و این دختر را یا دربازداشتگاه مایدانک یا در آشویتس در کوره های آدم سوزی سوزانده یا در اتاق گاز خفه کرده بودند. دختر دیگر برنگشت. آسمان عاطفه ندارد
او از زندگی چیزی جز این نمی خواست که هیزم در بخاری بریزد، که گوشه ای از نانش را مثل تکه نانی در مراسم عشا ربانی بشکند و به آتش درون بخاری نگاه کند، مجذوب و مبهوت حرارت و زمزمه ی اهنگین آتشی که از کودکی می شناخت و با قوم او پیوندی دیرین و مقدس داشت. آتشی که در حرارت و روشنایی اش، رنجها را فراموش می کرد و لبخندی اندوهگین به لبان او می آورد. انعکاس خوشبختی در اوج
نه، آسمان عاطفه ندارد، ولی احتمالا چیزی بالاتر از آسمان وجود دارد که عشق و شفقت است، چیزی که من مدتهاست که آن را از یاد برده ام
August 9, 2021
Příliš Hlučná Samota = Prilis Hlucna Samta = Too Loud a Solitude, Bohumil Hrabal
Too Loud a Solitude is a short novel by Czech writer Bohumil Hrabal. Self-published in 1976 and officially in 1989.
The entire story is narrated in the first person by the main character Hanta.
Hanta is portrayed as a sort of recluse and hermit, albeit one with encyclopedic literary knowledge. Hanta uses metaphorical language and surreal descriptions, and much of the book is concerned with just his inner thoughts, as he recalls and meditates on the outlandish amounts of knowledge he has attained over the years.
He brings up stories from his past and imagines the events of whimsical scenarios. He contemplates the messages of the vast numbers of intellectuals which he has studied. The novel is vibrant with symbolism. A simple but obscure plot is present, however.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز هجدهم ماه آگوست سال 2004میلادی
عنوان: تنهایی پرهیاهو؛ اثر: بهومیل هرابال؛ مترجم: پرویز دوائی، تهران، کتاب روشن، 1383، در بیست و دو، 105ص، شابک 9645709520؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان چک - 20م
مترجم: احسان لامع، مشهد، بوتیمار، 1392، در 102ص؛ اندازه 5/14در5/21س.م، شابک 9786006938134؛
مترجم: امیر علیجان پور، تهران، آوای مکتوب، 1393، در 120ص؛ شابک 9786007364079؛
داستان با این جملات آغاز میشود: (سی و پنج سال است که در کار کاغذ باطله هستم، و این «قصه ی عاشقانه ی» من است؛ سی و پنج سال است که دارم کتاب و کاغذ باطله خمیر میکنم، و خود را چنان با کلمات عجین کرده ام، که دیگر به هیئت دانشنامه هایی درآمده ام، که طی این سالها سه تُنی از آنها را خمیر کرده ام؛ سبویی هستم پر از آب زندگانی و مردگانی، که کافی است کمی به یکسو خم شوم، تا از من، سیل افکار زیبا جاری شود؛ آموزشم چنان ناخودآگاه صورت گرفته، که نمی‌دانم کدام فکر از خودم است، و کدام از کتابهایم ناشی شده؛ اما فقط به این صورت است، که توانسته ام هماهنگی ام را، با خودم، و جهان اطرافم، در این سی و پنج سال گذشته، حفظ کنم )»؛ پایان نقل
تنهایی پر هیاهو؛ داستانی روانکاوانه و فلسفی است، که از شخصیت «هانتا» و افکارش سخن می‌گوید؛ اما در این بین گاهی به موارد سیاسی اجتماعی نیز اشاره میکند؛ «��انتا» در زیرزمینی مرطوب، که انبار کاغذ باطله است، روزگار می‌گذراند، و کتابهایی را که از سوی اداره ی سانسور به آن‌جا می‌آورند را، خمیر میکند؛ آقای «هانتا» با خواندن آن کتابها، دنیا را به گونه ا�� دیگر می‌بیند
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 10/06/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 17/05/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Too Loud a Solitude is a short novel by Czech writer Bohumil Hrabal. Self-published in 1976 and officially in 1989.
The entire story is narrated in the first person by the main character Hanta.
Hanta is portrayed as a sort of recluse and hermit, albeit one with encyclopedic literary knowledge. Hanta uses metaphorical language and surreal descriptions, and much of the book is concerned with just his inner thoughts, as he recalls and meditates on the outlandish amounts of knowledge he has attained over the years.
He brings up stories from his past and imagines the events of whimsical scenarios. He contemplates the messages of the vast numbers of intellectuals which he has studied. The novel is vibrant with symbolism. A simple but obscure plot is present, however.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز هجدهم ماه آگوست سال 2004میلادی
عنوان: تنهایی پرهیاهو؛ اثر: بهومیل هرابال؛ مترجم: پرویز دوائی، تهران، کتاب روشن، 1383، در بیست و دو، 105ص، شابک 9645709520؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان چک - 20م
مترجم: احسان لامع، مشهد، بوتیمار، 1392، در 102ص؛ اندازه 5/14در5/21س.م، شابک 9786006938134؛
مترجم: امیر علیجان پور، تهران، آوای مکتوب، 1393، در 120ص؛ شابک 9786007364079؛
داستان با این جملات آغاز میشود: (سی و پنج سال است که در کار کاغذ باطله هستم، و این «قصه ی عاشقانه ی» من است؛ سی و پنج سال است که دارم کتاب و کاغذ باطله خمیر میکنم، و خود را چنان با کلمات عجین کرده ام، که دیگر به هیئت دانشنامه هایی درآمده ام، که طی این سالها سه تُنی از آنها را خمیر کرده ام؛ سبویی هستم پر از آب زندگانی و مردگانی، که کافی است کمی به یکسو خم شوم، تا از من، سیل افکار زیبا جاری شود؛ آموزشم چنان ناخودآگاه صورت گرفته، که نمی‌دانم کدام فکر از خودم است، و کدام از کتابهایم ناشی شده؛ اما فقط به این صورت است، که توانسته ام هماهنگی ام را، با خودم، و جهان اطرافم، در این سی و پنج سال گذشته، حفظ کنم )»؛ پایان نقل
تنهایی پر هیاهو؛ داستانی روانکاوانه و فلسفی است، که از شخصیت «هانتا» و افکارش سخن می‌گوید؛ اما در این بین گاهی به موارد سیاسی اجتماعی نیز اشاره میکند؛ «��انتا» در زیرزمینی مرطوب، که انبار کاغذ باطله است، روزگار می‌گذراند، و کتابهایی را که از سوی اداره ی سانسور به آن‌جا می‌آورند را، خمیر میکند؛ آقای «هانتا» با خواندن آن کتابها، دنیا را به گونه ا�� دیگر می‌بیند
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 10/06/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 17/05/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
December 4, 2013
I had been meaning to read Hrabal's classic novella for quite a while, but last night I finally picked it up. Instantly, I was transported to the world of Hantá in a crumbling Communist Prague. Hrabal combines lyrical descriptions of the pleasures - and the necessity - of reading, with surreal passages revealing Hantá's tangible interactions with the figures in his books, in a world where reading and intellectual and creative engagement are no longer valued. It is a stunningly written, very original work in which Hrabal transcends a mere indictment of one regime, by tapping into the universal and transcendent joys of books and art, and the dangers of dehumanization that we face when we lose sight of those integral aspects of human life.
Hantá works by day compacting confiscated books and papers for recycling. He toils in a basement with an ancient compacting machine, and only mice and the occasional flies (and a gypsy or two) for company. He does not keep up with the efficient pace that his boss, and his society, demand - instead, Hantá lets the papers pile up to the ceiling as he searches the deliveries for rare books to rescue or, in some cases, to send off to a ceremonial end in the middle of a bale, opened to a much loved passage, and decorated by art prints that were also designated for destruction.
Hantá literally is surrounded by the ghosts of writers past. His small apartment is filled to the rafters with tons of books that he has rescued from pulping, to the point that the shelves he has built over his bed and in his bathroom present the constant risk of burying him:
"The way I look at it, my life fits together beautifully: at work I have books -- and bottles and inkwells and staplers -- raining down on me through the opening in the cellar ceiling, and at home I have books above me constantly threatening to fall and kill or at least maim me. The swords of Damocles that I've hung from my bathroom and bedroom ceilings force me to make as many trips for beer at home as at work...." (26)
As he works in his isolated basement, Hantá is visited by Jesus and Lao Tse Tung, who present him with radically different models for spiritual engagement on earth. As he walks through Prague, he is surrounded by the architectural ghosts of the classical world. His avocation rescuing and reading books has provided him with a unique education:
"I am a jug filled with water both magic and plain; I have only to lean over and a stream of beautiful thoughts flows out of me. My education has been so unwitting I can't quite tell which of my thoughts come from me and which from my books, but that's how I've stayed attuned to myself and the world around me for the past thirty-five years. Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.” (6)
His reading also provides Hantá with a means to escape the dismal reality of his life:
"And I huddle in the lee of my paper mountain like Adam in the bushes and pick up a book, and my eyes open panic-stricken on a world other than my own, because when I start reading I'm somewhere completely different, I'm in the text, it's amazing, I have to admit I've been dreaming, dreaming in a land of great beauty, I've been in the very heart of truth." (14)
Throughout the novella, Hrabal seamlessly moves back and forth between Hrabal's reveries about philosophy and books, his memories of past relationships, and his observations of the society that is literally rotting under his feet. There are long, gorgeously written passages that I am tempted to quote at length, alternating with some very disturbing images of the decay and death surrounding Hantá. In the end, Hantá's basement sanctuary cannot hide him from the forces for progress that surround him.
Hrabal is known for developing central characters who seem simple, innocent, but who are more in touch with the spiritualism of life than the supposedly well adjusted, but bland, people surrounding them. Hantá comes across as a prophet, but one whom no one notices or hears. He sees the dangers of sterile efficiency as the primary goal for a society. Through him, Hrabal leaves us with the question of the value of a life stripped of intellectual and spiritual engagement, one with all rough corners smoothed away to a bland predictability and surface gloss. The book holds tremendous power and relevance for us, even reading across the span of time and space.
Note that the images on the review are taken from different film adaptations of the novella. See for example http://www.tooloudasolitude.com/Too_L... and http://www.handmadepuppetdreams.com/2....
Hantá works by day compacting confiscated books and papers for recycling. He toils in a basement with an ancient compacting machine, and only mice and the occasional flies (and a gypsy or two) for company. He does not keep up with the efficient pace that his boss, and his society, demand - instead, Hantá lets the papers pile up to the ceiling as he searches the deliveries for rare books to rescue or, in some cases, to send off to a ceremonial end in the middle of a bale, opened to a much loved passage, and decorated by art prints that were also designated for destruction.
Hantá literally is surrounded by the ghosts of writers past. His small apartment is filled to the rafters with tons of books that he has rescued from pulping, to the point that the shelves he has built over his bed and in his bathroom present the constant risk of burying him:
"The way I look at it, my life fits together beautifully: at work I have books -- and bottles and inkwells and staplers -- raining down on me through the opening in the cellar ceiling, and at home I have books above me constantly threatening to fall and kill or at least maim me. The swords of Damocles that I've hung from my bathroom and bedroom ceilings force me to make as many trips for beer at home as at work...." (26)
As he works in his isolated basement, Hantá is visited by Jesus and Lao Tse Tung, who present him with radically different models for spiritual engagement on earth. As he walks through Prague, he is surrounded by the architectural ghosts of the classical world. His avocation rescuing and reading books has provided him with a unique education:
"I am a jug filled with water both magic and plain; I have only to lean over and a stream of beautiful thoughts flows out of me. My education has been so unwitting I can't quite tell which of my thoughts come from me and which from my books, but that's how I've stayed attuned to myself and the world around me for the past thirty-five years. Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.” (6)
His reading also provides Hantá with a means to escape the dismal reality of his life:
"And I huddle in the lee of my paper mountain like Adam in the bushes and pick up a book, and my eyes open panic-stricken on a world other than my own, because when I start reading I'm somewhere completely different, I'm in the text, it's amazing, I have to admit I've been dreaming, dreaming in a land of great beauty, I've been in the very heart of truth." (14)
Throughout the novella, Hrabal seamlessly moves back and forth between Hrabal's reveries about philosophy and books, his memories of past relationships, and his observations of the society that is literally rotting under his feet. There are long, gorgeously written passages that I am tempted to quote at length, alternating with some very disturbing images of the decay and death surrounding Hantá. In the end, Hantá's basement sanctuary cannot hide him from the forces for progress that surround him.
Hrabal is known for developing central characters who seem simple, innocent, but who are more in touch with the spiritualism of life than the supposedly well adjusted, but bland, people surrounding them. Hantá comes across as a prophet, but one whom no one notices or hears. He sees the dangers of sterile efficiency as the primary goal for a society. Through him, Hrabal leaves us with the question of the value of a life stripped of intellectual and spiritual engagement, one with all rough corners smoothed away to a bland predictability and surface gloss. The book holds tremendous power and relevance for us, even reading across the span of time and space.
Note that the images on the review are taken from different film adaptations of the novella. See for example http://www.tooloudasolitude.com/Too_L... and http://www.handmadepuppetdreams.com/2....
September 25, 2023
Iată o minunăție de carte! Merită s-o citiți de îndată, în orice ediție veți găsi, există mai multe, eu am folosit reeditarea de la ART...
Despre ce este vorba în numita carte? Un om, Hanta, trăiește printre cărți, sub mormane de cărți, într-un subsol livresc, plin de șoareci, un mic infern; are la dispoziție o presă de hîrtie, trebuie să transforme cărțile în baloturi, în ceva omogen, să distrugă, așadar, propozițiile, cuvintele, ideile reacționare exprimate acolo. Dar are sufletul îndoit. A fost educat într-un regim care prețuia cărțile, putea cita din filosofi (citează îndeosebi din Hegel, nu este înțeleptul meu preferat, dar hai...), acum a ajuns să trăiască într-un regim superior, în socialism, și e obligat să transforme cărțile într-o materie opacă, pe care se vor tipări clasicii marxism-leninismului și clasicii mai mici.
Și fiindcă are un suflet îndoit, Hanta bea; bea ca să-și țină mintea trează, de asta bea, și nu-și pierde nici un moment istețimea, nu devine un „idiot”, cum au zis unii criticii literari, este numai un ironic dublat de un cinic nefericit. Băutura îi ascute mintea și-i îneacă amarul. Vorbește tot timpul și își bate joc de toate prestigiile, inclusiv de cele religioase: nu prea are respect pentru sfinți și martiri: știe că sfinții nu se mai pricep să facă minuni, au ostenit, probabil. Hanta este, prin urmare, un muncitor cu o dublă conștiință, are o conștiință „alienată”, ca să folosesc cuvinte din clasici...
Deci Hanta este un mic inadaptat, un îndărătnic, un potențial dușman pentru regimul socialist definitiv instalat pe jumătate din globul pămîntesc (sic!), inclusiv în Cehoslovacia. Hrabal a publicat romanul în 1977. Mai mult nu vă spun, trebuie să faceți și Domniile Voastre un mic efort și să cumpărați negreșit cartea.
Despre ce este vorba în numita carte? Un om, Hanta, trăiește printre cărți, sub mormane de cărți, într-un subsol livresc, plin de șoareci, un mic infern; are la dispoziție o presă de hîrtie, trebuie să transforme cărțile în baloturi, în ceva omogen, să distrugă, așadar, propozițiile, cuvintele, ideile reacționare exprimate acolo. Dar are sufletul îndoit. A fost educat într-un regim care prețuia cărțile, putea cita din filosofi (citează îndeosebi din Hegel, nu este înțeleptul meu preferat, dar hai...), acum a ajuns să trăiască într-un regim superior, în socialism, și e obligat să transforme cărțile într-o materie opacă, pe care se vor tipări clasicii marxism-leninismului și clasicii mai mici.
Și fiindcă are un suflet îndoit, Hanta bea; bea ca să-și țină mintea trează, de asta bea, și nu-și pierde nici un moment istețimea, nu devine un „idiot”, cum au zis unii criticii literari, este numai un ironic dublat de un cinic nefericit. Băutura îi ascute mintea și-i îneacă amarul. Vorbește tot timpul și își bate joc de toate prestigiile, inclusiv de cele religioase: nu prea are respect pentru sfinți și martiri: știe că sfinții nu se mai pricep să facă minuni, au ostenit, probabil. Hanta este, prin urmare, un muncitor cu o dublă conștiință, are o conștiință „alienată”, ca să folosesc cuvinte din clasici...
Deci Hanta este un mic inadaptat, un îndărătnic, un potențial dușman pentru regimul socialist definitiv instalat pe jumătate din globul pămîntesc (sic!), inclusiv în Cehoslovacia. Hrabal a publicat romanul în 1977. Mai mult nu vă spun, trebuie să faceți și Domniile Voastre un mic efort și să cumpărați negreșit cartea.
May 6, 2022
“Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god.”
~ Aristotle
And all is lost now
but what have I lost
for what I really had to lose.
Darkness is clouding over me
the time has come
weariness is taking over me,
there were times
when mind and body
used to act in unison.
The child has long gone now
Childishness is also going now
waiting for the eternal plunge.
And I see
there is life
taking birth again
somewhere
the eternal place
where the fates of dusk and dawn get exchange.
The Others say
an exceptional life
have I lived
to say the least
realized a lot
what many could not
but what really I attained
for what really was there
to be attained.
Memories of childhood
clouding over my head,
some of which
I really want to relive
but how
I could not see,
what I see
people whom I know
are falling apart
even their distant memories
seem to be so far.
So many people
here around me
but still I feel alone
as if standing amidst crowd
searching for someone known.
And stalking the people
one by one
still I find none.
And no respite come to me
since even my memories
are about to get free.
So many years have passed
I may have lived enough
but not enough
to understand absurdity of life.
I am still the troubled soul
whom even after so many years
there is nothing
which may console.
For what is there to console
the absurdness of life
what one should brace
and others say
it's a dying soul
but sometimes
I feel otherwise
as it's about to rise
above the epitome of life.
Are these ruminations
not futile
for what is there
to fall and rise.
The anxious mind
searches for distractions
which may
keep it enthrall.
And perhaps
that's what
we may live for at all
till we meet the eternal fall.
For thirty-five years now I’ve been compacting wastepaper, and if I had it all to do over I’d do just what I’ve done for the past thirty-five years.
The solitude of existence essentially implies that we are alone, literally alone. We are condemned to be free, as existentialists such as Jean-Paul Sartre used to maintain, free to do as we may please. Is it a blessing or a curse? Human beings have been haunted by this age-old question since they became aware of their consciousness, for we have been evolved into conscious beings from our cousins. Once we take birth, we are condemned to be free, of course, the preliminary ventures of life are beyond our control; however, once we become self-conscious, which we eventually do, we are condemned to be free, which essentially means to make choices. We are responsible for everything we do, therefore only we and no one is responsible for our actions. There is no inherent purpose or defined model of life which may be followed to find one’s true essence, existence precedes essence as put by Sartre. It gives rise to an absurd situation that may provide us the anguish of freedom as an infinite choice may there for us.
Life as we know is inherently meaningless, however, it is the realization of that absurd situation that enables us to realize our true existence as put by Albert Camus. But the inherent lack of meaning of life perhaps gives rise to human suffering, the unbelievable burden of responsibility which a free man bear keeps him in a constant flux of anguish. So do we need to explore as many options as we could? More often than not, we often find refuse in sticking to a few options in the pursuit of money to propel our livelihood. But we are unable to get free from this feeling of restlessness which essentially manifests into existential anxiety, anxiety to look for some meaning, some reference to hold onto, which might free us from this anguish even if that means an inauthentic existence.
Solitude may be bliss as when we are with ourselves, we may contemplate our lives, our choices, and thereby realizing our true and authentic existence. Writing may also be a kind of solitude to reach our inner abyss as Kafka used to say, to render the tumult and turbulence one might be going through while sometimes words are deftly used to concoct an escapade which may indirectly covey one’s thoughts. A solitude that may be deep, dark, and calm like death could be an enriching for one to experience that all is one and one is all. However, mankind can’t simply cut off with the outer world, since we need to define our boundaries in the outer physical world, to survive through mundane happenings of life with bouts of solitude interspersed among them. As we are social beings, there is a need -‘others’ to see ourselves through their eyes in search of happiness which may essentially be inauthentic and shallow. In the background of this constant struggle between living our selves and behaving as per our ‘social’ norms, there lies utter loneliness like an abyss, a void.
Literature may provide us the necessary refuge, the distraction, the medium we need to save ourselves from getting mad. For, it may act as a tool, a man always looks for, to get away from his inner tumult, it might provide the balmy, the soothing effect, even if it is illusionary, we need to brave the horrors of our existential solitude. The literature has got the ability to withstand the horrific acts of humanity, it may act as a mirror to us, which might reflect our inner-selves to us, however, more often than not, humanity is so shameless that it doesn't get ashamed even after looking into such mirror, as Hegel said-The only thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history. Yet it is the black hole we need, which gives rise to life, which absorbs all our insolence, our despotism, abuse, exploits, perversions, and persistently reflects only the condensed consciousness of those who care for humanity-a sort of caring and nurturing magic of existence.
Haňtá has been compacting trash for thirty-five years. Every evening he rescues books from the jaws of his hydraulic press, carries them home, and fills his house with them. He has created a universe of his own embedded in our physical world. He takes refuge from his mundane, repugnant, inauthentic existence into his little universe built upon literature. The universe of Haňtá is strange, he breathes words, eats pages and lives with Hegel, Goethe, Leibniz, Sartre, Cezannes, Kant, Schopenhauer and others from the realm of literature and art in a microcosm, hanging in a delicate balance of being and nothingness through a dirty cellar, witnessing to the struggle of mice of different colors from the underground sewers.
The tyrannical weight of hydraulic press destroys pages and books by pressing them into destruction, however, it could not demolish the wisdom of those pages as indestructibility of words survives through the horror of the press to enlighten the solitude of existence of the narrator. The universe of Haňtá may seem to be insignificant, suspended through a thin thread from the hell of nothingness, but it’s the paradise created by the narrator for himself wherein he may have a one-to-one conversation with Jesus and Lao Tze, and which fulfills the abyss of loneliness of his existence.
Such a world could be a paradise for any book lover, some of us may even envy of Haňtá, for there could be infinite possibilities in his world, a kind of multiverse having parallel universes existing simultaneously on the space-time continuum, wherein one move to and fro in time as if it’s one of the dimensions with literature providing the force of gravity which may transcend universes and times. A world which provides the weak, downtrodden to realize his true essence, to overcome his loneliness of existence through bearing the unbearable responsibility of being free, absolutely free; to realize the true, authentic existence of himself.
The novella in a way depicts the totalitarian political regime of Czechoslovakia during the life of Bohumil Hrabal or any such regime for that matter since literature has to breathe the air of oppression, tyranny, abuse, and persecution in such a nether world. However, it is the resilience of the literature which enables it to survive the horror of inhumane acts we have executed throughout our abominable history, to come out in the light of the resurrection and to breathe in the air of perseverance, and that’s how the greatest literature has survived, perfectly complementing the human spirit of feisty existence in this inhumane world.
This is the first time I got a chance to dip my literary senses into the world of Brabal and I find it quite enriching and delightful to hear out Bohumil Hrabal's cry for humanism amidst our indifferent world.
Neither the heavens are humane nor is life above or below- or within me.
4/5
*edited on 05.07.2020
~ Aristotle
And all is lost now
but what have I lost
for what I really had to lose.
Darkness is clouding over me
the time has come
weariness is taking over me,
there were times
when mind and body
used to act in unison.
The child has long gone now
Childishness is also going now
waiting for the eternal plunge.
And I see
there is life
taking birth again
somewhere
the eternal place
where the fates of dusk and dawn get exchange.
The Others say
an exceptional life
have I lived
to say the least
realized a lot
what many could not
but what really I attained
for what really was there
to be attained.
Memories of childhood
clouding over my head,
some of which
I really want to relive
but how
I could not see,
what I see
people whom I know
are falling apart
even their distant memories
seem to be so far.
So many people
here around me
but still I feel alone
as if standing amidst crowd
searching for someone known.
And stalking the people
one by one
still I find none.
And no respite come to me
since even my memories
are about to get free.
So many years have passed
I may have lived enough
but not enough
to understand absurdity of life.
I am still the troubled soul
whom even after so many years
there is nothing
which may console.
For what is there to console
the absurdness of life
what one should brace
and others say
it's a dying soul
but sometimes
I feel otherwise
as it's about to rise
above the epitome of life.
Are these ruminations
not futile
for what is there
to fall and rise.
The anxious mind
searches for distractions
which may
keep it enthrall.
And perhaps
that's what
we may live for at all
till we meet the eternal fall.
For thirty-five years now I’ve been compacting wastepaper, and if I had it all to do over I’d do just what I’ve done for the past thirty-five years.
The solitude of existence essentially implies that we are alone, literally alone. We are condemned to be free, as existentialists such as Jean-Paul Sartre used to maintain, free to do as we may please. Is it a blessing or a curse? Human beings have been haunted by this age-old question since they became aware of their consciousness, for we have been evolved into conscious beings from our cousins. Once we take birth, we are condemned to be free, of course, the preliminary ventures of life are beyond our control; however, once we become self-conscious, which we eventually do, we are condemned to be free, which essentially means to make choices. We are responsible for everything we do, therefore only we and no one is responsible for our actions. There is no inherent purpose or defined model of life which may be followed to find one’s true essence, existence precedes essence as put by Sartre. It gives rise to an absurd situation that may provide us the anguish of freedom as an infinite choice may there for us.
Life as we know is inherently meaningless, however, it is the realization of that absurd situation that enables us to realize our true existence as put by Albert Camus. But the inherent lack of meaning of life perhaps gives rise to human suffering, the unbelievable burden of responsibility which a free man bear keeps him in a constant flux of anguish. So do we need to explore as many options as we could? More often than not, we often find refuse in sticking to a few options in the pursuit of money to propel our livelihood. But we are unable to get free from this feeling of restlessness which essentially manifests into existential anxiety, anxiety to look for some meaning, some reference to hold onto, which might free us from this anguish even if that means an inauthentic existence.
Solitude may be bliss as when we are with ourselves, we may contemplate our lives, our choices, and thereby realizing our true and authentic existence. Writing may also be a kind of solitude to reach our inner abyss as Kafka used to say, to render the tumult and turbulence one might be going through while sometimes words are deftly used to concoct an escapade which may indirectly covey one’s thoughts. A solitude that may be deep, dark, and calm like death could be an enriching for one to experience that all is one and one is all. However, mankind can’t simply cut off with the outer world, since we need to define our boundaries in the outer physical world, to survive through mundane happenings of life with bouts of solitude interspersed among them. As we are social beings, there is a need -‘others’ to see ourselves through their eyes in search of happiness which may essentially be inauthentic and shallow. In the background of this constant struggle between living our selves and behaving as per our ‘social’ norms, there lies utter loneliness like an abyss, a void.
Literature may provide us the necessary refuge, the distraction, the medium we need to save ourselves from getting mad. For, it may act as a tool, a man always looks for, to get away from his inner tumult, it might provide the balmy, the soothing effect, even if it is illusionary, we need to brave the horrors of our existential solitude. The literature has got the ability to withstand the horrific acts of humanity, it may act as a mirror to us, which might reflect our inner-selves to us, however, more often than not, humanity is so shameless that it doesn't get ashamed even after looking into such mirror, as Hegel said-The only thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history. Yet it is the black hole we need, which gives rise to life, which absorbs all our insolence, our despotism, abuse, exploits, perversions, and persistently reflects only the condensed consciousness of those who care for humanity-a sort of caring and nurturing magic of existence.
Haňtá has been compacting trash for thirty-five years. Every evening he rescues books from the jaws of his hydraulic press, carries them home, and fills his house with them. He has created a universe of his own embedded in our physical world. He takes refuge from his mundane, repugnant, inauthentic existence into his little universe built upon literature. The universe of Haňtá is strange, he breathes words, eats pages and lives with Hegel, Goethe, Leibniz, Sartre, Cezannes, Kant, Schopenhauer and others from the realm of literature and art in a microcosm, hanging in a delicate balance of being and nothingness through a dirty cellar, witnessing to the struggle of mice of different colors from the underground sewers.
The tyrannical weight of hydraulic press destroys pages and books by pressing them into destruction, however, it could not demolish the wisdom of those pages as indestructibility of words survives through the horror of the press to enlighten the solitude of existence of the narrator. The universe of Haňtá may seem to be insignificant, suspended through a thin thread from the hell of nothingness, but it’s the paradise created by the narrator for himself wherein he may have a one-to-one conversation with Jesus and Lao Tze, and which fulfills the abyss of loneliness of his existence.
Such a world could be a paradise for any book lover, some of us may even envy of Haňtá, for there could be infinite possibilities in his world, a kind of multiverse having parallel universes existing simultaneously on the space-time continuum, wherein one move to and fro in time as if it’s one of the dimensions with literature providing the force of gravity which may transcend universes and times. A world which provides the weak, downtrodden to realize his true essence, to overcome his loneliness of existence through bearing the unbearable responsibility of being free, absolutely free; to realize the true, authentic existence of himself.
The novella in a way depicts the totalitarian political regime of Czechoslovakia during the life of Bohumil Hrabal or any such regime for that matter since literature has to breathe the air of oppression, tyranny, abuse, and persecution in such a nether world. However, it is the resilience of the literature which enables it to survive the horror of inhumane acts we have executed throughout our abominable history, to come out in the light of the resurrection and to breathe in the air of perseverance, and that’s how the greatest literature has survived, perfectly complementing the human spirit of feisty existence in this inhumane world.
This is the first time I got a chance to dip my literary senses into the world of Brabal and I find it quite enriching and delightful to hear out Bohumil Hrabal's cry for humanism amidst our indifferent world.
Neither the heavens are humane nor is life above or below- or within me.
4/5
*edited on 05.07.2020
September 22, 2019
Well, it is that. But it absolutely is not that at all.
“Every beloved object is the center of a garden of paradise.”
This is a beautiful paean to the transformative power of words on paper.
About finding beauty in the dirtiest, most unlikely places.
How devotion can manifest itself in pleasure at saving and destroying.
How destruction of what one loves can become a sacramental, sacrificial art.
How a person can become one with the focus of their life and passion.
“I have a physical sense of myself as a bale of compacted books, the seat of a tiny pilot light of karma.”
The opening pages made me deliriously drunk as they piled more and more ways to express a passionate, visceral love of books. More delirium from the disconcerting awareness that this booklover destroys far more books than he saves. He describes himself as “a refined butcher”, relishing the physical sensations of his work.
“I loved the feel of paper in my fingers… to experience the palpable charm of wastepaper.”
Nevertheless, through the "subterranean subtext", I read him as more priest than butcher.
“When I read, I don’t really read; I pop a beautiful sentence in my mouth and sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart.”
I was hooked from the start, as any booklover should be.
Status Quo
In the first half, Hant’a doggedly does his work, biding his time until retirement. Repetitively ripping books apart, putting them in the drum, pressing the green and red buttons, compressing them into bales - even if there are mice inside. His boss rails at him. He looks forward to visits from gypsy girls. He drinks. But he’s always looking out for special books, mostly for himself, but also for one or two friends. His home is heaving with them; shelves piled perilously high, even over his bed.
“I hear the books above me plotting their revenge… the Sword of Damocles that I’ve hung from my bathroom and bedroom ceilings.”
Hant’a reads and loves great literature, especially ancient Greek and Roman philosophers, whose ideas he applies to who and what he sees around him. He views his job as a profession requiring a classical education and ideally a degree in divinity, which seems a bit back-to-front: he has acquired such erudition by doing the job, or by not doing it.
In every bale, he puts something special, “like a priest on the altar”: a book open at a beautiful passage, or a print of a great painting: “my ritual, my mass”. The press squeezes “like fingers clasping in a deeper prayer”. He relishes the secrecy, “I am both artist and audience”, while hoping someone notices and is uplifted.
The circle of life is not limited to people: his press destroys books to make clean paper for another press to print new books.
Progress is The End
“The dreams I never dreamed came true.”
One day, he visits a huge new processing plant: full of sunlight and sparkling equipment. Like a cathedral. But not his church. The future. But not his future.
The happy young workers in their jolly uniforms have “no feeling for what the book might mean, no thought that somebody had to write the book… edit… design… proofread… print… bind”. Worse still, many of the books are remaindered, pulped “before a single page could be sullied by human eye, brain, or heart… Workers tearing open the boxes, taking the virgin books out of them, pulling the covers off, and tossing the naked insides on the belt”. It’s like ripping chickens apart in the slaughterhouse. Suddenly, it’s easy to see the beauty of Hant’a’s work, in his filthy cellar.
He plucks a precious old book from the conveyor belt:
“It shakes in my hands like a bride’s bouquet at the altar.”
The visit is transformative. Hant’a wanders the city in a daze, revisiting friends and old haunts:
“The clock told a useless time: I had nowhere to go, I was floating in space.”
The ending was sublime.
Image from the 1996 film, which I've not seen. See imdb HERE.
Quotes
I want to copy out the whole first chapter and large chunks of the rest. Here’s a taste from only 98 pages.
• “I am a jug filled with water both magic and plain; I have only to lean over and a stream of beautiful thoughts flows out of me.”
• “When my eye lands on a real book and looks past the printed word, what it sees is disembodied thoughts flying through the air, gliding on air, living off air… just as the host is and is not the blood of Christ.”
• “Thousands of cobalt-colored flies… their metallic wings and bodies embroidered an immense tableau vivant made up of constantly shifting curves and splashes like the flow of paint in those gigantic Jackson Pollocks.”
• “Ineffable joy and even greater woe” come from literacy.
• “I am never lonely. I’m simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude.”
• “My head spinning from too loud a solitude” in the cellar.
• “For we are like olives: only when we are crushed do we yield what is best in us.” From the Talmud.
Related Reading
Before this, there was Kafka’s In The Penal Colony (see my review HERE).
After this, there was Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (see my review HERE).
And there's a real-life garbage man in Bogota who's saved 25,000 books: HERE.
Hrabal writes:
“Inquisitors burn books in vain. If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh.”
When Hant’a rescues a book,
“I walk home like a burning house… the light of life pouring out of the fire, fire pouring out of the dying wood, hostile sorrow lingering under the ashes.”
Here's a link to a 2-minute excerpt of an animated adaptation from 2007 (thanks to Diane S): HERE.
Details on imdb HERE.
GR Friends
This book had been vaguely on my TBR, but it was a delightful day in London with Laysee, including a trip to the renowned Foyles, that meant I bought and read it. Thank you, Laysee.
August 6, 2014
Rare books perish in my press, under my hands, yet I am unable to stop their flow: I am nothing but a refined butcher. Books have taught me the joy of devastation.
A trip down the history lane by walking through the ruins which once stood tall in their resplendence and laurels can make one hear the echoes of steadfast voices that match the rhythm of our steps and seek to become the teller of stories of an era gone by, of wars fought, won and lost; of love – both passionate and eternal. In the same vein, here’s the Love story of Haňťa and here’s a Love letter to his readers. We have a tragedy here and a tragic hero but he is not alone in his anguish and obsession. We have happiness here and a hopeless romantic, but he is not alone in his love. His solitude is loud but not deafening. The shadows of his thoughts are both sad and euphoric. He’s a part of us and we are a part of him.
I'm the only one on earth who knows that deep in the heart of each bale there's a wide-open Faust or Don Carlos, that here, buried beneath a mound of blood-soaked cardboard, lies a Hyperion, there, cushioned on piles of cement bags rests a Thus Spake Zarathustra; I'm the only one on earth who knows which bale has Goethe, which Schiller, which Holderlin, which Nietzsche.
Adorned with Hrabal’s beautiful prose, the ballad of Haňťa belongs to a world which is surrounded by darkness both literal and symbolical wherein all sorts of wars are going on. In those wars, the biggest sin is committed towards books and our protagonist is one of the unfortunate perpetrators in suppressing the words of the literary masters. The moral contradictions of his life is enough to evoke a sense of empathy and his efforts towards mitigating the effect of irrevocable curses of humanity presents a hope for fair and harmonious existence.
Lost in my dreams, I somehow cross at the traffic signals, never bumping into street lamps or people, yet moving onward, exuding fumes of beer and grime, yet smiling, because my briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know.
And there’s always so much to know. I talk very little when I want to talk about books in real life. It is better that way but I quietly tag along the written words wherever I go. If there’s a conversation about love then I think about my lovely Jane Eyre. If someone touches upon the subject of marriage then Mrs. Dalloway stands beside me with all her regrets and whims. Italo Calvino is always there on a starry night and in the moments of melancholy, the narratives created by Javier Marías and Carson McCullers come alive. At the end of the day though, solitude is what I yearn for. That’s when the real party begins which usually brings me to this one question. A question which used to hover in my mind and the answer to which I was searching for some time. An answer in the form of some printed testimony. An answer laden with certitude, beauty and truth. An answer I can use to quiet the inquisitive utterances and to actually make others see and understand in the best way possible. The question is: Why do you read? The answer for me : This little gem of a book. Read it to find and feel that tear trickling down your cheek; that smile coming across your face; that pride in recognizing the infinite grandeur of words.
This book has taught me the joy of being a bibliophile.
A trip down the history lane by walking through the ruins which once stood tall in their resplendence and laurels can make one hear the echoes of steadfast voices that match the rhythm of our steps and seek to become the teller of stories of an era gone by, of wars fought, won and lost; of love – both passionate and eternal. In the same vein, here’s the Love story of Haňťa and here’s a Love letter to his readers. We have a tragedy here and a tragic hero but he is not alone in his anguish and obsession. We have happiness here and a hopeless romantic, but he is not alone in his love. His solitude is loud but not deafening. The shadows of his thoughts are both sad and euphoric. He’s a part of us and we are a part of him.
I'm the only one on earth who knows that deep in the heart of each bale there's a wide-open Faust or Don Carlos, that here, buried beneath a mound of blood-soaked cardboard, lies a Hyperion, there, cushioned on piles of cement bags rests a Thus Spake Zarathustra; I'm the only one on earth who knows which bale has Goethe, which Schiller, which Holderlin, which Nietzsche.
Adorned with Hrabal’s beautiful prose, the ballad of Haňťa belongs to a world which is surrounded by darkness both literal and symbolical wherein all sorts of wars are going on. In those wars, the biggest sin is committed towards books and our protagonist is one of the unfortunate perpetrators in suppressing the words of the literary masters. The moral contradictions of his life is enough to evoke a sense of empathy and his efforts towards mitigating the effect of irrevocable curses of humanity presents a hope for fair and harmonious existence.
Lost in my dreams, I somehow cross at the traffic signals, never bumping into street lamps or people, yet moving onward, exuding fumes of beer and grime, yet smiling, because my briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know.
And there’s always so much to know. I talk very little when I want to talk about books in real life. It is better that way but I quietly tag along the written words wherever I go. If there’s a conversation about love then I think about my lovely Jane Eyre. If someone touches upon the subject of marriage then Mrs. Dalloway stands beside me with all her regrets and whims. Italo Calvino is always there on a starry night and in the moments of melancholy, the narratives created by Javier Marías and Carson McCullers come alive. At the end of the day though, solitude is what I yearn for. That’s when the real party begins which usually brings me to this one question. A question which used to hover in my mind and the answer to which I was searching for some time. An answer in the form of some printed testimony. An answer laden with certitude, beauty and truth. An answer I can use to quiet the inquisitive utterances and to actually make others see and understand in the best way possible. The question is: Why do you read? The answer for me : This little gem of a book. Read it to find and feel that tear trickling down your cheek; that smile coming across your face; that pride in recognizing the infinite grandeur of words.
This book has taught me the joy of being a bibliophile.
December 16, 2017
...IO SONO UN PO' UNO SPACCONE DELL'INFINITO E DELL'ETERNITÀ E L'INFINITO E L'ETERNITÀ FORSE HANNO UN DEBOLE PER LE PERSONE COME ME<
Adattamento cinematografico del 1996, “Une trop bruyante solitude” di Véra Caïs, protagonista il mai abbastanza rimpianto Philippe Noiret.
... un libro come si deve rimanda sempre altrove e fuori.
Cosa che sicuramente Hrabal fa molto bene, qui, e nel resto delle sue opere: le sue parole 'aprono', rimandano altrove e fuori.
A cominciare dalla meraviglia dei suoi titoli: una solitudine troppo rumorosa, treni strettamente sorvegliati...
Solo a Wim Wenders potrebbero venire in mente titoli così belli ed evocativi (oltre il titolo, però, Wenders, si ferma, ormai da decenni è così).
”Too Loud A Solitude” un adattamento ad animazione del 2007 diretto da Genevieve Anderson.
E questo libro cos'è?
Un romanzo non direi.
Un racconto lungo forse.
O, forse, una poesia in prosa?
Pieno di ironia e di lirismo, il tenero barbaro, come lo stesso Hrabal si definisce, crudamente tenero, pone accanto allo scolo un brillante, e sono ancora parole sue.
Mai come qui, la materia fecale mi è parsa pregna di luce, poesia e splendore.
...era convinto che il predecessore di Gesù fosse Icaro, giusto con la differenza che Icaro era stato tirato dai cieli giù nel mare, mentre Gesù, con un missile Atlante, potenza centottanta tonnellate, era stato messo in orbita attorno alla terra, e da lì regnava fino a oggi...
Adattamento cinematografico del 1996, “Une trop bruyante solitude” di Véra Caïs, protagonista il mai abbastanza rimpianto Philippe Noiret.
... un libro come si deve rimanda sempre altrove e fuori.
Cosa che sicuramente Hrabal fa molto bene, qui, e nel resto delle sue opere: le sue parole 'aprono', rimandano altrove e fuori.
A cominciare dalla meraviglia dei suoi titoli: una solitudine troppo rumorosa, treni strettamente sorvegliati...
Solo a Wim Wenders potrebbero venire in mente titoli così belli ed evocativi (oltre il titolo, però, Wenders, si ferma, ormai da decenni è così).
”Too Loud A Solitude” un adattamento ad animazione del 2007 diretto da Genevieve Anderson.
E questo libro cos'è?
Un romanzo non direi.
Un racconto lungo forse.
O, forse, una poesia in prosa?
Pieno di ironia e di lirismo, il tenero barbaro, come lo stesso Hrabal si definisce, crudamente tenero, pone accanto allo scolo un brillante, e sono ancora parole sue.
Mai come qui, la materia fecale mi è parsa pregna di luce, poesia e splendore.
...era convinto che il predecessore di Gesù fosse Icaro, giusto con la differenza che Icaro era stato tirato dai cieli giù nel mare, mentre Gesù, con un missile Atlante, potenza centottanta tonnellate, era stato messo in orbita attorno alla terra, e da lì regnava fino a oggi...
December 17, 2017
Existence. Tearing Existence. Endearing Existence. Suppressed Existence. Spirited Existence. Delusional Existence. Resuscitating Existence. Multiple Existence. Solitary Existence. Existence.
Overriding all the comprehensible and perplexing spaces joining the various uneven points of existence in the larger lattice of congruent existence, I have pushed the ship of my life with the ardour of a sincere helmsman, trained to always prioritize steering over stalling. But did someone tell me that the sea is more legendary for the turbulence it unleashes than the serenity it gifts? Perhaps that should have helped me. And Haňťa. Or maybe not.
But Haňťa treasured his existence. And his love-story was one I could step up and embrace as my own. He was no ordinary, ragged-shirt-cobbled-shoes-torn-hat-haggard in a reclusive, submerged workplace. He was a connoisseur; connoisseur of books! Precious and banned books, in their elegant covers, finely crafted edges and embellished spines; oh, they sent him into a tizzy, especially the words wafting from the wombs of papyruses christened by flagbearers of philosophy that he would expertly secure just before feeding them to the gurgling press. In the words of Aristotle and Sophocles, Kant and Goethe, Camus and Sartre, he dissolved his solitude to see it crystallize into priceless turquoise of redefining beauty and wisdom, galloping on whose back, he conquered thirty-five years of cold shoulders and defiling glances. Recreating a literary world within his lackadaisical real world was a symptomatic victory, a roaring flush of medals of sorts that left Haňťa insulated to the economic upheavals and social abandonments.
But if forgiving was the name in distribution, the world would come last for anointment. Staying true to its dubious reputation, the outside world belched its ugly phlegm and the putrid liquid eventually quarantined Haňťa; well, almost.
I am certain that Haňťa was a literary doppelgänger of Hrabal. When Hrabal finished penning this work in 1976, the politically charged environment of the erstwhile Czechoslovakia forbade him from publishing it. He went ahead nonetheless and self-published it, almost as a testament to his indomitable spirit and an ode to his feisty existence. But the next thirteen years were a tedious, exhaustive journey of moving from a suppressed voice of searing potential to an emulated voice of inspiring intellect, almost an agonizing punishment for a wise but recalcitrant writer. I suspect he lived those intermediate years, drawing strength from the books he read and the imaginations he permitted; sprinkling his reading sessions with humor and surrealism and erecting insurmountable walls of perennial refuge. There must have been excruciating periods of muffled freedom when his immediate circular cellar would have deserted him and the restorative heartbeat of his philosophical utopia may not have been audible either. But he continued tending to his cognitive saplings, across seasons, in all those years. And I am glad the purifying aroma of the flowers from this patient gardener’s garden finally reached us; resurrecting an existence that was truly wholesome because it respected the many fractures within.
Overriding all the comprehensible and perplexing spaces joining the various uneven points of existence in the larger lattice of congruent existence, I have pushed the ship of my life with the ardour of a sincere helmsman, trained to always prioritize steering over stalling. But did someone tell me that the sea is more legendary for the turbulence it unleashes than the serenity it gifts? Perhaps that should have helped me. And Haňťa. Or maybe not.
"For thirty-five years now I've been in wastepaper, and it's my love story."Haňťa is not a man you would meet on the road; you would meet him underneath it! As you heard him, our dear Haňťa has been recycling papers in his hydraulic press in a basement cellar for thirty-five years now. A failed affair, a dismantled family, no friends and a shrewd boss; you would think he was a weightless mass.
But Haňťa treasured his existence. And his love-story was one I could step up and embrace as my own. He was no ordinary, ragged-shirt-cobbled-shoes-torn-hat-haggard in a reclusive, submerged workplace. He was a connoisseur; connoisseur of books! Precious and banned books, in their elegant covers, finely crafted edges and embellished spines; oh, they sent him into a tizzy, especially the words wafting from the wombs of papyruses christened by flagbearers of philosophy that he would expertly secure just before feeding them to the gurgling press. In the words of Aristotle and Sophocles, Kant and Goethe, Camus and Sartre, he dissolved his solitude to see it crystallize into priceless turquoise of redefining beauty and wisdom, galloping on whose back, he conquered thirty-five years of cold shoulders and defiling glances. Recreating a literary world within his lackadaisical real world was a symptomatic victory, a roaring flush of medals of sorts that left Haňťa insulated to the economic upheavals and social abandonments.
But if forgiving was the name in distribution, the world would come last for anointment. Staying true to its dubious reputation, the outside world belched its ugly phlegm and the putrid liquid eventually quarantined Haňťa; well, almost.
I am certain that Haňťa was a literary doppelgänger of Hrabal. When Hrabal finished penning this work in 1976, the politically charged environment of the erstwhile Czechoslovakia forbade him from publishing it. He went ahead nonetheless and self-published it, almost as a testament to his indomitable spirit and an ode to his feisty existence. But the next thirteen years were a tedious, exhaustive journey of moving from a suppressed voice of searing potential to an emulated voice of inspiring intellect, almost an agonizing punishment for a wise but recalcitrant writer. I suspect he lived those intermediate years, drawing strength from the books he read and the imaginations he permitted; sprinkling his reading sessions with humor and surrealism and erecting insurmountable walls of perennial refuge. There must have been excruciating periods of muffled freedom when his immediate circular cellar would have deserted him and the restorative heartbeat of his philosophical utopia may not have been audible either. But he continued tending to his cognitive saplings, across seasons, in all those years. And I am glad the purifying aroma of the flowers from this patient gardener’s garden finally reached us; resurrecting an existence that was truly wholesome because it respected the many fractures within.
February 7, 2016
“Literature is resistance”, the lugubrious voice of the narrator, who speaks from the sewers of our conscience, whispers in ruthless crudity.
Literature keeps Hant’a alive in the suffocating cellar that he shares with filthy rodents, giant botflies and gypsy prostitutes.
For thirty-five years, Hant’a has worked the jaws of his hydraulic press destroying all kind of books, lithographs and artistic imprints by trade and saving them for passion. The physical books disappear, but their essence remains embedded on Hant’a’s tortured mind.
Literature under any totalitarian system defies oppression because it gives access to alternative realities that cannot be silenced by persecution. Those living in the underworld, tyrannized by absurd authority recover the condition of their lost humanity through words written by others. Their freedom is surrogate, for it derives from the appropriation of thoughts not originally theirs. And yet they allow them to persist, to keep on fighting, to embrace abstract fellowship from a permanent exile, to feel alive amidst an inanimate existence.
Literature is interxtuality printed on a page. A multidimensional universe folded in a two-dimensional support. That is why Hant’a can maintain a dialogue with Lao-Tse and Jesus while greenish flies splatter the bloody wrappers discarded by the butcher and summon a Jackson Pollock’s painting back to life.
Literature allows the marginalized to be born again and again and to endure the leaden guilt, the horrifying weakness, the shameful need for self-preservation that prevents them from remembering what the color of happiness looked like.
“Every beloved object is the center of a garden of paradise.”
Hant’a’s idea of paradise is a kite with a blurred text on it soaring the azure skies of a past that has become unbearable fiction. And, even though the heavens are not humane, those who hear the quiet ascension of words rising up from the pages they caress with their eyes won’t ever feel abandoned.
The chirping of voices in their minds will be too loud for them to be lonely and instead, when their spirits surrender to the foreboding of dark times ahead, they won’t feel the sharp edge of loneliness piercing their precious memories; they will bask in the solitude that grants them painless access to bygone lives and incandescent loves that were extinguished a long time ago.
The real world might be washed out, but the memories, branded in incandescent ink, will write and rewrite their life stories and make them blow in the winter winds.
So for now, I am winter.
Literature keeps Hant’a alive in the suffocating cellar that he shares with filthy rodents, giant botflies and gypsy prostitutes.
For thirty-five years, Hant’a has worked the jaws of his hydraulic press destroying all kind of books, lithographs and artistic imprints by trade and saving them for passion. The physical books disappear, but their essence remains embedded on Hant’a’s tortured mind.
Literature under any totalitarian system defies oppression because it gives access to alternative realities that cannot be silenced by persecution. Those living in the underworld, tyrannized by absurd authority recover the condition of their lost humanity through words written by others. Their freedom is surrogate, for it derives from the appropriation of thoughts not originally theirs. And yet they allow them to persist, to keep on fighting, to embrace abstract fellowship from a permanent exile, to feel alive amidst an inanimate existence.
Literature is interxtuality printed on a page. A multidimensional universe folded in a two-dimensional support. That is why Hant’a can maintain a dialogue with Lao-Tse and Jesus while greenish flies splatter the bloody wrappers discarded by the butcher and summon a Jackson Pollock’s painting back to life.
Literature allows the marginalized to be born again and again and to endure the leaden guilt, the horrifying weakness, the shameful need for self-preservation that prevents them from remembering what the color of happiness looked like.
“Every beloved object is the center of a garden of paradise.”
Hant’a’s idea of paradise is a kite with a blurred text on it soaring the azure skies of a past that has become unbearable fiction. And, even though the heavens are not humane, those who hear the quiet ascension of words rising up from the pages they caress with their eyes won’t ever feel abandoned.
The chirping of voices in their minds will be too loud for them to be lonely and instead, when their spirits surrender to the foreboding of dark times ahead, they won’t feel the sharp edge of loneliness piercing their precious memories; they will bask in the solitude that grants them painless access to bygone lives and incandescent loves that were extinguished a long time ago.
The real world might be washed out, but the memories, branded in incandescent ink, will write and rewrite their life stories and make them blow in the winter winds.
So for now, I am winter.
November 21, 2015
مهم ترین خصوصیت کتاب، نثر شاعرانه شه. یعنی نثری که به جای روایت وقایع عینی، به بیان توصیفی-استعاری ذهنیات، برداشت ها، افکار و قضاوت های راوی می پردازه. به نظرم چیزی که کتاب رو این قدر محبوب کرده هم همین نثره.
علاوه بر این، وقایعی که رخ میده، گاهی خیلی زیبا هستن. مثل مناسک گذاشتن شاهکارها میان هر بسته ی کاغذ باطله و پیچیدن هر کدوم در یک تابلو نقاشی.
یا صحنه ی دیدن مسیح و لائوتسه در حین مستی، و مقایسه ی روحیات و اندیشه هاشون.
یا تلاش مذبوحانه ی راوی برا نجات دادن کتاب های نفیس کتابخانه ی سلطنتی، و صحنه ی نابود شدن کتاب ها در قطار زیر باران و جاری شدن جوهر شسته شده ی کتاب ها از اطراف قطار.
جدای از این، کتاب داستان منسجمی نداشت. شرح اندیشه ها و خاطرات یک کارگر بازیافت کاغذ بود، که از قضا عاشق کتاب هایی بود که نابود میکرد. سوژه عالی بود، ولی به اندازه ی کافی گسترش داده نشده بود. بخش زیادی از کتاب رو خاطرات و اندیشه ها و وقایع غیر مرتبط به این سوژه گرفته بود.
علاوه بر این، وقایعی که رخ میده، گاهی خیلی زیبا هستن. مثل مناسک گذاشتن شاهکارها میان هر بسته ی کاغذ باطله و پیچیدن هر کدوم در یک تابلو نقاشی.
یا صحنه ی دیدن مسیح و لائوتسه در حین مستی، و مقایسه ی روحیات و اندیشه هاشون.
یا تلاش مذبوحانه ی راوی برا نجات دادن کتاب های نفیس کتابخانه ی سلطنتی، و صحنه ی نابود شدن کتاب ها در قطار زیر باران و جاری شدن جوهر شسته شده ی کتاب ها از اطراف قطار.
جدای از این، کتاب داستان منسجمی نداشت. شرح اندیشه ها و خاطرات یک کارگر بازیافت کاغذ بود، که از قضا عاشق کتاب هایی بود که نابود میکرد. سوژه عالی بود، ولی به اندازه ی کافی گسترش داده نشده بود. بخش زیادی از کتاب رو خاطرات و اندیشه ها و وقایع غیر مرتبط به این سوژه گرفته بود.
Read
January 2, 2023I read this on a train so was able to continue without a break until the book was finished, and since the narrator’s world is quite compacted, such a reading felt right.
The first paragraph was sublime, with sentences such as this: I am a jug filled with water both magic and plain; I have only to lean over and a stream of beautiful thoughts flows out of me.
Or this one: Because when I read I don’t really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.
After that glorious first section, I read on swiftly, looking for more such treasures, and there were other treasures, even some unexpected ones, though none quite so delicious as those in the first paragraph.
This is an unusual book, an open critique of all fascist regimes, but done in a wonderfully oblique way; the narrator, a fairly miserable individual at first acquaintance, seems a most unlikely character to pose a threat to the regime, and yet he successfully carries out his own subtle protest against censorship for more than thirty-five years, making daring literary and artistic statements under the very noses of the authorities. In the end, it is not the authorities but progress that catches up with him.
Bohumil Hrabal gives us a different view of Prague, different from any that I have read before; we are far from the Castle or the Charles Bridge; this is the view from the sewer.
Whether through water, earth, air or fire, we are all destined to be be recycled.
The first paragraph was sublime, with sentences such as this: I am a jug filled with water both magic and plain; I have only to lean over and a stream of beautiful thoughts flows out of me.
Or this one: Because when I read I don’t really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.
After that glorious first section, I read on swiftly, looking for more such treasures, and there were other treasures, even some unexpected ones, though none quite so delicious as those in the first paragraph.
This is an unusual book, an open critique of all fascist regimes, but done in a wonderfully oblique way; the narrator, a fairly miserable individual at first acquaintance, seems a most unlikely character to pose a threat to the regime, and yet he successfully carries out his own subtle protest against censorship for more than thirty-five years, making daring literary and artistic statements under the very noses of the authorities. In the end, it is not the authorities but progress that catches up with him.
Bohumil Hrabal gives us a different view of Prague, different from any that I have read before; we are far from the Castle or the Charles Bridge; this is the view from the sewer.
Whether through water, earth, air or fire, we are all destined to be be recycled.
July 22, 2018
Not until we're totally crushed do we show what we are made of. (96)
This is a book whose length can be quite deceiving. Nonetheless, this novella has the predictable ability of leading the path towards something rather extraordinary: a bibliophile's sanctuary.
This was a difficult book to rate. At first, it was a solid four-star book. But I chose to overlook the few passages that did not captivate me entirely and made me feel somewhat lost at times (yes, the more I think about it, the more I write about it and absorb its content, the more I like it). I tend to blame myself, anyway. Haňťa, the narrator, would understand.
My education has been so unwitting I can't quite tell which of my thoughts come from me and which from my books, but that's how I've stayed attuned to myself and the world around me for the past thirty-five years. (6)
For thirty-five years, Haňťa has been working in a basement, compacting wastepaper and books proscribed by the current regime. Other than the company of some fighting mice and some gypsies, he is mostly alone in his sacred cellar. A place where he became a refined butcher, where he mastered the art of destruction, where he learnt the joy of devastation. However, he cannot destroy everything that arrives to his cellar. So he puts some books in his briefcase and takes them to his house, a place already filled with towers of books that may kill him at the slightest sneeze.
...when I start reading, I'm somewhere completely different, I'm in the text, it's amazing, I have to admit I've been dreaming, dreaming in a land of great beauty, I've been in the very heart of truth. Ten times a day, every day, I wonder at having wandered so far, and then, alienated from myself, a stranger to myself, I go home, walking the streets silently and in deep meditation, passing trams and cars and pedestrians in a cloud of books, the books I found that day and am carrying home in my briefcase. (11)
And that is all I can say about this book filled with symbolism flowing with different rhythms, like the unpredictable behavior of the sea. This sequence of thoughts of an old man that chose, all by himself, how his love story was going to end. Poignant thoughts that left an indelible imprint in me. Evocative lines that echo his past, his benevolent present, the desperate sense of resignation of his future. His childhood, his loved ones, his doubts, his humorous remarks that assist you when despair is too much to bear, his visions, his simple way of life, his celebration to the essence of ideas that prevail over time and defy any living soul, his impressions on a world which absurdity goes beyond imagination.
No, the heavens are not humane, nor is any man with a head on his shoulders. (35)
And his loss. The tragedy of being violently separated from everything that gave him joy. The sum and substance of his existence. After having the pleasure of tasting such elusive elixir, one cannot help but to immerse in profound meditations. Frozen. The contradiction between a motionless body and a restlessly working mind. But Haňťa knew. He always knew. Blinded—momentarily—by the sun of things to come, Haňťa, the rescuer of defenseless books, the one with a loud solitude far away from any lonely thought, the one with the pleasure of listening to the everlasting tune of thousands of books, always knew what to do. The blissful quietness of having no regrets.
'For we are like olives: only when we are crushed do we yield what is best in us.' (18)
Hrabal, Haňťa. Anyone of us. Anyone in love with literature, with ideas in the form of a book.
Solitude brings to me these walls made of silence and dreams. And it is just us. This space is for us. The book and me. I hear my voice in my mind, repeating every word, processing every idea, savoring every sound. For most of Hrabal's lines are music, and I listened to it dazzled, bewildered like a child in front of a magic pipe. A melody that ignites imagination and creates an unforgettable sense of belonging. The melody of those books to which we hold onto so dearly.
The melody I will be always listening to, even when surrounded by, sometimes, too silent a solitude.
En una secuencia de pensamientos similar a la de esta obra, termino rememorando libros pasados, escritores que me aliviaron, personajes que me acompañaron. Líneas que, desde una inicial soledad nada ruidosa, me abrieron al mundo. Una soledad que terminó poblada con todas las voces de ese mundo. Voces que calman. Voces que perturban. Palabras que no me dejan y que las repito para que nunca me dejen. Así, saboreando cada término, como si fuera el último. Aferrándome a cada sonido, como si fuera mío. Deleitándome con la similitud del sentimiento sin tener en cuenta el tiempo.
Tiempo que pasa.
Tiempo que ahoga.
Tiempo que sana, de vez en cuando.
Termino con el libro sobre mí. Con la mente más inquieta que nunca, embarcada en una oda a esa literatura trascendental que llegó acá; desafiante, segura. Deseosa de miradas nuevas. Creadora de suspiros que evocan eternidad.
Mis disculpas a las personas de habla inglesa que a veces se dan una vuelta por este sur olvidado. Pero, después de leer esta conmovedora novela corta de Hrabal, ¿cómo no culminar esta marea de palabras sin sentido, abrazada a mi idioma?
Enamorados perpetuos del lenguaje. Sus palabras. Sus sonidos. Sus significados. Las historias que construyen. Las emociones que transmiten. El contenido sobre la forma. La escritura sobre la tapa. Coleccionistas de libros, de recuerdos, de vidas ajenas. Vidas ajenas, para entender la propia. Entender, en las cantidades que la existencia misma permite.
Todo aquello que provoca sonido y que hace de la soledad, algo menos envolvente.
Dec 6, 15
* Also on my blog.
** No, it wasn't what I expected, but I loved it anyway.
February 16, 2016
How to write about a book that deals with compression when I am reading it thanks to dispersed and ephemeral distinctions?
For if Hrabal has written a magic and allegorical story of the character Hantá who dedicates his life to compressing large volumes of discarded books into still voluminous bales of paper, I am reading a story which as if by magic emerges section by section on my screen acquiring in this act an additional allegorical layer.
For Hantá realizes that compression does away with differences and when censorship, which is sharp black and white, coalesces matter into colorless grey then thought and text are buried in indifferent bundles.
He finds his stories on paper, on trees pressed into sheets of dried paste, all stories of constricted feelings. These are tales of confined political opinions in a decadent but still powerful totalitarian setting; narratives of repressed human liberties that try to breath through flying paper kites.
And these come to me in a different world. I am dealing with them on a screen on which microcapsules, charged positively for the white or negatively for the black, arrange themselves creating the distinct shapes of letters, of words, sentences and thoughts. And every time I press the button these particles return to their amorphous sea and reemerge in a new combination. Mine is the universe of poles and discrete particles and it is from this stock of specks that the tale of an estranged world and life emerges.
And this is the magic of representation. The vehicle can conjure up its opposite and offer a bewitching text which can move my heart and imagination and make me feel a solitude which, thanks to its beauty, is however not confining and certainly not too loud.
For if Hrabal has written a magic and allegorical story of the character Hantá who dedicates his life to compressing large volumes of discarded books into still voluminous bales of paper, I am reading a story which as if by magic emerges section by section on my screen acquiring in this act an additional allegorical layer.
For Hantá realizes that compression does away with differences and when censorship, which is sharp black and white, coalesces matter into colorless grey then thought and text are buried in indifferent bundles.
He finds his stories on paper, on trees pressed into sheets of dried paste, all stories of constricted feelings. These are tales of confined political opinions in a decadent but still powerful totalitarian setting; narratives of repressed human liberties that try to breath through flying paper kites.
And these come to me in a different world. I am dealing with them on a screen on which microcapsules, charged positively for the white or negatively for the black, arrange themselves creating the distinct shapes of letters, of words, sentences and thoughts. And every time I press the button these particles return to their amorphous sea and reemerge in a new combination. Mine is the universe of poles and discrete particles and it is from this stock of specks that the tale of an estranged world and life emerges.
And this is the magic of representation. The vehicle can conjure up its opposite and offer a bewitching text which can move my heart and imagination and make me feel a solitude which, thanks to its beauty, is however not confining and certainly not too loud.
January 15, 2019
Socialism Remaindered
Was Hrabal the Studs Terkel of Moravia? He and Terkel were more or less contemporaries. From similarly humble backgrounds, they both got law degrees. Both were blacklisted and censored for questionable patriotism. Both were famed raconteurs. Most importantly, both concerned themselves mainly with working people and their culture.
The difference of course is that Terkel, in his Working in particular, asks people about how their jobs gave positive meaning to their lives. Hrabal inquires more about how the roles people play are always ambiguously productive and destructive. For him, there is something of the symbolic and cosmic rather than the personal in each character. Perhaps this is the key to the difference in American and European moral sensibilities.
Too Loud a Solitude starts like one of Terkel's case studies, a first person account of a man dedicated for thirty-five to the waste paper compaction business. Well not quite. None of Terkel's subjects ever said anything like "If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh, because any book worth its salt points up and out of itself." This working stiff knows something about iconography and semiotics.
And not just about the books. Hrabal's characters themselves are like icons pointing beyond their immediate experiences: "When my eye lands on a real book and looks past the printed word, what it sees is disembodied thoughts flying through the air, gliding on air, living off air, returning to air, because in the end everything is air, just as the host is and is not the blood of Christ." No ordinary sanitary engineer then in his poetic vision and singular appreciation of the doctrine of transubstatiation.
The books in question, the primary raw material involved in the protagonist's production/destruction, are not allowed to become idols that inhibit their own transcendence. They possess a dialectical character for Hrabal as they bring both "ineffable joy and even greater woe." The protagonist, Hant'a, reinforces this realism; he is gnostic as well as Hegelian: "The heavens are not humane," he says, and "books have shown me the joy of devastation." Books are the centre of his existence, but they are nonetheless tainted and therefore not to be worshipped as divine.
I manage a small academic library, so I recognise the syndrome Hant'a demonstrates. He is constantly distracted from his duty to crush the books by the irresistible temptation to read the damn things. Not an efficient trait in either a librarian or a book compactor. The equivalent of a doctor's emotional involvement with her patient. Frequently dangerous. Always frowned upon. His addiction is controllable to the extent that he does fulfill his duties, if on occasion only barely.
But reading of the condemned books is only the entry level drug for Hant'a. Hard core addiction is bringing the space-eating things home. They quickly take over your life. And taking up all available house-space is only the half of it. The threat of death by book-avalanche is constant. As it is, Hant'a had already shrunk by a good four inches under the compressive weight of the books in his bedroom. The books are not merely a monkey on his back, they constitute the world he inhabits and that inhabits him.
Aside from a distinct preference for Schiller and Goethe, Hant'a's workaday world is not unlike many of Terkel's subjects. He's over-qualified for the job of pressing first the green button and then the red button; with a nag for a boss; and he drinks too much beer at lunch, and for that matter even on the job. By no standard can he be considered passionate or even interested in his job except for the unauthorised side-benefits. The job itself is irrelevant to Hant'a's identity, just as is his participation in a socialist state.
Hant’a’s fear of technological redundancy is, however, as real as that of one of Terkel's subjects in capitalist America. Ever since a gigantic new machine was installed in a neighbouring town, he knows his days in book-compacting are numbered. In fact he looks forward to retirement. But he desperately wants to bring his now surplus compactor home with him since he's not sure he can do without the daily routine of waste paper disposal. He's not worried about income in retirement, however, and certainly not the loss of social routine. The problem is where to source a reliable flow of good books!
Not Terkel then.
Postscript: just to demonstrate that truth is stranger than fiction, this little news piece from Turkey showed up in my ‘feed’: http://forreadingaddicts.co.uk/news/t...
Was Hrabal the Studs Terkel of Moravia? He and Terkel were more or less contemporaries. From similarly humble backgrounds, they both got law degrees. Both were blacklisted and censored for questionable patriotism. Both were famed raconteurs. Most importantly, both concerned themselves mainly with working people and their culture.
The difference of course is that Terkel, in his Working in particular, asks people about how their jobs gave positive meaning to their lives. Hrabal inquires more about how the roles people play are always ambiguously productive and destructive. For him, there is something of the symbolic and cosmic rather than the personal in each character. Perhaps this is the key to the difference in American and European moral sensibilities.
Too Loud a Solitude starts like one of Terkel's case studies, a first person account of a man dedicated for thirty-five to the waste paper compaction business. Well not quite. None of Terkel's subjects ever said anything like "If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh, because any book worth its salt points up and out of itself." This working stiff knows something about iconography and semiotics.
And not just about the books. Hrabal's characters themselves are like icons pointing beyond their immediate experiences: "When my eye lands on a real book and looks past the printed word, what it sees is disembodied thoughts flying through the air, gliding on air, living off air, returning to air, because in the end everything is air, just as the host is and is not the blood of Christ." No ordinary sanitary engineer then in his poetic vision and singular appreciation of the doctrine of transubstatiation.
The books in question, the primary raw material involved in the protagonist's production/destruction, are not allowed to become idols that inhibit their own transcendence. They possess a dialectical character for Hrabal as they bring both "ineffable joy and even greater woe." The protagonist, Hant'a, reinforces this realism; he is gnostic as well as Hegelian: "The heavens are not humane," he says, and "books have shown me the joy of devastation." Books are the centre of his existence, but they are nonetheless tainted and therefore not to be worshipped as divine.
I manage a small academic library, so I recognise the syndrome Hant'a demonstrates. He is constantly distracted from his duty to crush the books by the irresistible temptation to read the damn things. Not an efficient trait in either a librarian or a book compactor. The equivalent of a doctor's emotional involvement with her patient. Frequently dangerous. Always frowned upon. His addiction is controllable to the extent that he does fulfill his duties, if on occasion only barely.
But reading of the condemned books is only the entry level drug for Hant'a. Hard core addiction is bringing the space-eating things home. They quickly take over your life. And taking up all available house-space is only the half of it. The threat of death by book-avalanche is constant. As it is, Hant'a had already shrunk by a good four inches under the compressive weight of the books in his bedroom. The books are not merely a monkey on his back, they constitute the world he inhabits and that inhabits him.
Aside from a distinct preference for Schiller and Goethe, Hant'a's workaday world is not unlike many of Terkel's subjects. He's over-qualified for the job of pressing first the green button and then the red button; with a nag for a boss; and he drinks too much beer at lunch, and for that matter even on the job. By no standard can he be considered passionate or even interested in his job except for the unauthorised side-benefits. The job itself is irrelevant to Hant'a's identity, just as is his participation in a socialist state.
Hant’a’s fear of technological redundancy is, however, as real as that of one of Terkel's subjects in capitalist America. Ever since a gigantic new machine was installed in a neighbouring town, he knows his days in book-compacting are numbered. In fact he looks forward to retirement. But he desperately wants to bring his now surplus compactor home with him since he's not sure he can do without the daily routine of waste paper disposal. He's not worried about income in retirement, however, and certainly not the loss of social routine. The problem is where to source a reliable flow of good books!
Not Terkel then.
Postscript: just to demonstrate that truth is stranger than fiction, this little news piece from Turkey showed up in my ‘feed’: http://forreadingaddicts.co.uk/news/t...
September 16, 2017
"... أنا الرجل الوحيد في العالم الذي يعلم أن في عمق أي كوة من الكتب يوجد كتاب مفتوح لفاوست أو دون كارلوس ... أرى رواية هايبريون دفينة مع بطاقات ملطخة بالدماء. هناك على أكياس الإسمنت تجد كتاب هكذا تكلم زرادشت. أنا الإنسان الوحيد الذي يعرف أية كومة فيها غوته أو شيلر أو هولدرين أو نيتشه. أنا فنان والجمهور، في الوقت ذاته"
العزلة والكتب مرتبطان على نحو غامض وكلاهما يؤدي إلى الآخر على حد سواء، وقد يرجع السبب بأن كليهما هو رغبة في التعبير عن النفس في الحديث والتواصل والاقتراب أكثر إلى جوهرنا، وفي كليهما نستطيع أن نكون ذواتنا، لأن ذلك بكل بساطة لا يجعلنا وحيدين حتى لو كنا منفردين نعيش في عزلة مزدحمة.
يرصد الكاتب في مدينة براغ حقبة مهمة كانت الكتب فيها مثار شبهة وملاحقة من قبل المؤسسة السياسية عبر حكاية قصة لرجل عجوز أبله يستهلك كميات كبيرة من البيرة، كان يسمي نفسه الجزار المجيد، كانت أطنان الكتب النادرة تفنى على يديه تحت آلة هيدروليكية، كانت هذه الكتب قد علمته نشوة التدمير، والذي يتضح في ما بعد أنه أنقذ آلاف الكتب من أن تتحول إلى مجرد نفايات. كان الكاتب بارعاً في رسم حياة هذا الرجل العجوز اليومية والذي كان لا يملك من أمره شيء بلغة ساخرة بعيدة عن الجمل المتعثرة، معتمداً على خلق شخصية (الأحمق الحكيم) التي تبدر عنه في اللحظات الحرجة أفكار في غاية العمق. وبالطبع هذا ليس كل شيء فكما يقول السويسريون: الشيطان يسكن في التفاصيل.
أظن بأن هذا النوع من الروايات ليست صالحة لجميع الأذواق فهي تستهدف فئة محددة من أولائك المهتمين بعالم النشر والكتب والرقابة ولا غرابة حين صنفتها الجاردين بأنها ضمن أفضل عشرة روايات تحدثت عن الكتب، وبرغم قوتها إلا أنها غير ممتعة وخالية من عنصر التشويق إلى حد ما، فإذا كان هذا الأمر من اهتماماتك في البناء السردي قد لا تعجبك الرواية حتى لو تم إغرائك من قبل العنوان وتصميم الغلاف...
وتبقى المسألة الهامة في تقديري بأن العلاقة مع الكتاب هي علاقة اختراع المعاني ورسم آفاق جديدة لأنفسنا عندما نقوم باقتراف القراءة.
العزلة والكتب مرتبطان على نحو غامض وكلاهما يؤدي إلى الآخر على حد سواء، وقد يرجع السبب بأن كليهما هو رغبة في التعبير عن النفس في الحديث والتواصل والاقتراب أكثر إلى جوهرنا، وفي كليهما نستطيع أن نكون ذواتنا، لأن ذلك بكل بساطة لا يجعلنا وحيدين حتى لو كنا منفردين نعيش في عزلة مزدحمة.
يرصد الكاتب في مدينة براغ حقبة مهمة كانت الكتب فيها مثار شبهة وملاحقة من قبل المؤسسة السياسية عبر حكاية قصة لرجل عجوز أبله يستهلك كميات كبيرة من البيرة، كان يسمي نفسه الجزار المجيد، كانت أطنان الكتب النادرة تفنى على يديه تحت آلة هيدروليكية، كانت هذه الكتب قد علمته نشوة التدمير، والذي يتضح في ما بعد أنه أنقذ آلاف الكتب من أن تتحول إلى مجرد نفايات. كان الكاتب بارعاً في رسم حياة هذا الرجل العجوز اليومية والذي كان لا يملك من أمره شيء بلغة ساخرة بعيدة عن الجمل المتعثرة، معتمداً على خلق شخصية (الأحمق الحكيم) التي تبدر عنه في اللحظات الحرجة أفكار في غاية العمق. وبالطبع هذا ليس كل شيء فكما يقول السويسريون: الشيطان يسكن في التفاصيل.
أظن بأن هذا النوع من الروايات ليست صالحة لجميع الأذواق فهي تستهدف فئة محددة من أولائك المهتمين بعالم النشر والكتب والرقابة ولا غرابة حين صنفتها الجاردين بأنها ضمن أفضل عشرة روايات تحدثت عن الكتب، وبرغم قوتها إلا أنها غير ممتعة وخالية من عنصر التشويق إلى حد ما، فإذا كان هذا الأمر من اهتماماتك في البناء السردي قد لا تعجبك الرواية حتى لو تم إغرائك من قبل العنوان وتصميم الغلاف...
وتبقى المسألة الهامة في تقديري بأن العلاقة مع الكتاب هي علاقة اختراع المعاني ورسم آفاق جديدة لأنفسنا عندما نقوم باقتراف القراءة.
June 11, 2017
پشت میز مطالعه نشسته ام و سی و پنج سال اندوه را میخوانم .. ناگهان احساس میکنم دو‌دست خون الود بزرگ یقه پیرهنم را میچسبد و مرا به داخل کتاب میکشاند .. مقاومت میکنم ..راستش را بخواهید من از اینهمه اندوه میترسم .. اما انگار مقامت بیفایده است .. کشیده میشوم به سمت یک تنهایی پرهیاهو ..خودم را میبینم که در تاریکی نیمه شب پراگ به دنبال دخترک دامن فیروزه‌ای میگردم .. خودم را میبینم که از سایه خودم ..از موشهای خاکستری ..از مگسهای سبز ..و‌از دست گشتاپو میگریزم ..خودم را اسیر در سرنوشت خونین مگسهای سبز میبیتم و در سرنوشت بادبادک کاغذی معلق بین ابرها ..و در سرنوشت مردی که زیر خروارها کتاب جان میدهد .. تنهایی پرهیاهو مرا زودتر پیش از پایان کتاب از پا در میاورد .. حالا خسته ام .. همین و بس ...
August 30, 2014
"Each of us had a decent home library of books we'd happened to rescue, and each of us read those books in the blissful hope of making a change in his life."
What if ideas no longer had permanence? What happens when beautiful, psychedelic sentences are replaced with harebrained dialogue? What would you do, when there you are, stuck in no-man's land, without an electronic device or internet connection, and there are no physical books to keep you stimulated? What happens when you can't escape your world to suddenly find yourself in a distant land, surrounded by emotional truth and beauty and culture?
After reading this beloved Czech classic, I sat in my home library for hours, just to feel the magic of my books, to embrace the warmth they exude, for books mean so much more than words on a page. Maybe this is why it was difficult to write a review for this book. Still, I knew I had to write one; if only as a homage to the printed word. And yet I feel guilty, as though I owe my narrator, Hanta, an apology for reading this on my Kindle (of all the books to read on the electronic device, I chose this one).
Here, melancholy brews and solitude reigns. But it is the kind of solitude you feel from someplace deep and unknown, the unexplainable comfort you have when you pick up a good book and don't want to be distracted by anything that will take you from within the text:
Hanta is a peculiar narrator; a hermit and lover of rare books and intellectual meanderings. He is a solitude who is not lonely. I'm simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-scorum of infinity and eternity.
It wasn't hard to relate to the idiosyncratic Hanta, this nonconformist who spent thirty-five years (this he will tell you repeatedly) compacting wastepaper. And by wastepaper, I do mean "Paul Gauguin's Bonjour M. Gauguin". Who cares if his boss despised him, and his peers made fun of him? Hanta surely didn't, because he lived beautifully:
Bohumil Hrabal was a poet and a member of an underground writing group. When troops from the Warsaw Pact invaded Czechoslovakia, he was banned from publishing. No wonder why his prose is such beautiful melancholy, and his narrator a man skeptical of the world and protective of the printed word. Hrabal writes with political subtleties and symbolism that makes you want to applaud a work which stands for so much more than Hanta. This stream of consciousness narrative is one I don't usually love, and yet it fits this narrative. This book isn't for everyone, I don't think, but it is one that you savor for all of its delicious delicacies and thematic undertones that whisper: protect the printed word, protect your intellectual freedom.
Perhaps Bohumil Hrabal also knew the sound of loud solitude:
What if ideas no longer had permanence? What happens when beautiful, psychedelic sentences are replaced with harebrained dialogue? What would you do, when there you are, stuck in no-man's land, without an electronic device or internet connection, and there are no physical books to keep you stimulated? What happens when you can't escape your world to suddenly find yourself in a distant land, surrounded by emotional truth and beauty and culture?
When I start reading I'm somewhere completely different, I'm in the text, it's amazing. I have to admit I've been dreaming, dreaming in a land of great beauty, I've been in the very heart of truth.
After reading this beloved Czech classic, I sat in my home library for hours, just to feel the magic of my books, to embrace the warmth they exude, for books mean so much more than words on a page. Maybe this is why it was difficult to write a review for this book. Still, I knew I had to write one; if only as a homage to the printed word. And yet I feel guilty, as though I owe my narrator, Hanta, an apology for reading this on my Kindle (of all the books to read on the electronic device, I chose this one).
When my eye lands on a real book and looks past the printed word, what it sees is disembodied thoughts flying through air, gliding on air, living off air, returning to air, because in the end everything is air.
Here, melancholy brews and solitude reigns. But it is the kind of solitude you feel from someplace deep and unknown, the unexplainable comfort you have when you pick up a good book and don't want to be distracted by anything that will take you from within the text:
Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liquer until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol.
Hanta is a peculiar narrator; a hermit and lover of rare books and intellectual meanderings. He is a solitude who is not lonely. I'm simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-scorum of infinity and eternity.
It wasn't hard to relate to the idiosyncratic Hanta, this nonconformist who spent thirty-five years (this he will tell you repeatedly) compacting wastepaper. And by wastepaper, I do mean "Paul Gauguin's Bonjour M. Gauguin". Who cares if his boss despised him, and his peers made fun of him? Hanta surely didn't, because he lived beautifully:
My life fits together beautifully: at work I have books--and bottles and inkwells and staplers--raining down on me through the opening in the cellar ceiling, and at home I have books above me constantly threatening to fall and kill or at least maim me.
Bohumil Hrabal was a poet and a member of an underground writing group. When troops from the Warsaw Pact invaded Czechoslovakia, he was banned from publishing. No wonder why his prose is such beautiful melancholy, and his narrator a man skeptical of the world and protective of the printed word. Hrabal writes with political subtleties and symbolism that makes you want to applaud a work which stands for so much more than Hanta. This stream of consciousness narrative is one I don't usually love, and yet it fits this narrative. This book isn't for everyone, I don't think, but it is one that you savor for all of its delicious delicacies and thematic undertones that whisper: protect the printed word, protect your intellectual freedom.
Perhaps Bohumil Hrabal also knew the sound of loud solitude:
Suddenly one day I felt beautiful and holy for having had the courage to hold on to my sanity after all I'd seen and been through, body and soul, in too loud a solitude.
March 28, 2020
رمان "تنهایی پر هیاهو" یک رمان اگزیستانسیالیستی است. یک رمان اگزیستانسیالیستی خوب. درواقع با معاییر رمان های اگزیستانسیالیستی اثری عالی بود.
#تنهایی که در رمان های اگزیستانسیالیستی عنصری مهم است در این رمان هم حضوری به شدت پر رنگ دارد.
سه ماه قبل از خواندن این رمان، رمان "زن در ریگ روان" اثر نویسنده بزرگ ژاپنی #کوبو_آبه را خواندم و الآن احساس میکنم این دو رمان بسیار به هم شبیه هستند. در رمان های اگزیستانسیالیستی نویسنده شما را وادار میکند انسان را در تنهایی و جدا از مفهوم اجتماعی اش مورد بررسی قرار دهید. و این تنهایی گاه هراسناک میشود که در این اثر هراس کمرنگ و در کار آبه پررنگ بود.
اولین قدم در رسیدن به این تنهایی اگزیستانسیال بریدن از ریشه‌های خانوادگی است و همین است که می‌بینیم در این رمان #هانتا با آن تفصیل از مرگ مادرش حرف می‌زند و ما را یاد شخصیت رمان "بیگانه" اثر آلبر کامو می‌اندازد. در رمان کوبو آبه هم آن شخص از زندگی خانوادگی اش بریده و کمال این انقطاع با انتشار آن اعلامیه مبنی بر مفقود شدن این آدم که به همسرش اجازهء طلاق میدهد اتفاق می‌افتد.
فیلمی هم از روی این رمان خود چک ها ساخته اند که بنده نیم نگاهی بهش انداختم و گویا برعکس فیلمی که ژاپنی ها از روی اثر آبه ساخته اند و به شدت به رمان وفادار است، اینجا اصلا وفاداری به متن ادبی را رعایت نکرده اند و آن تلخی و گزندگی رمان را ندارد.
فکر میکنم مطرح کردن این اثر به عنوان یک اثر ضدکمونیستی (که البته هست) فروکاستن از شان فلسفی آن است. همان طور که اگر رمان "زن در ریگ روان" را یک اثر ضد سرمایه داری بدانیم (به اعتبار حضور آن شرکت استثمار کننده آدمها) از ارزش آن کاسته‌ایم.
#تنهایی که در رمان های اگزیستانسیالیستی عنصری مهم است در این رمان هم حضوری به شدت پر رنگ دارد.
سه ماه قبل از خواندن این رمان، رمان "زن در ریگ روان" اثر نویسنده بزرگ ژاپنی #کوبو_آبه را خواندم و الآن احساس میکنم این دو رمان بسیار به هم شبیه هستند. در رمان های اگزیستانسیالیستی نویسنده شما را وادار میکند انسان را در تنهایی و جدا از مفهوم اجتماعی اش مورد بررسی قرار دهید. و این تنهایی گاه هراسناک میشود که در این اثر هراس کمرنگ و در کار آبه پررنگ بود.
اولین قدم در رسیدن به این تنهایی اگزیستانسیال بریدن از ریشه‌های خانوادگی است و همین است که می‌بینیم در این رمان #هانتا با آن تفصیل از مرگ مادرش حرف می‌زند و ما را یاد شخصیت رمان "بیگانه" اثر آلبر کامو می‌اندازد. در رمان کوبو آبه هم آن شخص از زندگی خانوادگی اش بریده و کمال این انقطاع با انتشار آن اعلامیه مبنی بر مفقود شدن این آدم که به همسرش اجازهء طلاق میدهد اتفاق می‌افتد.
فیلمی هم از روی این رمان خود چک ها ساخته اند که بنده نیم نگاهی بهش انداختم و گویا برعکس فیلمی که ژاپنی ها از روی اثر آبه ساخته اند و به شدت به رمان وفادار است، اینجا اصلا وفاداری به متن ادبی را رعایت نکرده اند و آن تلخی و گزندگی رمان را ندارد.
فکر میکنم مطرح کردن این اثر به عنوان یک اثر ضدکمونیستی (که البته هست) فروکاستن از شان فلسفی آن است. همان طور که اگر رمان "زن در ریگ روان" را یک اثر ضد سرمایه داری بدانیم (به اعتبار حضور آن شرکت استثمار کننده آدمها) از ارزش آن کاسته‌ایم.
August 2, 2022
رواية قصيرة عن الانسان في مواجهة الحرب والسلطة والقمع
حياة العجوز هانتا وعمله لأكثر من ثلاثة عقود في سحق الورق
العيش في عزلة وصمت بين نصوص الكتب وأفكارها ومؤلفيها
ومحاولاته البائسة لإنقاذ الكتب في واقع يفرض تقييد وحظر الفكر
صورة قاتمة لفترة في براج افتقدت ملامح الجمال والانسانية
حياة العجوز هانتا وعمله لأكثر من ثلاثة عقود في سحق الورق
العيش في عزلة وصمت بين نصوص الكتب وأفكارها ومؤلفيها
ومحاولاته البائسة لإنقاذ الكتب في واقع يفرض تقييد وحظر الفكر
صورة قاتمة لفترة في براج افتقدت ملامح الجمال والانسانية
April 29, 2012
I can be by myself because I'm never lonely, I'm simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-scarum of infinity and eternity, and Infinity and Eternity seem to take a liking to the likes of me."
Haòtá of Too Loud a Solitude would be friends with me if he were on goodreads. He would so! So what if I haven't read Hegel or Kant? So what if I could only quote from Terry Pratchett (a wise man in his own write)? The books are his whole life and he talks about them as if nothing would stand in his way if there were a two-way mirror between himself and the innermost face behind the face of the books. They would have forever to get to know each other. I envy Haòtá the way the words live on his tongue as if they could be uttered in the moment of need to bring light. I wonder if I did read any philosophers would they be of any comfort to me too. I tell myself stories as if I could step out of reality and into the one I'm creating inside.
If Haòtá were on goodreads I would look at the computer screen (okay, I've already admitted that I use an ipod touch screen for 98.9% of my goodreading so there's no point in lying here now) and it would be like there was a window to look through between us. Books are real! Books matter and books are everything if you're one of us. It hurts Haòtá to compact the scarecrow wanting its brain of ink sentences, and the lion with its if I only had courage you can't judge a book by its cover and the tin man with its heart made of paper glued to binding that holds everything together with an indestructible spine. Can they become something else, something better, and have meaning when they are killed?
Haòtá might be one of those drunk book reviewers on goodreads, though. He has to have beer to read. I wondered if he drank so much to be like me. I don't think I would ever need to do that to write a review either. I would just throw up in the toilet when I remembered what I admitted to the morning after. Haòtá's grandfathers and their fathers saw faeries at their elbows bar side, and Haòtá Jesus and Lao-tze as the ebb and flow in the pool he's face down in. The sword of Damascus hangs over his head every night. He sleeps beneath tons of books. Their weight could be that of your baby reminding you that you have to get up in the morning, or the ghost cat or old person who steals your vital energy through your breath. Six feet under and as high as cloud nine. Names theirs and do you know what you know or do you know what they know. If you were an actor and went to their acting school you wouldn't remember if you ever had natural talent. Remember your lines!
I know that it hurt me when he sacrificed priceless whole libraries to be sent by train for some low money amount that I don't remember because the only European money I've held are Euros and Hungarian currency. Anyway, it's peanuts like Canadian couch coins. Hurts! His most precious favorites make like a library and book for the hydraulic press. Entire print runs bite the callous hands of children before his eyes. No one will ever love them and he cannot save them all. If he were goodreads friends with me he might not want to save my favorites. You know when goodreads separated from amazon? I rescued one of Manny's Brigade Mondain books. Haòtá? Would you? No, he'll never sleep tonight, Mariel! He'll be up adding back all of those trashy covers to the entire well beloved French series. Book lover's guilt. It haunts me that I buy so many books that I haven't read. I still buy more. It looks like you aren't alone when you feel a responsibility for what you have loved. Would he take it as far as I do?
I had a feeling while reading Too Loud a Solitude that it would not be a favorite book of mine, despite Haòtá's last vestige of humanity attachments for his favorite words that I could relate to so very much, if his love didn't become a story of its own. I would have to think about him beyond them. Somewhere in his making connections between the mice and their mice mamas subsisting in his cellar it happened. They shared it with him. I can use that. I can see that. If he were me those mice would be from Terry Prachett's Maurice and his Educated Rodents. I don't have mice! Maybe certain people on goodreads would think my birds were no better than rodents but those people would be wrong! Or they might think that my chihuahua resembles a rat in certain lights. Wrong! Only my swiss cheese rat trap memory. Sometime in 2011 I removed some of my favorites because I had some dumb idea it should be more selective. I regret that because I need all the friends I can get. So the educated rodents would love to read Haòtá's books (maybe Pork 'N' Beans would dig The Metaphysics of Morals. My favorite Kalix from Martin Millar's books is illiterate. She would eat On Tranquility of Mind). Haòtá thinks milk is disgusting and I am lactose intolerant (like him I even bring up this useless fact in book reviews from time to time). I would go with him to watch in disgust the efficient new book destroyers across town. It does not kill them to waste the paper.
"It never ceased to amaze me, until suddenly one day I felt beautiful and holy for having had the courage to hold on to my sanity after all I'd seen and been through, body and soul, in too loud a solitude, and slowly I came to the realization that my work was hurtling me headlong into an infinite field of omnipotence."
I'm relieved, although I am a bastard for saying this considering the way that Haòtá goes the way of his books, that someone else agonizes over this shit. I'm half way through William Faulkner's Light in August during the writing of this review and Joe Christmas has done my head in on my books and solace and the place where you can relate to others and be safe from expectations and too loud a solitude. I wish I had a philosophy. I wish I had words of solace and shit to believe in instead of just telling about make believe people and book to eyes connection. It may be too soon to tell. Maybe I'll figure it out. (Okay, I'm too damned sensitive.) I start to worry that the books don't want me either.
When I was younger I liked to "collect" descriptions of people in books. I can't tell you how fucking bored it makes me when a writer trots out 'beautiful' (which is tragically all the damned time, as if ANY asshole couldn't do that same thing). 'Solitude' had a great one for one of Haòtá's girlfriends (I also loved that he envied her becoming the sort of person that other people would want to write about. I would tell you which author I think would write about me but people might laugh at me). Anyway, I liked this:
"Manca had gray hair now, but she wrote it in a kind of reformatory cut, a crew cut, like an athlete with a touch of spirituality; one of her eyes was lower than the other, which gave her a distinguished look, and if she seemed to squint a little, it was not because she had bad vision but because one of her eyes had simply got stuck while staring beyond the threshold of the infinite into the very center of an equilateral triangle, into the very heart of being, or as a Catholic existentialist once put it, her defective eye symbolized the diamond's eternal blemish."
Books aren't solitude if you think about people like that because you were sitting alone taking the time... If you started to think about people you met to describe them like that (it is why I used to collect those). Yeah, to take the time. Words that are yours and words that are theirs and then they are yours because you took the time. I don't know about destruction. I wasn't giving up yet. (I would get damned emotional about it. It would eat me alive. My eyes would be raccoon eyes. I would read another book and hope to feel alive again. Books will love you back!) I would have probably invented some reason to put books into that hydraulic press too. What if I had to destroy a Kawabata? The hydraulic press wants to read! Look, that's his eyes and that's his mouth and he's one of those annoying kids from elementary school that read aloud and took too long when you were already into the story. Now he is crying because the story moves him. He loves to read. He'll probably be awfully popular on goodreads.
(It only took me two hours and twenty one minutes to despise and strike this one from the feed. I'm not floating, really, I'm putting it back. I understand feelings of unworthiness when it comes to vocalizing about the things you love. Why couldn't there be a hydraulic press to squeeze out one's own drippiness in? I'd put me into that. Really I would. I have book lover's guilt of a different kind but I have it and boy did I relate to this book. The key is to keep drinking! More books.)
Haòtá of Too Loud a Solitude would be friends with me if he were on goodreads. He would so! So what if I haven't read Hegel or Kant? So what if I could only quote from Terry Pratchett (a wise man in his own write)? The books are his whole life and he talks about them as if nothing would stand in his way if there were a two-way mirror between himself and the innermost face behind the face of the books. They would have forever to get to know each other. I envy Haòtá the way the words live on his tongue as if they could be uttered in the moment of need to bring light. I wonder if I did read any philosophers would they be of any comfort to me too. I tell myself stories as if I could step out of reality and into the one I'm creating inside.
If Haòtá were on goodreads I would look at the computer screen (okay, I've already admitted that I use an ipod touch screen for 98.9% of my goodreading so there's no point in lying here now) and it would be like there was a window to look through between us. Books are real! Books matter and books are everything if you're one of us. It hurts Haòtá to compact the scarecrow wanting its brain of ink sentences, and the lion with its if I only had courage you can't judge a book by its cover and the tin man with its heart made of paper glued to binding that holds everything together with an indestructible spine. Can they become something else, something better, and have meaning when they are killed?
Haòtá might be one of those drunk book reviewers on goodreads, though. He has to have beer to read. I wondered if he drank so much to be like me. I don't think I would ever need to do that to write a review either. I would just throw up in the toilet when I remembered what I admitted to the morning after. Haòtá's grandfathers and their fathers saw faeries at their elbows bar side, and Haòtá Jesus and Lao-tze as the ebb and flow in the pool he's face down in. The sword of Damascus hangs over his head every night. He sleeps beneath tons of books. Their weight could be that of your baby reminding you that you have to get up in the morning, or the ghost cat or old person who steals your vital energy through your breath. Six feet under and as high as cloud nine. Names theirs and do you know what you know or do you know what they know. If you were an actor and went to their acting school you wouldn't remember if you ever had natural talent. Remember your lines!
I know that it hurt me when he sacrificed priceless whole libraries to be sent by train for some low money amount that I don't remember because the only European money I've held are Euros and Hungarian currency. Anyway, it's peanuts like Canadian couch coins. Hurts! His most precious favorites make like a library and book for the hydraulic press. Entire print runs bite the callous hands of children before his eyes. No one will ever love them and he cannot save them all. If he were goodreads friends with me he might not want to save my favorites. You know when goodreads separated from amazon? I rescued one of Manny's Brigade Mondain books. Haòtá? Would you? No, he'll never sleep tonight, Mariel! He'll be up adding back all of those trashy covers to the entire well beloved French series. Book lover's guilt. It haunts me that I buy so many books that I haven't read. I still buy more. It looks like you aren't alone when you feel a responsibility for what you have loved. Would he take it as far as I do?
I had a feeling while reading Too Loud a Solitude that it would not be a favorite book of mine, despite Haòtá's last vestige of humanity attachments for his favorite words that I could relate to so very much, if his love didn't become a story of its own. I would have to think about him beyond them. Somewhere in his making connections between the mice and their mice mamas subsisting in his cellar it happened. They shared it with him. I can use that. I can see that. If he were me those mice would be from Terry Prachett's Maurice and his Educated Rodents. I don't have mice! Maybe certain people on goodreads would think my birds were no better than rodents but those people would be wrong! Or they might think that my chihuahua resembles a rat in certain lights. Wrong! Only my swiss cheese rat trap memory. Sometime in 2011 I removed some of my favorites because I had some dumb idea it should be more selective. I regret that because I need all the friends I can get. So the educated rodents would love to read Haòtá's books (maybe Pork 'N' Beans would dig The Metaphysics of Morals. My favorite Kalix from Martin Millar's books is illiterate. She would eat On Tranquility of Mind). Haòtá thinks milk is disgusting and I am lactose intolerant (like him I even bring up this useless fact in book reviews from time to time). I would go with him to watch in disgust the efficient new book destroyers across town. It does not kill them to waste the paper.
"It never ceased to amaze me, until suddenly one day I felt beautiful and holy for having had the courage to hold on to my sanity after all I'd seen and been through, body and soul, in too loud a solitude, and slowly I came to the realization that my work was hurtling me headlong into an infinite field of omnipotence."
I'm relieved, although I am a bastard for saying this considering the way that Haòtá goes the way of his books, that someone else agonizes over this shit. I'm half way through William Faulkner's Light in August during the writing of this review and Joe Christmas has done my head in on my books and solace and the place where you can relate to others and be safe from expectations and too loud a solitude. I wish I had a philosophy. I wish I had words of solace and shit to believe in instead of just telling about make believe people and book to eyes connection. It may be too soon to tell. Maybe I'll figure it out. (Okay, I'm too damned sensitive.) I start to worry that the books don't want me either.
When I was younger I liked to "collect" descriptions of people in books. I can't tell you how fucking bored it makes me when a writer trots out 'beautiful' (which is tragically all the damned time, as if ANY asshole couldn't do that same thing). 'Solitude' had a great one for one of Haòtá's girlfriends (I also loved that he envied her becoming the sort of person that other people would want to write about. I would tell you which author I think would write about me but people might laugh at me). Anyway, I liked this:
"Manca had gray hair now, but she wrote it in a kind of reformatory cut, a crew cut, like an athlete with a touch of spirituality; one of her eyes was lower than the other, which gave her a distinguished look, and if she seemed to squint a little, it was not because she had bad vision but because one of her eyes had simply got stuck while staring beyond the threshold of the infinite into the very center of an equilateral triangle, into the very heart of being, or as a Catholic existentialist once put it, her defective eye symbolized the diamond's eternal blemish."
Books aren't solitude if you think about people like that because you were sitting alone taking the time... If you started to think about people you met to describe them like that (it is why I used to collect those). Yeah, to take the time. Words that are yours and words that are theirs and then they are yours because you took the time. I don't know about destruction. I wasn't giving up yet. (I would get damned emotional about it. It would eat me alive. My eyes would be raccoon eyes. I would read another book and hope to feel alive again. Books will love you back!) I would have probably invented some reason to put books into that hydraulic press too. What if I had to destroy a Kawabata? The hydraulic press wants to read! Look, that's his eyes and that's his mouth and he's one of those annoying kids from elementary school that read aloud and took too long when you were already into the story. Now he is crying because the story moves him. He loves to read. He'll probably be awfully popular on goodreads.
(It only took me two hours and twenty one minutes to despise and strike this one from the feed. I'm not floating, really, I'm putting it back. I understand feelings of unworthiness when it comes to vocalizing about the things you love. Why couldn't there be a hydraulic press to squeeze out one's own drippiness in? I'd put me into that. Really I would. I have book lover's guilt of a different kind but I have it and boy did I relate to this book. The key is to keep drinking! More books.)
November 1, 2023
4.5
“Every beloved object is the center of a garden of paradise.”
-Novalis
Somebody writes a book, somebody edits it, somebody designs the cover, somebody sets it, somebody proofreads it, somebody makes the corrections, somebody prints the book, somebody binds the book, somebody packs the books into boxes, somebody does the accounts and then somebody decides that the book is unfit to be read, so somebody orders it banned, somebody orders it pulped, somebody puts all the books in storage, somebody loads them on the truck, and somebody drives the truck to where our Haňťa has been compacting rejected or unwanted books for thirty-five years.
The heavens are not humane, nor is any man with a head on his shoulders.
But Haňťa, does more than feed the pages to be pressed into oblivion…he reads them; he savours them; he lives them and sometimes he keeps them.
When I read, I don’t really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.
Imagine you dear reader, are in charge of destroying books; it is your job; it is your livelihood. Imagine you peer into the mass of wastepaper and find a rare book among them. Imagine the only thing that keeps you going on is the joy of finding the written words you love to read. Now imagine this everyday treat is cut short because you are no longer needed for the job.
Not until we’re totally crushed do we show what we are made of.
“Every beloved object is the center of a garden of paradise.”
-Novalis
Somebody writes a book, somebody edits it, somebody designs the cover, somebody sets it, somebody proofreads it, somebody makes the corrections, somebody prints the book, somebody binds the book, somebody packs the books into boxes, somebody does the accounts and then somebody decides that the book is unfit to be read, so somebody orders it banned, somebody orders it pulped, somebody puts all the books in storage, somebody loads them on the truck, and somebody drives the truck to where our Haňťa has been compacting rejected or unwanted books for thirty-five years.
The heavens are not humane, nor is any man with a head on his shoulders.
But Haňťa, does more than feed the pages to be pressed into oblivion…he reads them; he savours them; he lives them and sometimes he keeps them.
When I read, I don’t really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.
Imagine you dear reader, are in charge of destroying books; it is your job; it is your livelihood. Imagine you peer into the mass of wastepaper and find a rare book among them. Imagine the only thing that keeps you going on is the joy of finding the written words you love to read. Now imagine this everyday treat is cut short because you are no longer needed for the job.
Not until we’re totally crushed do we show what we are made of.
August 26, 2016
On a lazy summer day, at the age of 5, I made my first true friend. As I stared deeper into its face, I begged, pleaded my mother to let me be friends with this elegant thing. Even with a stubborn promise of practicing my cursive writing for an hour daily, it took my mother more than a week to be able to allow me to bring this new friendship in my life. Over the years, I have made several friends and have been at the receiving end of the love-hate relationship for decades. Some have chosen me and some I have chosen. We do not get to choose our families, so I take a bit of an extra effort in choosing my friends. Along the way, some of them have being embraced, some thrown amid a fit of rage, some ignored, some misplaced and then there have been those who have cured my reclusiveness. And, now all my dear ones, old and new, live together with great camaraderie behind the wooden door waiting to be picked up for some friendly banter. My parents gave me a loving heart, the school and streets taught me discipline, but it were the books that made me human; they bestowed me the gift of a liberated soul that harbors no prejudices and appreciates other people irrespective to their stations in life for they have innumerable stories that are yet to be heard and written. Hantá too had a story yet to be told and when those precious sentences flowed from his mouth emitting the fragrance of a freshly sucked fruit drop, copious tears ferociously rushed down my cheeks ignoring my gentle pleas as they rested on my fingertips; the green and red buttons flashing in the background.
“If I knew how to write, I'd write a book about the greatest of man's joys and sorrows. It is by and from books that I've learned that the heavens are not humane, neither the heavens nor any man with a head on his shoulders— it's not that men don't wish to be humane, it just goes against common sense.”
As the door of the cellar opened, through the beaming sunlight descended the prized words of Goethe, Sartre, Hegel, Lao-Tze and many more; a steady shower of erudite sentences that peeked through the crumpled sheets of paper, verses that may never see daylight again, it was as if the inhumane heavens gifted Hantá the gems of mankind for the final time as a tribute to the admirable artist. For thirty-five years, the mulish sounds of the cold metal obeying the marching orders of the green and red lights , shuddered through the dark interiors of the cellar as the radiance of education dispersed steadily in the beer-laden core of Hantá’s physicality. Hantá was a connoisseur of books for he knew to identify a Goethe from a Schiller and scout a Nietzsche reading like a Homeric prophecy. Hantá called himself a “refined butcher”. What a tragedy! A man who crushes paper for a living perceives his work as a slaughtering fest, while those who massacre guiltless lives bestow themselves with honorary badges of “humane leaders”. Those who slay libertarian expressions revel in their wreckage while those like Hantá bear the burden of the putrefying corpses. In the dense solitude following the peripheral mayhem, Hantá was a passionate audience who knew the merit of fighting for free speech, but inopportune circumstances made him experience the pleasure of wreckage, for obliteration is all he saw as his youthful illusion drowned in the Olympic beer pool.
“And while the sewers of Prague provide the scene for a senseless war between two armies of rats, the cellars are headquarters for Prague's fallen angels, university-educated men who have lost a battle they never fought, yet continue to work toward a clearer image of the world.”
The white mice annihilated the brown ones and then the triumphant white ones indulged in a war of their own, humiliating their own mates. The sewers of Prague were plagued by a battle that went on years to come. A city, a country, in the midst of turmoil butchering their own kin for egotistical prejudices, squalor contaminated the blissful lives smothering it with faeces of brutality and discomfiture splashing everywhere, just like those that had soiled the ribbons of Manca bringing ignominy and relinquishing her glory. Through Hantá’s empathetic words, Hrabal paints the distorted reality of his homeland (Czech Republic) that saw democracy decaying in the graves dug by the tyrannical elements of Communism. Hrabal’s country saw a melee of wars that rose through decades of inhumane treatment, bloody revolutions and ultimately liberation. For decades, Hantá regularly dug literary graves beneath the sturdy hydraulic press and his country massacred free speech and social equality. During the onset of a political spring (Prague Spring, 1968), the country exhaled in the air of emancipation as bans on travel, speech and media were lifted. Nonetheless this heaven was a temporary respite and once again the country crumbled into depths of obscurity. Heaven is far from being humane, isn't it? While the livid rats were combating for the supremacy over the sewers, Hantá was haunted by the ghosts of the deceased books, every trampled mice making Hantá lose an ounce of compassion from his soul.
Why do we read books? What do we achieve from these books? Do books make us heartless or is it that we are blind to the humanity that resides within the pages of the book? Are books really that cruel? Is free speech demonic? The world is filled with idiots and these very idiots carry the traits of idiocy into the core of the tomes that are brutally ripped apart as if confiscating a disagreeable existence of life. The notion of Hrabal’s cherished words being ripped apart by political callousness and his books being treated far worse than a leper, brings excruciating pain.
“I put a Metaphysics of Morals by Immanuel Kant, and the flesh flies went berserk, attacking the last bits of dried and drying blood with such gluttony that they failed to notice the drum wall crushing and compacting them, separating them into membranes and cells."
In a land, at a time when guns were favored over pens, agonizing screams were audible than free speech, morality was a festering corpse and Hrabal’s books were sinners of human race. In the former sovereign Czechoslovakia (now Czech Republic), Gypsies were once privileged citizens of country that took pride in their ethnic culture. Only if, Hegel and Schopenhauer had not waged a confrontation, only if the words of Sartre and Plato had not crossed the wrong street corner, only if numerous pages were not crushed under the gigantic hydraulic press after every war; then the gorgeous gypsy girl would have been able to cook warm food for Hantá and lie down beside him in a loving embrace as Hantá happily sucked on to the fruity aromatic sentences from his books. In the mournful shower of wrinkled paper, the inhumane heavens had washed away the last lingering traces of kindness and love.
“...until suddenly one day I felt beautiful and holy for having had the courage to hold on to my sanity after all I'd seen and been through, body and soul, in too loud a solitude, and slowly I came to the realization that my work was hurtling me headlong into an infinite field of omnipotence."
The cat is a coward when it does not let the mice squeak. The narcissistic mind is atrocious when it exterminates words from other minds. The voices of solitude burned, its ashes flowing through Hantá’s body and soul and from Hantá’s solitary wisdom came the courage to find beauty among the crackling noises of human bones. The age of industrialization brought with it an eccentric world alienating the old loyalists. With each new compacter established, the fears of the collector becoming the collection burgeoned among heaps of wastepaper whilst mocking Sisyphus as Camus was shredded into white confetti. Paper was being recycled, so were the books and inked words, all of them recycled ushering a new era; sadly lives cannot be recycled and are forever jammed in a claustrophobic time-zone praying for a miracle like those discarded pages of a book, hoping to be saved .
The man who guards the cemetery somehow values life much more than those who walk past it, for he is surrounded by the stillness of death. To me, Hantá was a not a refined butcher. Hantá was clandestine priest who eulogized the books wishing that they would bestow the gift of humanity to the merciless heavens. After all it is a love story. Yet, in love and war, commonsense is not a commonplace. Lao-tze says,"to be born is to exit and to die is to enter?" Does he mean to exit and enter the realms of humanity through commonsense and compassion?
Hantá, the man who made me cry the entire night, only to befriend me the very next day, marking the beginning of a life-long friendship. Are you listening Hrabal?
**[The above picture is taken from the namesake movie]
“If I knew how to write, I'd write a book about the greatest of man's joys and sorrows. It is by and from books that I've learned that the heavens are not humane, neither the heavens nor any man with a head on his shoulders— it's not that men don't wish to be humane, it just goes against common sense.”
As the door of the cellar opened, through the beaming sunlight descended the prized words of Goethe, Sartre, Hegel, Lao-Tze and many more; a steady shower of erudite sentences that peeked through the crumpled sheets of paper, verses that may never see daylight again, it was as if the inhumane heavens gifted Hantá the gems of mankind for the final time as a tribute to the admirable artist. For thirty-five years, the mulish sounds of the cold metal obeying the marching orders of the green and red lights , shuddered through the dark interiors of the cellar as the radiance of education dispersed steadily in the beer-laden core of Hantá’s physicality. Hantá was a connoisseur of books for he knew to identify a Goethe from a Schiller and scout a Nietzsche reading like a Homeric prophecy. Hantá called himself a “refined butcher”. What a tragedy! A man who crushes paper for a living perceives his work as a slaughtering fest, while those who massacre guiltless lives bestow themselves with honorary badges of “humane leaders”. Those who slay libertarian expressions revel in their wreckage while those like Hantá bear the burden of the putrefying corpses. In the dense solitude following the peripheral mayhem, Hantá was a passionate audience who knew the merit of fighting for free speech, but inopportune circumstances made him experience the pleasure of wreckage, for obliteration is all he saw as his youthful illusion drowned in the Olympic beer pool.
“And while the sewers of Prague provide the scene for a senseless war between two armies of rats, the cellars are headquarters for Prague's fallen angels, university-educated men who have lost a battle they never fought, yet continue to work toward a clearer image of the world.”
The white mice annihilated the brown ones and then the triumphant white ones indulged in a war of their own, humiliating their own mates. The sewers of Prague were plagued by a battle that went on years to come. A city, a country, in the midst of turmoil butchering their own kin for egotistical prejudices, squalor contaminated the blissful lives smothering it with faeces of brutality and discomfiture splashing everywhere, just like those that had soiled the ribbons of Manca bringing ignominy and relinquishing her glory. Through Hantá’s empathetic words, Hrabal paints the distorted reality of his homeland (Czech Republic) that saw democracy decaying in the graves dug by the tyrannical elements of Communism. Hrabal’s country saw a melee of wars that rose through decades of inhumane treatment, bloody revolutions and ultimately liberation. For decades, Hantá regularly dug literary graves beneath the sturdy hydraulic press and his country massacred free speech and social equality. During the onset of a political spring (Prague Spring, 1968), the country exhaled in the air of emancipation as bans on travel, speech and media were lifted. Nonetheless this heaven was a temporary respite and once again the country crumbled into depths of obscurity. Heaven is far from being humane, isn't it? While the livid rats were combating for the supremacy over the sewers, Hantá was haunted by the ghosts of the deceased books, every trampled mice making Hantá lose an ounce of compassion from his soul.
Why do we read books? What do we achieve from these books? Do books make us heartless or is it that we are blind to the humanity that resides within the pages of the book? Are books really that cruel? Is free speech demonic? The world is filled with idiots and these very idiots carry the traits of idiocy into the core of the tomes that are brutally ripped apart as if confiscating a disagreeable existence of life. The notion of Hrabal’s cherished words being ripped apart by political callousness and his books being treated far worse than a leper, brings excruciating pain.
“I put a Metaphysics of Morals by Immanuel Kant, and the flesh flies went berserk, attacking the last bits of dried and drying blood with such gluttony that they failed to notice the drum wall crushing and compacting them, separating them into membranes and cells."
In a land, at a time when guns were favored over pens, agonizing screams were audible than free speech, morality was a festering corpse and Hrabal’s books were sinners of human race. In the former sovereign Czechoslovakia (now Czech Republic), Gypsies were once privileged citizens of country that took pride in their ethnic culture. Only if, Hegel and Schopenhauer had not waged a confrontation, only if the words of Sartre and Plato had not crossed the wrong street corner, only if numerous pages were not crushed under the gigantic hydraulic press after every war; then the gorgeous gypsy girl would have been able to cook warm food for Hantá and lie down beside him in a loving embrace as Hantá happily sucked on to the fruity aromatic sentences from his books. In the mournful shower of wrinkled paper, the inhumane heavens had washed away the last lingering traces of kindness and love.
“...until suddenly one day I felt beautiful and holy for having had the courage to hold on to my sanity after all I'd seen and been through, body and soul, in too loud a solitude, and slowly I came to the realization that my work was hurtling me headlong into an infinite field of omnipotence."
The cat is a coward when it does not let the mice squeak. The narcissistic mind is atrocious when it exterminates words from other minds. The voices of solitude burned, its ashes flowing through Hantá’s body and soul and from Hantá’s solitary wisdom came the courage to find beauty among the crackling noises of human bones. The age of industrialization brought with it an eccentric world alienating the old loyalists. With each new compacter established, the fears of the collector becoming the collection burgeoned among heaps of wastepaper whilst mocking Sisyphus as Camus was shredded into white confetti. Paper was being recycled, so were the books and inked words, all of them recycled ushering a new era; sadly lives cannot be recycled and are forever jammed in a claustrophobic time-zone praying for a miracle like those discarded pages of a book, hoping to be saved .
The man who guards the cemetery somehow values life much more than those who walk past it, for he is surrounded by the stillness of death. To me, Hantá was a not a refined butcher. Hantá was clandestine priest who eulogized the books wishing that they would bestow the gift of humanity to the merciless heavens. After all it is a love story. Yet, in love and war, commonsense is not a commonplace. Lao-tze says,"to be born is to exit and to die is to enter?" Does he mean to exit and enter the realms of humanity through commonsense and compassion?
Hantá, the man who made me cry the entire night, only to befriend me the very next day, marking the beginning of a life-long friendship. Are you listening Hrabal?
**[The above picture is taken from the namesake movie]
October 18, 2021
عالی، درجه‌ی یک و ممتاز با پایانی خارق‌العاده!
گفتار اندر ستایش نویسنده
ت��هایی پر هیاهو، برای من عنوانی ناشناخته از نویسنده‌ای ناآشنا بود و این لطف بیکران دوست نازنینم بود که کتاب را به من هدیه داد تا لذت خواندنش نصیبم گردد.
اعتراف میکنم وقتی در صفحه‌ی نخست با تعریف و تمجید‌های جانانه‌ی «میلان کوندرا» و نشریات معتبرِ گاردین، تایمز و لس‌آنجلس تایمز روبرو شدم به خود گفتم یا نویسنده در میان این تعاریف دفن خواهد شد یا او یک شاهکار خلق کرده و در انتها به این نتیجه رسیدم که او حقیقتا شایسته‌ی این تعاریف بوده است.
شهردار شهر محل سکونت هرابال در وصفش می‌گوید:
"همه‌ی ما از شنیدن صدای ماشین تحریر او در گذر از برابر پنجره‌ی خانه‌اش شاد می‌شدیم و به قول هرابال می‌گفتیم: «خوب است. دارد می‌نویسد. پس هنوز زنده است!»... او در واقع نمرده است، فقط دیگر نمی‌نویسد."
پرواضح است که هرابال نوشتن را بلد بود، طنز را می‌شناخت و روی افکارش به جهت انتقال به کاغذ تسلط کامل داشت و این چنین است که توانسته چنین اثری خلق نماید.
گفتار اندر ستایش مترجم
در این تریبون لازم می‌دانم بخاطر مقدمه‌ی باشکوهی که آقای «پرویز دوائی» برای معرفی نویسنده نوشته‌اند، زحماتی که برای ترجمه کشیده‌اند و همچنین عشق و احترامی که به نویسنده‌ی محبوب خود ابراز داشته‌اند صمیمانه تشکر نمایم و به احترام ایشان کلاه از سر بردارم.
در بخشی از مقدمه از زبان مترجم می‌خوانیم:
"پاسخی هم به دوستان و خوانندگان دور و نزدیکم مدیونم که از این بنده خواسته بودند که به سراغ آثار دیگر این نویسنده بروم. متاسفم! بجز این کتاب هرابال که عرض شد، که به نظر ناقدان و خبرگان چک بهترین اثر اوست، و نیز بی«ضررترین»شان برای عرضه در بازار نشر امروز سرزمین ما، ترجمه‌ي سایر آثار او(که برای فرهنگ دیگری نوشته شده است) در شرایط لزوم دخالت و دستکاری‌هایی را اقتضا میکند که این بنده در مورد خویش به خصوص در حق چنین نویسنده‌ای آن‌را مطلقا روا نمی‌دارد. دیگران در مورد ترجمه‌ی آثار نویسندگان دیگر چنین کرده‌اند و می‌کنند. بکنند!"
امیدوارم این عشق و احترام و حفظ حقوق نویسنده، سرلوحه‌ی تمام مترجمان جدید و قدیمی کشورم قرار گیرد و به خصوص برای بار nام از مترجمین و ناشرین آثار موراکامی عزیزم در ایران خواهش میکنم بجای آویزان شدن از آلت موراکامی به جهت تحصیل مال از راه نامشروع و لگدمال کردن حقوق نویسنده به سبب عدم رعایت قوانین کپی رایت و تکه تکه کردن آثار و چاپ آن با ترجمه‌های ضعیف تحت نام‌های من درآوردی خودداری نمایند، امیدوارم این رفتار حرفه‌ای آقای پرویز دوائی تلنگری باشد بر پیکره‌ی نااهلان صنعت چاپ و نشر در ایران!
گفتار اندر داستان کتاب
داستان کتاب در هشت فصل نگارش شده و «هانتا» شخصیت اول داستان است.
هانتا سی و پنج ساله، تحصیل کرده و عاشق کتاب و کتاب‌خوانی‌ست اما شغلش خمیر کردن کتابهاست و از یافتن برخی کتاب‌های نایاب و موردعلاقه‌اش کلکسیونی ناب برای خود گردآوری کرده و به شکل بسیار جذاب از تجاربش، شادی‌هایش، لرزیدن دلش، غم‌هایش و ... می‌گوید.
تکنیک، «به در بگو دیوار بشنوه» که تکنیک مرسوم نویسندگانی‌ست که آزادی عمل جهت نوشتن نداشتند و آینه‌ی تمام نمای آن را «مرشد و مارگاریتا» از بولگاکف می‌دانم در این کتاب پررنگ بود، هرابال در قالب جمله‌های به ظاهر ساده‌اش به رخدادهای سیاسی و اجتماعی دوران خود نیز اشاره داشت.
نقل‌قول نامه
"تمام آنچه از یک فرد بشری باقی می‌ماند گوگردی است که جعبه‌ی کبریتی را کفایت کند و آهنی که بتواند با آن میخی ساخت که انسان بتواند از آن خود را حلق‌آویز سازد."
"وقتی شروع به خواندن میکنم به عالم دیگری فرو می‌روم، در متن غرق میشوم. خودم حیرت میکنم و باید گناهکارانه اعتراف کنم که واقعا در عالم رویا بودم، در دنیایی زیباتر، در قلب حقیقت، هر روز، روزی ده بار، از اینکه از خودم چنین به دور افتاده بودم، غرق اعجاب میشوم."
"حالا می‌فهمیدم که رمبو حق داشت که گفن: «جنگِ روح همان‌قدر وحشتناک است که جنگ مسلحانه»، حالا مفهوم واقعی این کلام بی‌رحمانه‌ی مسیح را در می‌یافتم که «برایتان صلح نیاورده‌ام،شمشیر آورده‌ام.»"
کارنامه
اعتراف میکنم پیش از فصل نهایی کتاب به سه یا چهار ستاره فکر می‌کردم اما پس از پایان کتاب که شدیدا تشنه شده بودم و ضربان قلبم بالا رفته بود به چهار یا پنج ستاره اما حالا که ضربان قلبم به ریتم معمول خود بازگشته و تشنگی خود را رفع نموده‌ام چهار ستاره برایش منظور میکنم چون اگر برای این کتاب پنج ستاره منظور کنم به لیست بهترین‌هایم خیانت کرده‌ام، اما در لیست کتاب‌های محبوبم قرار می‌دهم و خواندنش را به سایر دوستانم پیشنهاد میکنم.
بیست و ششم مهرماه یک‌هزار و چهارصد
گفتار اندر ستایش نویسنده
ت��هایی پر هیاهو، برای من عنوانی ناشناخته از نویسنده‌ای ناآشنا بود و این لطف بیکران دوست نازنینم بود که کتاب را به من هدیه داد تا لذت خواندنش نصیبم گردد.
اعتراف میکنم وقتی در صفحه‌ی نخست با تعریف و تمجید‌های جانانه‌ی «میلان کوندرا» و نشریات معتبرِ گاردین، تایمز و لس‌آنجلس تایمز روبرو شدم به خود گفتم یا نویسنده در میان این تعاریف دفن خواهد شد یا او یک شاهکار خلق کرده و در انتها به این نتیجه رسیدم که او حقیقتا شایسته‌ی این تعاریف بوده است.
شهردار شهر محل سکونت هرابال در وصفش می‌گوید:
"همه‌ی ما از شنیدن صدای ماشین تحریر او در گذر از برابر پنجره‌ی خانه‌اش شاد می‌شدیم و به قول هرابال می‌گفتیم: «خوب است. دارد می‌نویسد. پس هنوز زنده است!»... او در واقع نمرده است، فقط دیگر نمی‌نویسد."
پرواضح است که هرابال نوشتن را بلد بود، طنز را می‌شناخت و روی افکارش به جهت انتقال به کاغذ تسلط کامل داشت و این چنین است که توانسته چنین اثری خلق نماید.
گفتار اندر ستایش مترجم
در این تریبون لازم می‌دانم بخاطر مقدمه‌ی باشکوهی که آقای «پرویز دوائی» برای معرفی نویسنده نوشته‌اند، زحماتی که برای ترجمه کشیده‌اند و همچنین عشق و احترامی که به نویسنده‌ی محبوب خود ابراز داشته‌اند صمیمانه تشکر نمایم و به احترام ایشان کلاه از سر بردارم.
در بخشی از مقدمه از زبان مترجم می‌خوانیم:
"پاسخی هم به دوستان و خوانندگان دور و نزدیکم مدیونم که از این بنده خواسته بودند که به سراغ آثار دیگر این نویسنده بروم. متاسفم! بجز این کتاب هرابال که عرض شد، که به نظر ناقدان و خبرگان چک بهترین اثر اوست، و نیز بی«ضررترین»شان برای عرضه در بازار نشر امروز سرزمین ما، ترجمه‌ي سایر آثار او(که برای فرهنگ دیگری نوشته شده است) در شرایط لزوم دخالت و دستکاری‌هایی را اقتضا میکند که این بنده در مورد خویش به خصوص در حق چنین نویسنده‌ای آن‌را مطلقا روا نمی‌دارد. دیگران در مورد ترجمه‌ی آثار نویسندگان دیگر چنین کرده‌اند و می‌کنند. بکنند!"
امیدوارم این عشق و احترام و حفظ حقوق نویسنده، سرلوحه‌ی تمام مترجمان جدید و قدیمی کشورم قرار گیرد و به خصوص برای بار nام از مترجمین و ناشرین آثار موراکامی عزیزم در ایران خواهش میکنم بجای آویزان شدن از آلت موراکامی به جهت تحصیل مال از راه نامشروع و لگدمال کردن حقوق نویسنده به سبب عدم رعایت قوانین کپی رایت و تکه تکه کردن آثار و چاپ آن با ترجمه‌های ضعیف تحت نام‌های من درآوردی خودداری نمایند، امیدوارم این رفتار حرفه‌ای آقای پرویز دوائی تلنگری باشد بر پیکره‌ی نااهلان صنعت چاپ و نشر در ایران!
گفتار اندر داستان کتاب
داستان کتاب در هشت فصل نگارش شده و «هانتا» شخصیت اول داستان است.
هانتا سی و پنج ساله، تحصیل کرده و عاشق کتاب و کتاب‌خوانی‌ست اما شغلش خمیر کردن کتابهاست و از یافتن برخی کتاب‌های نایاب و موردعلاقه‌اش کلکسیونی ناب برای خود گردآوری کرده و به شکل بسیار جذاب از تجاربش، شادی‌هایش، لرزیدن دلش، غم‌هایش و ... می‌گوید.
تکنیک، «به در بگو دیوار بشنوه» که تکنیک مرسوم نویسندگانی‌ست که آزادی عمل جهت نوشتن نداشتند و آینه‌ی تمام نمای آن را «مرشد و مارگاریتا» از بولگاکف می‌دانم در این کتاب پررنگ بود، هرابال در قالب جمله‌های به ظاهر ساده‌اش به رخدادهای سیاسی و اجتماعی دوران خود نیز اشاره داشت.
نقل‌قول نامه
"تمام آنچه از یک فرد بشری باقی می‌ماند گوگردی است که جعبه‌ی کبریتی را کفایت کند و آهنی که بتواند با آن میخی ساخت که انسان بتواند از آن خود را حلق‌آویز سازد."
"وقتی شروع به خواندن میکنم به عالم دیگری فرو می‌روم، در متن غرق میشوم. خودم حیرت میکنم و باید گناهکارانه اعتراف کنم که واقعا در عالم رویا بودم، در دنیایی زیباتر، در قلب حقیقت، هر روز، روزی ده بار، از اینکه از خودم چنین به دور افتاده بودم، غرق اعجاب میشوم."
"حالا می‌فهمیدم که رمبو حق داشت که گفن: «جنگِ روح همان‌قدر وحشتناک است که جنگ مسلحانه»، حالا مفهوم واقعی این کلام بی‌رحمانه‌ی مسیح را در می‌یافتم که «برایتان صلح نیاورده‌ام،شمشیر آورده‌ام.»"
کارنامه
اعتراف میکنم پیش از فصل نهایی کتاب به سه یا چهار ستاره فکر می‌کردم اما پس از پایان کتاب که شدیدا تشنه شده بودم و ضربان قلبم بالا رفته بود به چهار یا پنج ستاره اما حالا که ضربان قلبم به ریتم معمول خود بازگشته و تشنگی خود را رفع نموده‌ام چهار ستاره برایش منظور میکنم چون اگر برای این کتاب پنج ستاره منظور کنم به لیست بهترین‌هایم خیانت کرده‌ام، اما در لیست کتاب‌های محبوبم قرار می‌دهم و خواندنش را به سایر دوستانم پیشنهاد میکنم.
بیست و ششم مهرماه یک‌هزار و چهارصد
November 19, 2017
عزلة صاخبة جدا.....بوهوميل هرابال
لماذا العلامة الكاملة وأنا الساخط على كل شئ، ولا شئ يعجبني؟
ألأن العمل لمس شئ دفين في روحي، أن أنه نص عظيم فعلا؟ لن��جل كتابة مطولة عن هذا العمل و نكتفي بالقول أنها رواية تقرأ وتقرأ إلى أن نحفظها جميعا.
لماذا العلامة الكاملة وأنا الساخط على كل شئ، ولا شئ يعجبني؟
ألأن العمل لمس شئ دفين في روحي، أن أنه نص عظيم فعلا؟ لن��جل كتابة مطولة عن هذا العمل و نكتفي بالقول أنها رواية تقرأ وتقرأ إلى أن نحفظها جميعا.
September 25, 2021
"the world is not humane and neither is the life above me and below me nor within me"
This clearly is a much more mature Hrabal speaking here than in his early Closely Watched Trains: this booklet is more elaborate, more condense, full of literary references, but above all even much more gloomy and surreal. While in the former story the young protagonist could find some solace in a (questionable) act of heroism, the latter ends with a very intense, tragic and at the same time beautifully symbolic curse of protagonist Haňtá directed at dehumanized society. The enchanting irony of this book is that of all people Hrabal chose a 'professional book compresser' (“thirty-five years I compress old paper and books”) to confront us with this dehumanization: Haňtá grinds/crushes/compresses the books into old bales, but he also cherishes those books, extracts the best and most beautiful of them out of the pile, cites Kant, Rimbaud and Hegel, and decorates the bales of old paper with beautiful covers of art books. Moreover, Haňtá simultaneously is a manual worker, an artist-intellectual and, through his journeys through the sewers of Prague, also a connoisseur of the seamy side of modern society. His descriptions are (involuntarily?) reminiscent of the Kafka of the 'Metamorphosis' and 'The Penal Colony', although that may be too obvious a comparison; perhaps Piranesi's darkest work is a better reference. The clever thing is also that Hrabal evokes a whole, drowsy world in just over 90 pages and adds a striking, dramatic point to it, a settlement with the blind-mechanising, disenchanted world. To me this is one of the darkest novels of the 20th century.
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This clearly is a much more mature Hrabal speaking here than in his early Closely Watched Trains: this booklet is more elaborate, more condense, full of literary references, but above all even much more gloomy and surreal. While in the former story the young protagonist could find some solace in a (questionable) act of heroism, the latter ends with a very intense, tragic and at the same time beautifully symbolic curse of protagonist Haňtá directed at dehumanized society. The enchanting irony of this book is that of all people Hrabal chose a 'professional book compresser' (“thirty-five years I compress old paper and books”) to confront us with this dehumanization: Haňtá grinds/crushes/compresses the books into old bales, but he also cherishes those books, extracts the best and most beautiful of them out of the pile, cites Kant, Rimbaud and Hegel, and decorates the bales of old paper with beautiful covers of art books. Moreover, Haňtá simultaneously is a manual worker, an artist-intellectual and, through his journeys through the sewers of Prague, also a connoisseur of the seamy side of modern society. His descriptions are (involuntarily?) reminiscent of the Kafka of the 'Metamorphosis' and 'The Penal Colony', although that may be too obvious a comparison; perhaps Piranesi's darkest work is a better reference. The clever thing is also that Hrabal evokes a whole, drowsy world in just over 90 pages and adds a striking, dramatic point to it, a settlement with the blind-mechanising, disenchanted world. To me this is one of the darkest novels of the 20th century.
January 1, 2018
تقریبا همه‌ی دوستان گودریدزی این کتاب را خوانده بودند یا تو-رید شان بود؛ و بجز دو نفر، بقیه بهش چهار یا پنج داده بودند.
داستانی درباره‌ی فتیش به کتاب؛ ولی نه عشق به کتاب به‌خاطر عشق به یادگرفتن بیشتر از زندگی، بلکه کتابخوانی در انزوا و زندگی را کتاب تعریف کردن. به عبارتی، زندگی راوی داستان بر کتابها غلبه ندارد، بلکه کتاب است که زندگی‌اش را می‌سازد. دنیایش جایی است که فقط در کتابها پیدا میشود.
مدام اسم از نویسندگان و کتابها می‌آید، و شاید همین ارجاعات عامل شیفتگی بسیاری از کتاب‌خوان‌ها به تنهایی پرهیاهو باشد، اما من این «کوت» کردن‌ها را هیچ نمی‌پسندم. ارجاعات در حد این است که مثلا بگوید سارتر و کامو اگزیستانسیالیست هستند. همین. به زور توصیفات را به به اصطلاح جملات بزرگان ربط دادن.
در همین داستان صد صفحه‌ای بعضی ایده‌ها به تکرار می‌افتند؛ مثلا بازنشسته‌ای (راوی و دایی‌اش) که اینقدر با کارش عجین شده که بعد از بازنشستگی هم آن کار را در خانه‌اش انجام می دهد. یا از مزاحمت توام با هم‌زیستی موشها می‌گوید، و چند فصل بعد همین توصیفات را درباره‌ی مگس‌ها می‌آورد.
فهمیدم که هرابال، نویسنده‌ی فیلم «کلوزلی واچد ترین» هم هست؛ فیلمی که سالها پیش دیدمش و واقعا دوستش دارم.
دو سال پیش کتاب «کار گل» از ایوان کلیما را خوانده بودم که حقیقتا خوب است. آن‌جا هم، در یک فصل، نویسنده‌ی چکی ما از سختی کتاب‌خواندن در دوران شوروی می‌گوید، ولی بدون - به قول من - جلوه‌فروشی اسامی ادبیات و اساطیر و فلسفه در داستانش.
داستانی درباره‌ی فتیش به کتاب؛ ولی نه عشق به کتاب به‌خاطر عشق به یادگرفتن بیشتر از زندگی، بلکه کتابخوانی در انزوا و زندگی را کتاب تعریف کردن. به عبارتی، زندگی راوی داستان بر کتابها غلبه ندارد، بلکه کتاب است که زندگی‌اش را می‌سازد. دنیایش جایی است که فقط در کتابها پیدا میشود.
مدام اسم از نویسندگان و کتابها می‌آید، و شاید همین ارجاعات عامل شیفتگی بسیاری از کتاب‌خوان‌ها به تنهایی پرهیاهو باشد، اما من این «کوت» کردن‌ها را هیچ نمی‌پسندم. ارجاعات در حد این است که مثلا بگوید سارتر و کامو اگزیستانسیالیست هستند. همین. به زور توصیفات را به به اصطلاح جملات بزرگان ربط دادن.
در همین داستان صد صفحه‌ای بعضی ایده‌ها به تکرار می‌افتند؛ مثلا بازنشسته‌ای (راوی و دایی‌اش) که اینقدر با کارش عجین شده که بعد از بازنشستگی هم آن کار را در خانه‌اش انجام می دهد. یا از مزاحمت توام با هم‌زیستی موشها می‌گوید، و چند فصل بعد همین توصیفات را درباره‌ی مگس‌ها می‌آورد.
فهمیدم که هرابال، نویسنده‌ی فیلم «کلوزلی واچد ترین» هم هست؛ فیلمی که سالها پیش دیدمش و واقعا دوستش دارم.
دو سال پیش کتاب «کار گل» از ایوان کلیما را خوانده بودم که حقیقتا خوب است. آن‌جا هم، در یک فصل، نویسنده‌ی چکی ما از سختی کتاب‌خواندن در دوران شوروی می‌گوید، ولی بدون - به قول من - جلوه‌فروشی اسامی ادبیات و اساطیر و فلسفه در داستانش.
August 20, 2019
|نه در آسمانها نشانی از عطوفت است و نه در وجود آدمیزاد دو پا|
|نه! نه در آسمانها نشانی از رأفت و عطوفت وجود دارد، نه در زندگی بالای سر و نه زیر پای ما و نه در درون من.|
بی رحمی، سردی و نبود عاطفه؛ چیزیست که نصیب هانتا (شخصیت اصلی کتاب) در زندگی شده است. موجودی حساس و ظریف که به عشق، به زیبایی، به عطوفت امید داشت، اما زندگی به او آموخت که جهان چیزی جز بی مهری و درد نیست؛ شاید به همین دلیل هم هست که در جای جای کتاب جملاتی این چنین وجود دارد.
تنها هنگامی که هانتا داستان خود و عشقش، دخترکی کولی، را تعریف می کرد، گمان کردم که آری هرابال به عشق ایمان دارد و اینکه درنهایت عشق فرجامی دارد ... به همین سبب در دفترچۂ یادداشتم نوشتم که چه زیباست عشق دخترک کولی و هانتای تنها به یکدیگر ... عاشق و معشوقی که توقعی جز عشق از هم ندارند ... تا حدی که نه دخترک نام هانتا را می داند و نه هانتا نام دخترک را... و برگی تمام در ستایش عشقشان و جزئیاتش و خوشیهایش نوشتم! بعد از آن ادامه دادم به خواندن و دیدم که چه بر سر عشقشان آمد ... متوجه شدم که عشق نیز بهانه ای بود برای نشان دادن سردی، نامهربانی و بی روحی این زندگی. هانتا در انتهای تعریف مردن داستانش عشقش به دخترک کولی می گوید:
|نه، آسمان عاطفه ندارد، ولی احتمالا چیزی بالاتر از آسمان وجود دارد که عشق و شفقت است، چیزی که مدتهاست که آن را از یاد برده ام.|
خستگی و کوفت��ی ذهنم
با پایان کتاب، دیدم که نایی در بدنم باقی نمانده است؛ خستۂ خسته، تمام بدنم کوفته شده بود. گویی حجمی عظیم بر اندامم سنگینی می کرد. آن چنان از جملات هرابال متأثر شده بودم که مثل هانتا وقتی که چندین سبو آبجو در زیرزمینش نوشیده بود، مجبور شدم چهار دست و پا راه برون و خودم را به تختم برسانم. افکارم دربارۂ داستان، در ذهنم رژه می رفتند و گویی جادو شده بودم؛ با قصۂ هانتا و عشق قدیمیش، ماریا، می خندیدم و با داستان کتابها و معشوق کولی اش چشمانم خیس می شد. وقتی مادرم بیدارم کرد، پرسید که چرا روی کتاب بیچاره خواب رفته ام؟! که شاید کتاب را له می کردم؛ غافل از اینکه این وزن سنگین جملات کتاب است که دارد من را زیر خودش له می کند ... نابود می کند! زیرا که هرابال خود به نقل از تورات می گوید: «ما همچون دانه های زیتونی هستیم که تنها هنگامی جوهر خود را بروز می دهیم که درهم شکسته شویم». به این اعتقاد دارد که:
تا کاملا از پا درنیامده ایم، جوهر واقعی خود را بروز نمی دهیم.
به همین سبب، با داستانش، خواننده را می شکند و خرد می کند، مثل زندگی؛ تا شاید اندکی از جوهر واقعیمان را از وجودمان بیرون کشد و به ما نشان دهد. او می داند که برای ساختن، باید خراب کرد و برای خراب کردن، باید ساخت. بنابراین، به خواننده اش می گوید که نابود شو تا بدانی که چه در درونت است، مثل شخصیت داستانش، هانتا!
تنهایی پر هیاهو
نام کتاب را به زبان انگلیسی پیدا کردم که ترجمه اش «یک تنهایی بسیار بلند» می شد؛ بلند هم اینجا منظورش صدا بوده؛ هیاهو هم که داد و فریاد می شود. نام زیباییست اما نمی دانم ایا واقعا به آنچه نام کتاب باید باشد، در زبان فارسی، نزدیکترین عنوان تنهایی پر هیاهوست. هرچند که خودم نامی از این زیباتر به ذهنم نرسید اما احساس می کنم حسی که با دیدن نام کتاب گرفتم، متفاوت از داستان بود.
نویسنده سبک خاصی از نوشتن برای خود دارد که در بین کتابهایی که تا اکنون خوانده بودم، بی مثال بود. روایت بسیار سادۂ داستان از زبان شخصیت اصلی، که پیرمردی ساده و تنهاست، طوری که تمام وقایع را در نهایت پاکی و حسن نیت تعریف می کند، برایم جالب بود؛ نویسنده اجازه نمی داد که نتیجه ای در ذهن خواننده کاشته شود بلکه با بیان مثبت کل وقایع داستان، خواننده را مجاب می کرد که خود نتیجه بگیرد و بیاندیشد؛ البته می توان به کتاب به عنوان یک داستان صرف بسیار تراژیک نیز نگاه کرد، اما اطمینان دارم که نویسنده ای که این چنین در خلال داستانش و حرفهایش از فلاسفه (نیچه، هگل، ارسطو، افلاطون، سارتر، کامو و بیشتر از همه از کانت) تأثیر گرفته، تنها برای صرف بیان داستان نمی نویسد؛ بلکه می نویسد که جهان بینی و نگرش خواننده را تغییر بدهد و امیدوارم برای من هم چنین بوده باشد، وگرنه خواندن و نخواندنش توفیری ندارد.
با خواندن زندگی نامه و مقدمه هایی که در ابتدای کتاب، بسیار به جا، نوشته شده اند به راحتی می توان نتیجه گرفت که در تمامی صفحات، زندگی خود هرابال مشهود است. به قول بختیار علی، نویسنده کسیست که دست خواننده را بگیرد و با نوشته هایش او را، درکنار خودش، در آسمانها به پرواز درآورد نه آنکه برای فهم مخاطبش از پرواز در آسمان دست بکشد و به پایین بیاید (نقل به مضمون)؛ با این تعبیر، هرابال، که از خودش برای خودش نوشته، کتابی آنچنان سبک نگاشته که کتاب در هوا معلق می شود و به سوی آسمان می رود و خواننده را نیز با خود به آسمانها می برد؛ البته تجربۂ تنهایی نیز می تواند بر این مسئله تأثیرگذار باشد. نمی شود که حس بودن با خویشتن را برای روزها تجربه نکرده باشی، در محفل های پرشور تک نفره که آدم خودش برای خودش ترتیب می دهد شرکت نکرده باشی، در حالتی نیمه آگاه در خیابانها راه نرفته باشی و نگاه عجیب و سرد دیگران را تحمل نکرده باشی و بخواهی که کتاب برایت سراسر لذت همدردی و بودن تجربۂ مشابه را داشته باشد. شاید به همین سبب هم بود که نتوانستم با برخی صفحاتش ارتباط کامل برقرار کنم:
من می توانم به خودم "تجمل" مطرودبودن را روا بدارم، هر چند هرگز مطرود نیستم، فقط جسما تنها هستم، تا بتوانم در تنهایی ای بسر ببرم که ساکنانش اندیشه ها هستند، چون که من یک آدم بی کلۂ ازلی-ابدی هستم و انگار که ازل و ابد از آدمهایی مثل من چندان بدش نمی آید.
تنهایی هانتا در سراسر کتاب مشهود است و هرابال از آن برای بیان مطالب زیبایی استفاده می کند:
ازش خواستم که مرا ببخشد. نمی دانستم به خاطر چه گناهی باید مرا می بخشید، ولی سرنوشت من این بود. سرنوشت من عذر تقصیر خواستن از همه بود. من حتی از خودم هم به خاطر آنچه بودم، به خاطر طبیعت گریزناپذیرم، تقاضای بخشش می کردم.
گویی تقدیر انسانهایی که شبیه بقیه نیستند، چنین است؛ اینکه باید بخاطر بودنشان از بقیه عذر بخواهند. جهان و آدمیانش تفاوت را برنمی تابند و با دیدن حالشان به هم می خورد؛ چنان که فرد را مقصر می دانند که چرا چنین نیست؛ چنان که شوپنهاور می گوید بیشتر نژاد بشر را احمق هایی تشکیل داده اند که تنها با انسان هایی می توانند دمخور شوند که چون خودشان احمق باشند و مهر تأییدی برحماقتشان بزنند. اگر چنین نباشد با او به اکراه رفتار می کنند و حتی برای اشتباهات خودشان نیز او را مقصر می پندارند. هرابال نیز این را می دانسته و برای همین شخصیتی را خلق کرده که این چنین تنهاست که این را نشان دهد، چون با همه متفاوت است.
طعنه ها و نمادها
قسمتی از داستانهای کتاب اشاره به اتمسفر سیاسی دوران مختلف کشور چک و حکامی که بر آن حکم می کردند، دارد؛ بنابراین دانستن جو سیاسی چک در قرن بیستم شاید بر فهم داستان مخصوصا در داستانهایی که هرابال در زمان حال در کتاب و زمانی که با معشوق کولیش بوده، تأثیر بسزایی داشته باشد؛ برای مثال هانتا در فصل سوم کتاب تعریف می کند که در بازدیدش از فاضلابهای شهر پراگ، دو گروه اصلی موش بر سر آشغالها و مساحت فاضلابها (که گروهی سفید بوده اند و گروهی نیز خاکستری!) دائما با هم در جنگ بوده اند؛ فرماندهانش را دیده که نطق هایی غرا دربارۂ جنگ نهایی و پیروزی سر داده اند و اینکه در نهایت موشهای خاکستری به سبب جثۂ بزرگترشان پیروز شده اند. آنگاه دوباره گروه پیروز دو دسته شده اند که بر سر منابع و سرزمین با هم اختلاف پیدا ��رده و با هم به جنگ پرداخته اند و در آخر از زبان هانتا می گوید که جنگ چگونه باعث توازن موشها شده است! در آخر نیز نقل قولی از هگل می آورد:
تنها چیزی که در جهان جای هراس دارد، وضعیت متحجر است، وضع بی تحرک احتضار، و تنها چیزی که ارزش شادمانی دارد وضعی است که در آن نه تنها فرد، که کل جامعه، در حال مبارزه ای مدام، برای توجیه خویش است، مبارزه که به وساطت آن جامعه بتواند جوان شود و به اشکال زندگی جدیدی دست یابد.
با خواندن روایت مذکور از زبان هانتا در فصل سوم، بی درنگ به یاد کتاب فاشیسم مارک نئوکلوس می افتم که طی توضیح تفکرات فاشیست ها، دربارۂ نظر آنها در رابطه با جنگ و اینکه زندگی واقعی و سرشت راستین بشر را در جنگ می بینند که تعادل زندگی و غنای آن را به ارمغان می آورد، صحبت می کند.
اینگونه داستان های طعنه آمیز و تفکرات در کتاب فراوان است که قطعا بر زیبایی کتاب بسیار افزوده است.
زیبایی
گاهی از متن هیچ نمی توان فهمید؛ تنها زیبایی و دل انگیزیش مشهود است و بس. منظورم این نیست که کلمات را نفهمی، خیر؛ بلکه مقصودم این است که خواننده تنها حس می کند نه فکر. نمی داند چرا، نمی داند چگونه! اوایل طی خوانش برخی از کتابها برایم آزاردهنده بود، اما اکنون گمان می کنم که اهمیتی ندارد. آنچه برایم اهمیت دارد، لذت خوانش کتاب است، لرزاندن روحم است و گاهی، آن هم تنها گاهی نه همیشه، تفکر دربارۂ برخی مسائلی که کتاب مطرح می کند. آنچه بنظرم اهمیت دارد، این است که خواننده تکه ای گمشده از خودش را در کتاب پیدا کند و بداند که از یک زاویه، هستند کسانی که زندگی را مانند او می بینند. عشق بین هانتا و ماریا در این کتاب برایم چنین بود و در جایی گفته های کانت نیز برایم چنین بود:
کتاب را ورق زدم و به جوانی کانت رسیدم و یک قطعۂ حتی زیباتر از قطعۂ قبلی پیدا کردم:« هنگامی که روشنایی لرزان شبی تابستانی، پر از تلألؤ ستاره ها و ماه بدر تمام است، من به اوج آن نازکدلی می رسم که از حس دوست داشتن جهان و در عین حال تحقیر این جهان، تشکیل یافته است...»
با خواندنش تنها می توانم همدردیم را کانت و هرابال حس کنم و آن چنان از حس سرشار شوم که چشمانم خیس اشک شود ...
در دفترچه ام چیزهایی بسیار بیشتری نوشته ام که اینجا بیانشان نمی کنم به سبب آنکه با گفتنشان شلید داستان تازگیش را از دست دهد و اینکه نکات مدنظرم آنقدر زیاد هستند که نوشتن همه شان اینجا مقدور نیست.
در سکوت شبانه، سکوت مطلق شبانه، وقتی که حواس انسان آرام گرفته است، روحی جاودان، به زبانی بی نام با انسان از جیزهایی، از اندیشه هایی سخن می گوید که می فهمی ولی نمی توانی وصف کنی.
تئوری آسمانها، کانت
پ.ن: فصل آخر کتاب کلا موزیک "صدای سکوت" پخش میشد خیلی به حس و حال کتاب میخورد:)))
The sound of silence
Disturbed
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=u9Dg-g7...
|نه! نه در آسمانها نشانی از رأفت و عطوفت وجود دارد، نه در زندگی بالای سر و نه زیر پای ما و نه در درون من.|
بی رحمی، سردی و نبود عاطفه؛ چیزیست که نصیب هانتا (شخصیت اصلی کتاب) در زندگی شده است. موجودی حساس و ظریف که به عشق، به زیبایی، به عطوفت امید داشت، اما زندگی به او آموخت که جهان چیزی جز بی مهری و درد نیست؛ شاید به همین دلیل هم هست که در جای جای کتاب جملاتی این چنین وجود دارد.
تنها هنگامی که هانتا داستان خود و عشقش، دخترکی کولی، را تعریف می کرد، گمان کردم که آری هرابال به عشق ایمان دارد و اینکه درنهایت عشق فرجامی دارد ... به همین سبب در دفترچۂ یادداشتم نوشتم که چه زیباست عشق دخترک کولی و هانتای تنها به یکدیگر ... عاشق و معشوقی که توقعی جز عشق از هم ندارند ... تا حدی که نه دخترک نام هانتا را می داند و نه هانتا نام دخترک را... و برگی تمام در ستایش عشقشان و جزئیاتش و خوشیهایش نوشتم! بعد از آن ادامه دادم به خواندن و دیدم که چه بر سر عشقشان آمد ... متوجه شدم که عشق نیز بهانه ای بود برای نشان دادن سردی، نامهربانی و بی روحی این زندگی. هانتا در انتهای تعریف مردن داستانش عشقش به دخترک کولی می گوید:
|نه، آسمان عاطفه ندارد، ولی احتمالا چیزی بالاتر از آسمان وجود دارد که عشق و شفقت است، چیزی که مدتهاست که آن را از یاد برده ام.|
خستگی و کوفت��ی ذهنم
با پایان کتاب، دیدم که نایی در بدنم باقی نمانده است؛ خستۂ خسته، تمام بدنم کوفته شده بود. گویی حجمی عظیم بر اندامم سنگینی می کرد. آن چنان از جملات هرابال متأثر شده بودم که مثل هانتا وقتی که چندین سبو آبجو در زیرزمینش نوشیده بود، مجبور شدم چهار دست و پا راه برون و خودم را به تختم برسانم. افکارم دربارۂ داستان، در ذهنم رژه می رفتند و گویی جادو شده بودم؛ با قصۂ هانتا و عشق قدیمیش، ماریا، می خندیدم و با داستان کتابها و معشوق کولی اش چشمانم خیس می شد. وقتی مادرم بیدارم کرد، پرسید که چرا روی کتاب بیچاره خواب رفته ام؟! که شاید کتاب را له می کردم؛ غافل از اینکه این وزن سنگین جملات کتاب است که دارد من را زیر خودش له می کند ... نابود می کند! زیرا که هرابال خود به نقل از تورات می گوید: «ما همچون دانه های زیتونی هستیم که تنها هنگامی جوهر خود را بروز می دهیم که درهم شکسته شویم». به این اعتقاد دارد که:
تا کاملا از پا درنیامده ایم، جوهر واقعی خود را بروز نمی دهیم.
به همین سبب، با داستانش، خواننده را می شکند و خرد می کند، مثل زندگی؛ تا شاید اندکی از جوهر واقعیمان را از وجودمان بیرون کشد و به ما نشان دهد. او می داند که برای ساختن، باید خراب کرد و برای خراب کردن، باید ساخت. بنابراین، به خواننده اش می گوید که نابود شو تا بدانی که چه در درونت است، مثل شخصیت داستانش، هانتا!
تنهایی پر هیاهو
نام کتاب را به زبان انگلیسی پیدا کردم که ترجمه اش «یک تنهایی بسیار بلند» می شد؛ بلند هم اینجا منظورش صدا بوده؛ هیاهو هم که داد و فریاد می شود. نام زیباییست اما نمی دانم ایا واقعا به آنچه نام کتاب باید باشد، در زبان فارسی، نزدیکترین عنوان تنهایی پر هیاهوست. هرچند که خودم نامی از این زیباتر به ذهنم نرسید اما احساس می کنم حسی که با دیدن نام کتاب گرفتم، متفاوت از داستان بود.
نویسنده سبک خاصی از نوشتن برای خود دارد که در بین کتابهایی که تا اکنون خوانده بودم، بی مثال بود. روایت بسیار سادۂ داستان از زبان شخصیت اصلی، که پیرمردی ساده و تنهاست، طوری که تمام وقایع را در نهایت پاکی و حسن نیت تعریف می کند، برایم جالب بود؛ نویسنده اجازه نمی داد که نتیجه ای در ذهن خواننده کاشته شود بلکه با بیان مثبت کل وقایع داستان، خواننده را مجاب می کرد که خود نتیجه بگیرد و بیاندیشد؛ البته می توان به کتاب به عنوان یک داستان صرف بسیار تراژیک نیز نگاه کرد، اما اطمینان دارم که نویسنده ای که این چنین در خلال داستانش و حرفهایش از فلاسفه (نیچه، هگل، ارسطو، افلاطون، سارتر، کامو و بیشتر از همه از کانت) تأثیر گرفته، تنها برای صرف بیان داستان نمی نویسد؛ بلکه می نویسد که جهان بینی و نگرش خواننده را تغییر بدهد و امیدوارم برای من هم چنین بوده باشد، وگرنه خواندن و نخواندنش توفیری ندارد.
با خواندن زندگی نامه و مقدمه هایی که در ابتدای کتاب، بسیار به جا، نوشته شده اند به راحتی می توان نتیجه گرفت که در تمامی صفحات، زندگی خود هرابال مشهود است. به قول بختیار علی، نویسنده کسیست که دست خواننده را بگیرد و با نوشته هایش او را، درکنار خودش، در آسمانها به پرواز درآورد نه آنکه برای فهم مخاطبش از پرواز در آسمان دست بکشد و به پایین بیاید (نقل به مضمون)؛ با این تعبیر، هرابال، که از خودش برای خودش نوشته، کتابی آنچنان سبک نگاشته که کتاب در هوا معلق می شود و به سوی آسمان می رود و خواننده را نیز با خود به آسمانها می برد؛ البته تجربۂ تنهایی نیز می تواند بر این مسئله تأثیرگذار باشد. نمی شود که حس بودن با خویشتن را برای روزها تجربه نکرده باشی، در محفل های پرشور تک نفره که آدم خودش برای خودش ترتیب می دهد شرکت نکرده باشی، در حالتی نیمه آگاه در خیابانها راه نرفته باشی و نگاه عجیب و سرد دیگران را تحمل نکرده باشی و بخواهی که کتاب برایت سراسر لذت همدردی و بودن تجربۂ مشابه را داشته باشد. شاید به همین سبب هم بود که نتوانستم با برخی صفحاتش ارتباط کامل برقرار کنم:
من می توانم به خودم "تجمل" مطرودبودن را روا بدارم، هر چند هرگز مطرود نیستم، فقط جسما تنها هستم، تا بتوانم در تنهایی ای بسر ببرم که ساکنانش اندیشه ها هستند، چون که من یک آدم بی کلۂ ازلی-ابدی هستم و انگار که ازل و ابد از آدمهایی مثل من چندان بدش نمی آید.
تنهایی هانتا در سراسر کتاب مشهود است و هرابال از آن برای بیان مطالب زیبایی استفاده می کند:
ازش خواستم که مرا ببخشد. نمی دانستم به خاطر چه گناهی باید مرا می بخشید، ولی سرنوشت من این بود. سرنوشت من عذر تقصیر خواستن از همه بود. من حتی از خودم هم به خاطر آنچه بودم، به خاطر طبیعت گریزناپذیرم، تقاضای بخشش می کردم.
گویی تقدیر انسانهایی که شبیه بقیه نیستند، چنین است؛ اینکه باید بخاطر بودنشان از بقیه عذر بخواهند. جهان و آدمیانش تفاوت را برنمی تابند و با دیدن حالشان به هم می خورد؛ چنان که فرد را مقصر می دانند که چرا چنین نیست؛ چنان که شوپنهاور می گوید بیشتر نژاد بشر را احمق هایی تشکیل داده اند که تنها با انسان هایی می توانند دمخور شوند که چون خودشان احمق باشند و مهر تأییدی برحماقتشان بزنند. اگر چنین نباشد با او به اکراه رفتار می کنند و حتی برای اشتباهات خودشان نیز او را مقصر می پندارند. هرابال نیز این را می دانسته و برای همین شخصیتی را خلق کرده که این چنین تنهاست که این را نشان دهد، چون با همه متفاوت است.
طعنه ها و نمادها
قسمتی از داستانهای کتاب اشاره به اتمسفر سیاسی دوران مختلف کشور چک و حکامی که بر آن حکم می کردند، دارد؛ بنابراین دانستن جو سیاسی چک در قرن بیستم شاید بر فهم داستان مخصوصا در داستانهایی که هرابال در زمان حال در کتاب و زمانی که با معشوق کولیش بوده، تأثیر بسزایی داشته باشد؛ برای مثال هانتا در فصل سوم کتاب تعریف می کند که در بازدیدش از فاضلابهای شهر پراگ، دو گروه اصلی موش بر سر آشغالها و مساحت فاضلابها (که گروهی سفید بوده اند و گروهی نیز خاکستری!) دائما با هم در جنگ بوده اند؛ فرماندهانش را دیده که نطق هایی غرا دربارۂ جنگ نهایی و پیروزی سر داده اند و اینکه در نهایت موشهای خاکستری به سبب جثۂ بزرگترشان پیروز شده اند. آنگاه دوباره گروه پیروز دو دسته شده اند که بر سر منابع و سرزمین با هم اختلاف پیدا ��رده و با هم به جنگ پرداخته اند و در آخر از زبان هانتا می گوید که جنگ چگونه باعث توازن موشها شده است! در آخر نیز نقل قولی از هگل می آورد:
تنها چیزی که در جهان جای هراس دارد، وضعیت متحجر است، وضع بی تحرک احتضار، و تنها چیزی که ارزش شادمانی دارد وضعی است که در آن نه تنها فرد، که کل جامعه، در حال مبارزه ای مدام، برای توجیه خویش است، مبارزه که به وساطت آن جامعه بتواند جوان شود و به اشکال زندگی جدیدی دست یابد.
با خواندن روایت مذکور از زبان هانتا در فصل سوم، بی درنگ به یاد کتاب فاشیسم مارک نئوکلوس می افتم که طی توضیح تفکرات فاشیست ها، دربارۂ نظر آنها در رابطه با جنگ و اینکه زندگی واقعی و سرشت راستین بشر را در جنگ می بینند که تعادل زندگی و غنای آن را به ارمغان می آورد، صحبت می کند.
اینگونه داستان های طعنه آمیز و تفکرات در کتاب فراوان است که قطعا بر زیبایی کتاب بسیار افزوده است.
زیبایی
گاهی از متن هیچ نمی توان فهمید؛ تنها زیبایی و دل انگیزیش مشهود است و بس. منظورم این نیست که کلمات را نفهمی، خیر؛ بلکه مقصودم این است که خواننده تنها حس می کند نه فکر. نمی داند چرا، نمی داند چگونه! اوایل طی خوانش برخی از کتابها برایم آزاردهنده بود، اما اکنون گمان می کنم که اهمیتی ندارد. آنچه برایم اهمیت دارد، لذت خوانش کتاب است، لرزاندن روحم است و گاهی، آن هم تنها گاهی نه همیشه، تفکر دربارۂ برخی مسائلی که کتاب مطرح می کند. آنچه بنظرم اهمیت دارد، این است که خواننده تکه ای گمشده از خودش را در کتاب پیدا کند و بداند که از یک زاویه، هستند کسانی که زندگی را مانند او می بینند. عشق بین هانتا و ماریا در این کتاب برایم چنین بود و در جایی گفته های کانت نیز برایم چنین بود:
کتاب را ورق زدم و به جوانی کانت رسیدم و یک قطعۂ حتی زیباتر از قطعۂ قبلی پیدا کردم:« هنگامی که روشنایی لرزان شبی تابستانی، پر از تلألؤ ستاره ها و ماه بدر تمام است، من به اوج آن نازکدلی می رسم که از حس دوست داشتن جهان و در عین حال تحقیر این جهان، تشکیل یافته است...»
با خواندنش تنها می توانم همدردیم را کانت و هرابال حس کنم و آن چنان از حس سرشار شوم که چشمانم خیس اشک شود ...
در دفترچه ام چیزهایی بسیار بیشتری نوشته ام که اینجا بیانشان نمی کنم به سبب آنکه با گفتنشان شلید داستان تازگیش را از دست دهد و اینکه نکات مدنظرم آنقدر زیاد هستند که نوشتن همه شان اینجا مقدور نیست.
در سکوت شبانه، سکوت مطلق شبانه، وقتی که حواس انسان آرام گرفته است، روحی جاودان، به زبانی بی نام با انسان از جیزهایی، از اندیشه هایی سخن می گوید که می فهمی ولی نمی توانی وصف کنی.
تئوری آسمانها، کانت
پ.ن: فصل آخر کتاب کلا موزیک "صدای سکوت" پخش میشد خیلی به حس و حال کتاب میخورد:)))
The sound of silence
Disturbed
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=u9Dg-g7...
April 2, 2015
تا زماني كه كاملا خرد نشويم و از پا در نياييم جوهر واقعي خود را نشان نمي دهيم.
از متن كتاب
از متن كتاب
August 9, 2021
When he’s not rescuing books for his two-ton personal collection, Haňťa’s job is to compress books into pulp fashioned into bales. He adds matching art prints to the sides of these bales for his own gratification. Hrabal’s novella itself is a compact bundle. For such a short work, repetition is used effectively, putting me in mind of a villanelle.
At the start one might be forgiven for thinking the narrator is all sunshine and humor. That couldn’t be further from the truth; he works in a cellar and contemplates sewers, along with philosophy he’s learned from his purloined books. They literally hang over his head like the sword of Damocles. (I feel the same when I think of all I want to read.) The narration remains lighthearted, but the story gets darker as it goes. Knowing the time period, I was put in a completely different frame of mind when books were described as being loaded onto trains to be burned at their destination.
Death is prevalent, starting with small creatures, mice that are inadvertently pulped with the pages they’re chewing and nesting in, and gradually working up to the fate of Haňťa’s family members, acquaintances, and perhaps a lover. Haňťa’s himself seems to be most closely identified with an uncle who’s defined by his work, forced to leave a job that he continues playacting into retirement, a fate Haňťa seems to actively not want.
At the start one might be forgiven for thinking the narrator is all sunshine and humor. That couldn’t be further from the truth; he works in a cellar and contemplates sewers, along with philosophy he’s learned from his purloined books. They literally hang over his head like the sword of Damocles. (I feel the same when I think of all I want to read.) The narration remains lighthearted, but the story gets darker as it goes. Knowing the time period, I was put in a completely different frame of mind when books were described as being loaded onto trains to be burned at their destination.
Death is prevalent, starting with small creatures, mice that are inadvertently pulped with the pages they’re chewing and nesting in, and gradually working up to the fate of Haňťa’s family members, acquaintances, and perhaps a lover. Haňťa’s himself seems to be most closely identified with an uncle who’s defined by his work, forced to leave a job that he continues playacting into retirement, a fate Haňťa seems to actively not want.
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