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Lecții de dans pentru vârstnici și avansați
Lecţii de dans pentru vârstnici şi avansaţi este un roman mai degrabă neobişnuit, desfăşurat într-o singură frază spectaculoasă, de un umor incredibil şi o tristeţe apăsătoare, cum sunt, de altfel, toate scrierile lui Hrabal. Monologul fostului pantofar din Lecţii de dans este un bric à brac de personaje şi întâmplări din Cehia de pe vremea Imperiului Austro-Ungar, în parte confesiune, în parte meditaţie despre dragoste, timp sau moravuri, totul într-o notă de subtilă ironie. La un moment dat, bătrânul povestitor spune că „o carte bună nu trebuie să-l lase pe cititor să doarmă liniştit, dimpotrivă, trebuie să-l facă să sară din pat în izmene şi să dea fuga la scriitor ca să-i ardă câteva“. Dacă Hrabal ar mai trăi, v-aţi dori cu siguranţă să faceţi asta odată ajunşi la final.
168 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1964
About the author
Bohumil Hrabal
180 books1,215 followersBorn in Brno-Židenice, Moravia, he lived briefly in Polná, but was raised in the Nymburk brewery as the manager's stepson.
Hrabal received a Law degree from Prague's Charles University, and lived in the city from the late 1940s on.
He worked as a manual laborer alongside Vladimír Boudník in the Kladno ironworks in the 1950s, an experience which inspired the "hyper-realist" texts he was writing at the time.
His best known novels were Closely Watched Trains (1965) and I Served the King of England. In 1965 he bought a cottage in Kersko, which he used to visit till the end of his life, and where he kept cats ("kočenky").
He was a great storyteller; his popular pub was At the Golden Tiger (U zlatého tygra) on Husova Street in Prague, where he met the Czech President Václav Havel, the American President Bill Clinton and the then-US ambassador to the UN Madeleine Albright on January 11th, 1994.
Several of his works were not published in Czechoslovakia due to the objections of the authorities, including The Little Town Where Time Stood Still (Městečko, kde se zastavil čas) and I Served the King of England (Obsluhoval jsem anglického krále).
He died when he fell from a fifth floor hospital where he was apparently trying to feed pigeons. It was noted that Hrabal lived on the fifth floor of his apartment building and that suicides by leaping from a fifth-floor window were mentioned in several of his books.
He was buried in a family grave in the cemetery in Hradištko. In the same grave his mother "Maryška", step father "Francin", uncle "Pepin", wife "Pipsi" and brother "Slávek" were buried.
He wrote with an expressive, highly visual style, often using long sentences; in fact his work Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age (1964) (Taneční hodiny pro starší a pokročilé) is made up of just one sentence. Many of Hrabal's characters are portrayed as "wise fools" - simpletons with occasional or inadvertent profound thoughts - who are also given to coarse humour, lewdness, and a determination to survive and enjoy oneself despite harsh circumstances. Political quandaries and their concomitant moral ambiguities are also a recurrent theme.
Along with Jaroslav Hašek, Karel Čapek, and Milan Kundera - who were also imaginative and amusing satirists - he is considered one of the greatest Czech writers of the 20th century. His works have been translated into 27 languages.
Hrabal received a Law degree from Prague's Charles University, and lived in the city from the late 1940s on.
He worked as a manual laborer alongside Vladimír Boudník in the Kladno ironworks in the 1950s, an experience which inspired the "hyper-realist" texts he was writing at the time.
His best known novels were Closely Watched Trains (1965) and I Served the King of England. In 1965 he bought a cottage in Kersko, which he used to visit till the end of his life, and where he kept cats ("kočenky").
He was a great storyteller; his popular pub was At the Golden Tiger (U zlatého tygra) on Husova Street in Prague, where he met the Czech President Václav Havel, the American President Bill Clinton and the then-US ambassador to the UN Madeleine Albright on January 11th, 1994.
Several of his works were not published in Czechoslovakia due to the objections of the authorities, including The Little Town Where Time Stood Still (Městečko, kde se zastavil čas) and I Served the King of England (Obsluhoval jsem anglického krále).
He died when he fell from a fifth floor hospital where he was apparently trying to feed pigeons. It was noted that Hrabal lived on the fifth floor of his apartment building and that suicides by leaping from a fifth-floor window were mentioned in several of his books.
He was buried in a family grave in the cemetery in Hradištko. In the same grave his mother "Maryška", step father "Francin", uncle "Pepin", wife "Pipsi" and brother "Slávek" were buried.
He wrote with an expressive, highly visual style, often using long sentences; in fact his work Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age (1964) (Taneční hodiny pro starší a pokročilé) is made up of just one sentence. Many of Hrabal's characters are portrayed as "wise fools" - simpletons with occasional or inadvertent profound thoughts - who are also given to coarse humour, lewdness, and a determination to survive and enjoy oneself despite harsh circumstances. Political quandaries and their concomitant moral ambiguities are also a recurrent theme.
Along with Jaroslav Hašek, Karel Čapek, and Milan Kundera - who were also imaginative and amusing satirists - he is considered one of the greatest Czech writers of the 20th century. His works have been translated into 27 languages.
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May 11, 2023
Hrabal a publicat acest roman echivoc în 1964. Este greu de închipuit scena lui, fiindcă naratorul (nu-i aflăm numele) nu este deloc credibil și nici nu are vreun motiv să urmeze vreo logică, nu ține să-și convingă auditoriul, ci doar să-l amuze.
Textul lui Bohumil Hrabal e un lung monolog cuprins într-o frază unică. Auditoriul? Șase domnișoare minunate care fac plajă și fumează cu dezinvoltură într-o grădină ascunsă de un gard. Nici una dintre fete nu pare să-i dea vreo atenție, dar acest fapt nu-l încurcă deloc pe protagonist. Contextul e destul de amuzant, nu?
Amuzant, la rîndul lui, este discursul bătrînului. Personajul pretinde că a fost pantofar, că a participat la un război (nu aflăm care), unde a dat dovadă de bravură și că a avut un succes teribil la femei. Este prieten cu un anume poet care afirmă că „poezia e suferință”, citează dintr-o carte de interpretare a viselor (dacă visezi un ospiciu, asta înseamnă bucurie) și invocă Renașterea ca punct maxim al Istoriei.
Povestitorul este adeseori confuz, lăudăros și neverosimil, sare de la una la alta, uneori are umor, dar de cele mai multe ori, nu. Cîteodată e vulgar. Am putea așeza cuvîntarea lui sub tema străveche a lumii care decade neîncetat. Pe vremea Imperiului, femeile erau mai miloase, bărbații mai chipeși și totul avea o noblețe care s-a pierdut etc.
Bohumil Hrabal a scris și cărți mai bune decît Lecții de dans pentru vîrstnici și avansați. Dar asta nu înseamnă cîtuși de puțin că n-are rost să citiți acest roman.
Textul lui Bohumil Hrabal e un lung monolog cuprins într-o frază unică. Auditoriul? Șase domnișoare minunate care fac plajă și fumează cu dezinvoltură într-o grădină ascunsă de un gard. Nici una dintre fete nu pare să-i dea vreo atenție, dar acest fapt nu-l încurcă deloc pe protagonist. Contextul e destul de amuzant, nu?
Amuzant, la rîndul lui, este discursul bătrînului. Personajul pretinde că a fost pantofar, că a participat la un război (nu aflăm care), unde a dat dovadă de bravură și că a avut un succes teribil la femei. Este prieten cu un anume poet care afirmă că „poezia e suferință”, citează dintr-o carte de interpretare a viselor (dacă visezi un ospiciu, asta înseamnă bucurie) și invocă Renașterea ca punct maxim al Istoriei.
Povestitorul este adeseori confuz, lăudăros și neverosimil, sare de la una la alta, uneori are umor, dar de cele mai multe ori, nu. Cîteodată e vulgar. Am putea așeza cuvîntarea lui sub tema străveche a lumii care decade neîncetat. Pe vremea Imperiului, femeile erau mai miloase, bărbații mai chipeși și totul avea o noblețe care s-a pierdut etc.
Bohumil Hrabal a scris și cărți mai bune decît Lecții de dans pentru vîrstnici și avansați. Dar asta nu înseamnă cîtuși de puțin că n-are rost să citiți acest roman.
February 21, 2016
This little novella can, at once, be discarded as a long, never-ending chapter on corporeal pursuits from the life book of a mindless rambler, a libidinous exhorter, a senile raconteur. And for some part, one might be right in doing so. If disaster has struck you due to your prolonged exposure to the skin junk processed and reprocessed on electronic and print media, you might not be cajoled to hold back even for a second from trashing this, their way.
But despite my reservations, I sat next to this babbler and listened. And as he wed thoughts with words, opinions with ridicule, humor with cantankerousness and malice with gravity, all within an unrelenting, single sentence spanning 110 pages, my jaws dropped; just not at the sight of his audacity to obscenely titillate his listener’s senses but also at the reservoir of concern churning tirelessly underneath this doltish kitsch.
No? You don’t believe me? Hear this:
And you can rest your doubts of misogynist jibes dotting this work should they come disturbing you courtesy the lascivious nature of this unnamed narrator. The enthusiastic inclusion of many snapshots, depicting women in equal roles of freedom and power, the bread-earner and decision-maker, cements the earnestness with which Hrabal offers his disdain, not without tints of hope. Like the unsettling maxim, ‘So it goes’ in Slaughterhouse-Five, there is a chilling adage sewn in this work as well,
But despite my reservations, I sat next to this babbler and listened. And as he wed thoughts with words, opinions with ridicule, humor with cantankerousness and malice with gravity, all within an unrelenting, single sentence spanning 110 pages, my jaws dropped; just not at the sight of his audacity to obscenely titillate his listener’s senses but also at the reservoir of concern churning tirelessly underneath this doltish kitsch.
No? You don’t believe me? Hear this:
“…when I was serving in the most elegant army in the world I told our medical officer, Doctor, I said, I’ve got a weak heart, but all he said was, So have I, boy, and if we had a hundred thousand like you we could conquer the world, and he put me into the highest category, so I was a hero…”Just an aberration, is it? Well then, how about this?
“…or the Russians, who are jetting the world so fast that they have to put their brakes the moment they take off and one speed engineer says that the time is near when a jet will see its own tail flying around the earth and passengers won’t even have a chance to sit down before arrival, they might as well stay home..”‘Oh, he is mild’, did you say? Not when you come across this:
“…oh it’s nice enough when two young people rush upto each other and clasp hands and whatever else there is to clasp, though that kind of thing is more exciting to clothed nations, naked nations are less lecherous…”And he certainly doesn’t try to be approving when he declares:
“…once tried to do splits with a beauty in the Catholic House and gave myself a hernia, which isn’t so bad for a man makes anything look good…”A feeling of rebellious delight comes upon me on encountering souls that purposely bleat or act comic in the worldly eyes just so they can enrage every cell of their innards and rack every remnant to life, launching them as missiles, oozing precision and inflicting damage out of every inked word onto a world reeling under war, oppression, anarchy, discrimination and injustice.
And you can rest your doubts of misogynist jibes dotting this work should they come disturbing you courtesy the lascivious nature of this unnamed narrator. The enthusiastic inclusion of many snapshots, depicting women in equal roles of freedom and power, the bread-earner and decision-maker, cements the earnestness with which Hrabal offers his disdain, not without tints of hope. Like the unsettling maxim, ‘So it goes’ in Slaughterhouse-Five, there is a chilling adage sewn in this work as well,
“.. so, I was the hero..”While it appears he penned these 5 words from a room painted in the darkest shades of satire (and rightfully so), I might have to disappoint him for buying it, on face value. And to draw him into my team and stopping short of antagonizing him, I might just turn his quote, on him, in sly uproar:
“…I’d pray all night for God to come and empty a cartload of wood on top of him, which must be why Bondy the poet says that real poetry must hurt, as you’d forgotten you wrapped a razor blade in your handkerchief and you blow your nose, no book worth its salt is meant to put you to sleep, it’s meant to make you jump out of bed in your underwear and run and beat the author’s brains out…”
May 29, 2019
This novella is in fact a single sentence, which gives it a breathless feel. It is the recollections of a man in his 70s told to a group of young women who are sunbathing. It is a telling of stories, most of them bawdy. They are about the narrator’s profession (shoemaking), his time in the army, but most of all his love life. There are lots of references to the European Renaissance, but if you are expecting references to Da Vinci or Michelangelo you’d be out of luck; it’s a euphemism for sex!
Hrabal has the reputation of being one of the great Czech writers of the twentieth century and he has influenced many who have followed such as Kundera and Havel. Many of his characters are “wise fools” delivering their profundities in story form. One of Hrabel’s favourite occupations was telling tales in his local inn; the book reads like that as well.
There is humour in the tale, but it is repetitive. It did remind me of some of the flights of conversation you get from those with dementia (in the middle stages). A tale from times past (sometimes a fragment) that is disassociated from what came before or after. I think whether you enjoy this book depends on how you feel about the narrator. If you find him irritating (like Holden Caulfield) you will quickly get bored. Admittedly some of it was amusing. The question is do you want to spend time listening to some old bloke telling you about the amorous adventures of his youth. If the answer is no, best to avoid I think!
Hrabal has the reputation of being one of the great Czech writers of the twentieth century and he has influenced many who have followed such as Kundera and Havel. Many of his characters are “wise fools” delivering their profundities in story form. One of Hrabel’s favourite occupations was telling tales in his local inn; the book reads like that as well.
There is humour in the tale, but it is repetitive. It did remind me of some of the flights of conversation you get from those with dementia (in the middle stages). A tale from times past (sometimes a fragment) that is disassociated from what came before or after. I think whether you enjoy this book depends on how you feel about the narrator. If you find him irritating (like Holden Caulfield) you will quickly get bored. Admittedly some of it was amusing. The question is do you want to spend time listening to some old bloke telling you about the amorous adventures of his youth. If the answer is no, best to avoid I think!
February 18, 2014
The delicate swirls of bubbles that dash to greet the robust rim of the glass, the bashful flour that audaciously rises to an aromatic marvel and the musical notes of the hammer as it drums the quiescent nails into colourful leather, only if they had words attached to their expeditions could we have then known the chronicles of a far-fetched yeast and a wooden caricature of an yet unborn shoe. Aren't we lucky to be humans, to be able to knit words into our experiences? Isn't life beautiful even with all its flaws? Untouched memories that nestle cozily in forgotten sentiments, lingering nostalgia that hides its viciousness behind the surreal veil of pleasantries, morph into an enlightening flow between a man and his alternative search for therapeutic consolations. Everyone is a story teller. Some carve, some orate and some discover a home to their lost words at the dusk of their lives. Yet, stories are somehow formed and lessons are bestowed step by step to the listeners who sway in these choreographed audible melodies, dancing to the tunes of splendor madness that transcends into the spontaneity of “palaverers”.
Hrabal says, “Human being is always mistaken in his point of view on the world, but that the world in which he lives, its underlying truth as a context of facts, cannot be mistaken.”
When the romanticism of the world seduces the melancholic acrobats of realism, imaginary tales are woven cheerfully indulging the severity of the past into an absolute tenderness of an aesthetic heroism. Have you ever noticed the face of the person who ecstatically recites nostalgic tales? At some stage in those various gradations of the sound bites, an infectious smiles get crafted on the narrator’s face that eventually finds a way to be plastered on your face and long after the stories fade in the moody air , the words remain powerfully glued like that smile. Jirka must have sported the identical contagious grin when he began telling his wondrous tales to a bunch of beauties lazing in the sun. Inspired by Bohumil’s Uncle Pepin, Jirka’s stories brought the pub alive with flamboyant memories that highlighted a harsh realism of a revolutionary era of the Austro-Hungarian landscape and the succeeding historical events with refined emotions. The noisy clatter of the Perko typewriter that Hrabal loved listening to as his poured his heart out resounded in the divine melodies of Jirka’s world.
"The world is a beautiful place don’t you think? Not because it is but because I see it that way, the way Pushkin saw it in that movie , poor Pushkin, to die in a duel, and so young, his last poems gushing from a bullet hole in his head, I could tell from the picture that he admired the European Renaissance too, he had fantastic muttonchops, you know the whiskers our own Franz Joseph wore, and Strauss the composer,…”
Jirka’s prose becomes an animated medium through which Bohumil depicts the chronological Austro-Hungarian revolution into diversified sovereignty. The reminiscence of a fading imperialist monarchy lingers in the ruins of pious love that had been washed by wantonness and glamour of money. The partisan of the Church refrained from sins but they were not saints. Bohumil impishly mocking the law of the Church by describing the Holy Trinity as a “carrier pigeon to communicate” ; debates how the Church and the religious elites had insisted on “curbing passion” and restricting the liberation of human or rather sexual desires bringing nothing but sadness in the end. The discrepancies that prevailed in the society, the absurdities on the war front and the hypocritical approach to sexual aspirations, the suicide and other criminal exploits shine fiercely through Jirka’s words as the sun touches the supple skin of his gorgeous audience.
"Javanese cinnamon is better than Ceylonese cinnamon is good in mulled wine and fruit......."
A soldier who became a shoemaker and then found a concrete place in the vocation of brewery, Jirka was in love with his work, no matter its station. In his stories one can unearth meticulous recollection of the fermentation processes on how the yeast and hops made a wondrous marriage that resulted in one of the finest brew in Europe. For a sturdy soldier with a sensitive heart, he sure did make good quality shoes. As a charmer with fine hands, Jirka could have enticed the Prime Minister’s daughter, but he was a gentleman and there could have been bad consequences and Mr. Batista would not approve it at all. Isn't Jirka a hero? For he knows “how a real man trembles like a frog about to leap whenever he sees a beautiful woman” and yet he maintained his sexual hygiene. Hrabal, amuses the reader with such exquisite sentences that find prominent place in this fanfare of miscellaneous characters and simultaneous stories. Furthermore, it gets outright comical when Jirka lambast that even though progress is good for mankind, when it comes to his favourite bread, butter and beer, the damn technology is to be slowed down. ( “Why will no one see that progress may be good for making people people, but for bread and butter and beer it’s the plague, they've got to slow down their damn technology ). Given that Hrabal scripted Jirka before the Communist occupation in 1968, Jirka and his opinions were not subjected to censorship, fortunately.
"A certain poet by the name of Bondy once told me people have strange ideas about what writing poetry means, they think it’s like going for water with a bucket or that poets just lift up their eyes unto the heavens and the heavenly hosts rain down verses upon them.......he had such a head on his shoulders that even today the professors go gaga over him...."
The free-thinkers who question the authoritative Church, the social democrats who widely indulge in the quintessential “chicken v/s egg” debate, place Charles Darwin on the pedestal. Egon Bondy was one of the dearest pal of Bohumil, a free-thinker, a poet who questioned every conservative regulation propelled amongst the societal more, Hrabal portraying his friend writes, “Bondy the poet- he wrote poetry only in the toilet with a poetry board on his kneed and a notebook on the pastry board.....” .
Through Jirka’s insightful eyes, Bondy who forever travels with his two babies pushing their buggy, elucidates why poets love to drink and meditate and how are blessed with sudden prophetic intellectual enlightenment. Hrabal puts forth the religion v/s atheist argumentative skilfully inferring how politics and writing go hand-in hand, no matter the pursued resistance.
In this mesmerizing monologue, the 70-yr old Jirka who now quite often visits the cemetery and wonder why don’t working people sing songs anymore becomes Hrabal’s beloved palaverer who immensely appreciates the feminine charisma. After all, it is only the poets who think of death and “old fogies” like him think of women. Jirka's narratives not only bring surreal grandeur to his life but make the reader feel alive and sense the utmost sentiment of belonging in a place where beauty was discovered everywhere.
Hrabal said of his palaverers, “Thanks to their madness, transcend themselves through experiment and spontaneity and through their ridiculousness they achieve a kind of grandeur, because they end up where no one expected them or expects them.”
So, as the delicate aroma of the fragrant dough rising from its humid stupor fills the kitchen , I put on my new pair of shoes and wordlessly listen to the melody of a chilled lager cascading into a crystalline maze , the frothy allure embracing the steamy bliss that springs from the soft warm bread waving the mischievous beer bubbles a long farewell and when the butter melts into a golden stream, I leisurely pin my ears onto Jirka while clinking my glass to his amusing anecdotes and letting out a heartfelt gratitude to the literary art of Hrabal Bohumil and his dearest pal, Egon Bondy.
September 29, 2014
At work I sit down in a chair and people come to me, sometimes drunk or maybe just schizophrenic, or both, and they talk to me or at me while I putz around the desk and drawers and hunt for pens, Can you give me 3 dollars for the bus? and a promise to pay me back on the first of the month, I always cave, it's amazing how you can train your eyes on someone without actually listening, maybe hearing but not listening, and then from the hum comes a lightning-bolt thought that makes you stop and wonder how much you've missed out on while you glanced furtively at the clock and thought about your lunch, because genius can be hidden in the unlikeliest of places, hidden in the folds of grey matter under the grey rags of the homeless man sitting in front of me, and if it wasn't for the talk talk talk that I'm used to, so different from the crickety creaky silence of other lonely lives, maybe I wouldn't get Bohumil Hrabal or should I say his shoemaker, if I didn't sit with him every day, the past sneaking into the present, lascivious thoughts of women and unwelcome details of bowel movements washing over me, sometimes I radio-edit them out as I go, their cigarettes are unfiltered too so who am I to complain, free association sounds suspiciously like literary code for ADD, it's no Too Loud a Solitude but it'll while away the time just fine, and get your creative juices flowing besides, it's almost too easy, no periods to speak of because it's pregnant with half-baked ideas, when I think how many great minds are dismissed as rambling drunks it makes my head spin and maybe one day I'll be sitting on a bar stool talking like a damn fool, ogling the bartenders and buying them shots so I can stay past closing time, we've come full circle, even the advanced in age are allowed to dance, and here is the manual that shows you how to trip across your words and dance into the twilight of your life with your head held high, pants falling down, in case anyone cares to listen, forever and ever amen
June 21, 2015
Mother of God, isn't life breathtakingly beautiful.
Joel bought me this book several years ago. It appeared so disjointed that I never truly considered it. Today the world was revealed as damp and overcast; reconciling myself to those conditions, Manchester United lost to City 6-1 and I slumped, to be polite. Reaching out, I heartily stumbled upstairs to scan our shelves and returned with Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age, coincidentally just as my wife was browsing reviews of such on this wicked site. That was wonky weird. I read the book in a pair of sittings and while it isn't explosive, it is a meandering monologue for the ages. It reminds me of Moscow To The End of the Line, but Hrabal's novella is better.
Joel bought me this book several years ago. It appeared so disjointed that I never truly considered it. Today the world was revealed as damp and overcast; reconciling myself to those conditions, Manchester United lost to City 6-1 and I slumped, to be polite. Reaching out, I heartily stumbled upstairs to scan our shelves and returned with Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age, coincidentally just as my wife was browsing reviews of such on this wicked site. That was wonky weird. I read the book in a pair of sittings and while it isn't explosive, it is a meandering monologue for the ages. It reminds me of Moscow To The End of the Line, but Hrabal's novella is better.
May 30, 2022
Me sentí apabullada y solo quería terminarlo, aunque hay destellos graciosos, pequeños momentos en que me interesó. Leía y pensaba “esto es muy bueno pero no me gusta”, a veces pasa. Mi problema no es con Bohumil Hrabal, otros dos libros suyos me gustaron mucho, pero este no.
En un monólogo, casi sin respiración, un viejo habla de cientos de temas: el imperio austrohúngaro, el Renacimiento, el libro de los sueños de Anna Nováková, la guerra, muchos ahorcados y casi nada de baile.
En un monólogo, casi sin respiración, un viejo habla de cientos de temas: el imperio austrohúngaro, el Renacimiento, el libro de los sueños de Anna Nováková, la guerra, muchos ahorcados y casi nada de baile.
January 26, 2019
Lezioni di ballo per anziani e progrediti uscì, dopo le sforbiciate da parte della redazione, tagliato di oltre la metà. Il dattiloscritto originale non sopravvisse, ma il redattore affermò che Hrabal aveva utilizzato i passaggi falciati come base di un’altra opera, e che nella versione definitiva non c’era più nulla «delle lezioni di ballo che erano state per parecchie pagine la cornice tematica». Tra i dettagli perduti ricordava il più affascinante: «come, dopo la fine della lezione di ballo, il narratore accompagna il proprio partner al manicomio e lì, alla luce della luna, in un’altana e sui vialetti bianchi dell’istituto ripetono le figure che avevano imparato quella sera».
Il vecchio calzolaio che ama le “sventolone” e la vita si racconta.
Ed è novella dell’inverosimile, resa credibile dall’assenza di punti fermi. Impossibile interrompere o modificare il ritmo. È un flusso inarrestabile, senza meta, con uditorio singolare: un’impalpabile signorina che ascolta senza mai replicare; è sovversione, scompiglio, è esplosione di frammenti narrativi. È folgorante e mutevole follia. E ancora è caleidoscopico turbinio di figure scentrate, di sentimenti amplificati. È colata di passioni incontenibili, poetiche o prepotenti.
Sedetevi comodamente, aprite il libro, e lasciate parlare Hrabal.
“i liberi pensatori rinfacciavano alla chiesa che Cristo, se era Dio, perché allora poi teneva commercio con una donna caduta? e io gli dico, c’è poco da fare, davanti a una bella sventolona non riesco a resistere nemmeno io, immaginatevi quindi Gesú Cristo che all’epoca era anche un gran bel pezzo d’uomo, tipo Conar Tolnes, in fondo aveva trent’anni e, insomma, quella Maria Maddalena, anche se di professione faceva la sgualdrina nei locali, ugualmente era riuscita a guadagnarsi la santità e aveva ottenuto il favore dei cieli e non aveva tradito Cristo e coi capelli gli aveva asciugato il sangue, e quel poverino se ne stava appeso alla croce perché aveva annunciato il progresso sociale e che tutte le persone sono uguali tra loro, e sua mamma era crollata in lacrime e Maria Maddalena l’aveva consolata, e io mi chiedo, dove sono tutte le belle sventolone del tempo andato? sono morte e di loro nulla è rimasto, però la cara Mariuccia Maddalena continuerà per sempre a intenerire i cuoricini poetici, e questo era stato anche il destino di quel gran bel pezzo d’uomo che aveva studiato da falegname, lui sapeva segare travi e assi, e di punto in bianco aveva abbandonato ogni cosa e era andato a insegnare alla gente che l’amore effettivo per il prossimo non vuol dire far capriole con una signorina su un canapè, ma invece dare subito una mano a chi in quel momento ne ha bisogno”
Il vecchio calzolaio che ama le “sventolone” e la vita si racconta.
Ed è novella dell’inverosimile, resa credibile dall’assenza di punti fermi. Impossibile interrompere o modificare il ritmo. È un flusso inarrestabile, senza meta, con uditorio singolare: un’impalpabile signorina che ascolta senza mai replicare; è sovversione, scompiglio, è esplosione di frammenti narrativi. È folgorante e mutevole follia. E ancora è caleidoscopico turbinio di figure scentrate, di sentimenti amplificati. È colata di passioni incontenibili, poetiche o prepotenti.
Sedetevi comodamente, aprite il libro, e lasciate parlare Hrabal.
“i liberi pensatori rinfacciavano alla chiesa che Cristo, se era Dio, perché allora poi teneva commercio con una donna caduta? e io gli dico, c’è poco da fare, davanti a una bella sventolona non riesco a resistere nemmeno io, immaginatevi quindi Gesú Cristo che all’epoca era anche un gran bel pezzo d’uomo, tipo Conar Tolnes, in fondo aveva trent’anni e, insomma, quella Maria Maddalena, anche se di professione faceva la sgualdrina nei locali, ugualmente era riuscita a guadagnarsi la santità e aveva ottenuto il favore dei cieli e non aveva tradito Cristo e coi capelli gli aveva asciugato il sangue, e quel poverino se ne stava appeso alla croce perché aveva annunciato il progresso sociale e che tutte le persone sono uguali tra loro, e sua mamma era crollata in lacrime e Maria Maddalena l’aveva consolata, e io mi chiedo, dove sono tutte le belle sventolone del tempo andato? sono morte e di loro nulla è rimasto, però la cara Mariuccia Maddalena continuerà per sempre a intenerire i cuoricini poetici, e questo era stato anche il destino di quel gran bel pezzo d’uomo che aveva studiato da falegname, lui sapeva segare travi e assi, e di punto in bianco aveva abbandonato ogni cosa e era andato a insegnare alla gente che l’amore effettivo per il prossimo non vuol dire far capriole con una signorina su un canapè, ma invece dare subito una mano a chi in quel momento ne ha bisogno”
September 30, 2018
Ха, разказвачът трябва да е чичо Пепин от Светла печал! 100% :)
По думи на страничен наблюдател: "Тоя пък. Хили се, хили се, пък я прочете."
Някъде на 10-тата страница осъзнах, че изречениято не свършва, сигурно защото ми се наложи да взема въздух. Книжле от 100 страници, но как според вас би се отразило на неговия мащаб, ако въпросното книжле всъщност е само от едно изречение ( формално - две )? Ако си представим, че това изречение-книга е част от една недописана, голяма и хипотетична книга, то няма как да представлява точно книжле, нали? По-скоро се заглеждаме някъде в онази недописана част - другите изречения и си представяме, колко би била голяма тази книга.
Чак сега си дадох сметка, че когато човек чете несъзнателно впряга вниманието си в началото на всяко изречение и на мястото на неговата точка се отпуска, за да се подготви за следващото. Това е несъзнателнен процес, част от микрокосмоса на четенето. И тук, понеже книгата е едно изречение по някое време се усещаш, че си се набрал като балон пред пукване ( всъщност се спуквах от смях) и се налага да се подсещаш за почивка.
Сега малко ще ви шашна като ви кажа, че (за мен, разбира се) генът на това книжле е същия като от "Животът пред теб" на Гари. Ако в "Животът пред теб" малкото момче стоварва върху вас своя възглед за живота придобит от сблъсъка му с него, то в "Уроци по танци за възрастни и напреднали" "момчето" е възрастен обущар, който стоварва своя свят върху вас със същата тази сила. Може да се каже, че това е "Животът зад теб".
затова и добрата книга не е тая, дето приспива читателя, а тая, дето го кара да скочи от леглото и както си е по долни гащи, да хукне при господин писателя и да му разбие физиономията
Свръхсветлинна скорост на разказа, докато се смееш с глас и героят вече се обесил..., ей така. През смях и сълзи, дет` се вика.
По думи на страничен наблюдател: "Тоя пък. Хили се, хили се, пък я прочете."
Някъде на 10-тата страница осъзнах, че изречениято не свършва, сигурно защото ми се наложи да взема въздух. Книжле от 100 страници, но как според вас би се отразило на неговия мащаб, ако въпросното книжле всъщност е само от едно изречение ( формално - две )? Ако си представим, че това изречение-книга е част от една недописана, голяма и хипотетична книга, то няма как да представлява точно книжле, нали? По-скоро се заглеждаме някъде в онази недописана част - другите изречения и си представяме, колко би била голяма тази книга.
Чак сега си дадох сметка, че когато човек чете несъзнателно впряга вниманието си в началото на всяко изречение и на мястото на неговата точка се отпуска, за да се подготви за следващото. Това е несъзнателнен процес, част от микрокосмоса на четенето. И тук, понеже книгата е едно изречение по някое време се усещаш, че си се набрал като балон пред пукване ( всъщност се спуквах от смях) и се налага да се подсещаш за почивка.
Сега малко ще ви шашна като ви кажа, че (за мен, разбира се) генът на това книжле е същия като от "Животът пред теб" на Гари. Ако в "Животът пред теб" малкото момче стоварва върху вас своя възглед за живота придобит от сблъсъка му с него, то в "Уроци по танци за възрастни и напреднали" "момчето" е възрастен обущар, който стоварва своя свят върху вас със същата тази сила. Може да се каже, че това е "Животът зад теб".
затова и добрата книга не е тая, дето приспива читателя, а тая, дето го кара да скочи от леглото и както си е по долни гащи, да хукне при господин писателя и да му разбие физиономията
Свръхсветлинна скорост на разказа, докато се смееш с глас и героят вече се обесил..., ей така. През смях и сълзи, дет` се вика.
October 11, 2020
"عزلة صاخبة جداً" كانت أجمل من هذه الرواية، فعلى الأقل كان لها فكرة، أما هذه الرواية فلا فكرة ولا أسلوب ولا أى شيء.
December 3, 2018
Хубава, експериментална книга. Храбал си играе небрежно с фразата и я премоделира в нетрадиционни форми за удоволствие. Едно изречение, разположено на 100 страници звучи някак плашещо, а всъщност се изнизва пред очите плавно и неусетно. Майсторът си е майстор, но самите случки и размисли, вплетени в изречението, не ме грабнаха чак толкова.
May 13, 2018
Prisencolinensinainciusol
Gli scrittori: ci sono i modernisti, i minimalisti, i realisti, i postmodernisti… e poi c’è Hrabal. Lui è uno scrittore a parte.
I libri di Hrabal: Una solitudine troppo rumorosa, Treni strettamente sorvegliati, Ho servito il re d’Inghilterra… e poi c’è Lezioni di ballo per anziani e progrediti, un libro a parte di uno scrittore a parte.
Uno stralunato monologo senza fiato e senza punti, un collage che mette insieme la trascrizione dei ricordi alcolici dello zio dell’autore (i Protocolli) con frammenti provenienti da un altro testo (I dolori del vecchio Werther) e altre storie ancora. Collage successivamente riveduto e corretto e dal quale sono state espunte diverse parti, tra le quali proprio quella che da il titolo al libro. Solo questo basterebbe a spiegare la bizzarria dell’opera.
Non un flusso di coscienza alla Joyce, come si potrebbe pensare, ma il tentativo di mettere su carta il parlato della gente comune, quel misto di banalità, opinioni, sbruffonerie e strafalcioni che costituiscono l’essenza della chiacchiera da bar o da strada. A questo proposito potremmo arrischiare un paragone, tanto ardito quanto irriverente, tra il lavoro di Michelangelo nello scolpire i Prigioni e quello di Hrabal nelle Lezioni di ballo: il primo procede per sottrazione, toglie marmo per liberare, per arrivare a realizzare la sua idea, lo scrittore ceco invece compie il percorso inverso procedendo per accumulazione, aggiungendo cioè personaggi e voci al coro fino a stordire il lettore.
La storia prende le mosse dal protagonista che va a sbirciare nel giardino di un vicino dove “certe belle sventolone” sono intente a prendere il sole in costume da bagno, sventolone alle grazie delle quali non sembra immune neppure il curato del posto. Episodio minimo, ma pretesto per stappare la bottiglia dei ricordi e dei pensieri che saltano fuori con l’effervescenza di una schiuma troppo a lungo costretta al chiuso. Il protagonista, si diceva, è un settantenne, ex-calzolaio, ex-maltatore, ex soldato “dell’esercito più bello del mondo”, un tipo tronfio e dall’ego strabordante, un “adoratore del rinascimento europeo” che racconta le sue gesta con l’intento di mostrare come sia risultato “il vincitore” in ognuna delle sue imprese.
L’Austria Felix è la sua Arcadia, il mondo perduto al confronto del quale il presente è un piano inclinato verso una decadenza irreversibile; il punto di vista è quello della gente comune, che sogna in grande ma poi guarda alle piccole cose. Nei tempi attuali “gli ideali prendono a vacillare”, dice il protagonista, ma il fatto è che si tratta di ideali quanto meno discutibili…
I passaggi della narrazione sono legati tra loro da fili logici sottilissimi: a volte per analogia, a volte per contrasto, altre per semplice associazione d’idee. Difficile orientarsi in mezzo a una trama del genere, tra episodi surreali (come quelli dell’uomo con la mano di ferro e del raddrizzatore di nasi) e citazioni da libri immaginari come quello dei sogni di Anna Novakovna e quello del signor Batista sull’igiene sessuale. L’autore non risparmia nessuno e anche Cristo, Edison, i poeti Bondy e Havlíček finiscono trasformati in personaggi ordinari, che bevono e si comportano proprio come tutti gli altri.
In questo libro Hrabal diverte e si diverte, al punto che al lettore disorientato e frustrato nella sua ricerca di sottotesti e chiavi interpretative più o meno nascoste, non resterà altro che alzare bandiera bianca. Non è questa, a mio avviso, la strada per avvicinarsi a Lezioni di ballo. Provate invece ad accomodarvi in poltrona, magari in compagnia di un bel boccale di birra, e lasciatevi affascinare dal flusso affabulatorio del grande scrittore, dalle storielle di sbronze, risse, pisciate e sventolone che agitano le pagine di questo libro e che spesso si concludono con morali improbabili. Vi assicuro che ne varrà la pena.
Gli scrittori: ci sono i modernisti, i minimalisti, i realisti, i postmodernisti… e poi c’è Hrabal. Lui è uno scrittore a parte.
I libri di Hrabal: Una solitudine troppo rumorosa, Treni strettamente sorvegliati, Ho servito il re d’Inghilterra… e poi c’è Lezioni di ballo per anziani e progrediti, un libro a parte di uno scrittore a parte.
Uno stralunato monologo senza fiato e senza punti, un collage che mette insieme la trascrizione dei ricordi alcolici dello zio dell’autore (i Protocolli) con frammenti provenienti da un altro testo (I dolori del vecchio Werther) e altre storie ancora. Collage successivamente riveduto e corretto e dal quale sono state espunte diverse parti, tra le quali proprio quella che da il titolo al libro. Solo questo basterebbe a spiegare la bizzarria dell’opera.
Non un flusso di coscienza alla Joyce, come si potrebbe pensare, ma il tentativo di mettere su carta il parlato della gente comune, quel misto di banalità, opinioni, sbruffonerie e strafalcioni che costituiscono l’essenza della chiacchiera da bar o da strada. A questo proposito potremmo arrischiare un paragone, tanto ardito quanto irriverente, tra il lavoro di Michelangelo nello scolpire i Prigioni e quello di Hrabal nelle Lezioni di ballo: il primo procede per sottrazione, toglie marmo per liberare, per arrivare a realizzare la sua idea, lo scrittore ceco invece compie il percorso inverso procedendo per accumulazione, aggiungendo cioè personaggi e voci al coro fino a stordire il lettore.
La storia prende le mosse dal protagonista che va a sbirciare nel giardino di un vicino dove “certe belle sventolone” sono intente a prendere il sole in costume da bagno, sventolone alle grazie delle quali non sembra immune neppure il curato del posto. Episodio minimo, ma pretesto per stappare la bottiglia dei ricordi e dei pensieri che saltano fuori con l’effervescenza di una schiuma troppo a lungo costretta al chiuso. Il protagonista, si diceva, è un settantenne, ex-calzolaio, ex-maltatore, ex soldato “dell’esercito più bello del mondo”, un tipo tronfio e dall’ego strabordante, un “adoratore del rinascimento europeo” che racconta le sue gesta con l’intento di mostrare come sia risultato “il vincitore” in ognuna delle sue imprese.
L’Austria Felix è la sua Arcadia, il mondo perduto al confronto del quale il presente è un piano inclinato verso una decadenza irreversibile; il punto di vista è quello della gente comune, che sogna in grande ma poi guarda alle piccole cose. Nei tempi attuali “gli ideali prendono a vacillare”, dice il protagonista, ma il fatto è che si tratta di ideali quanto meno discutibili…
I passaggi della narrazione sono legati tra loro da fili logici sottilissimi: a volte per analogia, a volte per contrasto, altre per semplice associazione d’idee. Difficile orientarsi in mezzo a una trama del genere, tra episodi surreali (come quelli dell’uomo con la mano di ferro e del raddrizzatore di nasi) e citazioni da libri immaginari come quello dei sogni di Anna Novakovna e quello del signor Batista sull’igiene sessuale. L’autore non risparmia nessuno e anche Cristo, Edison, i poeti Bondy e Havlíček finiscono trasformati in personaggi ordinari, che bevono e si comportano proprio come tutti gli altri.
In questo libro Hrabal diverte e si diverte, al punto che al lettore disorientato e frustrato nella sua ricerca di sottotesti e chiavi interpretative più o meno nascoste, non resterà altro che alzare bandiera bianca. Non è questa, a mio avviso, la strada per avvicinarsi a Lezioni di ballo. Provate invece ad accomodarvi in poltrona, magari in compagnia di un bel boccale di birra, e lasciatevi affascinare dal flusso affabulatorio del grande scrittore, dalle storielle di sbronze, risse, pisciate e sventolone che agitano le pagine di questo libro e che spesso si concludono con morali improbabili. Vi assicuro che ne varrà la pena.
November 29, 2011
Good-natured, a little randy, very much free-associative, a waltz of clauses strung together, periodless, though the idea that it's one sentence is a farce, unless "one sentence" is defined as tons of natural end-of-thought stopping/transition spots (deep breaths) marked by commas instead of periods, which, as in Saramago's stuff, particularly Blindness, effectively keeps eyes on pages, propels readers ahead, this sense of ceaselessly continuing created by a comma instead of a full stop, you see, I enjoyed this as much as the other Hrabal I've read -- Too Loud a Solitude -- expressing this enjoyment audibly with a few snorts and quiet little cackle-type noises, nothing too boisterous, while walking and reading this one, especially not while wearing khakis, I wouldn't have wanted to wet myself, the stain would be obvious, but if a number one while walking and reading and wearing khakis were unavoidable thanks to mirth, I would carry on heroically, walking and reading with this stain upon the sweet spot where my legs meet, smiling to young ladies all the while, confident, albeit surely semi-deranged in a harmless way, which is how this book proceeds, that is, with a good-natured narrator who likes the ladies, who the ladies like in return, who conceives of himself heroically despite nothing occurring that's too dramatic, who levens his levity with a storytelling instinct honed over a lifetime that knows to slip in brutalities, especially shamed folks hanging themselves with towels, mothers hacking away at their hanged daughters, the sort of things that people apparently liked to hear before they outsourced storytelling to radio and TV and Tarantino, this book is the sort of thing that reminds me a little of my grandpa once hydrocephalic dementia kicked in, the innocent confabulatory flow, fact and fiction intermixed, every instance of a lifetime in play, with emphasis added to stress enjoyment despite imminent end, the final full stop Hrabal's "sentence"-length novella purposefully fails to include, perhaps as a bit of palavering rebellion against the contrivance of ends in general, or the idea that death is an end at all
June 20, 2022
vallahi başım beynim şişti geveze anlatıcıdan. ki bu anlatıcı muhtemelen bohumil hrabal’ın hayatında çok etkili olan dayısı pepin’den esinlenilmiş.
düşünün ki meyhane gibi bit yerdesiniz, yaşlıcana bir adam lafa başlıyor ve 78 sayfa boyunca noktasız anlatıyor. üstelik palavracının teki :) ama siz gözünüzü kırpmadan bu adamı dinliyorsunuz çünkü dinlememek imkansız.
ordan oraya, konudan konuya, imparatorluktan komünizme savrulacaksınız, ölenler, kurtulanlar, kopan eller, seks, seks, seks maceraları… muazzam bit bilinçakışı.
ki tüm bunların arasında “hanımlar” hitabıyla anlatan bu adamın avusturya macaristan imparatorluğunda askerlik yaptığını, ayakkabıcı olduğunu, sonra bira fabrikasında çalıştığını, bu arada devrin değiştiğini komünizm geldiğini, beyimizin “cinsel perhiz” maceralarını, rüya yorumlarını anlayacaksınız.
yani bohumil hrabal tüm bu karmaşada aslında ustaca bir yıl izleyecek. bu gevezeliğin içinde saklananları, imparatorluğun acımasızlığını, sokol denilen oluşumun ve tabii komünizmin komik taraflarını, katolik kilisesinin (tüm dinler gibi) rezilliklerini öğreneceksiniz. tüm palavralarıyla seks ve savaş hikayeleri de cabası. sondaki tiyatro kazası hikayelerinde kahkahalarla güldüm.
bu arada elif gökteke’nin müthiş çevirisinden, bulduğu yerel ve detay sözcüklerden bahsetmeden olmaz.
hrabal müthiş bir atmosfer kurucu. her kitabında bunu yine anlıyorum.
düşünün ki meyhane gibi bit yerdesiniz, yaşlıcana bir adam lafa başlıyor ve 78 sayfa boyunca noktasız anlatıyor. üstelik palavracının teki :) ama siz gözünüzü kırpmadan bu adamı dinliyorsunuz çünkü dinlememek imkansız.
ordan oraya, konudan konuya, imparatorluktan komünizme savrulacaksınız, ölenler, kurtulanlar, kopan eller, seks, seks, seks maceraları… muazzam bit bilinçakışı.
ki tüm bunların arasında “hanımlar” hitabıyla anlatan bu adamın avusturya macaristan imparatorluğunda askerlik yaptığını, ayakkabıcı olduğunu, sonra bira fabrikasında çalıştığını, bu arada devrin değiştiğini komünizm geldiğini, beyimizin “cinsel perhiz” maceralarını, rüya yorumlarını anlayacaksınız.
yani bohumil hrabal tüm bu karmaşada aslında ustaca bir yıl izleyecek. bu gevezeliğin içinde saklananları, imparatorluğun acımasızlığını, sokol denilen oluşumun ve tabii komünizmin komik taraflarını, katolik kilisesinin (tüm dinler gibi) rezilliklerini öğreneceksiniz. tüm palavralarıyla seks ve savaş hikayeleri de cabası. sondaki tiyatro kazası hikayelerinde kahkahalarla güldüm.
bu arada elif gökteke’nin müthiş çevirisinden, bulduğu yerel ve detay sözcüklerden bahsetmeden olmaz.
hrabal müthiş bir atmosfer kurucu. her kitabında bunu yine anlıyorum.
July 6, 2020
Not his best work, but if you're a fan of Hrabal then it's worth a read.
June 12, 2014
Бавно я четох поради липса на време, но мъничките порцийки ми бяха достатъчни, защото предполагам при по-голям обем наведнъж би настъпило размиване, четене по инерция. Няма начин да се запомнят всички неща от книжката, но ако се бърза, съвсем биха се слели тези късчета зарибяваща лудост.
За първи път си помислих, че Храбал е малко „ку-ку“ – в най- положителния и нормалния смисъл! ;)
Поредица от „бълваници“ , но не знам защо ме кефят толкова. На места черен хумор, направо страхотии – и пак се хиля?! Много народ се избеси, изпозастреля… (е, по австрийско предимно ;) ) В по-крайните кървави моменти си спомних за „Сърца за изтръгване“ на Борис Виан – още един случай, в който не се сърдя на автора за кървищата и ужасиите - „имат си цел“. И тук много плесници, много ритници, много сексуални игрици…
Ако бяхме чехи, повечко щяхме да разбираме, има някои специфични техни неща/имена. Разбрах това, когато „срещнах“ единствените ми познати Сметана и Дворжак, за които зная повече. Други техни хора не са ми известни, но и не търсих повече информация (за някои има в бележките под линия).
За пореден път не знаех – на Храбал ли да се възхищавам повече, на преводача ли (не че това са две отделни неща). Както в „Обслужвал съм английския крал“ - отново удивление от умелия превод на Васил Самоковлиев. Точно както е казано в „Преведе от…“ : „За мен преводът е нещо много отговорно, едно голямо предизвикателство, защото трябва да опознаеш личността, да се вмъкнеш в кожата на автора и да го преведеш така, че да звучи на български, но в същото време и да запазиш неговия стил.“ (Елисавета Кузманова).
Разбира се за мен „Обслужвал съм английския крал“ е недостижима – мощна стрела, изстреляна към висините! Тръгва от долу и стига до…
За други книги съм писала: не мога да включа цитати, защото откъснати от контекста ще бъдат неясни. Тук няма какво да се откъсва (макар че пак може да са неясни) – върволица от отделни „наброски“, безспирно плямпане на най-неизчерпаемия и безцеремонен бърборко. Накрая едва ли не се изненадах. Как така млъкна? Не може да бъде! ;)
За преписването на откъси - малко трудно откривах отбелязаните от мен места. При разтваряне на книгата на съответните две страници трудно улавях желаната част - поради липсата на изречения (точки) всичко се слива, всичко се реди безспир…
Каквото и да се чете преди и след това, глътката храбалски въздух винаги е удовлетворяваща за ума, емоциите и сърцето. Дори и да няма изненади (еднакъв стил, сходни теми), пак си е мега кеф! Липсва ми и често си го отварям просто така - за откраднати моментчета качествен смях, ако ежедневието е било сивичко...
За първи път си помислих, че Храбал е малко „ку-ку“ – в най- положителния и нормалния смисъл! ;)
Поредица от „бълваници“ , но не знам защо ме кефят толкова. На места черен хумор, направо страхотии – и пак се хиля?! Много народ се избеси, изпозастреля… (е, по австрийско предимно ;) ) В по-крайните кървави моменти си спомних за „Сърца за изтръгване“ на Борис Виан – още един случай, в който не се сърдя на автора за кървищата и ужасиите - „имат си цел“. И тук много плесници, много ритници, много сексуални игрици…
Ако бяхме чехи, повечко щяхме да разбираме, има някои специфични техни неща/имена. Разбрах това, когато „срещнах“ единствените ми познати Сметана и Дворжак, за които зная повече. Други техни хора не са ми известни, но и не търсих повече информация (за някои има в бележките под линия).
За пореден път не знаех – на Храбал ли да се възхищавам повече, на преводача ли (не че това са две отделни неща). Както в „Обслужвал съм английския крал“ - отново удивление от умелия превод на Васил Самоковлиев. Точно както е казано в „Преведе от…“ : „За мен преводът е нещо много отговорно, едно голямо предизвикателство, защото трябва да опознаеш личността, да се вмъкнеш в кожата на автора и да го преведеш така, че да звучи на български, но в същото време и да запазиш неговия стил.“ (Елисавета Кузманова).
Разбира се за мен „Обслужвал съм английския крал“ е недостижима – мощна стрела, изстреляна към висините! Тръгва от долу и стига до…
За други книги съм писала: не мога да включа цитати, защото откъснати от контекста ще бъдат неясни. Тук няма какво да се откъсва (макар че пак може да са неясни) – върволица от отделни „наброски“, безспирно плямпане на най-неизчерпаемия и безцеремонен бърборко. Накрая едва ли не се изненадах. Как така млъкна? Не може да бъде! ;)
За преписването на откъси - малко трудно откривах отбелязаните от мен места. При разтваряне на книгата на съответните две страници трудно улавях желаната част - поради липсата на изречения (точки) всичко се слива, всичко се реди безспир…
Каквото и да се чете преди и след това, глътката храбалски въздух винаги е удовлетворяваща за ума, емоциите и сърцето. Дори и да няма изненади (еднакъв стил, сходни теми), пак си е мега кеф! Липсва ми и често си го отварям просто така - за откраднати моментчета качествен смях, ако ежедневието е било сивичко...
December 30, 2021
I have never liked stream of consciousness as a literary device. I’m sure like most things that seem simple it is deceptively difficult and I am a philistine for not appreciating the artfulness of it but I miss the clever plotting and structure that the great works have.
This is based on a man seeing a bevy of beauties sprawled out sunbathing and deciding to regale (or bore depending on your viewpoint) them with a potted history of his life paying particular attention to recounting his love life. Told in one sentence – probably to recreate the monotonous drone this 70-something’s ramblings are to the young women he has disturbed – there are episodes of drinking, sex and battle but I honestly cannot remember a single thing about any of it except the repeated phrase, ‘sexual hygiene’ which either he was informing his lovers about or hoping that they were already knowledgeable in.
Reminiscent of Steps, another book I didn’t get along with, without the memorable shock value.
This is based on a man seeing a bevy of beauties sprawled out sunbathing and deciding to regale (or bore depending on your viewpoint) them with a potted history of his life paying particular attention to recounting his love life. Told in one sentence – probably to recreate the monotonous drone this 70-something’s ramblings are to the young women he has disturbed – there are episodes of drinking, sex and battle but I honestly cannot remember a single thing about any of it except the repeated phrase, ‘sexual hygiene’ which either he was informing his lovers about or hoping that they were already knowledgeable in.
Reminiscent of Steps, another book I didn’t get along with, without the memorable shock value.
July 5, 2024
(المآسي تحكم العالم و الكُتاب دائما ما يكون لديهم شيء يكتبون عنه) وهنا وجدنا هرابال كتب لنا تسعون صفحة تقريبًا تجعلنا نتخيلها هل هي المآسي التي عاشها في حياته أو عاصرها، فكنا في حضرة صفحات قليلة تحمل حنين العديد من السنوات، فيها استذكار للماضي وذكريات التاريخ ودروس للواقع الذي نعيشه، كما سماها دروس رقص فحياتنا ما كانت إلا رقص.
ومن دروس الرقص التي يعلمنا اياها أولائك المسنون اللذين تعلموا الكثير من هذه الحياة من خلال حياتهم، وجدت بعض اللفتات والإشارة من دروس الرقص التي حكاها العجوز للفتيات:
- (فأنا لست من مرتادي الكنائس)- وكأن هنا نقد إلى الكنيسة، وإشارة إلى إيمان هرابال نفسه.
- الإشارة إلى العديد من أسماء الماركات التجارية العالمية كناية عن الاقتصاد والثورة الاقتصادية.
- (إذ يمكنك الحصول على أي شيء مقابل المال)- الرأسمالية
- (عليهم أن يبطئوا تكنولوجيتهم اللعينة)- نقد للتقدم التكنولوجي والصناعي.
- (الكنيسة تصرخ بنا لتطالبنا نحن التشيك أن نلجم عواطفنا)- نقد الكنيسة والسلطة الدينية
- (في عهد الملكية كان صنع الأحذية كيمياء أكثر منه حرفة، أما اليوم فكل الأحذية مجرد سيور ناقلة)- وهنا نتحير هل كان يبكي على أطلال العهد الملكي أم ينتقده.
- (الخبز فن أيضا بنفس قدر صنع الأحذية)- ففي الخبز غذاءنا وهو ضروي للحياة وكذلك الأحذية مهمة في حياتنا لنستطيع السير في هذه الحياة والرقص بها.
- (كان على الناس أيضًا البحث عن عمل، بينما اليوم العمل هو من يبحث عن الناس)- ومازال هذا العجوز ين��قد الكثير من الأمور التي عاصرها ويتحدث عن أمور اجتماعية من خلال حديثه الصاخب مع الفتيات الست.
دائمًا ما أجد في أعمال هرابال وكتاباته ذلك الصخب الذي صاحبني أثناء قراءتي لعمله الأول (عزلة صاخبة جدًا)، صخي يصرخ بداخل عقلنا، ما الذي يكتبه هذا، هل هو مونولوج نفسي معدي أن يجلعنا نحن لا نكتفي بما نقرأه بل تدور الأفكار وتتخبط بداخلنا.
وهل استوعبنا كل تلك الدروس التي قدمها؟، طبعًا لا، فلكل مستوى دروس خاصة فيه، لذلك قد تكون قراءتي للعمل مختلف عن شخص آخر.
ومن دروس الرقص التي يعلمنا اياها أولائك المسنون اللذين تعلموا الكثير من هذه الحياة من خلال حياتهم، وجدت بعض اللفتات والإشارة من دروس الرقص التي حكاها العجوز للفتيات:
- (فأنا لست من مرتادي الكنائس)- وكأن هنا نقد إلى الكنيسة، وإشارة إلى إيمان هرابال نفسه.
- الإشارة إلى العديد من أسماء الماركات التجارية العالمية كناية عن الاقتصاد والثورة الاقتصادية.
- (إذ يمكنك الحصول على أي شيء مقابل المال)- الرأسمالية
- (عليهم أن يبطئوا تكنولوجيتهم اللعينة)- نقد للتقدم التكنولوجي والصناعي.
- (الكنيسة تصرخ بنا لتطالبنا نحن التشيك أن نلجم عواطفنا)- نقد الكنيسة والسلطة الدينية
- (في عهد الملكية كان صنع الأحذية كيمياء أكثر منه حرفة، أما اليوم فكل الأحذية مجرد سيور ناقلة)- وهنا نتحير هل كان يبكي على أطلال العهد الملكي أم ينتقده.
- (الخبز فن أيضا بنفس قدر صنع الأحذية)- ففي الخبز غذاءنا وهو ضروي للحياة وكذلك الأحذية مهمة في حياتنا لنستطيع السير في هذه الحياة والرقص بها.
- (كان على الناس أيضًا البحث عن عمل، بينما اليوم العمل هو من يبحث عن الناس)- ومازال هذا العجوز ين��قد الكثير من الأمور التي عاصرها ويتحدث عن أمور اجتماعية من خلال حديثه الصاخب مع الفتيات الست.
دائمًا ما أجد في أعمال هرابال وكتاباته ذلك الصخب الذي صاحبني أثناء قراءتي لعمله الأول (عزلة صاخبة جدًا)، صخي يصرخ بداخل عقلنا، ما الذي يكتبه هذا، هل هو مونولوج نفسي معدي أن يجلعنا نحن لا نكتفي بما نقرأه بل تدور الأفكار وتتخبط بداخلنا.
وهل استوعبنا كل تلك الدروس التي قدمها؟، طبعًا لا، فلكل مستوى دروس خاصة فيه، لذلك قد تكون قراءتي للعمل مختلف عن شخص آخر.
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March 22, 2018Opomenuli su me za glasno smejanje u biblioteci :D
'To je bilo zbog toga što je tada svako hteo da izgleda kao kompozitor ili pesnik, danas je sve to naopačke, svaki pisac hoće da na fotografiji izgleda kao dripac'
'To je bilo zbog toga što je tada svako hteo da izgleda kao kompozitor ili pesnik, danas je sve to naopačke, svaki pisac hoće da na fotografiji izgleda kao dripac'
January 1, 2019
Хм...
November 23, 2022
El libro es una serie de vivencias, relatos y episodios que un señor le cuenta una tarde a una chica que va a asolearse cada dia. Y es eso, es como escuchar el monólogo de un señor que quiere contar cosas, hacer el tiempo largo, y si bien son muchisimos episodios los que el narrador nos dice, muchas oequeñas historias son buenísimas, brilla el humor, la sencillez y la historia, una época. Me parece muy bueno, algo distinto a una historia lineal.
July 3, 2024
ما رأيك ان تقرأ رواية تأخذك الى معهد الرقص حيث سيعلمك المدرب كيف ترقص بشرط ان تغير الشريك مع كل خطوة من الرقصة، وان تتعرف على شريكك خلال تلك الخطوة؟ وماذا لو اخبرتك ان معهد الرقص هو الحياة ومدرب الرقص هو عجوز و خطوات الرقص هي ذكرياته و شركاء الرقص هم معارفه عبر عمره.
في هذا الكتاب يعلمنا هرابال كيف نرقص وكيف نسرد قصة حياتنا، وكيف للاشخاص ان تؤثر على عقلنا و اختياراتنا وحياتنا. وكيف لوظيفتنا ان يكون لها دور كبير في بناء شخصياتنا. ٩١ صفحة من الروعة باسلوب الهلوسات من كبير في السن الذي يخبرك بسيرة حياته وهو يقفز من نقطة الى اخرى.
كتاب رائع وله متذوقيه، فهو ليس للكل ولكني اظن ان هرابال لا يريد ان تكون كتاباته للجميع، فقط للمستعدين للرقص.
في هذا الكتاب يعلمنا هرابال كيف نرقص وكيف نسرد قصة حياتنا، وكيف للاشخاص ان تؤثر على عقلنا و اختياراتنا وحياتنا. وكيف لوظيفتنا ان يكون لها دور كبير في بناء شخصياتنا. ٩١ صفحة من الروعة باسلوب الهلوسات من كبير في السن الذي يخبرك بسيرة حياته وهو يقفز من نقطة الى اخرى.
كتاب رائع وله متذوقيه، فهو ليس للكل ولكني اظن ان هرابال لا يريد ان تكون كتاباته للجميع، فقط للمستعدين للرقص.
June 18, 2022
Hazır Kundera biyografisi ile ağzım burnum Çekya olmuşken bari dedim Hrabal’dan devam edeyim. Bu kitabı çok uzun süredir merak etmekteydim ve Notos sonunda yayımlayınca pek mutlu olmuştum. Hrabal’ın okuduğum diğer eseri Gürültülü Yalnızlık kadar güçlü olmasa da ben çok sevdim bu küçük metni. 80 sayfalık tek bir cümleden oluşuyor kitap, sonu hariç hiç nokta yok içinde. Bu tür deneysel işler bazen saçma sapan sonuçlar veriyor ama burada öyle olmamış. Kitaptaki yaşlı anlatıcımız, 80 sayfa boyunca tek nefeste (ki bence bu kitap da tek oturuşta okunmalı) anlatıyor da anlatıyor. Ne anlatıyor peki? Açıkçası türlü palavralar. Ben birinin bu inanmışlık, bu neşe ve bu hüzünle palavra sıkmasını dinlemeye bayıldım şahsen. Bazı tarihi hikayeler, bazı yalanlar, bazı kısmi gerçekler, bazı kismi yalanlar, bazı uydurma sonuçlar, bazı abartılı sözler. Ama kimi zaman kahkahalar attıran tüm bu saçmalama selinin ardında edebiyat var, hem de bence pek lezzetli bir edebiyat. Siyaset, toplum, dönüşüm, hayat, felsefe var. Anlatıcımızın dediği gibi: “...çünkü iyi bir kitap okuru uyutmak için değil, okur yatağından fırlasın da kendini don atlet dışarı atıp yazarın suratını yumruklamaya gitsin diye yazılır.” Bu kitap tam da bu. Seni yumruklarımla kucaklıyorum Hrabal!
November 19, 2015
I'm always fascinated by experiments that just don't work, and here's one: yes, this novella is one unfinished sentence, supposedly. But Hrabal is too good a writer not to compose units of meeting within that sentence, so really it's a bunch of sentences with commas instead of full stops. That's not much of a criticism, because it's very well written (and/or very well translated).
Otherwise, there's not much to say. It's short, it's heartbreaking, it's hilarious, and, as other reviewers have noted, your enjoyment is entirely reliant on how engaging or interesting your find the monologist. I found him very interesting: so many of his little stories end in death, he's plainly a fool, but he's also very funny. Given the option of reading the last chapter of Ulysses, which apparently inspired this rant, and reading this book again, I'll take this every time.
Special bonus points for Adam Thirlwell's excellent introduction.
Otherwise, there's not much to say. It's short, it's heartbreaking, it's hilarious, and, as other reviewers have noted, your enjoyment is entirely reliant on how engaging or interesting your find the monologist. I found him very interesting: so many of his little stories end in death, he's plainly a fool, but he's also very funny. Given the option of reading the last chapter of Ulysses, which apparently inspired this rant, and reading this book again, I'll take this every time.
Special bonus points for Adam Thirlwell's excellent introduction.
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September 14, 2019I actually read this book last month and forgot to write a review of it, which is odd because it was thoroughly enjoyable. A sustained series of digressions from a drunken cad, delivered (one gathers) to a group of horrified bourgeois bathers. Amorous conquest, military misadventures, the end of the dual-monarchy, whats not to like? Lots and lots of fun, worth your time.
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July 2, 2024دروس في الرقص للمتقدمين في العمر. أو مذكرات العجوز فولتر
بوهاميل هرابال
2\7\2024
يحدث أن يجمعك مجلس مع شخص يمتلك قدرة على الحديث بشكل مطول دون توقف فتجده يدخل الحكاية في الحكاية دون أن يلتقط نفسه. فلا تملك إلا التسلح بصبر أيوب على أمل أن ينهي حديثة أو يتوقف. ثم تبدأ بالتململ من هذا الخبل المتواصل فتنظر اليه بعين زجاجية خالية من التعبير فيتوهم انك مصغٍ إليه بكل جوارحك. وفجأة يلقي بنكتة سمجة ترن في عقلك لأنه ادخل اسم او لفظة مثيرة ما، فتعيد النظر الى حديثة وتنتبه بأن ليس كل ما يقوله عبث وان هناك ما يستحق الاهتمام فيما يرميه من كلام.
بوهاميل هرابال أجلسنا أمام العجوز فولتر في حديث متطاول وسرد دون نقاط او فواصل. رجل عجنته الدنيا وخبزته يتصور ان من امامه حسناوات يستمعن الى حديثه بكل اهتمام لكنه غالبا قد يكون في بيت للعجزة او يعيش متشرداً على شاطئ ما. فلا نسمع إلا صوته ولا نرى إلا الصور التي يرسمها عن تجاربه وحياته. حديث ملغم بالرموز يتسم بالبذاءة أحياناً وبالنقد والهجاء غالباً مغلفة بقالب من السخرية قد تدفع القارئ الى القهقهة والضحك، مما يحفظ القارئ من الشعور بالملل أو الرغبة في حذف الكتاب بعيداً.
فحكايات السيد فولتر تتوالد من رحم بعضها البعض دون توقف. مقاطع من حياته، تذكر حوادث مرت ببلاده التشيك تحكي عن التغييرات السياسية والاجتماعية والاقتصادية، منتقداً فيها الظواهر التي نتجت عن كل هذه الأحداث والتغيرات. فحكاياته تتسم بالجرأة والعنف النقد اللاذع، قدم من خلالها وصفاً لمغامراته النسائية او ربما احلامه عنها فهو دائم الاستعانة بكتاب لتفسير الأحلام بنفس القدر الذي استشهد بحوادث الموت والانتحار.
كأن كل هذا الحديث لا يتعدى أحلام وهلوسات للسيد العجوز وكما قال عنها مصطفى ديب "ليست رواية بالمعنى الشائع لمفهوم الرواية. قد تكون نثرًا، أو قصصًا متفرقة، وربما هذرًا متواصلًا دون هدف أو غاية سوى الهذر نفسه."
السرد مزدحم بأسماء ومناطق وشخصيات لم اعرف معظمها وأتصور أن القراء المحليين يعرفونها وقد يتفهمون ما جاء في السرد من رموز اكثر من القراء البعيدين عن الشيك وتاريخها.
بوهاميل هرابال
2\7\2024
يحدث أن يجمعك مجلس مع شخص يمتلك قدرة على الحديث بشكل مطول دون توقف فتجده يدخل الحكاية في الحكاية دون أن يلتقط نفسه. فلا تملك إلا التسلح بصبر أيوب على أمل أن ينهي حديثة أو يتوقف. ثم تبدأ بالتململ من هذا الخبل المتواصل فتنظر اليه بعين زجاجية خالية من التعبير فيتوهم انك مصغٍ إليه بكل جوارحك. وفجأة يلقي بنكتة سمجة ترن في عقلك لأنه ادخل اسم او لفظة مثيرة ما، فتعيد النظر الى حديثة وتنتبه بأن ليس كل ما يقوله عبث وان هناك ما يستحق الاهتمام فيما يرميه من كلام.
بوهاميل هرابال أجلسنا أمام العجوز فولتر في حديث متطاول وسرد دون نقاط او فواصل. رجل عجنته الدنيا وخبزته يتصور ان من امامه حسناوات يستمعن الى حديثه بكل اهتمام لكنه غالبا قد يكون في بيت للعجزة او يعيش متشرداً على شاطئ ما. فلا نسمع إلا صوته ولا نرى إلا الصور التي يرسمها عن تجاربه وحياته. حديث ملغم بالرموز يتسم بالبذاءة أحياناً وبالنقد والهجاء غالباً مغلفة بقالب من السخرية قد تدفع القارئ الى القهقهة والضحك، مما يحفظ القارئ من الشعور بالملل أو الرغبة في حذف الكتاب بعيداً.
فحكايات السيد فولتر تتوالد من رحم بعضها البعض دون توقف. مقاطع من حياته، تذكر حوادث مرت ببلاده التشيك تحكي عن التغييرات السياسية والاجتماعية والاقتصادية، منتقداً فيها الظواهر التي نتجت عن كل هذه الأحداث والتغيرات. فحكاياته تتسم بالجرأة والعنف النقد اللاذع، قدم من خلالها وصفاً لمغامراته النسائية او ربما احلامه عنها فهو دائم الاستعانة بكتاب لتفسير الأحلام بنفس القدر الذي استشهد بحوادث الموت والانتحار.
كأن كل هذا الحديث لا يتعدى أحلام وهلوسات للسيد العجوز وكما قال عنها مصطفى ديب "ليست رواية بالمعنى الشائع لمفهوم الرواية. قد تكون نثرًا، أو قصصًا متفرقة، وربما هذرًا متواصلًا دون هدف أو غاية سوى الهذر نفسه."
السرد مزدحم بأسماء ومناطق وشخصيات لم اعرف معظمها وأتصور أن القراء المحليين يعرفونها وقد يتفهمون ما جاء في السرد من رموز اكثر من القراء البعيدين عن الشيك وتاريخها.
December 3, 2014
Publicado en http://lecturaylocura.com/clases-de-b...
“Clases de baile para mayores” de Bohumil Hrabal. Un insolente y divertido libertino
Bohumil Hrabal (1914-1997) es un escritor checo cuya obra se caracteriza “por una visión satírica de la realidad y la importancia que confiere a sus aspectos absurdos”. “Considerado uno de los más grandes autores del siglo XX en su lengua por su facilidad narrativa y el uso alternativo del humor y la tragedia en un mismo plano.” Nórdica nos trae ahora una de sus obras emblemáticas, “Clases de bailes para señoras” donde un anciano cuenta sus batallitas a una señorita con todo lujo de detalles.
Para entender su estilo y su forma de escribir me voy a basar en tres fuentes, en primer lugar la opinión del escritor británico Julian Barnes:
“Hrabal es un novelista muy sofisticado, con un gran gusto por el humor y una sutil ternura en los detalles.”
De esta frase hay tres datos importantes a tener en cuenta: sutileza en los detalles, gusto por el humor y lo sofisticado de su propuesta.
Como segunda fuente vamos a utilizar al propio autor que en la novela que me ocupa hoy dice lo siguiente en el prólogo:
“Pienso que las expresiones idiomáticas poco ortodoxas a las que he recurrido en la construcción de Clases de Baile para mayores son necesarias en la misma medida, en la prosa contemporánea se aprecia un deslizamiento en la selección en la figura del héroe. Creo que existe un continuo trasvase entre la lengua coloquial y las jergas, y que un nivel idiomático presupone la existencia del otro. Las jergas, más que la lengua coloquial, tienen un interés en el idioma académico, puesto que se basan en saltarse las reglas establecidas mediante la creatividad, buscando un efecto de sorpresa y singularidad, para cogerte desprevenido.[…]”
Su defensa a ultranza de la jerga idiomática como elemento desestabilizador del orden establecido le ayuda a desplazar la figura de un héroe atípico, como es en este caso el insolente, tierno, divertido anciano que nos cuenta las típicas batallas de los abuelos. La tercera fuente es mi propia experiencia observadora: Hrabal plantea una narración en primera persona que es un flujo continuo de pensamientos, de anécdotas y experiencias que se van sucediendo a lo largo de toda la narración; no utiliza el diálogo, pero se sabe que está narrándoselo a alguien.
A pesar de la apariencia poco amigable (no hay apenas puntos y apartes) la narración avanza con solidez y resulta bastante adictiva ya que Hrabal es capaz de aderezarla con todo tipo de detalles que la enriquecen, tal es el caso de su descripción de lugares en los que nuestro querido anciano ha estado; en ese momento es cuando acentúa el uso de los adjetivos para exaltar el colorido de lugares tan exóticos como Hungría:
“[…] y me fui a hacer mundo, a Hungría ¡qué delicia!… en Sopron había una hermosa fábrica de cerveza, un edificio rojo y blanco con ventanas verdes como las tirolesas, y todo estaba alicatado, junto a cada una de las ventanas había una escalera de hierro para que los bomberos, en caso de incendio, pudieran subir y bajar con facilidad, como los monos aquellos de Dresde… y Budapest, ¡qué maravilla de ciudad!, una calle blanca con ventanas rojas y otra toda verde con ventanas amarillas; las había azules, doradas y con pintas; incluso durante la guerra se hacía un pan tan blanco como si fueran bollos…[…]”
Todo esto salpicado de momentos metaliterarios donde reflexiona sobre el verdadero fin de la poesía en particular; el símil, desde luego, ayuda a entenderlo además de sacarnos una sonrisa:
“[…] por ello el poeta Bondy me decía que la verdadera poesía debe ser dolorosa, como si uno olvidara la cuchilla de afeitar en un pañuelo y, al sonarse, la nariz se cortara con ella, que un buen libro no es el que sirve al lector para mejor conciliar el sueño, sino que, por el contrario, debe sacarle de la cama para que corra, tal como está, en calzoncillos, a propinarle unos coscorrones al señor escritor…[…]”
En este vendaval de grandilocuencia, no duda en atribuirse las palabras de su teniente Hovorka a la hora de conquistar a una mujer, esa sutileza en los detalles de la que hablaba anteriormente:
“[…]¡Chicos!, decía el teniente Hovorka, “a una mujer así hay que tratarla con suavidad, como si uno estuviera afilando un lápiz: eso con las mujeres es más eficaz que sacarles la bayoneta; […]”
Y hace gala continuamente del humor, hasta cuando le llegaron a incluir en el parte de bajas, ¡estando él presente!
“[…] y me sucedió a mí que un día, al pasar revista, leyendo el parte de bajas, me señalaron entre los caídos: todo coincidía, incluso la fecha de nacimiento, conque dije en voz alta: “¡Pero si yo estoy vivo!”, a lo que me cayeron dos semanas de arresto por hablar durante el pase de revista; […]”
Es en el epílogo donde adivinamos por fin a quién está narrando sus peripecias; es entonces cuando el gran escritor checo hace gala de una mayor profusión lírica; en efecto, su escena final es de un gusto ciertamente conmovedor, un colofón extraordinario a esta pequeña sorpresa literaria.
[…] y empezó a lavarse, y el anciano, que se había pasado toda la tarde contándole historias, en ese instante quedó como fulminado, su rodilla doblada, presa de unas manos anudadas, mirando más allá de ella, hierático, arrebatado, tierno, mientras ella le hacía ese regalo que solamente una mujer puede hacer a un hombre, lavándose, a la caída del día, para unos ojos emocionados…”
Los textos provienen de la traducción del checo de Jitka Mlejnková y Alberto Ortiz de “Clases de baile para mayores” de Bohumil Hrabal para la editorial Nórdica.
“Clases de baile para mayores” de Bohumil Hrabal. Un insolente y divertido libertino
Bohumil Hrabal (1914-1997) es un escritor checo cuya obra se caracteriza “por una visión satírica de la realidad y la importancia que confiere a sus aspectos absurdos”. “Considerado uno de los más grandes autores del siglo XX en su lengua por su facilidad narrativa y el uso alternativo del humor y la tragedia en un mismo plano.” Nórdica nos trae ahora una de sus obras emblemáticas, “Clases de bailes para señoras” donde un anciano cuenta sus batallitas a una señorita con todo lujo de detalles.
Para entender su estilo y su forma de escribir me voy a basar en tres fuentes, en primer lugar la opinión del escritor británico Julian Barnes:
“Hrabal es un novelista muy sofisticado, con un gran gusto por el humor y una sutil ternura en los detalles.”
De esta frase hay tres datos importantes a tener en cuenta: sutileza en los detalles, gusto por el humor y lo sofisticado de su propuesta.
Como segunda fuente vamos a utilizar al propio autor que en la novela que me ocupa hoy dice lo siguiente en el prólogo:
“Pienso que las expresiones idiomáticas poco ortodoxas a las que he recurrido en la construcción de Clases de Baile para mayores son necesarias en la misma medida, en la prosa contemporánea se aprecia un deslizamiento en la selección en la figura del héroe. Creo que existe un continuo trasvase entre la lengua coloquial y las jergas, y que un nivel idiomático presupone la existencia del otro. Las jergas, más que la lengua coloquial, tienen un interés en el idioma académico, puesto que se basan en saltarse las reglas establecidas mediante la creatividad, buscando un efecto de sorpresa y singularidad, para cogerte desprevenido.[…]”
Su defensa a ultranza de la jerga idiomática como elemento desestabilizador del orden establecido le ayuda a desplazar la figura de un héroe atípico, como es en este caso el insolente, tierno, divertido anciano que nos cuenta las típicas batallas de los abuelos. La tercera fuente es mi propia experiencia observadora: Hrabal plantea una narración en primera persona que es un flujo continuo de pensamientos, de anécdotas y experiencias que se van sucediendo a lo largo de toda la narración; no utiliza el diálogo, pero se sabe que está narrándoselo a alguien.
A pesar de la apariencia poco amigable (no hay apenas puntos y apartes) la narración avanza con solidez y resulta bastante adictiva ya que Hrabal es capaz de aderezarla con todo tipo de detalles que la enriquecen, tal es el caso de su descripción de lugares en los que nuestro querido anciano ha estado; en ese momento es cuando acentúa el uso de los adjetivos para exaltar el colorido de lugares tan exóticos como Hungría:
“[…] y me fui a hacer mundo, a Hungría ¡qué delicia!… en Sopron había una hermosa fábrica de cerveza, un edificio rojo y blanco con ventanas verdes como las tirolesas, y todo estaba alicatado, junto a cada una de las ventanas había una escalera de hierro para que los bomberos, en caso de incendio, pudieran subir y bajar con facilidad, como los monos aquellos de Dresde… y Budapest, ¡qué maravilla de ciudad!, una calle blanca con ventanas rojas y otra toda verde con ventanas amarillas; las había azules, doradas y con pintas; incluso durante la guerra se hacía un pan tan blanco como si fueran bollos…[…]”
Todo esto salpicado de momentos metaliterarios donde reflexiona sobre el verdadero fin de la poesía en particular; el símil, desde luego, ayuda a entenderlo además de sacarnos una sonrisa:
“[…] por ello el poeta Bondy me decía que la verdadera poesía debe ser dolorosa, como si uno olvidara la cuchilla de afeitar en un pañuelo y, al sonarse, la nariz se cortara con ella, que un buen libro no es el que sirve al lector para mejor conciliar el sueño, sino que, por el contrario, debe sacarle de la cama para que corra, tal como está, en calzoncillos, a propinarle unos coscorrones al señor escritor…[…]”
En este vendaval de grandilocuencia, no duda en atribuirse las palabras de su teniente Hovorka a la hora de conquistar a una mujer, esa sutileza en los detalles de la que hablaba anteriormente:
“[…]¡Chicos!, decía el teniente Hovorka, “a una mujer así hay que tratarla con suavidad, como si uno estuviera afilando un lápiz: eso con las mujeres es más eficaz que sacarles la bayoneta; […]”
Y hace gala continuamente del humor, hasta cuando le llegaron a incluir en el parte de bajas, ¡estando él presente!
“[…] y me sucedió a mí que un día, al pasar revista, leyendo el parte de bajas, me señalaron entre los caídos: todo coincidía, incluso la fecha de nacimiento, conque dije en voz alta: “¡Pero si yo estoy vivo!”, a lo que me cayeron dos semanas de arresto por hablar durante el pase de revista; […]”
Es en el epílogo donde adivinamos por fin a quién está narrando sus peripecias; es entonces cuando el gran escritor checo hace gala de una mayor profusión lírica; en efecto, su escena final es de un gusto ciertamente conmovedor, un colofón extraordinario a esta pequeña sorpresa literaria.
[…] y empezó a lavarse, y el anciano, que se había pasado toda la tarde contándole historias, en ese instante quedó como fulminado, su rodilla doblada, presa de unas manos anudadas, mirando más allá de ella, hierático, arrebatado, tierno, mientras ella le hacía ese regalo que solamente una mujer puede hacer a un hombre, lavándose, a la caída del día, para unos ojos emocionados…”
Los textos provienen de la traducción del checo de Jitka Mlejnková y Alberto Ortiz de “Clases de baile para mayores” de Bohumil Hrabal para la editorial Nórdica.
September 21, 2009
this may not be for everyone, its sort of like that old man at the country store, who starts to tell a story, and 3 hours later, he's STILL telling it, with asides, genealogies, history lessons, lies, partial lies, whole truths, and maybe even a conclusion. its funny, some of the reviewers on goodreads say its like talking to a drunk person, but i assure, its just old age. hahaha
September 6, 2018
The whole book is one sentence. And even then it doesn't end with a period.
March 7, 2014
I've been re-reading a lot of Raymond Chandler; in love with noir once again; confirming my younger self's high estimation of his books.
But after three Chandlers in a row, I needed a break. So I turned to Hrabal, one of my favorite authors. I know his books are as fast as Chandler and as smart. So I picked up one I've never read.
This book.
And it IS fast and it IS smart.
But it is reliant on you, the reader, loving the blabber-mouthed, self-important, facetious raconteur who is talking, non-stop, AT you. And this is a book about talking, not about reading. There are no periods. This guy just won't shut up and damn, does he go on about his romantic exploits, and the way he's always perceived as a "hero." And this and that and on and on.
If you find him lovable, this book is incredible. If you find him insufferable, you'll quickly be throwing this book across the room. And if you find him, like I did, both lovable and insufferable, you'll vacillate, like I did, between laughing and quickly reading to see what this brilliant liar will say next, and slapping the book shut just so the insecure windbag will shut the fuck up.
But after three Chandlers in a row, I needed a break. So I turned to Hrabal, one of my favorite authors. I know his books are as fast as Chandler and as smart. So I picked up one I've never read.
This book.
And it IS fast and it IS smart.
But it is reliant on you, the reader, loving the blabber-mouthed, self-important, facetious raconteur who is talking, non-stop, AT you. And this is a book about talking, not about reading. There are no periods. This guy just won't shut up and damn, does he go on about his romantic exploits, and the way he's always perceived as a "hero." And this and that and on and on.
If you find him lovable, this book is incredible. If you find him insufferable, you'll quickly be throwing this book across the room. And if you find him, like I did, both lovable and insufferable, you'll vacillate, like I did, between laughing and quickly reading to see what this brilliant liar will say next, and slapping the book shut just so the insecure windbag will shut the fuck up.
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