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Jūra vandenynas
„Almajerio” užeiga. Priešais ją plyti jūra. Amžina jūra – audrojanti, gydanti, žudanti. Pasakojanti istorijas. Dailininkas, sūriu jūros vandeniu tapantis baltas drobes. Įsimylėjęs mokslininkas, niekaip negalintis užbaigti ribų enciklopedijos. Nuostabaus grožio moteris, serganti neištikimybe. Tėvas Pliušas su savo maldomis. Elievina, trapi mergaitė, vieną naktį be jokios baimės tampanti moterimi, ir vyras, perplaukęs visus vandenynus, kurio akys lyg medžioklėn išėjusio žvėries...
Šis romanas – meilės ir keršto, vienatvės ir vilties istorijos. Šimtai būdų gyventi ir mirti. Klausydamasis tų istorijų, nuolat girdi jūros ošimą.
Šis romanas – meilės ir keršto, vienatvės ir vilties istorijos. Šimtai būdų gyventi ir mirti. Klausydamasis tų istorijų, nuolat girdi jūros ošimą.
231 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 1993
About the author
Alessandro Baricco
92 books3,664 followersAlessandro Baricco is an Italian writer, born at Torino in 1958. He's the author of several works, including the novels Lands of Glass (Selezione Campiello Award and Prix Médicis Étranger), Ocean Sea (Viareggio Prize), Silk, City, Emmaus or Mr. Gwyn, among others.
He is also the author of the majestic rewrite of Homer’s Iliad, the theatrical monologue Novecento, the essays Next: On Globalization and the World to Come or The Game.
Baricco hosted the book program "Pickwick" for Rai Tre, which, according to Claudio Paglieri, "invited Italians to rediscover the pleasure of reading." In 1994, he founded a school of "writing techniques" in Turin called Holden (as a tribute to Salinger), which, under his direction, has been a resounding success. Since the publication of Silk, which has become a long-standing bestseller both in Italy and internationally, Baricco has established himself as one of the great Italian writers of the new generations.
He was awarded the Fondazione Il Campiello Prize in 2020 and the Penna d’Oro Prize in 2022 for his body of work.
He is also the author of the majestic rewrite of Homer’s Iliad, the theatrical monologue Novecento, the essays Next: On Globalization and the World to Come or The Game.
Baricco hosted the book program "Pickwick" for Rai Tre, which, according to Claudio Paglieri, "invited Italians to rediscover the pleasure of reading." In 1994, he founded a school of "writing techniques" in Turin called Holden (as a tribute to Salinger), which, under his direction, has been a resounding success. Since the publication of Silk, which has become a long-standing bestseller both in Italy and internationally, Baricco has established himself as one of the great Italian writers of the new generations.
He was awarded the Fondazione Il Campiello Prize in 2020 and the Penna d’Oro Prize in 2022 for his body of work.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,796 reviews
September 21, 2015
When I started reading it, I was slightly drunk and my first reaction was, what the f*ck. But now I can add without any exaggeration that Ocean Sea is one of the best books I have ever read.
7 people, Ocean Sea (it deserves capital letters) and Baricco who put literature on higher level. It is possibly the weirdest book I ever had in my hands and it's a book with the best description of life. No, don’t be fooled with popular psychology genre, there is no instant answer and you have to massage your brain to perceive everything it offers.
First I couldn’t relate with his poetry and sentences that were overloaded with adjectives, but I googled a little bit, and discovered that Baricco was an opera critic.
It is
a
poem
with the sound
of sea
written as a
prose.
What he did is rare. There is this palette of characters: young Elisewin with mysterious sickness, father Pluche with beautiful prayers, adulteress Ann Deveria, painter Plasson, scientist Bartleboom, doctor Savigny and sailor Adams – all of them being desperate and in search for something. Water, sea, ocean has the power to heal.
And I can understand that perfectly as I run to the shore every time when I need to clear my mind. Sea has always been the healer: physical, emotional and psychological.
Croatia and Italy share the same sea – Adriatic. And being raised on that water, even if it’s not the ocean, even if I know that he didn’t place Almayer anywhere near... I felt utterly connected with this book.
This is the first time that I’ve been so deep in poetic salt.
I love difficult literature, and this one was sometimes overwhelming and I forced myself to read it slowly. You can easily skip many insights if you are not paying attention. Because of this, it is certain that I will read this book again.
It's not easy at all to describe it. Style of writing is original, every character has its own way of structured words, and then you have so many layers of meaning which are connected with metaphors and above all - amazingly described emotions.
Unbelievably beautiful book.
7 people, Ocean Sea (it deserves capital letters) and Baricco who put literature on higher level. It is possibly the weirdest book I ever had in my hands and it's a book with the best description of life. No, don’t be fooled with popular psychology genre, there is no instant answer and you have to massage your brain to perceive everything it offers.
First I couldn’t relate with his poetry and sentences that were overloaded with adjectives, but I googled a little bit, and discovered that Baricco was an opera critic.
It is
a
poem
with the sound
of sea
written as a
prose.
What he did is rare. There is this palette of characters: young Elisewin with mysterious sickness, father Pluche with beautiful prayers, adulteress Ann Deveria, painter Plasson, scientist Bartleboom, doctor Savigny and sailor Adams – all of them being desperate and in search for something. Water, sea, ocean has the power to heal.
And I can understand that perfectly as I run to the shore every time when I need to clear my mind. Sea has always been the healer: physical, emotional and psychological.
Croatia and Italy share the same sea – Adriatic. And being raised on that water, even if it’s not the ocean, even if I know that he didn’t place Almayer anywhere near... I felt utterly connected with this book.
This is the first time that I’ve been so deep in poetic salt.
I love difficult literature, and this one was sometimes overwhelming and I forced myself to read it slowly. You can easily skip many insights if you are not paying attention. Because of this, it is certain that I will read this book again.
It's not easy at all to describe it. Style of writing is original, every character has its own way of structured words, and then you have so many layers of meaning which are connected with metaphors and above all - amazingly described emotions.
Unbelievably beautiful book.
October 24, 2024
الفنون مساحة صافية رحبة لتعلن ما يجول بينك وبين نفسك، بساط من أوتار مشاعرك تمده لروح ساعية لمعرفة صافية وعميقة، تضع استراتيجيات دقيقة لتصوراتك وأبجديتك، تتخيل ذاك الذي تطلعه على ما لم تتحدث به مع أحد في برنامجك اليومي الاجتماعي
الإبداع بكل أبجدياته وأشكاله لقاء عابر لروتين الخطابات الزائفة التي نتداولها بابتسامات منتزعة من الوجه الخشبي، يصهر جمود الاعتياد وسذاجة الانتصارات التي نسلو بها أحزاننا العميقة الغريقة في بحر ذاكرتنا ومحيط هزائمنا الروحية
السرد الفني حبال وصل تتجلى في امتدادها صورة الذات الساعية لصورة في وعي الآخر
الساندرو باريكو يعد رحلة معرفية جمالية، يحجز للقارئ تذكرة متابعة ومطالعة، ويمنحه حجرة في فندق الخيال على شاطئ بحر الإنسانية
رواية البحر المحيط رحلة لن ينساها المسافر على المراكب الورقية، تلك الصفحات التي انطبعت عليها بصمة باريكو الخيالية، تلك البصمة التي استجمعت خطوط مشاعر المرتحلين في سبل الواقع الممتد في خريطة الجغرافيا والمتواري في أسحار البشرية
الرواية مد قمري تنساب فيه مخيلة باريكو التي تشكلت فيها شخصيات تجمع بينها سمة شعورية هي السعي البياني لنقل مدركات يقينية خاصة في أبجدية التواصل المتاحة، كي نضع شفرتنا في صفحة الفن الذي سيظل يغذي رحلتنا في معارج المعرفة
ينطلق باريكو من رؤية واضحة مع أنها مركبة من ضفائر فكرية متنوعة، لديه قدرة على التحرك من مفاتيح ايديولوجية ممتدة من الصوفية إلى اللامعقول، مرورا بالملحمية شبه الأسطورية ولمسة وجودية
إجادة باريكو لتصميم المعمار الروائي يعلن عن ذكاء سيميائي متمكن من فهم أعماق الظواهر، فالرواية ذات بنية ثلاثية الحركات مثل قصيد سيمفوني للحياة البحرية
الحركة الأولى افتتاحية للمشهد البحري والنزل الذي تأتيه الشخصيات، هذه الشخصيات تتهادى إلى مشارف البحر كما لو كانت موجات متدفقة بسلاسة وشعرية وغموض رقيق يحتفظ لها بأسرار يستشف المتلقي ظلالها كأنه يراها خلف ماء أو داخل بلور شفاف، شخصيات كلها مؤرقة بفن غامض لم يبح عن نفسه لها كاملا ووافرا، إنها صورة الذين أتوا إلى البحر
الحركة الثانية ملحمية كابوسية للمأساة التي تكشف النزعة الغريزية البهيمية خلف قشور التحضر، إنها نقلة مكانية وكونية تعادل صخب البحر وعنفوانه وتقلبه الهادر، إنها صورة الذين ذهبوا في البحر
الحركة الثالثة ختامية سريعة فيها كشف النهايات ووميض التنوير إنها صورة الذين عادوا من البحر
عبقرية باريكو الجميلة تفكر بالصورة وتضع الفن في مكانه بوصفه سيطرة سحرية على عالم متقلب
عنوان البحر المحيط ليس غريبا على القارئ العربي، وباريكو ضليع في استدعاء كلاسيكيات الثقافة العالمية
ترجمة أمارجي لرواية البحر المحيط لباريكو دروس في سيميائية التأليف والتآلف بين المبدع والمترجم حين يلتقيان في الأثير الثقافي على موجة جمالية تلتقط الشاعر الموجه للعملية التعبيرية في كل منهما
الإبداع بكل أبجدياته وأشكاله لقاء عابر لروتين الخطابات الزائفة التي نتداولها بابتسامات منتزعة من الوجه الخشبي، يصهر جمود الاعتياد وسذاجة الانتصارات التي نسلو بها أحزاننا العميقة الغريقة في بحر ذاكرتنا ومحيط هزائمنا الروحية
السرد الفني حبال وصل تتجلى في امتدادها صورة الذات الساعية لصورة في وعي الآخر
الساندرو باريكو يعد رحلة معرفية جمالية، يحجز للقارئ تذكرة متابعة ومطالعة، ويمنحه حجرة في فندق الخيال على شاطئ بحر الإنسانية
رواية البحر المحيط رحلة لن ينساها المسافر على المراكب الورقية، تلك الصفحات التي انطبعت عليها بصمة باريكو الخيالية، تلك البصمة التي استجمعت خطوط مشاعر المرتحلين في سبل الواقع الممتد في خريطة الجغرافيا والمتواري في أسحار البشرية
الرواية مد قمري تنساب فيه مخيلة باريكو التي تشكلت فيها شخصيات تجمع بينها سمة شعورية هي السعي البياني لنقل مدركات يقينية خاصة في أبجدية التواصل المتاحة، كي نضع شفرتنا في صفحة الفن الذي سيظل يغذي رحلتنا في معارج المعرفة
ينطلق باريكو من رؤية واضحة مع أنها مركبة من ضفائر فكرية متنوعة، لديه قدرة على التحرك من مفاتيح ايديولوجية ممتدة من الصوفية إلى اللامعقول، مرورا بالملحمية شبه الأسطورية ولمسة وجودية
إجادة باريكو لتصميم المعمار الروائي يعلن عن ذكاء سيميائي متمكن من فهم أعماق الظواهر، فالرواية ذات بنية ثلاثية الحركات مثل قصيد سيمفوني للحياة البحرية
الحركة الأولى افتتاحية للمشهد البحري والنزل الذي تأتيه الشخصيات، هذه الشخصيات تتهادى إلى مشارف البحر كما لو كانت موجات متدفقة بسلاسة وشعرية وغموض رقيق يحتفظ لها بأسرار يستشف المتلقي ظلالها كأنه يراها خلف ماء أو داخل بلور شفاف، شخصيات كلها مؤرقة بفن غامض لم يبح عن نفسه لها كاملا ووافرا، إنها صورة الذين أتوا إلى البحر
الحركة الثانية ملحمية كابوسية للمأساة التي تكشف النزعة الغريزية البهيمية خلف قشور التحضر، إنها نقلة مكانية وكونية تعادل صخب البحر وعنفوانه وتقلبه الهادر، إنها صورة الذين ذهبوا في البحر
الحركة الثالثة ختامية سريعة فيها كشف النهايات ووميض التنوير إنها صورة الذين عادوا من البحر
عبقرية باريكو الجميلة تفكر بالصورة وتضع الفن في مكانه بوصفه سيطرة سحرية على عالم متقلب
عنوان البحر المحيط ليس غريبا على القارئ العربي، وباريكو ضليع في استدعاء كلاسيكيات الثقافة العالمية
ترجمة أمارجي لرواية البحر المحيط لباريكو دروس في سيميائية التأليف والتآلف بين المبدع والمترجم حين يلتقيان في الأثير الثقافي على موجة جمالية تلتقط الشاعر الموجه للعملية التعبيرية في كل منهما
July 24, 2014
La mia storia d’amore con questo libro è molto lunga e travagliata. Quand’ero alle medie ne trovai un brano nell’antologia di italiano (Bartleboom che arriva alla locanda Almayer) e ricordo che leggendolo provai grandissimo piacere. Alle superiori, non ricordo più se in secondo e in terzo, io e la mia migliore amica ci rifugiavamo in biblioteca quando uscivamo prima da scuola. E fu così che Oceano Mare mi capitò effettivamente tra le mani: lessi prima e seconda parte, in quell’occasione. Ma, poiché leggere 6-7 pagine due volte la settimana non era molto comodo e perdevo il filo, lo abbandonai lì.
Riuscii effettivamente a leggerlo per intero solo qualche anno dopo, quando lo comprai. So che questa è una storia del tutto inutile, ma serve a dire che Oceano Mare mi accompagna da tanto tempo e fa ormai parte di me.
Una locanda in riva all’Oceano e tanti personaggi strani, inadatti alla vita, pieni di segreti e di tristezze, tutti a loro modo singolarmente affascinanti: c’è il professor Bartleboom con la sua enciclopedia sui limiti (e alle prese con la domanda, ma qual è il limite del mare?); c’è Plasson, il pittore che dipinge tele completamente bianche; c’è Ann Deverià, una donna bellissima e sola che sembra stia scontando un castigo tutto suo; c’è Elisewin, la ragazza che ha paura di tutto, paura della vita, e che pure vuole vivere; c’è Padre Pluche con le sue preghiere che sono in realtà delle poesie; c’è Adams, il misterioso, il silenzioso, che non si vuole svelare. E tanti altri che rimangono nel cuore.
È un romanzo che può senz’altro piacere o non piacere affatto. È Baricco stesso il responsabile di questa scissione. Da un lato la sua scrittura evocativa sa suscitare rapimento, innamoramenti, risate, lacrime, qualsiasi cosa, sa farti sentire protetta, capita, ti intontisce. Dall’altro si coglie spesso una mancanza di senso finale, un qualcosa che sfugge e che rimane per giorni attorcigliato nello stomaco, a sedimentare sul fondo, e fa chiedere, ma cosa avrà mai voluto dire con una cosa così bella?
A distanza di anni, non ho ancora capito cosa Oceano Mare significhi nel suo complesso e penso che le sue pagine finali rimarranno per me sempre un enigma. Tuttavia il modo e il tono e i personaggi mi sono rimasti fitti nel cuore. A distanza di anni, ho anche capito che forse un senso finale non c’è. Anche leggendo altre opere di Baricco, sono sempre stata colpita da questa sospensione. Resto sempre lì a chiedermi, ma sono io che non capisco o è lui che non vuol farsi capire o semplicemente non c’è nulla da capire?
È per questo motivo che il mio giudizio complessivo su Baricco è tuttora oscillante tra l’amore e la perplessità. Questo però non toglie il fatto che Oceano Mare e la sua prosa lirica, vivida, stupenda siano stati per anni il mio punto di riferimento di bella scrittura. Immagino sempre un giorno di sedermi davanti ad Alessandro e dirgli, ok caro, è il mio libro preferito, ma per favore ti spiacerebbe spiegarmelo?
Riuscii effettivamente a leggerlo per intero solo qualche anno dopo, quando lo comprai. So che questa è una storia del tutto inutile, ma serve a dire che Oceano Mare mi accompagna da tanto tempo e fa ormai parte di me.
Una locanda in riva all’Oceano e tanti personaggi strani, inadatti alla vita, pieni di segreti e di tristezze, tutti a loro modo singolarmente affascinanti: c’è il professor Bartleboom con la sua enciclopedia sui limiti (e alle prese con la domanda, ma qual è il limite del mare?); c’è Plasson, il pittore che dipinge tele completamente bianche; c’è Ann Deverià, una donna bellissima e sola che sembra stia scontando un castigo tutto suo; c’è Elisewin, la ragazza che ha paura di tutto, paura della vita, e che pure vuole vivere; c’è Padre Pluche con le sue preghiere che sono in realtà delle poesie; c’è Adams, il misterioso, il silenzioso, che non si vuole svelare. E tanti altri che rimangono nel cuore.
È un romanzo che può senz’altro piacere o non piacere affatto. È Baricco stesso il responsabile di questa scissione. Da un lato la sua scrittura evocativa sa suscitare rapimento, innamoramenti, risate, lacrime, qualsiasi cosa, sa farti sentire protetta, capita, ti intontisce. Dall’altro si coglie spesso una mancanza di senso finale, un qualcosa che sfugge e che rimane per giorni attorcigliato nello stomaco, a sedimentare sul fondo, e fa chiedere, ma cosa avrà mai voluto dire con una cosa così bella?
A distanza di anni, non ho ancora capito cosa Oceano Mare significhi nel suo complesso e penso che le sue pagine finali rimarranno per me sempre un enigma. Tuttavia il modo e il tono e i personaggi mi sono rimasti fitti nel cuore. A distanza di anni, ho anche capito che forse un senso finale non c’è. Anche leggendo altre opere di Baricco, sono sempre stata colpita da questa sospensione. Resto sempre lì a chiedermi, ma sono io che non capisco o è lui che non vuol farsi capire o semplicemente non c’è nulla da capire?
È per questo motivo che il mio giudizio complessivo su Baricco è tuttora oscillante tra l’amore e la perplessità. Questo però non toglie il fatto che Oceano Mare e la sua prosa lirica, vivida, stupenda siano stati per anni il mio punto di riferimento di bella scrittura. Immagino sempre un giorno di sedermi davanti ad Alessandro e dirgli, ok caro, è il mio libro preferito, ma per favore ti spiacerebbe spiegarmelo?
June 7, 2021
Oceano mare = Ocean Sea, Alessandro Baricco
Ocean Sea is a 1993 novel by the Italian writer Alessandro Baricco.
Its narrative revolves around the lives of a group of people gathered at a remote seaside hotel.
The novel won the Viareggio Prize.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش
عنوان: اقیانوس دریا؛ نویسنده: الساندرو باریکو؛ مترجم: آرزو اقتداری؛ تهران، امیرکبیر؛ 1384؛ در 196ص؛ شابک 9789640009918؛ موضوع داستانهای نویسندگان ایتالیایی - سده 20م
این کتاب، بیشتر شبیه سفری بلند است، تا یک حکایت باشد؛ داستانهایی که شاید، ارتباطی با هم نداشته باشند، اما نقش آفرینان آن، در هتل عجیبی در ساحل دریا، که به وسیله ی کودکان فرشته مانند، اداره میشود، گرد هم آمده اند، سرنوشت همگی شخصیتها، با رشته ی نازکی به هم پیوسته است، و این رشته همین داستان در این کتاب است؛
در آغاز کتاب آمده است: (سالها پیش، یک کشتی جنگی «فرانسه» در اقیانوسی غرق شده صد و چهل و هفت نفر مسافر کشتی با خزیدن بر یک تخته ی شناور بزرگ، و سپردن خود به دریا، سعی در نجات خویش کردند؛ وحشتی که روزها طول کشید، صحنه ای به یاد ماندنی که در آن بدترین خشونتها و رقتانگیزترین ترحمها به نمایش درآمد؛ سالها پیش، مردی به ساحل اقیانوس رسید، قول و قراری را با خود به آنجا آورده بود؛ نام مهمانپذیری که در آن، جای گرفت «آلمایر» بود؛ این مهمانپذیر هفت اتاق داشت: با کودکان عجیب، یک نقاش، زنی بسیار زیبا، پرفسوری که نامی عجیب داشت، مردی مرموز، دختری که نمیخواست بمیرد، و یک کشیش مضحک، همگی، مسافران آن مهمانپذیر بودند و مردد، در اقیانوس پی چیزی میگشتند)»؛
خیال حوصله ی بحر میپزد هیهات؛ چه هاست در سر این قطره ی محال اندیش- حافظ
و همه چیز آب است و دریا؛ این عنصر ناب و سرشار، سرچشمه ی باروری، و ویرانی، مادربزرگ دریا، مادرِ بزرگ ای آب...؛ دریای پیوند یا جدایی، دریای وحدت یا کثرت، دریا آرزو و اقتدارِ هستی
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 16/03/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Ocean Sea is a 1993 novel by the Italian writer Alessandro Baricco.
Its narrative revolves around the lives of a group of people gathered at a remote seaside hotel.
The novel won the Viareggio Prize.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش
عنوان: اقیانوس دریا؛ نویسنده: الساندرو باریکو؛ مترجم: آرزو اقتداری؛ تهران، امیرکبیر؛ 1384؛ در 196ص؛ شابک 9789640009918؛ موضوع داستانهای نویسندگان ایتالیایی - سده 20م
این کتاب، بیشتر شبیه سفری بلند است، تا یک حکایت باشد؛ داستانهایی که شاید، ارتباطی با هم نداشته باشند، اما نقش آفرینان آن، در هتل عجیبی در ساحل دریا، که به وسیله ی کودکان فرشته مانند، اداره میشود، گرد هم آمده اند، سرنوشت همگی شخصیتها، با رشته ی نازکی به هم پیوسته است، و این رشته همین داستان در این کتاب است؛
در آغاز کتاب آمده است: (سالها پیش، یک کشتی جنگی «فرانسه» در اقیانوسی غرق شده صد و چهل و هفت نفر مسافر کشتی با خزیدن بر یک تخته ی شناور بزرگ، و سپردن خود به دریا، سعی در نجات خویش کردند؛ وحشتی که روزها طول کشید، صحنه ای به یاد ماندنی که در آن بدترین خشونتها و رقتانگیزترین ترحمها به نمایش درآمد؛ سالها پیش، مردی به ساحل اقیانوس رسید، قول و قراری را با خود به آنجا آورده بود؛ نام مهمانپذیری که در آن، جای گرفت «آلمایر» بود؛ این مهمانپذیر هفت اتاق داشت: با کودکان عجیب، یک نقاش، زنی بسیار زیبا، پرفسوری که نامی عجیب داشت، مردی مرموز، دختری که نمیخواست بمیرد، و یک کشیش مضحک، همگی، مسافران آن مهمانپذیر بودند و مردد، در اقیانوس پی چیزی میگشتند)»؛
خیال حوصله ی بحر میپزد هیهات؛ چه هاست در سر این قطره ی محال اندیش- حافظ
و همه چیز آب است و دریا؛ این عنصر ناب و سرشار، سرچشمه ی باروری، و ویرانی، مادربزرگ دریا، مادرِ بزرگ ای آب...؛ دریای پیوند یا جدایی، دریای وحدت یا کثرت، دریا آرزو و اقتدارِ هستی
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 16/03/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
June 2, 2024
Marzo 2022
"Fanno delle cose, le donne, alle volte, che c’è da rimanere secchi. Potresti passare una vita a provarci: ma non saresti capace di avere quella leggerezza che hanno loro, alle volte.
Sono leggere dentro. Dentro."
"Uno si costruisce grandi storie, questo è il fatto, e può andare avanti anni a crederci, non importa quanto pazze sono, e inverosimili, se le porta addosso, e basta. Si è anche felici, di cose del genere. Felici. E potrebbe non finire mai. Poi, un giorno, succede che si rompe qualcosa, nel cuore del gran marchingegno fantastico, tac, senza nessuna ragione, si rompe d’improvviso e tu rimani lì, senza capire come mai tutta quella favolosa storia non ce l’hai più addosso, ma davanti, come fosse la follia di un altro, e quell’altro sei tu."
Primo libro di Baricco che leggo....la storia in sé mi é anche piaciuta, come tutte le volte trovo qualcosa di mio, che parla di me e resto sempre a bocca aperta, ma vabbè.
Sempre più convinta che, se avessi scritto un tema così, il mio prof mi avrebbe scritto un bel 3 in rosso con tanto di annotazione sulle ripetizioni e l'uso delle parole...
Rilettura maggio 2024
Primo libro che rileggo in vita mia, ma la mia bunny aveva bisogno di compagnia con la sua milionesima rilettura di oceano mare che mi sono detta "male non può fare, magari lo leggi con occhi diversi, più esperti, in un momento migliore "
Ed effettivamente così è stato. È entrato più in profondità come il mare che infrange uno scoglio, il mare, che incanta, che uccide, commuove, ogni tanto sparisce, è saggio, dolce, è potente e imprevedibile. Ma soprattutto: il mare chiama!
E infatti mi è venuta voglia di andarci al mare uff.
Il voto non cambia perché Baricco alla fine ti deve piacere come scrive e io cosa posso dire se non
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
"Fanno delle cose, le donne, alle volte, che c’è da rimanere secchi. Potresti passare una vita a provarci: ma non saresti capace di avere quella leggerezza che hanno loro, alle volte.
Sono leggere dentro. Dentro."
"Uno si costruisce grandi storie, questo è il fatto, e può andare avanti anni a crederci, non importa quanto pazze sono, e inverosimili, se le porta addosso, e basta. Si è anche felici, di cose del genere. Felici. E potrebbe non finire mai. Poi, un giorno, succede che si rompe qualcosa, nel cuore del gran marchingegno fantastico, tac, senza nessuna ragione, si rompe d’improvviso e tu rimani lì, senza capire come mai tutta quella favolosa storia non ce l’hai più addosso, ma davanti, come fosse la follia di un altro, e quell’altro sei tu."
Primo libro di Baricco che leggo....la storia in sé mi é anche piaciuta, come tutte le volte trovo qualcosa di mio, che parla di me e resto sempre a bocca aperta, ma vabbè.
Sempre più convinta che, se avessi scritto un tema così, il mio prof mi avrebbe scritto un bel 3 in rosso con tanto di annotazione sulle ripetizioni e l'uso delle parole...
Rilettura maggio 2024
Primo libro che rileggo in vita mia, ma la mia bunny aveva bisogno di compagnia con la sua milionesima rilettura di oceano mare che mi sono detta "male non può fare, magari lo leggi con occhi diversi, più esperti, in un momento migliore "
Ed effettivamente così è stato. È entrato più in profondità come il mare che infrange uno scoglio, il mare, che incanta, che uccide, commuove, ogni tanto sparisce, è saggio, dolce, è potente e imprevedibile. Ma soprattutto: il mare chiama!
E infatti mi è venuta voglia di andarci al mare uff.
Il voto non cambia perché Baricco alla fine ti deve piacere come scrive e io cosa posso dire se non
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
October 18, 2016
Una prosa macchinosa e retorica per un romanzo di una vacuità imbarazzante.
December 18, 2021
3/5
“ … Uno tiene sus sueños, cosas suyas, íntimas, y después la vida no quiere seguir jugando contigo, y te lo desmonta, un instante, una frase y todo se desvanece. Suele ocurrir. Por esa razón y no otra vivir es una tarea dolorosa …”
Como ya vengo avanzando en los comentarios parciales, esta novela tiene aciertos indudables y un estilo poético, diferente y especial, con lo que genera pasajes de indudable hondura y belleza. Tal vez será que mi sensibilidad no es la necesaria, pero no es para mí.
Me explico. La obra se divide en tres partes. La primera y la tercera ahondan más en los personajes y ahí no he conseguido comprender a algunos de ellos. Sé que no hay que juzgar lo que el autor propone, pero es que en ocasiones no comprendo que hacen los personajes ni por qué; no es que no empatice, que esto puede ocurrir, es que no comprendo ni a ellos ni a las situaciones en que se encuentran y que generan. Mención aparte merecen algunos pasajes en los que se desarrollan conversaciones de estructura teatral y en los que no es fácil seguir quien dice qué. En cambio, la segunda parte sí me ha parecido más brillante, tanto respecto a lo que se narra como en cuanto a la manera en que se narra, aunque haya hechos bastante desagradables, y la construcción es original y poética, a mi modo de ver. Hay quien define la obra de Baricco como prosa poética o como poemas en prosa. No me considero el más adecuado para entrar a debatir este aspecto, pero es indudable que destila toques poéticos.
Como se pregona en la contraportada, toda la novela gira en torno a un punto central que se eleva por encima de todas las tramas: el mar. Esto sí me ha parecido claro e interesante.
Pienso leer algo más de este autor, para ver si cambia mi punto de vista. Tengo pendiente “Seda”, pero después de algunas reseñas que he leído a algunos de vosotros, creo que lo intentaré también antes con “Novecento”.
Para aquellos que busquéis un estilo diferente con toques poéticos, el libro podría ser recomendable, pero definitivamente considero que no va a gustar a muchos lectores, que buscan un relato más estructurado y definido.
Y finalizo con otra cita que resume parte de lo dicho:
“ Este es el problema: ?donde empieza el mar?”
“ … Uno tiene sus sueños, cosas suyas, íntimas, y después la vida no quiere seguir jugando contigo, y te lo desmonta, un instante, una frase y todo se desvanece. Suele ocurrir. Por esa razón y no otra vivir es una tarea dolorosa …”
Como ya vengo avanzando en los comentarios parciales, esta novela tiene aciertos indudables y un estilo poético, diferente y especial, con lo que genera pasajes de indudable hondura y belleza. Tal vez será que mi sensibilidad no es la necesaria, pero no es para mí.
Me explico. La obra se divide en tres partes. La primera y la tercera ahondan más en los personajes y ahí no he conseguido comprender a algunos de ellos. Sé que no hay que juzgar lo que el autor propone, pero es que en ocasiones no comprendo que hacen los personajes ni por qué; no es que no empatice, que esto puede ocurrir, es que no comprendo ni a ellos ni a las situaciones en que se encuentran y que generan. Mención aparte merecen algunos pasajes en los que se desarrollan conversaciones de estructura teatral y en los que no es fácil seguir quien dice qué. En cambio, la segunda parte sí me ha parecido más brillante, tanto respecto a lo que se narra como en cuanto a la manera en que se narra, aunque haya hechos bastante desagradables, y la construcción es original y poética, a mi modo de ver. Hay quien define la obra de Baricco como prosa poética o como poemas en prosa. No me considero el más adecuado para entrar a debatir este aspecto, pero es indudable que destila toques poéticos.
Como se pregona en la contraportada, toda la novela gira en torno a un punto central que se eleva por encima de todas las tramas: el mar. Esto sí me ha parecido claro e interesante.
Pienso leer algo más de este autor, para ver si cambia mi punto de vista. Tengo pendiente “Seda”, pero después de algunas reseñas que he leído a algunos de vosotros, creo que lo intentaré también antes con “Novecento”.
Para aquellos que busquéis un estilo diferente con toques poéticos, el libro podría ser recomendable, pero definitivamente considero que no va a gustar a muchos lectores, que buscan un relato más estructurado y definido.
Y finalizo con otra cita que resume parte de lo dicho:
“ Este es el problema: ?donde empieza el mar?”
December 10, 2017
Ora capisco.
Le critiche a Baricco, intendo.
Le critiche da parte di molti critici e di tanti utenti critici.
Capisco anche le pernacchie e gli sberleffi.
Non è
che
basta
scrivere
così
per rappresentare il flusso di pensieri. Per dare profondità, forza, sostanza ai pensieri. Se/incateni/parole/una/nell'altra/senza/un/legame/forte - un legame forte - che le tiene insieme, sembra solo l'esercizio serale di un balbuziente. Un balbuziente colto e che conosce molte parole, per carità. Demostene, per intendersi. Demostene l'oratore. Demostene il greco.
Demostene.
Come non basta scrivere pagine di spaventevoli supercazzole prematurate come se fosse antani (ma anche no), gocciolanti tanto sono zuppe di parole e aggettivi, e delle quali, giunti alfine in fondo, non si è capito nulla di ciò che si stava dicendo o di ciò che si voleva dire. Non è che si è tutti Saramago...
Certe pagine, lo dico inter nos , le ho trovate così prolisse e artificiose da risultare comiche.
Un barocchismo continuo, un esercizio estetico quasi del tutto privo di sostanza, un continuo divagare che si perde girando a vuoto. Nell'Oceano Mare. Ma anche da qualunque altra parte.
E siccome questi artifizi retorici sono costrutti utili solo a mascherare il nulla che c'è sotto, più d'una stella non si dovrebbe dare. Tuttavia qualche parte interessante c'è, qualche bella intuizione, qualche pagina che lascia qualcosa.
Quindi 2 stelle mi pare un giudizio più equo. O forse no. Dato anche il finale.
Un
finale
imbarazzante
e
privo
di
significato.
Come quasi tutto il resto, d'altra parte.
[P.S. No, i bambini della locanda non sono alieni. E no, i protagonisti non sono fantasmi come nel Sesto senso]
Quindi sì, confermo, voto 2.
Per la coerenza, però.
Le critiche a Baricco, intendo.
Le critiche da parte di molti critici e di tanti utenti critici.
Capisco anche le pernacchie e gli sberleffi.
Non è
che
basta
scrivere
così
per rappresentare il flusso di pensieri. Per dare profondità, forza, sostanza ai pensieri. Se/incateni/parole/una/nell'altra/senza/un/legame/forte - un legame forte - che le tiene insieme, sembra solo l'esercizio serale di un balbuziente. Un balbuziente colto e che conosce molte parole, per carità. Demostene, per intendersi. Demostene l'oratore. Demostene il greco.
Demostene.
Come non basta scrivere pagine di spaventevoli supercazzole prematurate come se fosse antani (ma anche no), gocciolanti tanto sono zuppe di parole e aggettivi, e delle quali, giunti alfine in fondo, non si è capito nulla di ciò che si stava dicendo o di ciò che si voleva dire. Non è che si è tutti Saramago...
Certe pagine, lo dico inter nos , le ho trovate così prolisse e artificiose da risultare comiche.
Un barocchismo continuo, un esercizio estetico quasi del tutto privo di sostanza, un continuo divagare che si perde girando a vuoto. Nell'Oceano Mare. Ma anche da qualunque altra parte.
E siccome questi artifizi retorici sono costrutti utili solo a mascherare il nulla che c'è sotto, più d'una stella non si dovrebbe dare. Tuttavia qualche parte interessante c'è, qualche bella intuizione, qualche pagina che lascia qualcosa.
Quindi 2 stelle mi pare un giudizio più equo. O forse no. Dato anche il finale.
Un
finale
imbarazzante
e
privo
di
significato.
Come quasi tutto il resto, d'altra parte.
[P.S. No, i bambini della locanda non sono alieni. E no, i protagonisti non sono fantasmi come nel Sesto senso]
Quindi sì, confermo, voto 2.
Per la coerenza, però.
June 9, 2011
There was about a minute when I was a little girl when I wanted to play baseball with the boys, and my dad was trying to teach me some stuff. I was about five when this happened, but I remember one of the first things he said to me was that, “You can’t always swing for the fences.” Which was good advice, because not only did I miss the ball most of the time, but given the size and the velocity at which I swung the bat, more often than not I ended up flat on my butt. But the boys were watching and I wanted to beat them, so I swung for the fences anyway. Cycle, rinse, repeat.
In the prose and subject matter of Ocean Sea Baricco seems to have adopted a somewhat similar mentality. Granted his goal is probably a bit more noble. Rather than beating neighborhood boys, he wants to provide a meditation on the idea of the sea, what it has meant, what it used to mean and what it has become, and most importantly, what possibilities it holds for people who need it. Given that I’ve just spent a semester reading about the Mediterranean, the Mare Nostrum, the “Middle Sea,” the fault line of conflicts for a thousand years, and now possibly the most overdetermined space in the history of ever, I was interested to hear what he had to say. I think possibly his best idea, which he didn’t spend enough time on, is how the meaning of oceans changed in the 18th and 19th century. Their original status- and of course we must keep in mind that I’m talking about status among Europeans- was as threatening, Other spaces where monsters dwelled and Satan ruled, but when the English started an empire that was based on the sea, it could not be a “free space” given over to pirates any longer. No, the sea had to be made something respectable, where proper Englishmen could (and should) go to find glory and make a living. The sea had to be tamed, in other words. And what better way to do this than by allowing, nay, advising women to go to the sea- in fact having medical doctors say that the sea was healthy for you? If this was a space where weak women whose honor must be protected could go (though of course with prescribed limits), well then who could not approve of it? Baricco has a wonderful few pages where he describes women at the sea, and in particular the curtained “sea baths” that allowed them to take part in its healing properties while staying within respectable boundaries:
“women. The sea suddenly seemed to have been waiting for them forever. To listen to the doctors, it had been there, for millennia, patiently perfecting itself, with the sole and precise intention of offering itself as a miraculous unguent for their afflictions of body and soul. Just as, while sipping tea in impeccable drawing rooms, impeccable doctors-weighing their words well in order to explain with paradoxical courtesy- would tell impeccable husbands and fathers over and over that the disgust for the sea, and the shock and the terror was in reality a seraphic cure for sterility, anorexia, nervous exhaustion, overexcitement, menopause, anxiety and insomnia. An ideal experience inasmuch as it was a remedy for the ferments of youth and a preparation for wifely duties. A solemn baptism for young ladies to become women…
… we could think of a woman-respected loved, mother, woman. For whatever reason-illness- brought to a sea that she would otherwise never have seen… Her hair hangs loose and she is barefoot and this is not a mere detail, it is absurd, along with that little white tunic and the trousers that leave her ankles exposed, you could imagine her slim hips, it is absurd, only her boudoir has seen her like this, and yet, like that, there she is on an enormous beach, where there is no one of the viscous, stagnant air of the bridal bed, but the gusty sea breeze, bearing the edict of a wild freedom removed… and it is clear: she cannot feel it…
…They were drinking the sea water, things had gone that far, the water that until the day before had been horror and disgust, and the privilege of a forlorn and barbarous humanity… Now they were sipping it, those same divine invalids who waled along the water's edge imperceptibly dragging one leg... It was the same world as ever that had suddenly been transferred, for wholly medical purposes, to the edge of an abyss abhorred for centuries and now chosen as the promenade of suffering... The wave bath the doctors called it… a kind of patented sedan chair for getting into the sea, it was for the ladies obviously to protect them from indiscreet eyes. … Only science can do certain things, this is the truth. To sweep away centuries of disgust- the horrendous sea womb of corruption and death- and invent that idyll little by little spreading to all the beaches of the world…”
I liked this part. I think he's right about a lot. I loved the way that Baricco wrote about the sea as a negotiation between civilization and freedom, and saints and madmen, between tradition and the possibilities of the future, as a place where things are erased, where there can by definition be no firm foundations, where everything changes and nothing does, where time seems to stop because of its very repetitiveness. I think Baricco is getting at an argument that is only now coming to the fore in the many studies of the sea that have been released in the last few years. Maybe it is fitting that it took an Italian- an Italian who would include a priest in his cast of characters, to do it.
However, the unfortunate part is that he didn’t really live up to these ideas. The swinging for the fences prose, first of all. The part I quoted above was probably the best part, and I liked it. But the vast majority of it… he was going for poetry, that much was obvious. Unfortunately, when you go for that in print, I think that you have to go about it in a particular way. Either you’re Nabokov and you can do what the hell you want, or you have to mix it in with other things. Your metaphor may be flowery or unusual, but you must surround it with plain or unobtrusive prose that leads up to it and away from it. And most of all, there must be a point to it. For example, at one point, Baricco writes: “Only after a little did the gardener’s footsteps engrave themselves on the silence.” First of all, I think I wrote that when I was 15. Second of all, the metaphorical word choice there serves absolutely no purpose except to show me that Baricco spent far too much time thinking of a better way to say, “he walked away.” Thirdly, shut up. There was also another pretty unbearable sex scene where he uses the structure of the inexorable waves to explain the different reasons why a young girl and a middle aged man would want to have sex with each other. Now there’s a subject that one more man definitely needed to rhapsodize badly about (“sighs, sighs in Elisewin’s throat-soaring velvet, sighs at each new step in that world that crosses mountains never seen and lakes with forms unimaginable…whoever would have said that by kissing the eyes of a man you could see so far away- by caressing the legs of a young girl you could run so fast and escape-escape from everything to see so far away…” VOMIT. If you’re going for the oldest subject in the book you better bring it, man). I could go on, but I think you get the idea. Overwrought, overly dramatic, and once he’s finished expressing his few ideas about the sea, all he’s got left is filling in the blanks by repeating himself in more and more fanciful ways.
I also thought the structure was both weird and off putting. It starts off with a section that is half straightforward prose, half impressionistic, but leans strongly towards the impressionism by the end of it. He’s big on ellipses, on not identifying speakers, on not finishing sentences and wise children who can read your mind (VOMIT, again). They volley minimalistic profundity back and forth to each other and almost never reach a place that goes deeper than that- with few exceptions. The ocean bit I talked about above, and there’s another lovely bit about Elisewin’s father arranging her journey to the sea. I liked when he started to veer into fully formed fairy tale, I hated when he tried to turn his prose into poetry. In a wincingly literal fashion at times- one or a few words per line, stopping paragraphs and starting them in the middle of the next, etc. Ugh. Didn’t we leave this novelist poet envy back in the 18th century? There was a part that ALMOST worked with a priest who wrote unusual and specific prayers (“A Prayer for a Little Boy Who Cannot Say the Letter R,” “Prayer for a Man Who Is Falling into a Ravine” –“obviously it is very short”-), but then he felt the need to write out the prayers rather than just tell me the wonderful titles and let me imagine it for myself. And unfortunately, the execution did not live up to the imagination. As with most of this book.
The next section was stream of consciousness, set up in a mockingly twelve days of Christmas sort of incantation, with a conflict that’s clearly drawn from the shipwreck that inspired this Gericault painting and a scandal that became an enduring part of French history. But the conflict set up because of it was obvious and banal. I hate this thing writers do where they put their otherwise flimsy tales into the context of some great historical event- World War II stories of any kind, all those Regency romance writers who use the Napoleonic wars- to try to give their stories some sort of weight and get prizes. Using the shield of historical events that are virtually off limits to criticism to block criticism of your writing by giving you some sort of impenetrable moral superiority is pretty cowardly and lazy. I don’t mind the use of big events, but either tell me something more interesting than “Hitler is bad,” or write your book in such a way that, ��Hitler is bad,” seems new again. Baricco did not accomplish this. Which meant that his closing section, which was essentially an extended epilogue, had no emotional impact at all (except for perhaps the chapter about the “seductress”- as the book jacket calls her- who wrote a long letter to her lover begging for the freedom to be by herself. Which of course, he ignores. And THAT ends super well. Argh, MEN.) And then, on top of all that, as if this whole exercise weren’t already incredibly self-indulgent and pointless, he felt the need to insert himself into the last chapter for no reason whatsoever? Other than to establish.. what? He wrote this by the sea? He is finished contemplating the sea? Yes I saw that there were only a few pages left. Why did we need this announcement? It’s hardly heart rending when you saw to it yourself that most of the characters were vague and representative rather than fully formed humans- in fact at every point where they seemed almost human, where I almost formed a picture of someone I knew, you stopped abruptly and wrote another terrible poem.
You know what this was like? It was like someone deliberately trying to write a book consisting only of things he doesn’t know very much about, in styles he’s not very good at. Every time something natural to him came out, he quashed it, ruthlessly. Was this book an experiment of some kind? A punishment? Why would he keep swinging for something and landing on his butt? I don’t know, but in the end, I think that Baricco should have let himself breathe a bit. I think we all would have enjoyed ourselves much more.
In the prose and subject matter of Ocean Sea Baricco seems to have adopted a somewhat similar mentality. Granted his goal is probably a bit more noble. Rather than beating neighborhood boys, he wants to provide a meditation on the idea of the sea, what it has meant, what it used to mean and what it has become, and most importantly, what possibilities it holds for people who need it. Given that I’ve just spent a semester reading about the Mediterranean, the Mare Nostrum, the “Middle Sea,” the fault line of conflicts for a thousand years, and now possibly the most overdetermined space in the history of ever, I was interested to hear what he had to say. I think possibly his best idea, which he didn’t spend enough time on, is how the meaning of oceans changed in the 18th and 19th century. Their original status- and of course we must keep in mind that I’m talking about status among Europeans- was as threatening, Other spaces where monsters dwelled and Satan ruled, but when the English started an empire that was based on the sea, it could not be a “free space” given over to pirates any longer. No, the sea had to be made something respectable, where proper Englishmen could (and should) go to find glory and make a living. The sea had to be tamed, in other words. And what better way to do this than by allowing, nay, advising women to go to the sea- in fact having medical doctors say that the sea was healthy for you? If this was a space where weak women whose honor must be protected could go (though of course with prescribed limits), well then who could not approve of it? Baricco has a wonderful few pages where he describes women at the sea, and in particular the curtained “sea baths” that allowed them to take part in its healing properties while staying within respectable boundaries:
“women. The sea suddenly seemed to have been waiting for them forever. To listen to the doctors, it had been there, for millennia, patiently perfecting itself, with the sole and precise intention of offering itself as a miraculous unguent for their afflictions of body and soul. Just as, while sipping tea in impeccable drawing rooms, impeccable doctors-weighing their words well in order to explain with paradoxical courtesy- would tell impeccable husbands and fathers over and over that the disgust for the sea, and the shock and the terror was in reality a seraphic cure for sterility, anorexia, nervous exhaustion, overexcitement, menopause, anxiety and insomnia. An ideal experience inasmuch as it was a remedy for the ferments of youth and a preparation for wifely duties. A solemn baptism for young ladies to become women…
… we could think of a woman-respected loved, mother, woman. For whatever reason-illness- brought to a sea that she would otherwise never have seen… Her hair hangs loose and she is barefoot and this is not a mere detail, it is absurd, along with that little white tunic and the trousers that leave her ankles exposed, you could imagine her slim hips, it is absurd, only her boudoir has seen her like this, and yet, like that, there she is on an enormous beach, where there is no one of the viscous, stagnant air of the bridal bed, but the gusty sea breeze, bearing the edict of a wild freedom removed… and it is clear: she cannot feel it…
…They were drinking the sea water, things had gone that far, the water that until the day before had been horror and disgust, and the privilege of a forlorn and barbarous humanity… Now they were sipping it, those same divine invalids who waled along the water's edge imperceptibly dragging one leg... It was the same world as ever that had suddenly been transferred, for wholly medical purposes, to the edge of an abyss abhorred for centuries and now chosen as the promenade of suffering... The wave bath the doctors called it… a kind of patented sedan chair for getting into the sea, it was for the ladies obviously to protect them from indiscreet eyes. … Only science can do certain things, this is the truth. To sweep away centuries of disgust- the horrendous sea womb of corruption and death- and invent that idyll little by little spreading to all the beaches of the world…”
I liked this part. I think he's right about a lot. I loved the way that Baricco wrote about the sea as a negotiation between civilization and freedom, and saints and madmen, between tradition and the possibilities of the future, as a place where things are erased, where there can by definition be no firm foundations, where everything changes and nothing does, where time seems to stop because of its very repetitiveness. I think Baricco is getting at an argument that is only now coming to the fore in the many studies of the sea that have been released in the last few years. Maybe it is fitting that it took an Italian- an Italian who would include a priest in his cast of characters, to do it.
However, the unfortunate part is that he didn’t really live up to these ideas. The swinging for the fences prose, first of all. The part I quoted above was probably the best part, and I liked it. But the vast majority of it… he was going for poetry, that much was obvious. Unfortunately, when you go for that in print, I think that you have to go about it in a particular way. Either you’re Nabokov and you can do what the hell you want, or you have to mix it in with other things. Your metaphor may be flowery or unusual, but you must surround it with plain or unobtrusive prose that leads up to it and away from it. And most of all, there must be a point to it. For example, at one point, Baricco writes: “Only after a little did the gardener’s footsteps engrave themselves on the silence.” First of all, I think I wrote that when I was 15. Second of all, the metaphorical word choice there serves absolutely no purpose except to show me that Baricco spent far too much time thinking of a better way to say, “he walked away.” Thirdly, shut up. There was also another pretty unbearable sex scene where he uses the structure of the inexorable waves to explain the different reasons why a young girl and a middle aged man would want to have sex with each other. Now there’s a subject that one more man definitely needed to rhapsodize badly about (“sighs, sighs in Elisewin’s throat-soaring velvet, sighs at each new step in that world that crosses mountains never seen and lakes with forms unimaginable…whoever would have said that by kissing the eyes of a man you could see so far away- by caressing the legs of a young girl you could run so fast and escape-escape from everything to see so far away…” VOMIT. If you’re going for the oldest subject in the book you better bring it, man). I could go on, but I think you get the idea. Overwrought, overly dramatic, and once he’s finished expressing his few ideas about the sea, all he’s got left is filling in the blanks by repeating himself in more and more fanciful ways.
I also thought the structure was both weird and off putting. It starts off with a section that is half straightforward prose, half impressionistic, but leans strongly towards the impressionism by the end of it. He’s big on ellipses, on not identifying speakers, on not finishing sentences and wise children who can read your mind (VOMIT, again). They volley minimalistic profundity back and forth to each other and almost never reach a place that goes deeper than that- with few exceptions. The ocean bit I talked about above, and there’s another lovely bit about Elisewin’s father arranging her journey to the sea. I liked when he started to veer into fully formed fairy tale, I hated when he tried to turn his prose into poetry. In a wincingly literal fashion at times- one or a few words per line, stopping paragraphs and starting them in the middle of the next, etc. Ugh. Didn’t we leave this novelist poet envy back in the 18th century? There was a part that ALMOST worked with a priest who wrote unusual and specific prayers (“A Prayer for a Little Boy Who Cannot Say the Letter R,” “Prayer for a Man Who Is Falling into a Ravine” –“obviously it is very short”-), but then he felt the need to write out the prayers rather than just tell me the wonderful titles and let me imagine it for myself. And unfortunately, the execution did not live up to the imagination. As with most of this book.
The next section was stream of consciousness, set up in a mockingly twelve days of Christmas sort of incantation, with a conflict that’s clearly drawn from the shipwreck that inspired this Gericault painting and a scandal that became an enduring part of French history. But the conflict set up because of it was obvious and banal. I hate this thing writers do where they put their otherwise flimsy tales into the context of some great historical event- World War II stories of any kind, all those Regency romance writers who use the Napoleonic wars- to try to give their stories some sort of weight and get prizes. Using the shield of historical events that are virtually off limits to criticism to block criticism of your writing by giving you some sort of impenetrable moral superiority is pretty cowardly and lazy. I don’t mind the use of big events, but either tell me something more interesting than “Hitler is bad,” or write your book in such a way that, ��Hitler is bad,” seems new again. Baricco did not accomplish this. Which meant that his closing section, which was essentially an extended epilogue, had no emotional impact at all (except for perhaps the chapter about the “seductress”- as the book jacket calls her- who wrote a long letter to her lover begging for the freedom to be by herself. Which of course, he ignores. And THAT ends super well. Argh, MEN.) And then, on top of all that, as if this whole exercise weren’t already incredibly self-indulgent and pointless, he felt the need to insert himself into the last chapter for no reason whatsoever? Other than to establish.. what? He wrote this by the sea? He is finished contemplating the sea? Yes I saw that there were only a few pages left. Why did we need this announcement? It’s hardly heart rending when you saw to it yourself that most of the characters were vague and representative rather than fully formed humans- in fact at every point where they seemed almost human, where I almost formed a picture of someone I knew, you stopped abruptly and wrote another terrible poem.
You know what this was like? It was like someone deliberately trying to write a book consisting only of things he doesn’t know very much about, in styles he’s not very good at. Every time something natural to him came out, he quashed it, ruthlessly. Was this book an experiment of some kind? A punishment? Why would he keep swinging for something and landing on his butt? I don’t know, but in the end, I think that Baricco should have let himself breathe a bit. I think we all would have enjoyed ourselves much more.
May 2, 2024
Possibile che così pochi lettori si rendano conto che questo non è affatto un capolavoro, ma un insipido esercizio di stile? Baricco è l’apoteosi di “tutto fumo e niente arrosto”, tutto forma e niente contenuti, tutto marketing e niente sostanza. Sicuro, e' un bravo illusionista, come il sarto dei "vestiti nuovi dell'imperatore". Ma tutto resta puramente in superficie, e il mezzo (la parola) sembra diventare l'unico fine.
September 1, 2020
Sand as far as the eye can see, between the last hills and the sea— the sea—in the cold air of an afternoon almost past, and blessed by the wind that always blows from the north.
The beach. And the sea.
It could be perfection— an image for divine eyes— a world that happens, that is all, the mute existence of land and water, a work perfectly accomplished, truth—but once again it is the redeeming grain of a man that jams the mechanism of that paradise, a trifle capable on its own of suspending all that great apparatus of inexorable truth, a mere nothing, but one planted in the sand, an imperceptible tear in the surface of that sacred icon, a minuscule exception come to rest on the perfection of that boundless beach. From afar he would be no more than a black dot: amid nothingness, the nothing of a man and a painter’s easel.
The easel is anchored by slender cords to four stones placed on the sand. It sways imperceptibly in the wind that always blows from the north. The man is wearing waders and a large fisherman’s jacket . He is standing, facing the sea, twirling a slim paintbrush between his fingers. On the easel, a canvas.
He is like a sentinel— this you must realize—standing there to defend that part of the world from the silent invasion of perfection, a small crack that fragments that spectacular stage set of being. As it is always like this, you need only the glimmer of a man to wound the repose of that which would otherwise be a split second away from becoming truth, but instead immediately becomes suspense and doubt once more, because of the simple and infinite power of that man, who is a slit, a chink, a small doorway through which return a flood of stories and the enormous inventory of what of what could be, an infinite gash , a marvelous wound,a path made of thousands of steps where nothing can be true anymore but everything will be—just as the steps are of that woman who, wrapped up in a purple cloak, her head covered, is pacing the beach with measured tread, skirting the backwash of of the sea, her feet tracing furrows from right to left across what is by then the lost perfection of the great picture , consuming the distance that separates her from the man until she comes to within a few paces of him, and then right beside him, where it takes nothing to pause and silently look on.
The man does not even turn. He continues staring out at the sea. Silence. From time to time he dips the brush in a copper cup and makes a few light strokes on the canvas. In their wake the bristles of the brush leave a shadow of the palest obscurity that the wind immediately dries, bringing the pristine white back to the surface. Water. In the copper cup there is only water. And on the canvas, nothing. Nothing that may be seen.
The north wind blows as it always does, and the woman pulls her purple cloak closer around her.
The beach. And the sea.
It could be perfection— an image for divine eyes— a world that happens, that is all, the mute existence of land and water, a work perfectly accomplished, truth—but once again it is the redeeming grain of a man that jams the mechanism of that paradise, a trifle capable on its own of suspending all that great apparatus of inexorable truth, a mere nothing, but one planted in the sand, an imperceptible tear in the surface of that sacred icon, a minuscule exception come to rest on the perfection of that boundless beach. From afar he would be no more than a black dot: amid nothingness, the nothing of a man and a painter’s easel.
The easel is anchored by slender cords to four stones placed on the sand. It sways imperceptibly in the wind that always blows from the north. The man is wearing waders and a large fisherman’s jacket . He is standing, facing the sea, twirling a slim paintbrush between his fingers. On the easel, a canvas.
He is like a sentinel— this you must realize—standing there to defend that part of the world from the silent invasion of perfection, a small crack that fragments that spectacular stage set of being. As it is always like this, you need only the glimmer of a man to wound the repose of that which would otherwise be a split second away from becoming truth, but instead immediately becomes suspense and doubt once more, because of the simple and infinite power of that man, who is a slit, a chink, a small doorway through which return a flood of stories and the enormous inventory of what of what could be, an infinite gash , a marvelous wound,a path made of thousands of steps where nothing can be true anymore but everything will be—just as the steps are of that woman who, wrapped up in a purple cloak, her head covered, is pacing the beach with measured tread, skirting the backwash of of the sea, her feet tracing furrows from right to left across what is by then the lost perfection of the great picture , consuming the distance that separates her from the man until she comes to within a few paces of him, and then right beside him, where it takes nothing to pause and silently look on.
The man does not even turn. He continues staring out at the sea. Silence. From time to time he dips the brush in a copper cup and makes a few light strokes on the canvas. In their wake the bristles of the brush leave a shadow of the palest obscurity that the wind immediately dries, bringing the pristine white back to the surface. Water. In the copper cup there is only water. And on the canvas, nothing. Nothing that may be seen.
The north wind blows as it always does, and the woman pulls her purple cloak closer around her.
April 1, 2019
"البحر يسحر، البحر يقتل، يُحرّك، يُروّع، وكذلك يُضحك، أحياناً، ومن حين لآخر يتوارى، يتنّكر في هيئة بحيرة، أو يُنشئ عواصف، يلتقّم سفناً، يهب ثروات، لا يُعطي جواباً، حكيم، لطيف، قادر، وعصيّ على كل نبوءة. لكن؛ فوق كل شيء: البحر يُنادي... إنه لا يفعل شيئاً، في النهاية، سوى هذا: النداء."
بعد قصته الرائعة، مونولوج عازف البيانو في المحيط، أعود لقراءة رواية جديدة ساحرة لأليساندرو باريكو.
تبدأ الرواية في نُزل آلماير، عند البحر، حيث تلتقي مجموعة من الشخصيات الغريبة، البروفيسور بارتلبوم، الرسام بلاسون، السيدة آن دوفريا، الشابة إلزوين، الأب بلوش، آدامز، الطبيب سافيني ومجموعة من الأطفال. شخصيات تُنسج مصائرها وأقدارها بأمواج البحر، منهم من يبحث عن ذاته، ومنهم من يكتب دراسات ويجري أبحاثاً، ومنهم من يريد رسم عيون البحر، ومنهم من يريد أن يبرأ من أمراض، ومنهم من يبحث عن إجابات لأسئلته، ومنهم من يريد الانتقام. رواية سريالية يأخذنا فيها باريكو بشخصياته الغرائبية إلى عوالم بعيدة، إلى أزمان أخرى، إلى أمور في الحياة لا أشياء لا نعلم عن كُنهها شيء.
تشعر وكأن البحر نفسه هو من كتب هذه الرواية وصاغها لنا ويتنقّل بنا بين عدة أشكال سردية وشعرية وبلاغية فريدة، كما تتغير أمواجه وتتلاطم في كل لحظة. تشعر وكأنك تسمع صوت هدير البحر في سطر فيها. رواية بديعة وساحرة، وما أضفى عليها سحراً وفرادة أكثير، بعد الترجمة، هو صوت سمعان فرزلي، حيث استمتعت إليها من خلال تطبيق ستوريتل.
رواية لا تُنسى.
...
April 21, 2020
Let me Drown in this gorgeous book.
One of the first books I read with an overall poetic prose, a speculative fiction of sorts. It's been years, decades, lifetime maybe, but I feel like I'm still adrift in that ocean.
February 21, 2024
Me encanta el estilo del autor... la trama no tanto.
August 13, 2020
كـ عازف موسيقى ، يصنع لنا باريكو موسيقاها الخاصة في صورة رواية أدبية بلغة شاعرية تأسر الروح ..
October 30, 2020
«Μία ίαση είναι μια λέξη πολύ μικρή για ό,τι συμβαίνει εδώ. Είναι απλό. Αυτό είναι ένα μέρος όπου παίρνεις άδεια από τον εαυτό σου. Ό,τι είσαι γλιστράει από πάνω σου σιγά σιγά και το αφήνεις πίσω σου, βήμα το βήμα, πάνω σ' αυτή την ακτή που δε γνωρίζει χρόνο και ζει μια μόνο μέρα, πάντα την ίδια. Το παρόν εξαφανίζεται κι εσύ γίνεσαι μνήμη. Ξεγλιστράς απ' όλα, φόβους, συναισθήματα, επιθυμία: τα φυλάς, σαν ρούχα που σταμάτησες να φοράς, στην ντουλάπα μιας άγνωστης σοφίας και μιας ανέλπιστης ειρήνης.»
Δυσκολεύτηκα αρκετά, το ομολογώ, για να επιλέξω μία μικρή παράγραφο από το μυθιστόρημα «Ωκεανός» του Ιταλού συγγραφέα Αλεσσάντρο Μπαρίκκο, που κυκλοφορεί από τις εκδόσεις Πατάκη, για να ξεκινήσω το παρόν κείμενο, που αφορά το βιβλίο του. Πρόκειται για το δεύτερο λογοτεχνικό έργο του συγγραφέα που επιλέγω να διαβάσω, όντας ήδη μαγεμένος απ' την προηγούμενη αναγνωστική εμπειρία που βίωσα διαβάζοντας το σύντομο μυθιστόρημα του «Μετάξι». Η εντύπωση που αποκόμισα διαβάζοντας και τα δύο αυτά έργα του συγγραφέα είναι πως πρόκειται για έναν χαρισματικό συγγραφέα, πραγματικό λογοτέχνη, που διαθέτει τη στόφα του παραμυθά. Ναι, του παραμυθά, γιατί στον Ωκεανό ο αναγνώστης συναντά εκείνη την ονειρική αίσθηση και τη γλυκόπικρη γεύση που χαρακτηρίζουν τα περισσότερα παραμύθια, καθώς και το κύριο χαρακτηριστικό που διακρίνει την τέχνη της παραμυθίας, που δεν είναι άλλο απ' τον παρηγορητικό της σκοπό.
Ο Ωκεανός είναι ένα πολυπρόσωπο μυθιστόρημα, αφού ο συγγραφέας επιλέγει να μας αφηγηθεί τις ιστορίες επτά διαφορετικών ανθρώπων. Άνθρωποι ωστόσο, οι οποίοι διέπονται από ένα κοινό στοιχείο: επιλέγουν και οι επτά να διανυκτερεύσουν για κάποια βράδια στο πανδοχείο «Αλμάγερ». Ένα παραθαλάσσιο πανδοχείο, τα “πόδια” του οποίου τα γλύφει κυριολεκτικά το κύμα της θάλασσας. Ένα πανδοχείο αγνώστων συντεταγμένων, που θα μπορούσε να βρίσκεται κτισμένο σε οποιοδήποτε σημείο του κόσμου. Ένα πανδοχείο που αιωρείται κάπου ανάμεσα στο όνειρο και την πραγματικότητα.
Το πανδοχείο αυτό αποτελεί το βασικό φόντο, στο οποίο εκτυλίσσεται η δράση του βιβλίου. Εκεί, θα μεταφερθούν οι επτά ήρωες του Μπαρίκκο, ορμώμενος ο καθένας απ' τις δικές του ανάγκες, επιθυμίες και προσδοκίες, περιμένοντας στο απομονωμένο αυτό μέρος να βρει ο καθένας τη λύση στο πρόβλημα που αντιμετωπίζει, δίνοντας πρώτα τη δική του προσωπική μάχη.
O αναγνώστης συναντά την νεαρή και εύθραυστη στην υγεία της Ελίσγουιν που αναζητά την ίαση, ώστε να μην πεθάνει, τον αναποφάσιστο πάτερ Πλους που συνοδεύει την Ελίσγουιν στο ταξίδι της, την Ανν Ντεβεριά που επισκέπτεται το μοναχικό αυτό μέρος, ύστερα απ' την προτροπή του συζύγου της για να νικήσει την αρρώστια που κατέβαλε τον οργανισμό της, να ξεπεράσει ουσιαστικά το αίσθημα του έρωτα που τρέφει για τον εραστή της, τον ζωγράφο Πλασσόν, ο οποίος έχοντας οδηγηθεί σε ένα καλλιτεχνικό τέλμα, ζωγραφίζοντας αποκλειστικά τις προσωπογραφίες ευγενών και ανθρώπων με κάποιο κύρος και κοινωνικό-οικονομική ισχύ, επιλέγει να κάνει μία στροφή στην πορεία του, επιχειρώντας να δημιουργήσει μία προσωπογραφία για τη θάλασσα, τον επιστήμονα Μπάρτλμπουμ που επιθυμεί να αποδείξει πως η θάλασσα δεν είναι απέραντη, αναζητώντας να βρει το σημείο που τελειώνει, τον γιατρό Σαβινύ που προσπαθεί να ξεφύγει απ' τους δαίμονες του παρελθόντος, και τον Άνταμς, ο οποίος πρέπει να ξοφλήσει ένα παρελθοντικό χρέος...
Οι επτά εντελώς διαφορετικοί μεταξύ τους χαρακτήρες απασχολούν τον συγγραφέα μέσα στις σελίδες αυτού του βιβλίου. Επτά αλλιώτικες ιστορίες ανθρώπων, που φαντάζουν ασύνδετες μεταξύ τους, κι αρχικά ξεδιπλώνονται παράλληλα βρίσκουν ένα σημείο τομής, ένα σημείο συνάντησης. Το σημείο αυτό είναι φυσικά το πανδοχείο Αλμάγερ. Η συνάντηση αυτή είναι καθοριστικής σημασίας για την μετέπειτα εξέλιξη της πορείας κάθε ήρωα. Η καθημερινή επαφή και η ανάπτυξη διαπροσωπικών δεσμών ανάμεσα τους, καθώς και η παραμονή τους στο ιδιότυπο αυτό πανδοχείο θα διαδραματίσει σπουδαίο ρόλο στις αποφάσεις που θα λάβει τελικά κάθε ήρωας, λίγο πριν αποχωρήσει απ' το πανδοχείο Αλμάγερ.
Οι χαρακτήρες του βιβλίου παραχωρούν στον συγγραφέα μίας πρώτης τάξεως ευκαιρία για να θίξει ζητήματα που απασχολούν τον άνθρωπο εδώ και εκατοντάδες χρόνια, όπως είναι ο θάνατος, η ζωή, ο έρωτας. Ο συγγραφέας θα τολμούσα να πω ότι χρησιμοποιεί ως παράδειγμα τους ήρωες του για να προβεί σε φιλοσοφικές σκέψεις υπαρξιακού κυρίως περιεχομένου. Απ' όλες τις σκέψεις ωστόσο, στις οποίες προβαίνει, η σημαντικότερη ίσως εξ' αυτών, ή καλύτερα η κεντρικότερη, που απασχολεί φυσικά τους ήρωες του, είναι αυτή που σχετίζεται με το πόσο σημαντικό είναι τελικά το να ακολουθούμε τις επιθυμίες μας, για να μπορέσουμε να πούμε πως τελικά ζήσαμε.
Διαβάζοντας, λοιπόν, τον Ωκεανό, αυτό που διαπιστώνει κανείς απ' τις πρώτες κιόλας σελίδες του βιβλίου είναι η επιβλητική παρουσία της θάλασσας, η οποία πρωταγωνιστεί σχεδόν σε κάθε σελίδα του μυθιστορήματος, ενώ τελικά μέσα απ' τον τρόπο που μας την παρουσιάζει ως συγγραφέας η θάλασσα αποκτά μία αυταξία, γεγονός που θα μπορούσα να πω ότι οδηγεί τον αναγνώστη στο να τη θεωρεί πιο υπαρκτή ακόμα κι από τα πρόσωπα που δρουν και ζουν μέσα, έξω και γύρω από αυτή. Η θάλασσα γενικότερα στη λογοτεχνία αποτελεί μία έννοια που συνυφαίνεται με ποικίλους συμβολισμούς. Στην προκειμένη περίπτωση, θα μπορούσαμε να πούμε ότι η θάλασσα συμβολίζει τα πάντα και το τίποτα, κι αυτό γιατί για τον καθένα απ' τους πρωταγωνιστές η θάλασσα αποκτά διαφορετικό νόημα. Κάθε πρωταγωνιστής έχει τη δική του ιδιοσυγκρασία, οπότε η θάλασσα λειτουργεί ως ένας καθρέφτης στην επιφάνεια του οποία καθρεφτίζεται κάθε φορά κάτι εντελώς διαφορετικό, αναλόγως με το άτομο που βρίσκεται απέναντι της και την παρατηρεί. Ειδικότερα, η θάλασσα μέσα απ' τις σελίδες του βιβλίου συνδέεται πότε με την ομορφιά, την ελπίδα και τη ζωή, πότε με τη φρίκη, τη σκληρότητα και τον θάνατο, πότε με την έννοια του πεπερασμένου, και πότε με την έννοια του άπειρου.
Πέρα απ' τους ποικίλους συμβολισμούς με τους οποίους φορτίζει την έννοια της θάλασσας, ο συγγραφέας καταφέρνει κάθε φορά που την περιγράφει να τις προσδώσει διαφορετικούς χαρακτηρισμούς, χτίζοντας διαφορετικές εικόνες, γεγονός που ειλικρινά θαύμασα, κι αυτό γιατί μέσω αυτού καταδεικνύεται περίτρανα η αφηγηματική δεινότητα που διέπει τον Αλεσσάντρο Μπαρίκκο και τον αναγάγει τουλάχιστον στα δικά μου μάτια από έναν απλό συγγραφέα σε πραγματικό λογοτέχνη.
Ολοκληρώνοντας, ο Ωκεανός, είναι ένα ιδιαίτερο μυθιστόρημα που διακατέχεται από μία έντονη παραμυθιακή αύρα. Αποτελεί αδιαμφισβήτητα μία μοναδική αναγνωστική εμπειρία, αφού οδηγεί τον αναγνώστη στο να ίπταται στο μεταίχμιο μεταξύ του ονείρου και μίας άκρως ρεαλιστικής πραγματικότητας, μεταξύ δύο αντιθετικών εκφάνσεων του ίδιου κόσμου ωστόσο. Μία αναγνωστική εμπειρία λοιπόν, που αξίζει σίγουρα να ζήσετε στην πορεία σας ως αναγνώστες.
Δυσκολεύτηκα αρκετά, το ομολογώ, για να επιλέξω μία μικρή παράγραφο από το μυθιστόρημα «Ωκεανός» του Ιταλού συγγραφέα Αλεσσάντρο Μπαρίκκο, που κυκλοφορεί από τις εκδόσεις Πατάκη, για να ξεκινήσω το παρόν κείμενο, που αφορά το βιβλίο του. Πρόκειται για το δεύτερο λογοτεχνικό έργο του συγγραφέα που επιλέγω να διαβάσω, όντας ήδη μαγεμένος απ' την προηγούμενη αναγνωστική εμπειρία που βίωσα διαβάζοντας το σύντομο μυθιστόρημα του «Μετάξι». Η εντύπωση που αποκόμισα διαβάζοντας και τα δύο αυτά έργα του συγγραφέα είναι πως πρόκειται για έναν χαρισματικό συγγραφέα, πραγματικό λογοτέχνη, που διαθέτει τη στόφα του παραμυθά. Ναι, του παραμυθά, γιατί στον Ωκεανό ο αναγνώστης συναντά εκείνη την ονειρική αίσθηση και τη γλυκόπικρη γεύση που χαρακτηρίζουν τα περισσότερα παραμύθια, καθώς και το κύριο χαρακτηριστικό που διακρίνει την τέχνη της παραμυθίας, που δεν είναι άλλο απ' τον παρηγορητικό της σκοπό.
Ο Ωκεανός είναι ένα πολυπρόσωπο μυθιστόρημα, αφού ο συγγραφέας επιλέγει να μας αφηγηθεί τις ιστορίες επτά διαφορετικών ανθρώπων. Άνθρωποι ωστόσο, οι οποίοι διέπονται από ένα κοινό στοιχείο: επιλέγουν και οι επτά να διανυκτερεύσουν για κάποια βράδια στο πανδοχείο «Αλμάγερ». Ένα παραθαλάσσιο πανδοχείο, τα “πόδια” του οποίου τα γλύφει κυριολεκτικά το κύμα της θάλασσας. Ένα πανδοχείο αγνώστων συντεταγμένων, που θα μπορούσε να βρίσκεται κτισμένο σε οποιοδήποτε σημείο του κόσμου. Ένα πανδοχείο που αιωρείται κάπου ανάμεσα στο όνειρο και την πραγματικότητα.
Το πανδοχείο αυτό αποτελεί το βασικό φόντο, στο οποίο εκτυλίσσεται η δράση του βιβλίου. Εκεί, θα μεταφερθούν οι επτά ήρωες του Μπαρίκκο, ορμώμενος ο καθένας απ' τις δικές του ανάγκες, επιθυμίες και προσδοκίες, περιμένοντας στο απομονωμένο αυτό μέρος να βρει ο καθένας τη λύση στο πρόβλημα που αντιμετωπίζει, δίνοντας πρώτα τη δική του προσωπική μάχη.
O αναγνώστης συναντά την νεαρή και εύθραυστη στην υγεία της Ελίσγουιν που αναζητά την ίαση, ώστε να μην πεθάνει, τον αναποφάσιστο πάτερ Πλους που συνοδεύει την Ελίσγουιν στο ταξίδι της, την Ανν Ντεβεριά που επισκέπτεται το μοναχικό αυτό μέρος, ύστερα απ' την προτροπή του συζύγου της για να νικήσει την αρρώστια που κατέβαλε τον οργανισμό της, να ξεπεράσει ουσιαστικά το αίσθημα του έρωτα που τρέφει για τον εραστή της, τον ζωγράφο Πλασσόν, ο οποίος έχοντας οδηγηθεί σε ένα καλλιτεχνικό τέλμα, ζωγραφίζοντας αποκλειστικά τις προσωπογραφίες ευγενών και ανθρώπων με κάποιο κύρος και κοινωνικό-οικονομική ισχύ, επιλέγει να κάνει μία στροφή στην πορεία του, επιχειρώντας να δημιουργήσει μία προσωπογραφία για τη θάλασσα, τον επιστήμονα Μπάρτλμπουμ που επιθυμεί να αποδείξει πως η θάλασσα δεν είναι απέραντη, αναζητώντας να βρει το σημείο που τελειώνει, τον γιατρό Σαβινύ που προσπαθεί να ξεφύγει απ' τους δαίμονες του παρελθόντος, και τον Άνταμς, ο οποίος πρέπει να ξοφλήσει ένα παρελθοντικό χρέος...
Οι επτά εντελώς διαφορετικοί μεταξύ τους χαρακτήρες απασχολούν τον συγγραφέα μέσα στις σελίδες αυτού του βιβλίου. Επτά αλλιώτικες ιστορίες ανθρώπων, που φαντάζουν ασύνδετες μεταξύ τους, κι αρχικά ξεδιπλώνονται παράλληλα βρίσκουν ένα σημείο τομής, ένα σημείο συνάντησης. Το σημείο αυτό είναι φυσικά το πανδοχείο Αλμάγερ. Η συνάντηση αυτή είναι καθοριστικής σημασίας για την μετέπειτα εξέλιξη της πορείας κάθε ήρωα. Η καθημερινή επαφή και η ανάπτυξη διαπροσωπικών δεσμών ανάμεσα τους, καθώς και η παραμονή τους στο ιδιότυπο αυτό πανδοχείο θα διαδραματίσει σπουδαίο ρόλο στις αποφάσεις που θα λάβει τελικά κάθε ήρωας, λίγο πριν αποχωρήσει απ' το πανδοχείο Αλμάγερ.
Οι χαρακτήρες του βιβλίου παραχωρούν στον συγγραφέα μίας πρώτης τάξεως ευκαιρία για να θίξει ζητήματα που απασχολούν τον άνθρωπο εδώ και εκατοντάδες χρόνια, όπως είναι ο θάνατος, η ζωή, ο έρωτας. Ο συγγραφέας θα τολμούσα να πω ότι χρησιμοποιεί ως παράδειγμα τους ήρωες του για να προβεί σε φιλοσοφικές σκέψεις υπαρξιακού κυρίως περιεχομένου. Απ' όλες τις σκέψεις ωστόσο, στις οποίες προβαίνει, η σημαντικότερη ίσως εξ' αυτών, ή καλύτερα η κεντρικότερη, που απασχολεί φυσικά τους ήρωες του, είναι αυτή που σχετίζεται με το πόσο σημαντικό είναι τελικά το να ακολουθούμε τις επιθυμίες μας, για να μπορέσουμε να πούμε πως τελικά ζήσαμε.
Διαβάζοντας, λοιπόν, τον Ωκεανό, αυτό που διαπιστώνει κανείς απ' τις πρώτες κιόλας σελίδες του βιβλίου είναι η επιβλητική παρουσία της θάλασσας, η οποία πρωταγωνιστεί σχεδόν σε κάθε σελίδα του μυθιστορήματος, ενώ τελικά μέσα απ' τον τρόπο που μας την παρουσιάζει ως συγγραφέας η θάλασσα αποκτά μία αυταξία, γεγονός που θα μπορούσα να πω ότι οδηγεί τον αναγνώστη στο να τη θεωρεί πιο υπαρκτή ακόμα κι από τα πρόσωπα που δρουν και ζουν μέσα, έξω και γύρω από αυτή. Η θάλασσα γενικότερα στη λογοτεχνία αποτελεί μία έννοια που συνυφαίνεται με ποικίλους συμβολισμούς. Στην προκειμένη περίπτωση, θα μπορούσαμε να πούμε ότι η θάλασσα συμβολίζει τα πάντα και το τίποτα, κι αυτό γιατί για τον καθένα απ' τους πρωταγωνιστές η θάλασσα αποκτά διαφορετικό νόημα. Κάθε πρωταγωνιστής έχει τη δική του ιδιοσυγκρασία, οπότε η θάλασσα λειτουργεί ως ένας καθρέφτης στην επιφάνεια του οποία καθρεφτίζεται κάθε φορά κάτι εντελώς διαφορετικό, αναλόγως με το άτομο που βρίσκεται απέναντι της και την παρατηρεί. Ειδικότερα, η θάλασσα μέσα απ' τις σελίδες του βιβλίου συνδέεται πότε με την ομορφιά, την ελπίδα και τη ζωή, πότε με τη φρίκη, τη σκληρότητα και τον θάνατο, πότε με την έννοια του πεπερασμένου, και πότε με την έννοια του άπειρου.
Πέρα απ' τους ποικίλους συμβολισμούς με τους οποίους φορτίζει την έννοια της θάλασσας, ο συγγραφέας καταφέρνει κάθε φορά που την περιγράφει να τις προσδώσει διαφορετικούς χαρακτηρισμούς, χτίζοντας διαφορετικές εικόνες, γεγονός που ειλικρινά θαύμασα, κι αυτό γιατί μέσω αυτού καταδεικνύεται περίτρανα η αφηγηματική δεινότητα που διέπει τον Αλεσσάντρο Μπαρίκκο και τον αναγάγει τουλάχιστον στα δικά μου μάτια από έναν απλό συγγραφέα σε πραγματικό λογοτέχνη.
Ολοκληρώνοντας, ο Ωκεανός, είναι ένα ιδιαίτερο μυθιστόρημα που διακατέχεται από μία έντονη παραμυθιακή αύρα. Αποτελεί αδιαμφισβήτητα μία μοναδική αναγνωστική εμπειρία, αφού οδηγεί τον αναγνώστη στο να ίπταται στο μεταίχμιο μεταξύ του ονείρου και μίας άκρως ρεαλιστικής πραγματικότητας, μεταξύ δύο αντιθετικών εκφάνσεων του ίδιου κόσμου ωστόσο. Μία αναγνωστική εμπειρία λοιπόν, που αξίζει σίγουρα να ζήσετε στην πορεία σας ως αναγνώστες.
January 30, 2021
"أحيانا يهز كيانك عمل أدبي ما ولا يعني ذلك أنه عمل غير مسبوق في تاريخ الأدب، أو أنه أفضل ما قرأت في حياتك. إنها الصدف العمياء التي تبعث لك رسالة تساعدك على فهم ما تمر به، في اللحظة التي تحتاجها تماما، دون حتى أن تعرف أنك تحتاجها. الأمتنان ليس للأعمال العظيمة فقط، ولكن للأعمال التي كان دورها عظيما في فهمنا لأنفسنا في لحظة محددة، حتى إننا عندما نلتفت لحياتنا يمكننا تعريفها بهذه الأعمال"
إيمان مرسال
البحر المحيط بالنسبة لي هي واحدة من هذه الإعمال.
أحببتها، ببساطة تسللت إلى جنبات روحي لتتلمس طريقها نحو قلبي.
هي قصيدة شاعرية كتبت كسيمفونية موسيقية فنية متقنة.
هي رومانسية، غرائبية، شفافة، فريدة، ويلفها سحر ماورائي.
والبداية كانت نزل آلماير.
قائما منذ الأزل عند الحافة الأخيرة للع��لم، على بعد خطوة من نهاية البحر، كان يقع نزل آلماير.
"هو ذا نزل آلماير، يمتلك جمالا لا يقدر على إمتلاكه إلا المغلوبون، يمتلك نقاء الأشياء الواهنة. ويمتلك العزلة الخالصة، عزلة الضالين"
نزل يكاد يكون لا وجود له ولكنه الملاذ المثالي، مطهر رملي، ووجهة كل تلك الأنفس التائهة، يأتون إليه ضائعين ويرحلون عنه وقد هدهدهم صوت البحر المحيط.
"أن تراه من بعيد لن تحسبه أكثر من نقطة سوداء: داخل العدم، يقبع العدم الآخر المكون من رجل، ومن مسند رسم"
النزيل الأول بلاسون الرسام، المزق بلا نهاية في كمال تلك اللوحة الرائعة للبحر والسماء.
"هذا الرجل يرسم البحر بالبحر"
منغرز في الرمال يريد أن يرسم وجه البحر، لتظل لوحاته البيضاء تسرد حكايا البحر بماء البحر.
النزيلة الثانية آن دوفريا، المرأة الملتفعة بالملاءة بنفسجية، رائعة الجمال ولكنها حزينة ووحيدة، تمسح الشاطئ بفتور، خطاها تنساب فوق الرمال ولكن يمحوها البحر لتظل دون آثر.
"أن الروح ليست دائما حلية ماسية، فهي تكون أحيانا حجابا شفافا من الحرير، وأي شيء يمكن أن يمزقه، حتى نظرة"
تلك الروح هي النزيلة الثالثة إليزوين، هي التي لا تمتلك ما يحميها من العاطفة ولكنها بكل ما فيها كانت تتوق إلى أن تحيا.
الفتاة المريضة بمرض ليس له إسم، ولو كان له، لكان إسم خفيفا للغاية ما أن تنطقه حتى يتلاشى.
تلك الفتاة التي تتملكها حساسية الروح، الفتاة التي كانت تخاف حتى من خطاها، الفتاة التي كانت تركض على السجاجيد بيض نحو خيال تكف فيه عن كونها ظل.
ترياقها هو البحر، تذهب إليه لتتحول أخيرا من فراشة ليلية لإمرأة، أخيرا ردها البحر حية بحق.
النزيل الرابع الأب بلوش، الذي لم ينطق أبدا العبارة التي يبنغي نطقها بل كان ينطق بما يرد على ذهنه قبلها، فالنزال المعتاد بين الكلمات التي يجب أن تقال والكلمات التي يحب أن يقولها، ينتصر فيه دائما الحب وليس الواجب.
الأب بلوش صاحب كتاب الصلوات التي لا تشبه أي صلاة كتبت من قبل.
النزيل الخامس البروفسور بارتلبوم، الذي يكتب موسوعة عن الحدود، عن النهايات، هو صاحب القياسات التي بلا نهاية.
"هناك حيت يصل الموج... يصعد الشاطئ، ثم يتوقف.... هو ذا، ذلك الموضع بالذات، هناك يتوقف... لا يستغرق الأمر أكثر من هنيهة، ثم إذا بالموج يتبدد، لكن لو كان بمكنة أحد أن يوقف تلك الهنيهة..... عندما يسكن الموج، عند تلك العطفة، حيث يسكن الموج، هناك ينتهي البحر"
بارتلبوم الذي تتراكم في صندوقه من خشب الماهوغاني رسائل بمغلفات بدون إسم ولا عنوان، تنتظر في هدوء أن تقرأها تلك التي أفنى بارتلبوم عمره في إنتظارها وكان يعيش من أجلها وينتظرها منذ عهود.
"هو يظن أنه في مكان ما من العالم سيلتقي ذات يوم بإمرأة كانت، منذ الأزل، إمرأته"
أوصله البحث عنها إلى أن ينال الحب الذي يستحقه من قلوب لم يكن يتوقعها.
"هو ذاك الذي ينتظر، هو الذي حرفته الإنتظار"
النزيل السادس آدمز، هذا الرجل الذي هو سر في حد ذاته، هذا الذي تاه في البحر وعاد من المجهول، بعثرته القسوة والوحشية اللابشرية، فمضى ضالا يتخبط في كل الأنحاء قبل أن يرسو أخيرا في نزل آلماير.
"كلمة واحدة فحسب، غير أنها لا متناهية، على طريقتها، وساحرة فوق ذلك، وبسيطة بصورة لا تحتمل.
- البحر...."
نزل آلماير الذي يديره أطفال ولكنهم ليسوا كالأطفال بل قل هم الذين يمضون جيئة وذهابا وكأنهم يملكون الأبدية.
ديرا التي كانت تعلم فيضا من الأشياء مع إنها تبدو في العاشرة من عمرها ولكنها ربما كانت تزيد عنهم بألف أخرى.
دود الفتى الذي يقطن على حافة النافذة، الفتى الذي يقرأ الإحلام وعنده جواب لكل سؤال.
ديتس الفتى الذي كان يهب الإحلام، يبتكرها ثم يهديها.
دول الفتى بصار السفن وأخيرا تلك الطفلة الفائقة الجمال ولا أحد يعلم إسمها.
"الظلمة تبطل كل شيء. ما من شيء يقدر، داخل الظلمة، أن يصير حقيقة"
ثم يأتي المنتصف ويتغير المشهد فجأة وتلف الظلمة كل شيء.
مشهد غرق الفرقاطة أليونس هو مشهد بائس، عبثي، عدمي.
تلك الفرقاطة التي غاصت في البحر، فغاصت معها الإنسانية.
فهناك في جوف البحر الذي بلا وجهة وبلا نهاية تتجلى قسوة النفس البشرية وضعفها وإستعدادها للفتك بالآخر في سبيل النجاة.
فالكراهية تطفو فوق الركام لتقول كل نفس نفسي نفسي ويبقى عبث اسم الفرقاطة التي كان ركابها ابعد ما يكون عن الإتحاد.
"هذه الحرب التي نخوض هذا الموت الذي نبذره حولنا لئلا نموت"
ففي قلب البحر طوقتهم موجة لا مرئية من الوحشية والحيوانية خارجة من الجنون، والجوع واليأس والخوف.
لم يكن الغريم فقط البحر المحيط بل كان غريم آخر أكثر كيدا، أنه النفس التي بين جنباتهم.
"ماذا نقصد حين نقول بحر؟
أنقصد الوحش المهول القادر على إبتلاع أي شيء؟
أم تلك الموجة التي تصنع الزبد حول أقدامنا؟
الماء الذي بإمكانك حمله في جوف راحتك؟
أم الهاوية التي لا يستطيع أحد سبرها؟
أترانا نقول كل شيء في لفظة واحدة؟
أم أننا في لفظة واحدة نخفي كل شيء؟"
لتأتي النهاية لتعيد الهدوء والسكينة أو ربما لتعيد سرد البحر والإيمان بالسحر الذي كاد أن يتلاشى.
"في مكنة المرء أن يمكث ساعات يتأمل ذلك البحر، وتلك السماء، وكل شيء هناك"
ممتنة لتلك الصدفة العمياء ❤
تستحق كل نجوم السماء ❤
January 9, 2019
Oceano mare, del tanto contestato Baricco, si legge in tre parti.
Il libro Primo si chiama Locanda Almayer, e parla di mare e di sogni, di quiete e tempesta, di memorie e speranza.
Qui si incontrano i personaggi, le loro storie ed il loro passato, ed è un libro meraviglioso. In questa strana locanda Almayer, un luogo senza tempo né futuro, dove il mare avvolge tutto ed è tutto, si intrecciano le vite di vari personaggi, tra chi sta cercando nel mare una cura, chi sollievo, chi risposte; c'è il professor Bartleboom, che cerca di definire quale sia il limite del mare, il pittore Plasson, che il mare vuole dipingerlo, l'adultera Ann Deverià, relegata ai confini del mondo dal marito, Elisewin, una ragazza fragile e sensibile accompagnata da Padre Pluche, reverendo insolito... e ci sono i bambini, misteriosi ed incomprensibili, come un testo non decifrato.
Il Libro Secondo si intitola Il ventre del mare ed è, senza timore di esagerare, una tra le cose più vere, più belle e più sconvolgenti che abbia mai avuto la fortuna di leggere.
Non aggiungo parole che risulterebbero insulse, dopo quelle di Baricco; dico solo che questo testo andrebbe fatto leggere a tutti, senza se e senza ma, da qui alla fine dei tempi.
Il Libro Terzo è infine I canti del ritorno, e narra i destini e le svolte delle tante vite che si sono incontrate; purtroppo, questo è il libro più vuoto dei tre, seppur dalla prosa molto "stilistically correct", e non rende giustizia alle prime due parti, anzi... si perde qualcosa, si avverte come un senso di incompiutezza.
Questo Icaro che è Oceano mare si è sciolto le ali quando ormai era a due passi dal sole, tanto brillava di perfezione.
È vero che la bellezza sta anche nelle imperfezioni, ma qui c'è un tassello che manca e tutto ciò mi lascia profondamente amareggiata. Sospendo il giudizio per verificare quali emozioni, tra tutte le contrastanti che si fanno la guerra al momento, prevarrà nel lungo termine.
Il libro Primo si chiama Locanda Almayer, e parla di mare e di sogni, di quiete e tempesta, di memorie e speranza.
Aveva quella bellezza di cui solo i vinti sono capaci. È la limpidezza delle cose deboli. È la solitudine, perfetta, di ciò che si è perduto.
Qui si incontrano i personaggi, le loro storie ed il loro passato, ed è un libro meraviglioso. In questa strana locanda Almayer, un luogo senza tempo né futuro, dove il mare avvolge tutto ed è tutto, si intrecciano le vite di vari personaggi, tra chi sta cercando nel mare una cura, chi sollievo, chi risposte; c'è il professor Bartleboom, che cerca di definire quale sia il limite del mare, il pittore Plasson, che il mare vuole dipingerlo, l'adultera Ann Deverià, relegata ai confini del mondo dal marito, Elisewin, una ragazza fragile e sensibile accompagnata da Padre Pluche, reverendo insolito... e ci sono i bambini, misteriosi ed incomprensibili, come un testo non decifrato.
Il Libro Secondo si intitola Il ventre del mare ed è, senza timore di esagerare, una tra le cose più vere, più belle e più sconvolgenti che abbia mai avuto la fortuna di leggere.
La prima cosa è il mio nome, la seconda quegli occhi, la terza un pensiero, la quarta la notte che viene, la quinta quei corpi straziati, la sesta è la fame, la settima orrore, l'ottava i fantasmi della follia, la nona è carne e la decima è un uomo che mi guarda e non mi uccide.
Non aggiungo parole che risulterebbero insulse, dopo quelle di Baricco; dico solo che questo testo andrebbe fatto leggere a tutti, senza se e senza ma, da qui alla fine dei tempi.
Il Libro Terzo è infine I canti del ritorno, e narra i destini e le svolte delle tante vite che si sono incontrate; purtroppo, questo è il libro più vuoto dei tre, seppur dalla prosa molto "stilistically correct", e non rende giustizia alle prime due parti, anzi... si perde qualcosa, si avverte come un senso di incompiutezza.
Futuro. Il mio, è già tutto qui, e adesso. Il mio sarà la quiete di un tempo immobile, che collezionerà istanti da posare uno sull'altro, come se fossero uno solo. Da qui alla mia morte, ci sarà quell'istante, e basta.
Questo Icaro che è Oceano mare si è sciolto le ali quando ormai era a due passi dal sole, tanto brillava di perfezione.
È vero che la bellezza sta anche nelle imperfezioni, ma qui c'è un tassello che manca e tutto ciò mi lascia profondamente amareggiata. Sospendo il giudizio per verificare quali emozioni, tra tutte le contrastanti che si fanno la guerra al momento, prevarrà nel lungo termine.
May 6, 2021
En este libro el autor italiano nos enfrenta a las mútliples relaciones del ser humano con el mar: el miedo que genera, la nostalgia que provoca, su poder evocador, la bestialidad oscura de su inmensidad.
"No se puede apagar el mar, cuando arde en la noche" (p.72)
A través de siete personajes que se entrecruzan en una extraña posada, Baricco se sumerge completamente en las contradicciones, bajezas y maravillas del ser humano. Con un estilo narrativo muy particular, va deshilvanando una serie de historias mínimas que tienen al mar como enlazador.
Hay algunos pasajes muy poéticos dentro de la prosa que son preciosos y nos encontramos, a la vez, con capítulos que son abrumadores por la violencia que encierran.
Me ha gustado muchísimo la originalidad que ostentan algunos personajes, como el profesor Bartleboom, quien escribe una enciclopedia de los límites y se pregunta a dónde termina el mar.
Por momentos se vuelve una trama llena de misterios y secretos oscuros que terminan develándose al final o que nos dejan reflexionando profundamente.
Todas las novelas que he leído de Alessandro Baricco están llenas de descubrimientos, belleza y algún toque de tragedia que me llevan una y otra vez a un verso de Rilke de las Elegías de Duino que dice: "Lo bello no es más que el primer eslabón de lo terrible, que aún soportamos y así admiramos, porque impasiblemente rehúsa destruirnos".
"No se puede apagar el mar, cuando arde en la noche" (p.72)
A través de siete personajes que se entrecruzan en una extraña posada, Baricco se sumerge completamente en las contradicciones, bajezas y maravillas del ser humano. Con un estilo narrativo muy particular, va deshilvanando una serie de historias mínimas que tienen al mar como enlazador.
Hay algunos pasajes muy poéticos dentro de la prosa que son preciosos y nos encontramos, a la vez, con capítulos que son abrumadores por la violencia que encierran.
Me ha gustado muchísimo la originalidad que ostentan algunos personajes, como el profesor Bartleboom, quien escribe una enciclopedia de los límites y se pregunta a dónde termina el mar.
Por momentos se vuelve una trama llena de misterios y secretos oscuros que terminan develándose al final o que nos dejan reflexionando profundamente.
Todas las novelas que he leído de Alessandro Baricco están llenas de descubrimientos, belleza y algún toque de tragedia que me llevan una y otra vez a un verso de Rilke de las Elegías de Duino que dice: "Lo bello no es más que el primer eslabón de lo terrible, que aún soportamos y así admiramos, porque impasiblemente rehúsa destruirnos".
August 29, 2019
Una novela pura poesía. escasa trama y una permanente e intensa cantidad de emociones. Es muy difícil explicar de que va sin caer en facilismos: ¿de la vida, del amor, del significado de la existencia? de todo eso y mucho más. No puedo decir que les vaya a gustar a todos, a mí me ha gustado mucho. Lo que marca la diferencia es la impronta poética. Es un libro anterior a Seda, y luego de leerlo pienso si este no será "el verdadero" Baricco.
August 24, 2020
No entiendo, no entiendo, no entiendo y no entiendo el genio de Baricco para describir lo bello. Describir de una manera sincera, de una manera triste y desgarradora (¿de qué otra forma?) Un libro lleno de magia, de reflexiones y de repugnante y maravillosa humanidad. Baricco se convierte, así de "fácil", en uno de mis favoritos.
October 25, 2019
Probably one of the best books I have read in my life. Unbelievably true and beautiful.
April 27, 2020
Un LIBRAZO que se ha mandado el autor!!!
April 22, 2018
2,5/5
Alessandro Baricco è uno scrittore che polarizza i giudizi, c'è chi considera le sue opere capolavori, mentre per altri sono quasi spazzatura. Per molti, inoltre, Baricco è borioso e antipatico. Io, non conoscendolo e non avendo mai visto una sua intervista, non posso esprimermi, e sinceramente nemmeno mi interessa se sia simpatico o meno: devo leggere i suoi libri, mica uscirci a cena.
Anzi, in realtà, ho visto pezzi delle sue lezioni che erano andate in onda sulla Rai e credo che il professore-divulgatore gli riesca molto bene.
In ogni caso, questa è stata la mia prima esperienza con un libro scritto da Baricco ed è stata un po' meh.
Sicuramente Baricco sa scrivere però, per i miei gusti, il suo è uno stile un po' troppo arzigogolato e artificioso. Dover rileggere un pezzo per capirlo non è positivo. Che poi in realtà è tutto volutamente oscuro quindi magari lo rileggi pure per niente.
Oltretutto putroppo il libro è in calando. Nonostante la trama sia sempre un po' troppo evanescente per i miei gusti, nella prima parte ci sono qua e là momenti molto belli e intuizioni che mi hanno colpito positivamente. La seconda, che "descrive" il naufragio della Medusa, è molto intensa. Invece, la terza, che conteneva gli epiloghi dei vari personaggi, per assurdo mi è sembrata praticamente inutile.
Non vorrei dare giudizi troppo netti ma alla fin fine ho visto più fumo che arrosto. E, sì, preferisco il Baricco professore a quello scrittore.
Alessandro Baricco è uno scrittore che polarizza i giudizi, c'è chi considera le sue opere capolavori, mentre per altri sono quasi spazzatura. Per molti, inoltre, Baricco è borioso e antipatico. Io, non conoscendolo e non avendo mai visto una sua intervista, non posso esprimermi, e sinceramente nemmeno mi interessa se sia simpatico o meno: devo leggere i suoi libri, mica uscirci a cena.
Anzi, in realtà, ho visto pezzi delle sue lezioni che erano andate in onda sulla Rai e credo che il professore-divulgatore gli riesca molto bene.
In ogni caso, questa è stata la mia prima esperienza con un libro scritto da Baricco ed è stata un po' meh.
Sicuramente Baricco sa scrivere però, per i miei gusti, il suo è uno stile un po' troppo arzigogolato e artificioso. Dover rileggere un pezzo per capirlo non è positivo. Che poi in realtà è tutto volutamente oscuro quindi magari lo rileggi pure per niente.
Oltretutto putroppo il libro è in calando. Nonostante la trama sia sempre un po' troppo evanescente per i miei gusti, nella prima parte ci sono qua e là momenti molto belli e intuizioni che mi hanno colpito positivamente. La seconda, che "descrive" il naufragio della Medusa, è molto intensa. Invece, la terza, che conteneva gli epiloghi dei vari personaggi, per assurdo mi è sembrata praticamente inutile.
Non vorrei dare giudizi troppo netti ma alla fin fine ho visto più fumo che arrosto. E, sì, preferisco il Baricco professore a quello scrittore.
December 17, 2012
1/10
Presuntuoso, e *molto*. Scrittura puramente manieristica: una parola necessaria ogni dieci infilate solo per far ghirigori (terribilmente pacchiani, peraltro), periodi a singhiozzo dovunque e comunque (perché fa molto Scrittore Troppo Avanti, immagino), frasette da biglietto dei cioccolatini che tentano di passare per Grande Poesia, e neanche una sola minuscola idea bella o originale che possa far dire "Perlomeno non ho buttato via due ore della mia vita". Sì, mi sa proprio che le ho buttate via, sperando fino all'ultimo in un guizzo di decenza che non c'è stato. Si ondeggia tra la noia omicida e l'incredulità per quanta spocchia l'autore sia riuscito a infilare in una sola frase.
Quanto ai Grandi Temi, abbiamo la bellezza di: a) un "oceano mare" ricamato di leziosaggini e banalità, filosofia spicciola che il mare vero non l'ha visto neanche col binocolo; b) personaggi che sembrano quasi consapevoli della terrificante insensataggine e banalità di quello che fanno, ma il copione è quello e the show must go on; c) una tragedia in mezzo al mare che, ancora, spargendo parole a casaccio vorrebbe angosciare e turbare e suscitare orrore, ma che personalmente mi ha fatto rimpiangere svariati documentari sui naufragi, molto meno artefatti.
Presuntuoso, e *molto*. Scrittura puramente manieristica: una parola necessaria ogni dieci infilate solo per far ghirigori (terribilmente pacchiani, peraltro), periodi a singhiozzo dovunque e comunque (perché fa molto Scrittore Troppo Avanti, immagino), frasette da biglietto dei cioccolatini che tentano di passare per Grande Poesia, e neanche una sola minuscola idea bella o originale che possa far dire "Perlomeno non ho buttato via due ore della mia vita". Sì, mi sa proprio che le ho buttate via, sperando fino all'ultimo in un guizzo di decenza che non c'è stato. Si ondeggia tra la noia omicida e l'incredulità per quanta spocchia l'autore sia riuscito a infilare in una sola frase.
Quanto ai Grandi Temi, abbiamo la bellezza di: a) un "oceano mare" ricamato di leziosaggini e banalità, filosofia spicciola che il mare vero non l'ha visto neanche col binocolo; b) personaggi che sembrano quasi consapevoli della terrificante insensataggine e banalità di quello che fanno, ma il copione è quello e the show must go on; c) una tragedia in mezzo al mare che, ancora, spargendo parole a casaccio vorrebbe angosciare e turbare e suscitare orrore, ma che personalmente mi ha fatto rimpiangere svariati documentari sui naufragi, molto meno artefatti.
May 3, 2015
And the award for getting me out of my comfort zone goes to Alessandro Baricco! I have never read anything written by him (and I’m not sure I will in the near future) but this little thing was like a breath of (somewhat) fresh air. Yes, yes, yes, it’s about the sea, the overwhelming, powerful, healing, cruel, regenerating etc. sea. And about the not so original idea of bringing a bunch of unknown, totally different people together. And how the sea is their friend or nemesis, how it all starts (where, Plasson?) and ends (where, Bartleboom?) with it.
Sometimes I felt I was eating a leftover salad with different things thrown in the mix (theater? poetry? stream of consciousness?) and I was trying to identify which is which, separate potatoes from onions and olives, but then again, a salad is a salad, it’s better not to overthink it. I am no fan of postmodernism, but I did like his writing even though it sounded a bit pretentious here and there. Oh, and that particular episode with Bartleboom trying to find the woman of his dreams, that was the funniest thing I’ve read in years!
(And yes, I went to the sea while reading the book and I thought about it, how cheesy is that?)
Sometimes I felt I was eating a leftover salad with different things thrown in the mix (theater? poetry? stream of consciousness?) and I was trying to identify which is which, separate potatoes from onions and olives, but then again, a salad is a salad, it’s better not to overthink it. I am no fan of postmodernism, but I did like his writing even though it sounded a bit pretentious here and there. Oh, and that particular episode with Bartleboom trying to find the woman of his dreams, that was the funniest thing I’ve read in years!
(And yes, I went to the sea while reading the book and I thought about it, how cheesy is that?)
November 18, 2018
البحر المحيط..قرأت هذا العام العديد من الروايات المبهرة، المبدعة، لكن حينما أسأل نفسي، أي واحدة منها تضعها فوق الجميع، تلك التي تترك مسافة، كبيرة، بينها وبين بقية الأعمال. قبل عمل أليساندرو باريكو لم تكن لدي إجابة، بعده، البحر المحيط.
سرد البحر، هذه رواية عن البحر، لكن ليست كأي رواية، هي سينفونية كلمات تتحول لموسقى بمجرد أن تلتقطها عيناك. في أغرب أسلوب قد يجده القارئ، شعر مع نثر متمازجان، متماهيان، لا يمكن فصل أحدهما عن الآخر. دقيقة هي التفاصيل هنا، لكن لا مكان للشيطان فيها، وكل كلمة هي عماد بيت هذا العمل، ومع كل كلمة، جملة، فقرة ففصل، تتضح عيون هذا البحر أكثر، كأن القارئ يرتفع عاليا في السماء، ليرى الصورة كاملة، ماثلة أمامه، حتى لو لم يفهمها، فهنا قد يكون أفضل أن تتخلى عن بعض العقلانية، لتدرك ماهية البحر.
فندق يديره خمسة أطفال، يستضيف سبعة أشخاص، بشخصيات غريبة لا منطق فيها، مثل البروفسور بارتلبوم، الشخص يعد موسوعة عن حدود البحر، وأكيد لن يتفوق في غرابته عن الرسام، بلاسون، من يريد رسم البحر بماء البحر..(انقطاع)
.
"بين الحين والآخر أتساءل ما الذي ننتظره على هذه الأرض"
سرد البحر، هذه رواية عن البحر، لكن ليست كأي رواية، هي سينفونية كلمات تتحول لموسقى بمجرد أن تلتقطها عيناك. في أغرب أسلوب قد يجده القارئ، شعر مع نثر متمازجان، متماهيان، لا يمكن فصل أحدهما عن الآخر. دقيقة هي التفاصيل هنا، لكن لا مكان للشيطان فيها، وكل كلمة هي عماد بيت هذا العمل، ومع كل كلمة، جملة، فقرة ففصل، تتضح عيون هذا البحر أكثر، كأن القارئ يرتفع عاليا في السماء، ليرى الصورة كاملة، ماثلة أمامه، حتى لو لم يفهمها، فهنا قد يكون أفضل أن تتخلى عن بعض العقلانية، لتدرك ماهية البحر.
فندق يديره خمسة أطفال، يستضيف سبعة أشخاص، بشخصيات غريبة لا منطق فيها، مثل البروفسور بارتلبوم، الشخص يعد موسوعة عن حدود البحر، وأكيد لن يتفوق في غرابته عن الرسام، بلاسون، من يريد رسم البحر بماء البحر..(انقطاع)
.
"بين الحين والآخر أتساءل ما الذي ننتظره على هذه الأرض"
June 3, 2024
J’ai pris le temps, je pense qu’il faut prendre le temps avec ce livre. Baricco m’avait déjà tellement surpris avec Soie et Novecento pianiste… mais ça ! Océan mer est, pour sûr, devenu un de mes livres favoris. J’ai cru chuter infiniment mais en fait, je me noyais.
June 18, 2016
"El mundo exterior sigue ahí. Hagas lo que hagas seguro que siempre volverás a encontrarlo en su sitio. Es increíble, pero así es."
Es un libro bello, poético, mágico, diferente, con un protagonista absoluto que es el Mar el Océano Mar...
A pesar de este Mar gran protagonista, los otros personajes, todo hay que decirlo, los he encontrado también muy singulares e inolvidables. Desde Elisewin y su acompañante el particular Padre Pluche y su libro de oraciones, el atormentado Adams, el pintor Plasson con sus lienzos en blanco, el genial Bartleboom (mi preferido) con su cofre de cartas y su búsqueda de la mujer amada, y sin olvidar a los niños de la pensión Almayer que es donde van a parar todos los personajes y sus historias.
Un libro para saborear con calma.
"Venían de los dos extremos más alejados de la vida, eso es lo sorprendente, pensar que nunca se habrían rozado salvo atravesando de punta a punta el universo, y en cambio ni siquiera habían tenido que buscarse, eso es lo increíble, y lo único difícil había sido reconocerse, reconocerse, cosa de un instante, la primera mirada y ya lo sabían, eso es lo maravilloso – eso seguirían contándolo para siempre en las tierras de Carewall, para que nadie pueda olvidar que nunca se está lo bastante lejos para encontrarse."
Es un libro bello, poético, mágico, diferente, con un protagonista absoluto que es el Mar el Océano Mar...
A pesar de este Mar gran protagonista, los otros personajes, todo hay que decirlo, los he encontrado también muy singulares e inolvidables. Desde Elisewin y su acompañante el particular Padre Pluche y su libro de oraciones, el atormentado Adams, el pintor Plasson con sus lienzos en blanco, el genial Bartleboom (mi preferido) con su cofre de cartas y su búsqueda de la mujer amada, y sin olvidar a los niños de la pensión Almayer que es donde van a parar todos los personajes y sus historias.
Un libro para saborear con calma.
"Venían de los dos extremos más alejados de la vida, eso es lo sorprendente, pensar que nunca se habrían rozado salvo atravesando de punta a punta el universo, y en cambio ni siquiera habían tenido que buscarse, eso es lo increíble, y lo único difícil había sido reconocerse, reconocerse, cosa de un instante, la primera mirada y ya lo sabían, eso es lo maravilloso – eso seguirían contándolo para siempre en las tierras de Carewall, para que nadie pueda olvidar que nunca se está lo bastante lejos para encontrarse."
August 12, 2020
Ένα πολυπρόσωπο μυθιστόρημα με έντονη την ονειρική - παραμυθιακή αίσθηση και κύριο πρωταγωνιστή τη ��άλασσα. Μια θάλασσα της ζωής, της αγάπης, της σκληρότητας, του θανάτου, του άπειρου, της κάθαρσης.
"Μια ιδέα πολύ σαφής, που επωαζόταν μέσα του επί χρόνια, τον πήρε μακριά.
Να κάνει μια προσωπογραφία της θάλασσας"
"Υπάρχουν τρεις τύποι ανθρώπων: εκείνοι που ζουν μπροστά στη θάλασσα, εκείνοι που φτάνουν μέσα στη θάλασσα κι εκείνοι που από τη θάλασσα καταφέρνουν να επιστρέψουν ζωντανοί"
"Κι ας γλιστρήσει μακριά αυτή η προσευχή,
με τη δύναμη των λέξεων , πέρα από το κλουβί του κόσμου,
μέχρι ποιος ξέρει που.
Αμήν"
"Μια ιδέα πολύ σαφής, που επωαζόταν μέσα του επί χρόνια, τον πήρε μακριά.
Να κάνει μια προσωπογραφία της θάλασσας"
"Υπάρχουν τρεις τύποι ανθρώπων: εκείνοι που ζουν μπροστά στη θάλασσα, εκείνοι που φτάνουν μέσα στη θάλασσα κι εκείνοι που από τη θάλασσα καταφέρνουν να επιστρέψουν ζωντανοί"
"Κι ας γλιστρήσει μακριά αυτή η προσευχή,
με τη δύναμη των λέξεων , πέρα από το κλουβί του κόσμου,
μέχρι ποιος ξέρει που.
Αμήν"
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