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The Passport
From the winner of the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature
“[The Passport] has the same clipped prose cadences as Nadirs, this time applied to evoke the trapped mentality of a man so desperate for freedom that he views everything through a temporal lens, like a prisoner staring at a calendar in his cell.”—Wall Street Journal
“A swift, stinging narrative, fable-like in its stoic concision and painterly detail.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer
The Passport is a beautiful, haunting novel whose subject is a German village in Romania caught between the stifling hopelessness of Ceausescu’s dictatorship and the glittering temptations of life in the West. Stories from the past are woven together with the problems Windisch, the village miller, faces after he applies for permission to migrate to West Germany. Herta Müller (Herta Mueller) describes with poetic attention the dreams and superstitions, conflicts and oppression of a forgotten region, the Banat, in the Danube Plain. In sparse, poetic language, Muller captures the forlorn plight of a trapped people.
“[The Passport] has the same clipped prose cadences as Nadirs, this time applied to evoke the trapped mentality of a man so desperate for freedom that he views everything through a temporal lens, like a prisoner staring at a calendar in his cell.”—Wall Street Journal
“A swift, stinging narrative, fable-like in its stoic concision and painterly detail.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer
The Passport is a beautiful, haunting novel whose subject is a German village in Romania caught between the stifling hopelessness of Ceausescu’s dictatorship and the glittering temptations of life in the West. Stories from the past are woven together with the problems Windisch, the village miller, faces after he applies for permission to migrate to West Germany. Herta Müller (Herta Mueller) describes with poetic attention the dreams and superstitions, conflicts and oppression of a forgotten region, the Banat, in the Danube Plain. In sparse, poetic language, Muller captures the forlorn plight of a trapped people.
93 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1986
About the author
Herta Müller
87 books1,113 followersHerta Müller was born in Niţchidorf, Timiş County, Romania, the daughter of Swabian farmers. Her family was part of Romania's German minority and her mother was deported to a labour camp in the Soviet Union after World War II.
She read German studies and Romanian literature at Timişoara University. In 1976, Müller began working as a translator for an engineering company, but in 1979 was dismissed for her refusal to cooperate with the Securitate, the Communist regime's secret police. Initially, she made a living by teaching kindergarten and giving private German lessons.
Her first book was published in Romania (in German) in 1982, and appeared only in a censored version, as with most publications of the time.
In 1987, Müller left for Germany with her husband, novelist Richard Wagner. Over the following years she received many lectureships at universities in Germany and abroad.
In 1995 Müller was awarded membership to the German Academy for Writing and Poetry, and other positions followed. In 1997 she withdrew from the PEN centre of Germany in protest of its merge with the former German Democratic Republic branch.
The Swedish Academy awarded the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature to Müller, "who, with the concentration of poetry and the frankness of prose, depicts the landscape of the dispossessed".
She currently resides in Berlin, Germany.
She read German studies and Romanian literature at Timişoara University. In 1976, Müller began working as a translator for an engineering company, but in 1979 was dismissed for her refusal to cooperate with the Securitate, the Communist regime's secret police. Initially, she made a living by teaching kindergarten and giving private German lessons.
Her first book was published in Romania (in German) in 1982, and appeared only in a censored version, as with most publications of the time.
In 1987, Müller left for Germany with her husband, novelist Richard Wagner. Over the following years she received many lectureships at universities in Germany and abroad.
In 1995 Müller was awarded membership to the German Academy for Writing and Poetry, and other positions followed. In 1997 she withdrew from the PEN centre of Germany in protest of its merge with the former German Democratic Republic branch.
The Swedish Academy awarded the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature to Müller, "who, with the concentration of poetry and the frankness of prose, depicts the landscape of the dispossessed".
She currently resides in Berlin, Germany.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 434 reviews
December 15, 2021
Hay libros que te agarran desde la primera frase, que te atrapan con su ritmo, que te envuelven con su estilo o te enredan con su trama. Hay otros que, como decía Iris Murdoch, son como abrir la puerta a un paisaje neblinoso en el que en un principio se ve poco, pero en el que se huele la tierra y se siente el soplo del viento. El de Herta Müller es de estos últimos.
“En el agua de lluvia también había viento. Un viento que impulsaba campanas de cristal por entre los árboles. Eran campanas opacas, en cuyo interior se agitaban remolinos de hojas. La lluvia cantaba. También había arena en la voz de la lluvia. Y cortezas de árbol.”La narración se desarrolla con una interesante mezcla de registros. Siendo una novela, muchos de sus capítulos son auténticos relatos que no precisan del resto para ser entendidos y disfrutados. En otro sentido, las frases son tan básicas, tan rotundas, es tal la intensidad de cada párrafo que el libro puede leerse como una sucesión de poemas, a cuál más duro y terrible, que deben abordarse con la atención propia del que sabe que cada palabra cuenta. Y sin embargo el libro es una novela, la narración de una historia cruel que sucede en un pueblucho rumano envuelto en la sórdida atmósfera de una dictadura podrida de corrupción, superstición, fanatismo religioso, nacionalismo y xenofobia. En un mundo tan gris y opresor no se puede ser débil y, sobre todo, no se puede ser mujer y salir indemne. La mujer se encuentra absolutamente sometida al hombre, una propiedad que puede mancillar el honor de una familia pero que también puede usarse sexualmente como moneda de cambio para obtener prebendas o, como en este caso, los visados que permitan a la familia de Windish salir del país que es su gran anhelo y necesidad.
“La mujer de Windisch volvió la cara a la pared y rompió a llorar ruidosamente. Lloró largo rato con la voz de sus años mozos. Lloró breve y suavemente con la voz de su edad. Gimió tres veces con la voz de otra mujer. Luego enmudeció.”Dos pájaros son repetidamente nombrados en el texto, dos pájaros de un claro valor simbólico. El faisán, un pájaro inofensivo, torpe, incapaz de volar y, por lo tanto, presa fácil para los cazadores. El otro es la lechuza, siempre asociada a los malos augurios, pero también relacionada con la cobardía, la indolencia y la astucia. En este ambiente primitivo, donde las tradiciones agarrotan e inmovilizan, donde los curas someten y humillan tanto como las autoridades, no hay mucho donde escoger si es que en alguna circunstancia se nos permite realmente escoger. Müller retrata a todos, faisanes, cazadores, lechuzas, sin lástima ni sensiblería, sabiendo que el ser humano contiene a los tres y que, aunque no haga falta un contexto determinado para que salgan a la luz, un estado de opresión como el que se vivía en la Rumanía de Ceaucescu es el mejor catalizador posible.
April 23, 2021
فصول قصيرة تعرض لقطات من حياة عائلة صغيرة في قرية رومانية
مشاهد منفصلة تُصور رتابة الحياة وتقييد الحرية فترة حكم شاوشيسكو
قصة بسيطة لكن الغريب هو أسلوب هيرتا موللر في الكتابة
تكتب موللر جُمل قصيرة فيها الكثير من دقة التفاصيل, والوصف بتعبيرات غير مألوفة
مشاهد منفصلة تُصور رتابة الحياة وتقييد الحرية فترة حكم شاوشيسكو
قصة بسيطة لكن الغريب هو أسلوب هيرتا موللر في الكتابة
تكتب موللر جُمل قصيرة فيها الكثير من دقة التفاصيل, والوصف بتعبيرات غير مألوفة
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November 29, 2020A short little book, made up of short little sentences, which gather in tiny chapters. I found the effect mesmerising. Glancing at other reviews, opinions are divided.
The English translation of the title as The Passport gives the game away. A German family in Romania in the Ceaucescu era - the internet says the 80s, my ability to read the evidence from the material culture mentioned in the novel is not so sharp, since the lead character was in the USSR during WWII, the 80s seems a little late to me, anyway that's the context, the story is they have applied for passports to get out and resettle in West Germany, perhaps it is better to say that this process is uncertain due to the context, and one has to sacrifice a lot to get the object of desire. This contrasted with the mother struggling to survive in the USSR after WWII, trading her clothes for food as she struggles to survive the snows and hunger, then she trades herself, but eventually survives. The novel is built up out of such stories which mirror each other building into a mosaic. We see the daughter of the family teaching in a kindergarten. The microcosm is a miniaturisation of the macrocosm. Romania is an assembly of households, as the father and mother are to the household so are the Ceaucesus to the nation. Given what the family go through and their sacrifices this is quite an indictment of the society.
The title comes from early in the book when the main character - a miller - is having a conversation with the nightwatchman which consists chiefly of proverbs. It is a book easy to imagine as a film of the late 1980s, shot in black and white, with no musical sound track, just odd images and natural sounds which have an unsettling effect. The villagers are concerned. The old owl has died and has been replaced by a younger one - as you know an owl will settle on the roof of a person who is about to die, but because the owl is new to the village and doesn't know anybody, it will settle on the wrong roofs and cause the premature deaths of young people - owl conservancy, you see, is a complex business.
We are told that before the war, the villagers prepared for the King to pass through their station. The brass band is ready, a girl has a poem to declaim. The train draws into the station, a flunky tells them that the King sleeps. The train departs.
West Germany is no new Eden either, the miller reads letters from a man who has already emigrated and lives in Munich - his wife, he writes, has to slaughter the chicken for the landlady, and in Munich they don't keep the blood and the giblets are just thrown away! The worst of 'our' women are better than the best of 'their' women. In Bavaria the wife has a 'good' job in a care home, by implication the letter writer does not. Leaving, I suppose does not guarantee arrival. As Ceaucesu is to the nation so must be the father to the household.
Symbol after symbol. The war memorial overgrown with roses. So overgrown that the life is even choked out of the grass. The carpenter expects daily the death of his mother. In readiness, the coffin lid rests against the oven. The church is locked while the Priest exercises non-celibacy on any woman who comes within reach. The reader feels death in the air, thick on the pages. Of individuals of a community, of a country?
The English translation of the title as The Passport gives the game away. A German family in Romania in the Ceaucescu era - the internet says the 80s, my ability to read the evidence from the material culture mentioned in the novel is not so sharp, since the lead character was in the USSR during WWII, the 80s seems a little late to me, anyway that's the context, the story is they have applied for passports to get out and resettle in West Germany, perhaps it is better to say that this process is uncertain due to the context, and one has to sacrifice a lot to get the object of desire. This contrasted with the mother struggling to survive in the USSR after WWII, trading her clothes for food as she struggles to survive the snows and hunger, then she trades herself, but eventually survives. The novel is built up out of such stories which mirror each other building into a mosaic. We see the daughter of the family teaching in a kindergarten. The microcosm is a miniaturisation of the macrocosm. Romania is an assembly of households, as the father and mother are to the household so are the Ceaucesus to the nation. Given what the family go through and their sacrifices this is quite an indictment of the society.
The title comes from early in the book when the main character - a miller - is having a conversation with the nightwatchman which consists chiefly of proverbs. It is a book easy to imagine as a film of the late 1980s, shot in black and white, with no musical sound track, just odd images and natural sounds which have an unsettling effect. The villagers are concerned. The old owl has died and has been replaced by a younger one - as you know an owl will settle on the roof of a person who is about to die, but because the owl is new to the village and doesn't know anybody, it will settle on the wrong roofs and cause the premature deaths of young people - owl conservancy, you see, is a complex business.
We are told that before the war, the villagers prepared for the King to pass through their station. The brass band is ready, a girl has a poem to declaim. The train draws into the station, a flunky tells them that the King sleeps. The train departs.
West Germany is no new Eden either, the miller reads letters from a man who has already emigrated and lives in Munich - his wife, he writes, has to slaughter the chicken for the landlady, and in Munich they don't keep the blood and the giblets are just thrown away! The worst of 'our' women are better than the best of 'their' women. In Bavaria the wife has a 'good' job in a care home, by implication the letter writer does not. Leaving, I suppose does not guarantee arrival. As Ceaucesu is to the nation so must be the father to the household.
Symbol after symbol. The war memorial overgrown with roses. So overgrown that the life is even choked out of the grass. The carpenter expects daily the death of his mother. In readiness, the coffin lid rests against the oven. The church is locked while the Priest exercises non-celibacy on any woman who comes within reach. The reader feels death in the air, thick on the pages. Of individuals of a community, of a country?
June 22, 2024
Like Müller's The Land of Green Plums, this was not a pleasant reading experience. It's bleak and soiled and like a bowl of rotting fruit. Well, writing about the desolation and suffering under one of the worst ever Communist regimes it was never going to have the feel of a nice sunny day.
Told in short sentences of sparse and simple prose, in which she marinades the meat of her narrative with rich symbolism and dreamlike imagery, Müller looks at life in a desolate village under Ceausescu's rule. In particular the miller Windisch, who, as a German, wants out, but needs a passport. Not helped, seeing as the Romanians don't really like the Germans; although they are happy to see them go. Not helped, when it seems everyone is suspicious of each other; even their own children. Could that one hope though come in the form of Windisch's pretty daughter and nursery-school teacher, Amelie, who was like a diamond in a sea of broken glass.
For those who would a seek a novel that is void of any warmth and tenderness, and where death and decay is constantly crawling up the walls, then you're in the right place here. Müller evokes a joyless existence that is no doubt depressing, but at the same time is startlingly poetic when it comes to the dour lunacy of Ceausescu's Romania.
I always wondered just what the hell it was that caught the attention of the Nobel committee in regards to Müller. Having now read more of her work - this being novel number four, I can see why she bagged the prize.
May 8, 2019
بین سه و چهار مردد بودم. سرزمین گوجه های سبز خیلی بالاتر از این اثرش بود.
ریویوی آوا حسین زاده نکات جالبی داشت. حتما بخونید.
ریویوی آوا حسین زاده نکات جالبی داشت. حتما بخونید.
December 24, 2019
Der Mensch Ist Ein Grosser Fasan Auf Der Welt = The Passport, Herta Müller
The Passport is a novel by Nobel Prize-winning author Herta Müller, published in German in 1986. The German title (literally, "Man is a great pheasant in the world") refers to a saying in Romania. The novel, one of several for which the author was known when winning the Nobel in 2009, tells the story of a village miller in a German-speaking village in the Banat in Romania, who applies for permission to emigrate to West Germany.
عنوانهای فارسی کتاب: گذرنامه؛ قرقاول بزرگی ست آدمی در جهان؛ نویسنده هرتا مولر؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش روز بیست و چهارم ماه دسامبر سال 2012میلادی
عنوان نخست: گذرنامه؛ نویسنده: هرتا مولر؛ مترجم: مهرداد وثوقی؛ تهران، مروارید، 1390؛ در 116 ص؛ شابک 9789641911371؛ موضوع داستانهای نویسندگان رومانیایی به زبان آلمانی - سده 20م
عنوان دوم: قرقاول بزرگی ست آدمی در جهان؛ نویسنده: هرتا ��ولر؛ مترجم: ناصر غیاثی؛ تهران، فرهنگ نشر نو، آسیم، 1397؛ در 112 ص؛ شابک 9786004900782؛
هرتا مولر، در سال 2009 میلادی، موفق به دریافت جایزه ی نوبل ادبیات شدند، و دوازدهمین زنی بودند، که معتبرترین جایزه ی ادبیات جهان را به نام خود ثبت کردند. کمیته ی نوبل ادبیات، علت اهدای جایزه را به ایشان، اینگونه شرح داد: «کسی که با تمرکز بر شعر و صداقت در نثر، دورنمای زندگی محرومان را، به تصویر کشیده است». «مولر»، که نویسنده، و شاعری رومانیایی الاصل آلمانی است، در روز هفدهم ماه اوت سال 1953 میلادی، در خانواده ای کشاورز، در روستای آلمانی زبان «نیچیدورف»، واقع در غرب «رومانی»، به این دنیا آمدند. خانواده اش، از اقلیتهای آلمانی تبار، قلمداد میشدند. پس از پایان جنگ جهانی دوم، در سال 1945 میلادی، نیروهای نظامی شوروی، مادرش را که هفده سال داشت، به همراه صد هزار نفر دیگر، به مدت پنج سال، به اردوگاه کار اجباری تبعید کردند؛ ارثیه ی خانوادگیشان را، که از پدربزرگش به آنها رسیده بود، به نفع حکومت کمونیستها، مصادره کردند؛ و پدرش که در دوران جنگ، عضو گروه اس.اس. وافن بود، راننده ی کامیون کمونیستها شد. نخستین کتابشان را، با نام «حضیض» که مجموعه ای از داستانهای کوتاه بود، در سال 1982 میلادی نوشتند، و با سانسور، در «بخارست رومانی» به چاپ رساندند. در سال 1987 میلادی، دو سال پیش از فروپاشی دیوار «برلین»، به همراه همسرش، «ریچارد واگنر»، به «آلمان» مهاجرت کردند، و در سال 1997 میلادی، به عضویت آکادمی زبان آلمانی درآمدند. نقل نمونه متن: «سفیدی از شرق تا غرب؛ میان شکاف پلک نمایان است. اما سیاهی اینچنین نیست. اینگبورگ باخمن، شاعر اتریشی»؛ چاله: اطراف بنای یادبود قربانیان جنگ پوشیده از رُز است. رزها بیشه ای تشکیل داده اند؛ آنقدر انبوه که اجازه ی تنفس را از چمن گرفته اند؛ گلهای سفیدی دارند و چون کاغذ به هم پیچیده اند؛ صدای برگ خشک میدهند. سپیده دمیده؛ روز به زودی آغاز میشود. ویندیش، هر روز صبح که با دوچرخه جاده ی منتهی به آسیاب را طی میکند، روز را میشمارد. جلوی بنای یادبود قربانیان جنگ که میرسد، سالها را میشمارد. در کنار اولین درخت تبریزی بعد از آن، همانجایی که طبق معمول توی چاله ای میافتد، روزها را حساب میکند. دمدمای غروب نیز، وقتی آسیاب را تعطیل میکند، بار دیگر سالها و روزها را میشمارد. رزهای سفید کوچک، بنای یادبود قربانیان جنگ و درخت تبریزی آن سویش را می��یند. وقتی هم که هوا مه آلود است، سفیدی رزها و سفیدی سنگ، موقع رکاب زدن، از پیش رویش میگذرند. ویندیش همچنان رکاب میزند. صورت ویندیش مرطوب شده، و آنقدر رکاب میزند تا به آنجا برسد. دو بار، حجاب خارهای ��یشه ی رز کنار رفت و علفهای زیرش زرد شدند. دو بار، درخت تبریزی آنقدر عریان شد که تنه اش نزدیک بود شکاف بردارد. دوبار، برف جاده ها را پوشاند. ویندیش دو سال را در کنار بنای یادبود قر��انیان جنگ میشمارد و دویست و بیست و یک روز را در چاله ی کنار درخت تبریزی. هر روز، وقتی ویندیش در چاله میافتد، با خود میگوید: «پایان اینجاست.» چون ویندیش تصمیم به مهاجرت گرفته، پایان را در هر جایی از دهکده میبیند. زمان، برای کسانیکه میخواهند بمانند، حرکت نمیکند. ویندیش شبگرد را میبیند که در آنسوی پایان ایستاده است. ویندیش پس از آنکه دویست و بیست و یک روز را م شمارد و درون چاله میافتد، برای اولین بار پیاده میشود. دوچرخه را کنار درخت تبریزی میگذارد. صدای گامهایش بلند است. کبوتران وحشی از توی حیاط کلیسا بال میزنند و پرواز میکنند. رنگشان، مثل روشنی این این وقت روز، خاکستری است. فقط صدایشان آنها را متمایز میکند. ویندیش به خودش صلیب میکشد. دستگیره ی در مرطوب است؛ به دستهای ویندیش میچسبد. در کلیسا قفل است. سنت آنتونی آنسوی دیوار است. زنبق سفید و کتاب قهوه ای به همراه دارد. در به رویش قفل است. ویندیش میلرزد. به انتهای خیابان نگاه میکند. جاییکه خیابان به پایان میرسد، سبزه دهکده را در بر گرفته است. مردی در انتهای خیابان راه میرود. مرد باریکه ی سیاهی است که به دشت میرود. امواج سبزه او را از زمین بلند کرده است. وزغ زمینی: آسیاب ساکت است. دیوارها ساکتاند و سقف ساکت است. چرخها هم ساکتاند. ویندیش کلید میزند و چراغ را خاموش میکند. میان چرخها سیاهی است. تاریکی غبار زمین، حشرات و کیسه های گونی را در خود فرو داده است. شبگرد روی نیمکت آسیاب نشسته، خوابش برده. دهانش باز مانده. چشمهای سگش از زیر نیمکت برق ضعیفی دارند. ویندیش کیسه ی گونی را با دستها و زانوانش بلند میکند. آنرا به دیوار آسیاب تکیه میدهد. سگ نگاه میکند و خمیازه میکشد. دندانهای سفیدش به پهنای دهانش بیرون میزند. کلید درون قفلِ در آسیاب میچرخد. قفل میان انگشتان ویندیش صدای مختصری میکند. ویندیش میشمارد. ویندیش ضربان شقیقه هایش را احساس میکند و با خود میگوید: «سَرَم ساعت است.» کلید را درون جیبش میگذارد. سگ واق واق میکند. ویندیش با صدای بلند میگوید: «تا بهار از نفس نیفتاده، تمامش میکنم.» شبگرد کلاهش را تا روی پیشانی پایین میکشد. چشمهایش را باز میکند، خمیازهای میکشد و میگوید: «سرباز سر پست است.» ویندیش بالای حوضچه ی آسیاب میرود. در کناره ی آن تلی از کاه قرار دارد و بازتابش روی حوضچه لکه ای سیاه است. لکه مثل حفره در آب فرو میرود. ویندیش دوچرخه اش را از توی کاه بیرون میکشد. شبگرد میگوید: «یک موش توی کاههاست.» ویندیش خرده کاهها را از روی زین برمیدارد و درون آب میریزد. میگوید: «دیدمش. خودش را انداخت توی آب.» خرده کاهها همچون گیسو روی آب شناورند. گردابهای کوچکی تشکیل داده اند. حفره ی سیاه شناور است. ویندیش به بازتاب مواج خودش نگاه میکند. ...)؛ پایان نقل. ا. شربیانی
The Passport is a novel by Nobel Prize-winning author Herta Müller, published in German in 1986. The German title (literally, "Man is a great pheasant in the world") refers to a saying in Romania. The novel, one of several for which the author was known when winning the Nobel in 2009, tells the story of a village miller in a German-speaking village in the Banat in Romania, who applies for permission to emigrate to West Germany.
عنوانهای فارسی کتاب: گذرنامه؛ قرقاول بزرگی ست آدمی در جهان؛ نویسنده هرتا مولر؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش روز بیست و چهارم ماه دسامبر سال 2012میلادی
عنوان نخست: گذرنامه؛ نویسنده: هرتا مولر؛ مترجم: مهرداد وثوقی؛ تهران، مروارید، 1390؛ در 116 ص؛ شابک 9789641911371؛ موضوع داستانهای نویسندگان رومانیایی به زبان آلمانی - سده 20م
عنوان دوم: قرقاول بزرگی ست آدمی در جهان؛ نویسنده: هرتا ��ولر؛ مترجم: ناصر غیاثی؛ تهران، فرهنگ نشر نو، آسیم، 1397؛ در 112 ص؛ شابک 9786004900782؛
هرتا مولر، در سال 2009 میلادی، موفق به دریافت جایزه ی نوبل ادبیات شدند، و دوازدهمین زنی بودند، که معتبرترین جایزه ی ادبیات جهان را به نام خود ثبت کردند. کمیته ی نوبل ادبیات، علت اهدای جایزه را به ایشان، اینگونه شرح داد: «کسی که با تمرکز بر شعر و صداقت در نثر، دورنمای زندگی محرومان را، به تصویر کشیده است». «مولر»، که نویسنده، و شاعری رومانیایی الاصل آلمانی است، در روز هفدهم ماه اوت سال 1953 میلادی، در خانواده ای کشاورز، در روستای آلمانی زبان «نیچیدورف»، واقع در غرب «رومانی»، به این دنیا آمدند. خانواده اش، از اقلیتهای آلمانی تبار، قلمداد میشدند. پس از پایان جنگ جهانی دوم، در سال 1945 میلادی، نیروهای نظامی شوروی، مادرش را که هفده سال داشت، به همراه صد هزار نفر دیگر، به مدت پنج سال، به اردوگاه کار اجباری تبعید کردند؛ ارثیه ی خانوادگیشان را، که از پدربزرگش به آنها رسیده بود، به نفع حکومت کمونیستها، مصادره کردند؛ و پدرش که در دوران جنگ، عضو گروه اس.اس. وافن بود، راننده ی کامیون کمونیستها شد. نخستین کتابشان را، با نام «حضیض» که مجموعه ای از داستانهای کوتاه بود، در سال 1982 میلادی نوشتند، و با سانسور، در «بخارست رومانی» به چاپ رساندند. در سال 1987 میلادی، دو سال پیش از فروپاشی دیوار «برلین»، به همراه همسرش، «ریچارد واگنر»، به «آلمان» مهاجرت کردند، و در سال 1997 میلادی، به عضویت آکادمی زبان آلمانی درآمدند. نقل نمونه متن: «سفیدی از شرق تا غرب؛ میان شکاف پلک نمایان است. اما سیاهی اینچنین نیست. اینگبورگ باخمن، شاعر اتریشی»؛ چاله: اطراف بنای یادبود قربانیان جنگ پوشیده از رُز است. رزها بیشه ای تشکیل داده اند؛ آنقدر انبوه که اجازه ی تنفس را از چمن گرفته اند؛ گلهای سفیدی دارند و چون کاغذ به هم پیچیده اند؛ صدای برگ خشک میدهند. سپیده دمیده؛ روز به زودی آغاز میشود. ویندیش، هر روز صبح که با دوچرخه جاده ی منتهی به آسیاب را طی میکند، روز را میشمارد. جلوی بنای یادبود قربانیان جنگ که میرسد، سالها را میشمارد. در کنار اولین درخت تبریزی بعد از آن، همانجایی که طبق معمول توی چاله ای میافتد، روزها را حساب میکند. دمدمای غروب نیز، وقتی آسیاب را تعطیل میکند، بار دیگر سالها و روزها را میشمارد. رزهای سفید کوچک، بنای یادبود قربانیان جنگ و درخت تبریزی آن سویش را می��یند. وقتی هم که هوا مه آلود است، سفیدی رزها و سفیدی سنگ، موقع رکاب زدن، از پیش رویش میگذرند. ویندیش همچنان رکاب میزند. صورت ویندیش مرطوب شده، و آنقدر رکاب میزند تا به آنجا برسد. دو بار، حجاب خارهای ��یشه ی رز کنار رفت و علفهای زیرش زرد شدند. دو بار، درخت تبریزی آنقدر عریان شد که تنه اش نزدیک بود شکاف بردارد. دوبار، برف جاده ها را پوشاند. ویندیش دو سال را در کنار بنای یادبود قر��انیان جنگ میشمارد و دویست و بیست و یک روز را در چاله ی کنار درخت تبریزی. هر روز، وقتی ویندیش در چاله میافتد، با خود میگوید: «پایان اینجاست.» چون ویندیش تصمیم به مهاجرت گرفته، پایان را در هر جایی از دهکده میبیند. زمان، برای کسانیکه میخواهند بمانند، حرکت نمیکند. ویندیش شبگرد را میبیند که در آنسوی پایان ایستاده است. ویندیش پس از آنکه دویست و بیست و یک روز را م شمارد و درون چاله میافتد، برای اولین بار پیاده میشود. دوچرخه را کنار درخت تبریزی میگذارد. صدای گامهایش بلند است. کبوتران وحشی از توی حیاط کلیسا بال میزنند و پرواز میکنند. رنگشان، مثل روشنی این این وقت روز، خاکستری است. فقط صدایشان آنها را متمایز میکند. ویندیش به خودش صلیب میکشد. دستگیره ی در مرطوب است؛ به دستهای ویندیش میچسبد. در کلیسا قفل است. سنت آنتونی آنسوی دیوار است. زنبق سفید و کتاب قهوه ای به همراه دارد. در به رویش قفل است. ویندیش میلرزد. به انتهای خیابان نگاه میکند. جاییکه خیابان به پایان میرسد، سبزه دهکده را در بر گرفته است. مردی در انتهای خیابان راه میرود. مرد باریکه ی سیاهی است که به دشت میرود. امواج سبزه او را از زمین بلند کرده است. وزغ زمینی: آسیاب ساکت است. دیوارها ساکتاند و سقف ساکت است. چرخها هم ساکتاند. ویندیش کلید میزند و چراغ را خاموش میکند. میان چرخها سیاهی است. تاریکی غبار زمین، حشرات و کیسه های گونی را در خود فرو داده است. شبگرد روی نیمکت آسیاب نشسته، خوابش برده. دهانش باز مانده. چشمهای سگش از زیر نیمکت برق ضعیفی دارند. ویندیش کیسه ی گونی را با دستها و زانوانش بلند میکند. آنرا به دیوار آسیاب تکیه میدهد. سگ نگاه میکند و خمیازه میکشد. دندانهای سفیدش به پهنای دهانش بیرون میزند. کلید درون قفلِ در آسیاب میچرخد. قفل میان انگشتان ویندیش صدای مختصری میکند. ویندیش میشمارد. ویندیش ضربان شقیقه هایش را احساس میکند و با خود میگوید: «سَرَم ساعت است.» کلید را درون جیبش میگذارد. سگ واق واق میکند. ویندیش با صدای بلند میگوید: «تا بهار از نفس نیفتاده، تمامش میکنم.» شبگرد کلاهش را تا روی پیشانی پایین میکشد. چشمهایش را باز میکند، خمیازهای میکشد و میگوید: «سرباز سر پست است.» ویندیش بالای حوضچه ی آسیاب میرود. در کناره ی آن تلی از کاه قرار دارد و بازتابش روی حوضچه لکه ای سیاه است. لکه مثل حفره در آب فرو میرود. ویندیش دوچرخه اش را از توی کاه بیرون میکشد. شبگرد میگوید: «یک موش توی کاههاست.» ویندیش خرده کاهها را از روی زین برمیدارد و درون آب میریزد. میگوید: «دیدمش. خودش را انداخت توی آب.» خرده کاهها همچون گیسو روی آب شناورند. گردابهای کوچکی تشکیل داده اند. حفره ی سیاه شناور است. ویندیش به بازتاب مواج خودش نگاه میکند. ...)؛ پایان نقل. ا. شربیانی
December 15, 2017
هيرتا ميللر
هيرتا ميللر
اللقاء الثاني معك .. الفرصة الثانية لك .. ولا فائدة .. !!
لا أنكر أن العنوان هو من جذبني في الأساس ..
فالدراج هو نوع من الطيور لا يطير ..
والعنوان كناية عن حال الإنسان البائس المغلوب علي أمره .. يحيا مُجبراً .. لا يغير مصيره ولا يعدله
هيرتا ميللر .. الحائزة علي جائزة نوبل في الأدب الألماني ..
والتي لا أنكر إعجابي بعناوين كتبك ... للأسف لم أتفق مع إسلوبك علي الإطلاق ..
وإعجابي ببعض الاقتباسات لا يشفع لي تقييم الرواية بأكثر من هذا ..
هذه النجمة للعنوان فقط
!!
April 1, 2024
Windisch, a molnár biciklizik a gyomverte járdán, a kerekek közt lomha varangyok görögnek. Közben mintha leltárazná mindazt, amit lát, mert nem szándékszik soká maradni: minden pillanatban megkaphatja az útlevelét, és akkor viszlát, falu! A "minden pillanatban" ebben az esetben egyfajta Godot-i időhatározó, ami éppúgy jelenthet "nemsokára"-t, mint "soha a büdös életben"-t. Talán utóbbit nagyobb valószínűséggel. Akárhogy is, a szöveg képei hamar szétesni látszanak, nem könnyű eldönteni, Windisch valóságát vagy emlékeit látjuk-e, esetleg a molnár beborult időközben az árokba, és ott szunyókál, mi pedig zavaros álmain úszunk tovább.
Megjegyzem: nyakamat rá, hogy a Sinistra körzet lakói pont olyanokat álmodhatnak, amiket Müller ír. Ezek a rövid fejezetek nem igazán nevezhetőek regénynek, inkább valamiféle prózavers-füzérnek. Müller pedig nem cselekményt akar elmondani, hanem egy érzést megragadni - annak hangulatát, amikor egy nyomasztó helyen vagyunk, ahonnan szabadulni kilátástalan, de mi mégis várjuk a szabadulást, mert ugyan mi mást tehetnénk. A kötetet ebből fakadóan azoknak ajánlom, akik szeretnek nyomasztó helyeken várakozni, vagy legalábbis hajlandóak 130 oldal erejéig kipróbálni, milyen is az. Lelövöm a poént: nyomasztó.
Megjegyzem: nyakamat rá, hogy a Sinistra körzet lakói pont olyanokat álmodhatnak, amiket Müller ír. Ezek a rövid fejezetek nem igazán nevezhetőek regénynek, inkább valamiféle prózavers-füzérnek. Müller pedig nem cselekményt akar elmondani, hanem egy érzést megragadni - annak hangulatát, amikor egy nyomasztó helyen vagyunk, ahonnan szabadulni kilátástalan, de mi mégis várjuk a szabadulást, mert ugyan mi mást tehetnénk. A kötetet ebből fakadóan azoknak ajánlom, akik szeretnek nyomasztó helyeken várakozni, vagy legalábbis hajlandóak 130 oldal erejéig kipróbálni, milyen is az. Lelövöm a poént: nyomasztó.
August 7, 2019
Los antropólogos, a menudo, nos encontramos en la búsqueda del otro, cuando logramos entender al otro, parece que nos encontráramos nosotros mismos, podemos reafirmar lo que somos. Pero la otredad, es difícil de atrapar cuando se intenta discernirla en nosotros mismos, cuando emprendemos la empresa de entender nuestra propia cultura.
En antropología, se toma prestado un sinfín de herramientas de otras ciencias o disciplinas, a mí me gusta la definición de Durkheim de hecho social: conocer lo que la gente hace dice y piensa, que no necesariamente son equivalentes entre sí.
Entonces, partiendo de estas premisas ¿Cómo se puede entender un texto escrito por una rumana en alemán y traducido al español?
“En rumano es muy frecuente decir: "He vuelto a ser un faisán", que significa: "He vuelto a fracasar", "No lo he logrado". O sea, en rumano, el faisán es un perdedor. “Herta Müller. La frase de la autora, que explica el título, nos arrastra al enredo que supone la identidad y la cultura.
Lo maravilloso de esta novela, es que desde un contexto especifico y local, nos enseña el panorama nacional y no me refiero a la política, me refiero al estado de su gente. La novela muestra una nación abatida, sin esperanza en un régimen que no da inicios de acabar, que no representa a su gente y que los está matando lentamente, no solo literalmente, también está matando su espíritu.
Si se hace el ejercicio lector, no es difícil situarse en la Rumania de Nicolae Ceaușescu, en la cortina de hierro, en Europa oriental. Lo fantástico es que la autora es capaz de dar tanta profundidad a esa realidad, que ni siquiera tiene que nombrar al dictador.
La escritura es elegante, embriagadora, para alguien que no gusta ni degusta de la poesía, la única palabra que se me ocurre es que su escritura es prosa y su recurso, algunas veces, es la aliteración.
En los detalles, está la vida. Volviendo a la cultura y la identidad, si bien uno capta el mensaje global, la situación que se sucede debido a la dictadura, los detalles, las metáforas y los chistes no los entendí. Uno sabe que ha entendido al otro, cuando entiende un chiste, cuando ha visto más allá de lo evidente y esa es la genialidad de Herta Müller, plasma más allá de lo evidente la cultura de su país, o más concretamente de su región, se entiende así misma. Por eso, creo yo, puede escribir de Rumania en alemán.
No pretendo entender toda una cultura a partir de un solo libro y de un solo autor y por eso me ha fascinado esta novela, me ha dejado con ganas de saber más, me ha permitido reconocer al “otro”, y aunque no lo entienda en todas sus dimensiones, me deja la sensación que ya he empezado a conocerlo.
En antropología, se toma prestado un sinfín de herramientas de otras ciencias o disciplinas, a mí me gusta la definición de Durkheim de hecho social: conocer lo que la gente hace dice y piensa, que no necesariamente son equivalentes entre sí.
Entonces, partiendo de estas premisas ¿Cómo se puede entender un texto escrito por una rumana en alemán y traducido al español?
“En rumano es muy frecuente decir: "He vuelto a ser un faisán", que significa: "He vuelto a fracasar", "No lo he logrado". O sea, en rumano, el faisán es un perdedor. “Herta Müller. La frase de la autora, que explica el título, nos arrastra al enredo que supone la identidad y la cultura.
Lo maravilloso de esta novela, es que desde un contexto especifico y local, nos enseña el panorama nacional y no me refiero a la política, me refiero al estado de su gente. La novela muestra una nación abatida, sin esperanza en un régimen que no da inicios de acabar, que no representa a su gente y que los está matando lentamente, no solo literalmente, también está matando su espíritu.
Si se hace el ejercicio lector, no es difícil situarse en la Rumania de Nicolae Ceaușescu, en la cortina de hierro, en Europa oriental. Lo fantástico es que la autora es capaz de dar tanta profundidad a esa realidad, que ni siquiera tiene que nombrar al dictador.
La escritura es elegante, embriagadora, para alguien que no gusta ni degusta de la poesía, la única palabra que se me ocurre es que su escritura es prosa y su recurso, algunas veces, es la aliteración.
En los detalles, está la vida. Volviendo a la cultura y la identidad, si bien uno capta el mensaje global, la situación que se sucede debido a la dictadura, los detalles, las metáforas y los chistes no los entendí. Uno sabe que ha entendido al otro, cuando entiende un chiste, cuando ha visto más allá de lo evidente y esa es la genialidad de Herta Müller, plasma más allá de lo evidente la cultura de su país, o más concretamente de su región, se entiende así misma. Por eso, creo yo, puede escribir de Rumania en alemán.
No pretendo entender toda una cultura a partir de un solo libro y de un solo autor y por eso me ha fascinado esta novela, me ha dejado con ganas de saber más, me ha permitido reconocer al “otro”, y aunque no lo entienda en todas sus dimensiones, me deja la sensación que ya he empezado a conocerlo.
January 22, 2012
A disturbing piece of fiction depicting the fragmented existence of German-Romanians doing whatever it takes in their corrupt country to obtain passports to move to Germany. The story presents daily life as unpleasant, bitter, corrupt, with only momentary glimpses of anything that could be considered nice and little that can be considered good. Initially I was put off totally by the book, which is actually a novella. In the end, while still in no way able to say I truly enjoyed the act of reading it, I feel I have learned something about what it must have been like to live in Romania. If living there can generate literature of such bitterness at all of life, what kind of place must it have been?
Muller uses a stark writing style of clipped sentences, often incomplete, unusual metaphors, short chapters. Everything is short, with a feeling of things missing in this brevity not a feeling of compact complete-ness.
Rating is difficult. 2.5 to 3.
Muller uses a stark writing style of clipped sentences, often incomplete, unusual metaphors, short chapters. Everything is short, with a feeling of things missing in this brevity not a feeling of compact complete-ness.
Rating is difficult. 2.5 to 3.
June 13, 2015
Otkako sam zatvorio knjigu menjam ocenu - sa četiri zvezdice na tri i sada sam opet vratio na četiri.
Teško je oceniti ovakvu knjigu. Ona ima sve elemente jednog remek-dela ali mislim da bih teško mogao sebe da nateram da je pročitam ponovo. Na osnovu ovog jednog romana mogu da shvatim zašto je Herta Miler dobila Nobela (što recimo nije bio slučaj sa Mo Jenom) - drugačija je od drugih. Milerova je brutalno realna i eksplicitna a sa druge strane ume da upakuje problem u poneki eufemizam ili "šareni papir". Ona koristi kratke rečenice kojima neverovatno ume da dočara mučnost života i probleme koji tište male ljude u nekorektnom okruženju.
Ovaj roman je tužbalica - Milerova kao da plače nad ljudskom sudbinom i tom potrebom da se usred neprijateljstva okoline pronađe drugi dom. Naravno cena odlaska je više nego velika...
Odličan roman, ali ukus u ustima nakon čitanja je previše gorak... Herta, moraće da prođe nekoliko meseci do čitanja tvog sledećeg romana!
Teško je oceniti ovakvu knjigu. Ona ima sve elemente jednog remek-dela ali mislim da bih teško mogao sebe da nateram da je pročitam ponovo. Na osnovu ovog jednog romana mogu da shvatim zašto je Herta Miler dobila Nobela (što recimo nije bio slučaj sa Mo Jenom) - drugačija je od drugih. Milerova je brutalno realna i eksplicitna a sa druge strane ume da upakuje problem u poneki eufemizam ili "šareni papir". Ona koristi kratke rečenice kojima neverovatno ume da dočara mučnost života i probleme koji tište male ljude u nekorektnom okruženju.
Ovaj roman je tužbalica - Milerova kao da plače nad ljudskom sudbinom i tom potrebom da se usred neprijateljstva okoline pronađe drugi dom. Naravno cena odlaska je više nego velika...
Odličan roman, ali ukus u ustima nakon čitanja je previše gorak... Herta, moraće da prođe nekoliko meseci do čitanja tvog sledećeg romana!
April 19, 2012
آه هيرتا موللر تكتب شيء مثير للغاية أشياء لا أحد يراها : " فظهرت عروق زرقاء صغيرة وراء أذنها " . تكتب كمشهد صامت إلا من صوت الماء و الأحذية : " تحت الكراسي تسيل أشرطة ماء بأشكال عشوائية, بخطوط معوجة, وتتلألأ بين الكراسي " .
لا تكتب مثلما كتب الآخرون ابدًا , تدرج الحديث تدخلك في المشهد كشبح خفي و تشعر ببرودة دم الشخصيات و تلمس عروقهم البارزة . " يقف حفار القبور حافيًا ووحيدًا في المقبرة. ينظف بمجراف القبر جزمته المطاطية" لك أن تبكي بنشيج طفيف من الوحشة و الخوف و الفكرة . تكتب بخفة أشياء صغيرة بطريقة ملفتة و رائعة .
تأتي الرواية بقطع متوسطة إلى صغيرة و كل قطع تحمل عنوان . و كل قطعة تستطيع أن تقرأها كقصة منفصلة إنها ذكية للغاية . لا شخصيات كثيرة , شخصياتها واضحة و إن كان لا بد من التركيز في البداية , الشخصية المهمة كانت فينديش و زوجته و ابنته ��مالي , آمالي التي باعت نفسها من أجل أن تحصل العائلة على جواز سفر ليغادروا مثل كثير من الجيران , فصدقت زوجته برائيها حينما كان يمد الطحين إلى الشرطي "بطحينك لن تحقق الكثير" .
الحليب : http://shar.es/rzVNC
الملك نائم : http://shar.es/rFw9I
لا تكتب مثلما كتب الآخرون ابدًا , تدرج الحديث تدخلك في المشهد كشبح خفي و تشعر ببرودة دم الشخصيات و تلمس عروقهم البارزة . " يقف حفار القبور حافيًا ووحيدًا في المقبرة. ينظف بمجراف القبر جزمته المطاطية" لك أن تبكي بنشيج طفيف من الوحشة و الخوف و الفكرة . تكتب بخفة أشياء صغيرة بطريقة ملفتة و رائعة .
تأتي الرواية بقطع متوسطة إلى صغيرة و كل قطع تحمل عنوان . و كل قطعة تستطيع أن تقرأها كقصة منفصلة إنها ذكية للغاية . لا شخصيات كثيرة , شخصياتها واضحة و إن كان لا بد من التركيز في البداية , الشخصية المهمة كانت فينديش و زوجته و ابنته ��مالي , آمالي التي باعت نفسها من أجل أن تحصل العائلة على جواز سفر ليغادروا مثل كثير من الجيران , فصدقت زوجته برائيها حينما كان يمد الطحين إلى الشرطي "بطحينك لن تحقق الكثير" .
الحليب : http://shar.es/rzVNC
الملك نائم : http://shar.es/rFw9I
January 5, 2021
My second Muller book. Short and sweet. I like Muller's writing more and more and can't wait to read another book by her. Now I really do not know who is the best living woman writer. I thought it was Tokarczuk for sure (read short story collection 'The Wardrobe' and novel 'Flights' by her, both amazing reads), but now Herta Muller (read this and 'The Fox Was Ever The Hunter') comes as a strong, strong competition :)
Anyway, back to Muller. Oh, the writing style. So many metaphors. So much to like and enjoy. And what I have to say is that I am so annoyed by one thing with both Tokarczuk and Muller: Their books are so close to 5 stars that they probably can't even be closer.
Rating of 'The Passport' or 'Der Mensch ist ein grosser Fasan auf der Welt': 4.3 stars.
Anyway, back to Muller. Oh, the writing style. So many metaphors. So much to like and enjoy. And what I have to say is that I am so annoyed by one thing with both Tokarczuk and Muller: Their books are so close to 5 stars that they probably can't even be closer.
Rating of 'The Passport' or 'Der Mensch ist ein grosser Fasan auf der Welt': 4.3 stars.
October 21, 2022
Proză poetică, imagini suprarealiste care amintesc pe alocuri de Boris Vian. Foarte interesant cum niște imagini suprarealiste reușesc minunat să redea realitatea, realismul unor sentimente, stări, cu mult mai exact decât ar face-o niște descrieri clinice. Frazele scurte, repetițiile creează impresia de cadență, ca rafalele unei mitraliere, dar care nu trage cu gloanțe, ci cu pumni în stomac. După unele propoziții rămâi fără aer în plămâni.
Situația: Amalie, fiica lui Windisch, se pregătește înainte de a merge să presteze servicii sexuale pentru ca pașapoartele familiei să fie eliberate.
Situația: Amalie, fiica lui Windisch, se pregătește înainte de a merge să presteze servicii sexuale pentru ca pașapoartele familiei să fie eliberate.
Amalia stă în fața oglinzii. Fuorul ei e roz. Sub buricul Amaliei crește dantelă albă. Prin găurile din dantelă, Windisch vede pielea de deasupra genunchiului ei. Genunchiul are fire fine de păr. Este alb și rotund. Windisch mai vede o dată în oglindă genunchiul Amaliei. Vede cum găurile din dantelă se întrepătrund.
În oglindă sunt ochii nevestei lui Windisch. În ochii lui Windisch găurile sunt fugărite în tâmple de bătaia genelor. În colțul ochiului lui Windisch i se zbate o arteră. Ea sfâșie dantela. În ochiul lui Windisch, pupila învârte fâșiile desprinse din dantelă. (p. 113)
Windisch își închide ochii. Își simte ochii în mâini. Ochii fără față.
Cu ochii dezgoliți și cu piatra în coaste, spune Windisch cu voce tare:
- Omul este un mare fazan pe lume. (p. 117)
March 9, 2016
اذا سألت كاتبة تلك الكلمات عن اهم اكتشاف للانسان علي كوكبه الازرق الملئ ببؤس اكثر مما يحتمل لاجابت انها النار و الكهرباء و فن النوفيلات ....
لماذا "النوفيلا" ؟ ... لانها اجمل و اصعب صنف ادبي و لان كاتبها يحمل عبء تكثيف القصص القصيرة و عظمة ابداع و تعبير الروايات ، و لان المحافظة علي ذلك الخيط الدقيق لايقاع هذا المنتج الهش سريع الفساد هو اروع ما قد يكتبه مؤلف و ادعي انه اصعبه
فماذا فعلت هيرتا موللر اذن؟ قدمت لنا عدد قليل من الصفحات محملة بشحنة عظيمة من المشاعر و التأملات و بتفاصيل عينها الدقيقة التي تشبه الكاميرا تلتقط لنا ادق خلجات عضلات زاوية الفم عند تذكر بؤس الحرب ، و ألم عنق من اغتصبت عنوة ، و تلك الفراشة البيضاء الصغيرة التي سحقت بين الاصابع لانها ذكرت الجميع بمدى عدم طهارتهم
عندما يضيق الوطن باهله و يجن جنون الديك الابيض فيقتل نفسه هل يبقي لل"شرف" معني؟ هل عذرية الفتاة الوحيدة اهم ام الخروج من الوطن قبل ان يتلهم ابناؤه؟ و هل نفع الطحين الطحان يوما؟ .... اسئلة لا يهتم ڤينديش و اسرته كما نتصور بل ان الاحداث تفرض نفسها بسرعه بحيث تقلل من قيمة الاحلام و التأملات و الكوابيس و همسات جمهور الكنيسة يوم الاحد
تمشي الفتاة و تميل بمقدمة قدميها جانبا فيعجز الكون عن تقديم المساعدة ، لحظة يشعر فيها الجميع ان المسيح نفسه لن يستطيع ان يقنع القس ان يهب العائلة شهادة الخروج من المدينة التي اصفر فيها الشجر صيفا و اكلت فيها شجرة التفاح ثمارتها حتي المسيح المصلوب عاريا علي رأس الشارع لا يقدر علي منع تقديم الثمن الذى يعرفه الجميع و يسكت عنه الجميع
العهر او تحمل شوكات القنفذ الكامن في المعدة؟ العهر او الحبس الابدى في قرية يفر ابناءها واحد دون الاخر؟ العهر او الانتظار الي الابد في قائمة لا تحوى اسمك؟ .... لا تقدم هيرتا حلول كثيرة بل تكتفي باثارة حالة الوجوب و حالة الوتر المشدود ذلك ، لا تهتم كثيرا بالحب المنسي بين حوائط سينما تقدم افلام روسية منخفضة التكلفة ، لا تقدم لنا هيرتا حلول ولا تقول ابدا ان النساء يحملن العار فوق رؤسهن طول العمر ، فقط تقدم لنا ماضي الام كدليل عن مستقبل الابنة ، لا يغفر احد لمرأة فتحت ساقيها لتطعم فمها يوما
لكن كيف قدمت هيرتا موللر العظيمة هذا كله و اكثر في اجمل شكل ادبي في نوفيلا صغيرة كتلك تحمل اسم طويل كهذا؟ ربما هو السؤال الذى لم يعادل يوما ١٠ مليون كرونة سويدية فقط و جائزة نوبل الذهبية في ٢٠٠٩ و انما انضمامها لقائمة شرف طويلة
دينا نبيل
مارس٢٠١٦
September 26, 2018
نمیدونم برای یک زن در قرن بیستم با تمام محدودیت هاش، رمان به این خوبی یک معجزه میتونه باشه یا نه ، اما من چند بار وسط خوندن کتاب اسم نویسنده رو چک کردم. علاوه بر قلم جدید نویسنده، نظرش راجع به مهاجرتی که برای بسیاری مدینه فاضله ست، اون هم در کشوری که شخصیت اصلی اقلیت محسوب میشه، خیلی جذاب بود! سه صفحه آخر کتاب رو نمیخواستم تموم کنم و یه نصفه روز طول کشید:))
December 3, 2022
Siendo sincero, no tengo ni idea si Müller es buena o mala escritora. Una novela que aborda el proceso de desaparición de una comunidad germánica en Rumanía, descendiente de los suabos, y que durante la II Guerra Mundial y el posterior ascenso de Ceaucescu se desnorta, pierde terrenos, bienes materiales y otras cosas hasta que al final, arrinconados deben marcharse.
Müller escribe con frases cortas, un lenguaje hierático, nada expansivo, que en ciertos momentos se aproxima a la poesía en prosa, para transmitir cierto tono crepuscular. Y sin embargo, quizás por las numerosas repeticiones de nombres propios y otros sustantivos y el escaso interés que me ha despertado ese retrato comunitario o sus personajes, he acabado la lectura como quien revisa un ticket de compra de hace cuatro años.
Müller escribe con frases cortas, un lenguaje hierático, nada expansivo, que en ciertos momentos se aproxima a la poesía en prosa, para transmitir cierto tono crepuscular. Y sin embargo, quizás por las numerosas repeticiones de nombres propios y otros sustantivos y el escaso interés que me ha despertado ese retrato comunitario o sus personajes, he acabado la lectura como quien revisa un ticket de compra de hace cuatro años.
October 24, 2019
Herta Müller liest man nicht wegen des Inhalts ihrer Bücher, sondern wegen ihres Stils. Insoweit ist dieses Buch typisch. Der Inhalt ließe sich auch auf 2 Seiten wiedergeben aber der Stil haut einen immer wieder um. In meinen Augen ist sie die größte lebende Sprachmagierin der deutschen Sprache.
December 24, 2017
This is a surrealist book in the great tradition of Central European surrealism, but while, say, Kafka's and Canetti's surrealism is expressed through what is thought and said, in this book it is all in the physical world. Courtyards fill with dry, dead leaves, even though there are no trees for them to fall from. An apple tree forms a mouth and eats its own apples. Water is everywhere.
Hinterm Fenster rauscht der Regen. Die Vorbeterin zuckt die kurzen Wimpern, als rinne der Regen ihr ins Geisicht. Als spüle er ihre Augen fort. Ihre Wimpern, die zerbrochen sind vom Beten. « Es ist ein Wolkenbruch im ganzen Land », sagt sie. Sie schließt, als rinne ihr der Regen in den Hals, beim Reden schon den Mund.
[Outside the window, the rain hisses. The prayer leader bats her short eyelashes, as if the rain were streaming into her face. As if it were rinsing her eyes away. Her eyelashes, which are broken from praying. "There is a downpour in the whole country," she says. She closes her mouth, even as she speaks, as if the rain were pouring down her throat.] (my translation, apologies for any mistakes).
The language is so physical, I had the feeling, each time I closed the book, that I would smell fermented red onions on my fingers, that my clothes would be damp and fusty with the constant drizzle of the Romanian Banat, that I would walk out into the street and the pavement would crack under my feet.
Everything is broken, twisted, deformed. Things are either too wet or too dry. Gashes open up in river beds, paths, walls. There is an obsession with parts of the body, which are presented unromantically, criss-crossed with veins and arteries, white as snow, wrinkled. There is something – what, is not clear – to be read into the fact that women walk on the sides of their feet, and not the soles.
This brokenness mirrors the dysfunctional bureaucracy of Ceausescu's Romania. The main subject of the story is Windisch's striving to get passports for his ethnic German family so they can emigrate to Germany.
In a world with no rule of law, governed by arbitrary blackmailing, tithes and bribes, people take refuge in superstition. Death comes when the village owl decides to land on your roof. You can only hope that the owl is not a young one, ”who doesn't know her way around”.
Müller has of course a fine sensibility for the position of women in this broken society governed by arbitrariness.
The hunger in the Russian camp was a hedgehog in her stomach, which retracted its spines “for a few hours”, “for a few days”, when she managed to obtain food – again the painful physicality of this book.
Bigotry and discrimination are everywhere. The Baptists - we are told - hold black masses where everyone sings and then falls on the floor having sex with each other; “that's why they have so many children”. In America, “the Jews are in control”. Roma girls extort money in exchange for supposed good luck charms. The ethnic Germans are being pressed to leave, and Vlach Romanians are keen to take their property and jobs when they are gone. The Germans accept the situation; « soon you will be rid of us ».
It made me think of a joke from Communist times, that I was told on a recent trip to Transylvania:
There is a queue of about a hundred people outside the village butcher's. It's deep winter, 3 feet of snow on the ground, 6am in the morning, and the butcher has not opened up shop.
At around 9am, the butcher comes out, and says “I'm so sorry. It seems we won't get as much meat today, as we thought. All the Jews should go home”.
Now there are about 90 people left. At 1pm, the butcher comes out again. “I'm really embarrassed to have to tell you. We will get even less meat than we thought. All the people who opposed the glorious October Revolution, the back-sliders, Trotskyists and reactionaries, will have to go home”.
Now there are about 75 people left. They grumble and complain about the cold, beating their hands together. At 4pm, the butcher comes out again. “I'm really so sorry. I don't know how to tell you this. We will get even less meat. Only the women, old men, and cripples can stay”.
Now there are about 40 people left. At 7.30 pm, the butcher comes out. “I'm so sorry. I'm so embarrassed about this situation. We will get even less meat. Only pregnant women, and cripples over 70 can stay.”
There are about 10 people left. They are stamping their feet, and huddling together. Finally, at 11pm, the butcher comes out. “I'm so sorry. How can I tell you this. We will get no meat today. I'm really very embarrassed. Maybe we will get meat tomorrow”.
The remaining people go home, wearily treading through the snow. An old man turns to his wife, and says, “You know, I think they favour the Jews.”
It is a book written in curt, finely chiselled, simple sentences. But the words chosen, and the often totally disorientating surrealism of the images, constantly have you off balance. Above all the mood is oppressive and dark. A fine book, but not an easy read.
Hinterm Fenster rauscht der Regen. Die Vorbeterin zuckt die kurzen Wimpern, als rinne der Regen ihr ins Geisicht. Als spüle er ihre Augen fort. Ihre Wimpern, die zerbrochen sind vom Beten. « Es ist ein Wolkenbruch im ganzen Land », sagt sie. Sie schließt, als rinne ihr der Regen in den Hals, beim Reden schon den Mund.
[Outside the window, the rain hisses. The prayer leader bats her short eyelashes, as if the rain were streaming into her face. As if it were rinsing her eyes away. Her eyelashes, which are broken from praying. "There is a downpour in the whole country," she says. She closes her mouth, even as she speaks, as if the rain were pouring down her throat.] (my translation, apologies for any mistakes).
The language is so physical, I had the feeling, each time I closed the book, that I would smell fermented red onions on my fingers, that my clothes would be damp and fusty with the constant drizzle of the Romanian Banat, that I would walk out into the street and the pavement would crack under my feet.
Everything is broken, twisted, deformed. Things are either too wet or too dry. Gashes open up in river beds, paths, walls. There is an obsession with parts of the body, which are presented unromantically, criss-crossed with veins and arteries, white as snow, wrinkled. There is something – what, is not clear – to be read into the fact that women walk on the sides of their feet, and not the soles.
This brokenness mirrors the dysfunctional bureaucracy of Ceausescu's Romania. The main subject of the story is Windisch's striving to get passports for his ethnic German family so they can emigrate to Germany.
In a world with no rule of law, governed by arbitrary blackmailing, tithes and bribes, people take refuge in superstition. Death comes when the village owl decides to land on your roof. You can only hope that the owl is not a young one, ”who doesn't know her way around”.
Müller has of course a fine sensibility for the position of women in this broken society governed by arbitrariness.
The hunger in the Russian camp was a hedgehog in her stomach, which retracted its spines “for a few hours”, “for a few days”, when she managed to obtain food – again the painful physicality of this book.
Bigotry and discrimination are everywhere. The Baptists - we are told - hold black masses where everyone sings and then falls on the floor having sex with each other; “that's why they have so many children”. In America, “the Jews are in control”. Roma girls extort money in exchange for supposed good luck charms. The ethnic Germans are being pressed to leave, and Vlach Romanians are keen to take their property and jobs when they are gone. The Germans accept the situation; « soon you will be rid of us ».
It made me think of a joke from Communist times, that I was told on a recent trip to Transylvania:
There is a queue of about a hundred people outside the village butcher's. It's deep winter, 3 feet of snow on the ground, 6am in the morning, and the butcher has not opened up shop.
At around 9am, the butcher comes out, and says “I'm so sorry. It seems we won't get as much meat today, as we thought. All the Jews should go home”.
Now there are about 90 people left. At 1pm, the butcher comes out again. “I'm really embarrassed to have to tell you. We will get even less meat than we thought. All the people who opposed the glorious October Revolution, the back-sliders, Trotskyists and reactionaries, will have to go home”.
Now there are about 75 people left. They grumble and complain about the cold, beating their hands together. At 4pm, the butcher comes out again. “I'm really so sorry. I don't know how to tell you this. We will get even less meat. Only the women, old men, and cripples can stay”.
Now there are about 40 people left. At 7.30 pm, the butcher comes out. “I'm so sorry. I'm so embarrassed about this situation. We will get even less meat. Only pregnant women, and cripples over 70 can stay.”
There are about 10 people left. They are stamping their feet, and huddling together. Finally, at 11pm, the butcher comes out. “I'm so sorry. How can I tell you this. We will get no meat today. I'm really very embarrassed. Maybe we will get meat tomorrow”.
The remaining people go home, wearily treading through the snow. An old man turns to his wife, and says, “You know, I think they favour the Jews.”
It is a book written in curt, finely chiselled, simple sentences. But the words chosen, and the often totally disorientating surrealism of the images, constantly have you off balance. Above all the mood is oppressive and dark. A fine book, but not an easy read.
August 15, 2017
إنها تكتب الأشياء؛ تكتب الصمت. تسجلها بدقة كاميرا حديثة. تلتقط مشاعر أبطالها من خلالها. كأن الإنسان ما هو إلا لوحة فسيفسائية ��عطي كل مفردة، لوجوده معنى؛ اللطخة الحمراء لسحابة على وجه القمر. صورة كومة الحشيش المجفف التي تظهر كبقعة قاتمة على صفحة البركة. أصوات الخطوات. الأضاليا البيضاء. موت الأضاليا البيضاء المتزامن مع موت العجوز كرونر. أشجار الصفصاف الملتفة بأوراقها والريح. ارتعاشة غصن الزهور الكأسية. أزرار أكمام القميص. الغرفة الفارغة. الإرتجاج الذي يحسه سائق الدراجة عند المنخفض. المنخفض الذي سيمتلأ بالماء (عند انتصاف الرواية) وسيغرق اطار الدراجة. أعواد الذرة المتمايلة بعد أن طارت عنها الغربان خافقة أجنحتها. دقات ساعة الكنيسة الخمس. حفيف أوراق الورد. وضع رأس الحذاء أثناء المشي، كمؤشر لعفة أمالي. الزغب الناعم النامي على ركبة أمالي البيضاء المستديرة، يراه فينديش في المرآة. الرمل المتجمع حول أصابع قدمي زوجة فينديش وهي تكنس الحوش. قطرة عالقة من لعاب فينديش على ذقنه بعد بصقة على التراب. ضباب الصباح الذي يغطي الورد. صف أسنان الكلب البيضاء التي ظهرت وهو يتثاءب. بلل قبضة الباب والتصاقها باليد. العشب ذو الورق الأسود، بسبب النفط، النامي بين قضيبي السكة. صلصلة القطار فوق الجسر. السكك المتداخلة للقطارات. كلمة (ديزل) المكتوبة فوق صندوق حقائب السيارات. قبعة الحوذي الصغيرة، أدناه الكبيرتان. صمت الطواحين، والجدران، والدواليب، والأسقف. الأصابع المعوجة. رغوة البيرة على ابهام النجار. آثار القشعريرة. جلد الكعب الخشن. صوت دوران المفتاح في ثقب قفل باب الطاحون. أصوات الديكة الخشنة والليل المعشش في مناقيرها. بطون الضفادع البيضاء التي تجرها عبر العشب. حركة التنفس الضعيفة لبطن القط المستلقي على الحجارة تحت أشعة الشمس. خبط الأبواب. زعيق الزوجة. قرقعة الملاعق. رائحة قميص نوم الزوجة الدافئ. الوجه المنعكس على فقاعة خضراء على إبريق الشاي. الوجه الذي يلتهمه بخار شاي النعناع. السكر المنساب من الملعقة إلى العين المنعكسة في فنجان الشاي. خواتم البصل السابحة فوق القدر. أقداح النبيذ. أغان الليل. أغان شاي زهر الزيزفون. مشي الذبابة فوق سبابة الزوجة تحديدا فوق الجلد ال��حي�� بظفرها شاعرة بتنهدها، تطن بنشيد طويل عن ماء المطر والتراب بصفته قبرا، متنقلة فوق جلد العجوز الميت ثم تطن عند زاوية فمها المتيبس، راقصة بعد ذلك فوق ذقنها. تدخل الذبابة في أكمام الورد التي لا رائحة لها. غرق رباط حذاء فينديش في الوحل. سيلان أشرطة الماء بأشكال عشوائية أسفل الكراسي متلألأة بخطوط معوجة. سيلان الماء فوق الحجر. الماء أصفر كالشاي. حفار القبور يسند المجراف إلى بطنه. زحف السحب. أسراب الذباب. روائح الطيور المحنطة الكريهة. الأظافر المطلية. جروح العجوز التي قطفت لأجلها من الحقل عشبة الذئب وغلتها. الشريط الأحمر المتدلي من ضفيرة الغجرية كلسان. البذور البيضاء المتساقطة على سترة الحارس الليلي بعد أن عض قلب تفاحة. صرير البوابات الحديدية. صرير باب الخزانة. شواهد القبور. الموت الكامن في الفناجين. يوميات الناس البسطاء..
August 17, 2020
Anoche, después de comprar carne y cervezas para una reunión, después de agradecerle a Deyanira por meter en bolsas de plástico la carne y colocar la cerveza en el carrito de las compras, sentí que algo me oprimía el vientre.
La tensión acumulada de la semana laboral. El estrés del día. La junta con mi jefa el próximo lunes. Ver poco a Emilia.
“Me da coraje ver a niñas en viernes por la noche trabajando”, le dije a Ana. “Coraje. Odio. Bastante.”
“Uno batallando con un trabajo pendejo y ella sonriendo y siendo amable.”
Hace un par de años intenté leer En tierras bajas, de Müller. Al poco tiempo que le dieran el Premio Nobel. No me atrajo gran cosa. Lo terminé orillando al olvido.
Ahora, por clases de la maestría, venía en el listado de lecturas adicionales, y me decidí a darle una nueva oportunidad a esta autora, pero con un libro menos voluminoso.
Desde el primer párrafo, Müller se encarga de decirnos que no será un libro fácil. Que la experiencia será dura, pero, que hay algo más allá, algo que contiene espinas y rosas blancas a la vez. Que la vida no es solo belleza, sino podredumbre y muerte. Vida y desesperación.
Sumergirte en el mundo de Windisch y su familia puede ser abrumador. Asfixiante. Desolador.
Las imágenes creadas por Müller son de una intensidad poética inmensa. El estilo abrupto. Sus líneas cortas con el "fino" filo de un hacha de leñador se van asestando como golpes fuertes en el interior de uno.
Vas leyendo y cuando cierras el libro el aura de este te envuelve y no te deja ni cuando estás secando tus manos después de lavarlas.
La condición humana en esta novela no es trágica. Los acontecimientos se suceden como no pueden suceder de otra manera. La vida así es: cabrona; y no es necesario sentir lástima por la desgracia ajena o propia. Uno la enfrenta con lágrimas o sin ellas, con llanto o gemidos, o simplemente con parquedad.
La corrupción y el abuso de poder son los mismos en todas partes.
Hay impotencia. Pero, la vida así es. Deyanira tiene que trabajar. O quiere. O necesita. O le gusta.
Aunque sea una niña. Y no hay nada que yo pueda hacer. No hay lectura que la salve de eso. Como no hay nada que Amelie hubiera podido hacer para que su destino fuera distinto.
Luego todo pasa y uno vuelve a casa y ve y se pregunta: ¿cómo pude vivir ahí? ¿Era yo el que vivía ahí?
La tensión acumulada de la semana laboral. El estrés del día. La junta con mi jefa el próximo lunes. Ver poco a Emilia.
“Me da coraje ver a niñas en viernes por la noche trabajando”, le dije a Ana. “Coraje. Odio. Bastante.”
“Uno batallando con un trabajo pendejo y ella sonriendo y siendo amable.”
Hace un par de años intenté leer En tierras bajas, de Müller. Al poco tiempo que le dieran el Premio Nobel. No me atrajo gran cosa. Lo terminé orillando al olvido.
Ahora, por clases de la maestría, venía en el listado de lecturas adicionales, y me decidí a darle una nueva oportunidad a esta autora, pero con un libro menos voluminoso.
Desde el primer párrafo, Müller se encarga de decirnos que no será un libro fácil. Que la experiencia será dura, pero, que hay algo más allá, algo que contiene espinas y rosas blancas a la vez. Que la vida no es solo belleza, sino podredumbre y muerte. Vida y desesperación.
Sumergirte en el mundo de Windisch y su familia puede ser abrumador. Asfixiante. Desolador.
Las imágenes creadas por Müller son de una intensidad poética inmensa. El estilo abrupto. Sus líneas cortas con el "fino" filo de un hacha de leñador se van asestando como golpes fuertes en el interior de uno.
Vas leyendo y cuando cierras el libro el aura de este te envuelve y no te deja ni cuando estás secando tus manos después de lavarlas.
La condición humana en esta novela no es trágica. Los acontecimientos se suceden como no pueden suceder de otra manera. La vida así es: cabrona; y no es necesario sentir lástima por la desgracia ajena o propia. Uno la enfrenta con lágrimas o sin ellas, con llanto o gemidos, o simplemente con parquedad.
La corrupción y el abuso de poder son los mismos en todas partes.
Hay impotencia. Pero, la vida así es. Deyanira tiene que trabajar. O quiere. O necesita. O le gusta.
Aunque sea una niña. Y no hay nada que yo pueda hacer. No hay lectura que la salve de eso. Como no hay nada que Amelie hubiera podido hacer para que su destino fuera distinto.
Luego todo pasa y uno vuelve a casa y ve y se pregunta: ¿cómo pude vivir ahí? ¿Era yo el que vivía ahí?
April 13, 2013
Werner Herzog titled his movie about the life of Kaspar Hauser “Every Man Against Himself and God Against All’. That title might also fit Herta Muller’s vision of Communist Romania. This novel takes place in a small town among the German minority during the Ceausescu dictatorship, with a man willing to sacrifice everything, even his family, for the passport of the title. It is not so great a sacrifice as it might seem at first, since he does not seem to like his wife and daughter particularly. In Muller’s “the Appointment”, the doleful meandering of the narrative was tied together by the main character’s long trip by bus to an interview with the secret police. “The Passport” lacks that narrative spine, and it wanders all over the place, through the corruption of the governmental and ecclesiastical authorities, the hideous past—World War II at its seamiest—with occasional flourishes of fantasy, that lack any of the warmth of a Garcia Marquez or a Chagall, instead yet another variation on the deadening of the spirit. “The Appointment” gathered force, especially toward the end, because the narrator seems real, has something to lose, and in fact loses it. The family in “The Passport” – I hesitate to say at the center of the novel because I’m not sure it has one, is too dispirited even to bicker and their betrayal of each other seems natural, even commonplace, in this world. Which is in itself terrifying.
Read
November 23, 2023je vais pas dire grand-chose j'ai à vrai dire déjà tout oublié de ce livre que j'ai achevé il y a quatre jours c'est ça d'être une bimbo je pense !
non vraiment y a eu une scène vraiment très très très très très forte qui m'a beaucoup marquée et dont je me souviendrai, dans ce qu'elle accomplit et éveille chez le lecteur, par la façon dont elle raconte la façon dont la faim, la vraie faim, la faim qui te racle jusqu'à ce qu'il ne lui reste plus rien sous les ongles, te transforme et te forge et te fabrique en autre chose qui n'est pas tout à fait humain et pas encore vraiment mort.
pour le reste... vraiment juxtaposer des phrases toutes simples sans lien apparent les uns avec les autres en mode #parataxe absurdité de la vie #juxtaposition d'impressions ça m'agace mais ça m'agace on comprend rien ça flotte dans tous les sens peut-être utilise des conjonctions de coordination à un moment jsp ? conseil
également si je dois lire ne serait-ce qu'une fois de plus la mention d'un pénis "buté" je vais vraiment devenir l'amuseur des foules considérez-vous prévenus (ça a lieu à au moins 4 reprises dans ce livre je ne sais toujours pas ce que c'est un zizi buté mais je peux vous dire que je hais ça) (également le livre tente je crois de genre #dénoncer le regard que portent les hommes sur "leurs" femmes mais genre... ça va pas très très loin et les femmes elles-mêmes n'ont droit à #aucune intériorité alors bon mdr c'est pas non plus la patte du troisième canard cassé)
non vraiment y a eu une scène vraiment très très très très très forte qui m'a beaucoup marquée et dont je me souviendrai, dans ce qu'elle accomplit et éveille chez le lecteur, par la façon dont elle raconte la façon dont la faim, la vraie faim, la faim qui te racle jusqu'à ce qu'il ne lui reste plus rien sous les ongles, te transforme et te forge et te fabrique en autre chose qui n'est pas tout à fait humain et pas encore vraiment mort.
pour le reste... vraiment juxtaposer des phrases toutes simples sans lien apparent les uns avec les autres en mode #parataxe absurdité de la vie #juxtaposition d'impressions ça m'agace mais ça m'agace on comprend rien ça flotte dans tous les sens peut-être utilise des conjonctions de coordination à un moment jsp ? conseil
également si je dois lire ne serait-ce qu'une fois de plus la mention d'un pénis "buté" je vais vraiment devenir l'amuseur des foules considérez-vous prévenus (ça a lieu à au moins 4 reprises dans ce livre je ne sais toujours pas ce que c'est un zizi buté mais je peux vous dire que je hais ça) (également le livre tente je crois de genre #dénoncer le regard que portent les hommes sur "leurs" femmes mais genre... ça va pas très très loin et les femmes elles-mêmes n'ont droit à #aucune intériorité alors bon mdr c'est pas non plus la patte du troisième canard cassé)
January 13, 2012
Herta Muller is a German Transylvanian from a region of Romania referred to as the Banat. She wrote The Passport during the last days of the Communist regime. Because the Ceausescus were still in power, she had to resort to what is referred to as
aesopic
which is described thusly, according to a recent conference entitled "Aesopic Voices":
Windisch, his wife and daughter, are trying to get a passport allowing them to resettle in West Germany. The local miller, Windisch plies the mayor and the local militia with free bags of flour; and his daughter Amalie uses her body, sleeping with the priest and a local militiaman gto "grease the wheels" a bit.
As the night watchman, a friend of Windisch, observes, "A man is nothing but a pheasant in the world," meaning, presumably, that he exists to be hunted and eaten. This quote, interestingly, is the German title of the novel.
I noticed a curious similarity with Dylan Thomas's A Child's Christmas in Wales, which is equally poetic and picturesque. Even the shortest scenes are striking (and somewhat disturbing), much as this one:
Political truth in the 20th Century was often monopolized by the holders ofMuller was careful at one and the same time to not write anything that would bring the Romanian Securitate down on her, while writing something that captured the essence of living under a captive system.
power. Artists who opposed this monopoly faced real life dangers such as being
censored, condemned, imprisoned, or killed. In some societies any open
opposition would be crushed; the victors of ethnic struggles would silence the
losers; white colonists would oppress the native populations; women would be
suppressed because of their gender; state or church powers would not allow
their moral and belief systems to be questioned. The stranglehold on truth was
often maintained by a censorship agency of some kind.
Authors, storytellers and other artists sought refuge in the realm of the
Aesopic. They extended Aesop's method of disguising truth in fable, making use
of traditional genres and narratological structures found in folklore, fairy
tale, fable, and myth, to veil their critical ideas and present them in a form
that would circumvent repercussions.
Windisch, his wife and daughter, are trying to get a passport allowing them to resettle in West Germany. The local miller, Windisch plies the mayor and the local militia with free bags of flour; and his daughter Amalie uses her body, sleeping with the priest and a local militiaman gto "grease the wheels" a bit.
As the night watchman, a friend of Windisch, observes, "A man is nothing but a pheasant in the world," meaning, presumably, that he exists to be hunted and eaten. This quote, interestingly, is the German title of the novel.
I noticed a curious similarity with Dylan Thomas's A Child's Christmas in Wales, which is equally poetic and picturesque. Even the shortest scenes are striking (and somewhat disturbing), much as this one:
The tractor drivers are wearing small, wet hats. Their black hands are on the table. "Show me," says one. "I'll give you ten lei [a unit of currency]." He puts ten lei on the table. The tractor drivers laugh. Their eyes gleam. Their faces are red. Their glances finger the long flowery skirt [of a little gypsy girl]. The gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The tractor driver empties his glass. The gypsy girl takes the bank note from the table. She twists the plait around her finger and laughs.I like what Muller has done with his short novel and look forward to reading more of her work, which should be relatively easy now that she's won the Nobel Prize in Literature (2009).
December 27, 2009
I am never quite sure why novels are retitled as they move from one language to another. The original title of Müller's book is "Der Mensch ist ein grosser Fasan auf der Welt," which we might translate roughly as "Man is a Large Pheasant in the World." Perhaps a book marketing specialist decided this just would not work in English, although apparently the French publisher was not troubled: "L'homme est un grand faisan sur terre." The problem is that the rather prosaic "The Passport," unlike the original title, gives no hint of the poetic, mystifying quality of Müller's prose. I cannot say that I enjoyed this novel, nor even always understood was precisely was happening, but the hard, staccato prose has moments of great power and has already stirred me to buy the German original and struggle through a few chapters. So what is it about? A German family living in Ceausescu's Romania is desperately trying to get a passport so that they can emigrate to Germany. It is only when the father moves beyond the usual forms of bribery and prostitutes his own daughter that he succeeds. Romania in this novel is portrayed as a pitifully bleak world, as I suppose it was during those years, and Müller exposes its ugliest sides. One must of course read more than one relatively short novel to answer the nagging question, "Yes, Müller's good, but did she deserve the Nobel Prize for Literature?" My current inclination is to say "no," and suggest that Roth, Marais, Murakami, Michon or a number of other contemporary writers are more deserving. But, then again, the selection of Nobel Prize winning authors, year after year, leaves this reader baffled.
September 2, 2016
و مازالت أفضل الأعمال لم تُقرأ بعد ....
صديقة عزيزة جدًا قدمت لي السيدة موللر ذات يوم على مائدة العشاء ، فبدأت رحلتي معها في كتابها إسقاطات ، وجدت أنني في السبيل إلى معرفة شخصية عظيمة للغاية ..
و في صباح يوم مشرق بدأت رحلتي مع قراءتي للعمل الرائع " ما الإنسان سوى دراج كبير في هذه الحياة " ، لأجد نفسي اتعرض إلى ضربات بفأس حادة على رأسي ، ضربات متتالية بقلم الكاتبة .. التي اختارت استخدام الجمل القصيرة التي قد تصل إلى عشرة كلمات حسب أقصى تقدير .. لتتوالي الصدمات إلى عقل القارئ المسكين ، لم تترك مساحة أو ركن من الأركان المظلمة إلا و نبشت فيها .. التناول للفكرة لم يبرز لنا أن الكاتب رجلا أو امرأة ، التناول رائع بكل المعايير المختلفة ، رميت الكاتبة سيل أو وابلا من الأعيرة النارية و سلطت الضوء على قضية هامة ، هل الثمن هو الشرف ؟
هل دائما بيع الجسد مُربح ؟ عند قراءتك لهيرتا موللر ، أطلق العنان لخيالك و كن مترقبًا و ضع رأسك على المذبح حتى تشعر بمتعة لن تنساها ..
اه تذكرت ..
صاحبة نوبل ، في آخر صفحات الرواية أخرجت لي لسانها و بصقت في وجهي حينما علمت أنها جائزة على جائزة كافكا ..
صديقة عزيزة جدًا قدمت لي السيدة موللر ذات يوم على مائدة العشاء ، فبدأت رحلتي معها في كتابها إسقاطات ، وجدت أنني في السبيل إلى معرفة شخصية عظيمة للغاية ..
و في صباح يوم مشرق بدأت رحلتي مع قراءتي للعمل الرائع " ما الإنسان سوى دراج كبير في هذه الحياة " ، لأجد نفسي اتعرض إلى ضربات بفأس حادة على رأسي ، ضربات متتالية بقلم الكاتبة .. التي اختارت استخدام الجمل القصيرة التي قد تصل إلى عشرة كلمات حسب أقصى تقدير .. لتتوالي الصدمات إلى عقل القارئ المسكين ، لم تترك مساحة أو ركن من الأركان المظلمة إلا و نبشت فيها .. التناول للفكرة لم يبرز لنا أن الكاتب رجلا أو امرأة ، التناول رائع بكل المعايير المختلفة ، رميت الكاتبة سيل أو وابلا من الأعيرة النارية و سلطت الضوء على قضية هامة ، هل الثمن هو الشرف ؟
هل دائما بيع الجسد مُربح ؟ عند قراءتك لهيرتا موللر ، أطلق العنان لخيالك و كن مترقبًا و ضع رأسك على المذبح حتى تشعر بمتعة لن تنساها ..
اه تذكرت ..
صاحبة نوبل ، في آخر صفحات الرواية أخرجت لي لسانها و بصقت في وجهي حينما علمت أنها جائزة على جائزة كافكا ..
August 12, 2022
DNF @ pg 26 (28%)
Yeaaaaah... NOPE
This is one of those books that tries to hard to be clever and just ends up being super confusing. I literally have no idea what's going on and I honestly do not care.
I'm sure there will be plenty of people impressed by how clever this is but I am not one - I actually like a readable story in my books.
Hard pass from me.
Yeaaaaah... NOPE
This is one of those books that tries to hard to be clever and just ends up being super confusing. I literally have no idea what's going on and I honestly do not care.
I'm sure there will be plenty of people impressed by how clever this is but I am not one - I actually like a readable story in my books.
Hard pass from me.
May 31, 2010
Overall Verdict: A horrible, bleak and despair-filled book – best avoided. (The generous one star is for the character of Amalie).
Well then. Where do I start with this one? Let me see. Oh yes. I hated it.
Sorry? What do you mean I can’t just say I hate it and leave it at that? Who says a book review has to be in depth? Oh, ok, fine!
*Sigh*
So, you want to know what was so bad about it. Again, I’m not sure where to begin, but I shall endeavour to do my best. I would like to point out though, that I despised the book so much that even though I finished reading it about three weeks ago, I am only just writing the review. I would also like to mention that I resolved to always find at least one good thing to say about anything I review. With The Passport – winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, 2009 no less – I am struggling. Really. In fact I think I may just have to fore-go that promise to myself altogether, which saddens me greatly – and which I blame completely on Müller’s book!
I should say here, that I was really looking forward to reading The Passport. I had always planned to read it after finishing Twilight, because it was a really short book – a novella really – and therefore I figured it would complete my easing back into reading nicely. The subject matter also seemed fascinating – a small German village in Romania struggling under the oppressive Ceausescu regime, and the effect on the people living there. The decision between eking out an existence in this place, or contemplating a move to the West. Not exactly fluffy subject matter, I grant you, but interesting nonetheless. Or so I thought.
Unfortunately, it became evident from the first few pages that this was not going to be an easy read. Or an enjoyable one. Or indeed worth spending another minute on. However, I have always regretted not finishing books when I was younger just because I couldn’t ‘get into’ them so I resolved that when I started reading again, I would persevere. At first with The Passport, I thought it was just me. That my long break from serious reading had somehow left me unable to connect with the text. That I had somehow become intellectually incapable of understanding a difficult book. After a little while though, I realised it wasn’t that I had suddenly become a literary dunce. No, the problem was the book itself. In that it was just really crap.
It isn’t just the profanity that irritated me – although it certainly played its part. Equally, sex in novels generally doesn’t bother me. I’m not a prude. I don’t get upset about bad language or sex if there is a context, if it fits with the character using those words or doing those deeds – though to be truthful it doesn’t particularly thrill me. However, the swearing in The Passport was mainly perpetrated by the narrator’s voice – by Müller herself. This, I believe, was not necessary. And the descriptions of the sexual contact were nothing short of vile. There is no cushioning, just graphic imagery and more of the crude language. There was nothing about it that could even pretend to be enhancing the story. It just seemed to be thrown in to shock the reader, or perhaps to appear ‘modern’ and ‘edgy’. It obviously went down well with the Nobel judging panel. Maybe they like that sort of thing.
Add to this that none of the characters – with the possible exception of Amalie, one I would have liked to know better, but sadly was not allowed to by the author - were remotely likeable. At all. The men think it’s ok to beat, rape and oppress their women. The women, for their part, are all slappers. I know things were bad in Eastern Europe after the war, but is Müller seriously trying to tell us that this is what everyone was like? That there was nobody even slightly redeemable? That a father would feel no guilt, no shame, for pimping out his daughter to the town officials in order to get a passport?
And the writing style! In its relatively short (thank goodness!) length, the book skips backwards and forwards in time with no warning. Often I had to really concentrate, and re-read great chunks, to work out where I was and what was going on. As soon as you find your feet, you are whisked off somewhere else again. Despite this, the story never seems to actually go anywhere, until the final few pages when it races to a quick and rather unsatisfactory conclusion. The lack of dialogue also means that Müller’s voice is the one we hear loudest – not a good thing at all.
I am prepared to forgive a tiny part of the book’s failings with the knowledge that some of the prose may have been lost, or disrupted, during translation. No matter how good the translator, there are always going to be some words and emotions that just don’t make the transition from one language to another. However, translator Martin Chalmers would have had to be doing his job with his eyes closed for this to be the only reason for the way the book turned out! I think we can safely say he’s off the hook.
Maybe I’m just not intelligent enough to appreciate the book’s deeper philosophical meaning. Maybe there is a vital subtext that I’m just not seeing. Maybe I just totally missed the point. But you know what? I don’t care. Really. I am not bothered enough by this literary equivalent of watching paint dry to take the time to find out – particularly if finding out means re-reading this disaster of a novella. All I can say is, the Nobel Prize people must be of a far superior intellectual caliber than I, to have seen whatever potential The Passport contains within its 92 pages. Either that, or 2009 was a really bad year for fiction.
Sadly, this book has made me incredibly wary of reading anything else that has won a literary prize! Surely, the point of awarding writing is that it’s, well, good. Isn’t it? That it should be readable by pretty much anyone who likes to read. Something that your average bookworm can pick up and enjoy. Because really, if a panel of judges have no connection to the real world and the books people love to read, then what’s the point? And as a writer, why would you want to write for these people and not the general public. Sure, awards are great, but if nobody likes or enjoys your book, then surely that’s a fail.
Anyway, I would not hesitate to recommend that you avoid this book if you possibly can. Unless, of course, you’re into jarring prose, thoroughly unlikeable characters and a plot that goes nowhere. If that’s your thing – go for it!
For more of my reviews - not just books - please visit my blog
Well then. Where do I start with this one? Let me see. Oh yes. I hated it.
Sorry? What do you mean I can’t just say I hate it and leave it at that? Who says a book review has to be in depth? Oh, ok, fine!
*Sigh*
So, you want to know what was so bad about it. Again, I’m not sure where to begin, but I shall endeavour to do my best. I would like to point out though, that I despised the book so much that even though I finished reading it about three weeks ago, I am only just writing the review. I would also like to mention that I resolved to always find at least one good thing to say about anything I review. With The Passport – winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, 2009 no less – I am struggling. Really. In fact I think I may just have to fore-go that promise to myself altogether, which saddens me greatly – and which I blame completely on Müller’s book!
I should say here, that I was really looking forward to reading The Passport. I had always planned to read it after finishing Twilight, because it was a really short book – a novella really – and therefore I figured it would complete my easing back into reading nicely. The subject matter also seemed fascinating – a small German village in Romania struggling under the oppressive Ceausescu regime, and the effect on the people living there. The decision between eking out an existence in this place, or contemplating a move to the West. Not exactly fluffy subject matter, I grant you, but interesting nonetheless. Or so I thought.
Unfortunately, it became evident from the first few pages that this was not going to be an easy read. Or an enjoyable one. Or indeed worth spending another minute on. However, I have always regretted not finishing books when I was younger just because I couldn’t ‘get into’ them so I resolved that when I started reading again, I would persevere. At first with The Passport, I thought it was just me. That my long break from serious reading had somehow left me unable to connect with the text. That I had somehow become intellectually incapable of understanding a difficult book. After a little while though, I realised it wasn’t that I had suddenly become a literary dunce. No, the problem was the book itself. In that it was just really crap.
It isn’t just the profanity that irritated me – although it certainly played its part. Equally, sex in novels generally doesn’t bother me. I’m not a prude. I don’t get upset about bad language or sex if there is a context, if it fits with the character using those words or doing those deeds – though to be truthful it doesn’t particularly thrill me. However, the swearing in The Passport was mainly perpetrated by the narrator’s voice – by Müller herself. This, I believe, was not necessary. And the descriptions of the sexual contact were nothing short of vile. There is no cushioning, just graphic imagery and more of the crude language. There was nothing about it that could even pretend to be enhancing the story. It just seemed to be thrown in to shock the reader, or perhaps to appear ‘modern’ and ‘edgy’. It obviously went down well with the Nobel judging panel. Maybe they like that sort of thing.
Add to this that none of the characters – with the possible exception of Amalie, one I would have liked to know better, but sadly was not allowed to by the author - were remotely likeable. At all. The men think it’s ok to beat, rape and oppress their women. The women, for their part, are all slappers. I know things were bad in Eastern Europe after the war, but is Müller seriously trying to tell us that this is what everyone was like? That there was nobody even slightly redeemable? That a father would feel no guilt, no shame, for pimping out his daughter to the town officials in order to get a passport?
And the writing style! In its relatively short (thank goodness!) length, the book skips backwards and forwards in time with no warning. Often I had to really concentrate, and re-read great chunks, to work out where I was and what was going on. As soon as you find your feet, you are whisked off somewhere else again. Despite this, the story never seems to actually go anywhere, until the final few pages when it races to a quick and rather unsatisfactory conclusion. The lack of dialogue also means that Müller’s voice is the one we hear loudest – not a good thing at all.
I am prepared to forgive a tiny part of the book’s failings with the knowledge that some of the prose may have been lost, or disrupted, during translation. No matter how good the translator, there are always going to be some words and emotions that just don’t make the transition from one language to another. However, translator Martin Chalmers would have had to be doing his job with his eyes closed for this to be the only reason for the way the book turned out! I think we can safely say he’s off the hook.
Maybe I’m just not intelligent enough to appreciate the book’s deeper philosophical meaning. Maybe there is a vital subtext that I’m just not seeing. Maybe I just totally missed the point. But you know what? I don’t care. Really. I am not bothered enough by this literary equivalent of watching paint dry to take the time to find out – particularly if finding out means re-reading this disaster of a novella. All I can say is, the Nobel Prize people must be of a far superior intellectual caliber than I, to have seen whatever potential The Passport contains within its 92 pages. Either that, or 2009 was a really bad year for fiction.
Sadly, this book has made me incredibly wary of reading anything else that has won a literary prize! Surely, the point of awarding writing is that it’s, well, good. Isn’t it? That it should be readable by pretty much anyone who likes to read. Something that your average bookworm can pick up and enjoy. Because really, if a panel of judges have no connection to the real world and the books people love to read, then what’s the point? And as a writer, why would you want to write for these people and not the general public. Sure, awards are great, but if nobody likes or enjoys your book, then surely that’s a fail.
Anyway, I would not hesitate to recommend that you avoid this book if you possibly can. Unless, of course, you’re into jarring prose, thoroughly unlikeable characters and a plot that goes nowhere. If that’s your thing – go for it!
For more of my reviews - not just books - please visit my blog
July 6, 2014
"Man is a great pheasant on the earth.", funny of title
It is a novel on attempt. The miller Wendisch wants to emigrate. He wants to leave the communist greyness. He wants to pass to the west. He makes all for that. He works a lot and pay, pay.
He dreams : one day he will return as a visitor, well dressed as west people. There is Amélie, his daughter, who is given her to the police officer, to the minister, without pleasure and without love. Amélie cries, Amélie dries its tears. They wait and seasons pass with boring.
This book always made think of the operas of Janacek, Jenufa and even the small little vixen. This musician was to much neglected. Even Boulez said that he had underestimated him. The last opera he agreed to direct (because his age) was a Janacek's one"From the house of dead." whose libretto is inspired by Dostoievski. It was very moving. 1984 of Murakami begin with the Janacek's sinfonietta.
A strong place is given to nature. We find a Slavic aspect, as at the last Tolstoi with an almost animist dimension in this faith in a vital energy. But the miller makes a transgression because he is ready to leave its ground, a farmer do not give up his ground.
They will leave, they will return as a visitor. Well dressed certainly, but happy? No indication on their sentiments. Amélie is not with them.
“They recieve communion without to be confessed”
It will be the only reproach that villager will make them. In the countryside, one does not speak.
A chronicle country, not so innocent and at least rather subversive. It is not astonishing that Mrs. Muller had some problems with the censure.
It is a novel on attempt. The miller Wendisch wants to emigrate. He wants to leave the communist greyness. He wants to pass to the west. He makes all for that. He works a lot and pay, pay.
He dreams : one day he will return as a visitor, well dressed as west people. There is Amélie, his daughter, who is given her to the police officer, to the minister, without pleasure and without love. Amélie cries, Amélie dries its tears. They wait and seasons pass with boring.
This book always made think of the operas of Janacek, Jenufa and even the small little vixen. This musician was to much neglected. Even Boulez said that he had underestimated him. The last opera he agreed to direct (because his age) was a Janacek's one"From the house of dead." whose libretto is inspired by Dostoievski. It was very moving. 1984 of Murakami begin with the Janacek's sinfonietta.
A strong place is given to nature. We find a Slavic aspect, as at the last Tolstoi with an almost animist dimension in this faith in a vital energy. But the miller makes a transgression because he is ready to leave its ground, a farmer do not give up his ground.
They will leave, they will return as a visitor. Well dressed certainly, but happy? No indication on their sentiments. Amélie is not with them.
“They recieve communion without to be confessed”
It will be the only reproach that villager will make them. In the countryside, one does not speak.
A chronicle country, not so innocent and at least rather subversive. It is not astonishing that Mrs. Muller had some problems with the censure.
October 2, 2013
التجربـة الأولى مع هيرتا موللر. التجربـة الغريبة و المدهِشة، قرأتها حتى النهايـة، عند كلمة "-انتهت-" تحديدا وجدتني أعود للصفحة الاولى و أعيد قرائتها في محاولة مني للتورط بها أكثر. الملفِت جدا في هيرتا هو اختيارها للجمل القصيرة دوما، و إلتفاتها لكل ما هو دقيق و صغير و مهمل. "توت السياج ينمو من عينيها." "تسمع أمالي الطلقة من وراء صوتها." "تمشي ملتصقة به تحت سترتـه و كأنها كتفه." "في السرير، في الليل، كنت أسمع الأنفاق." "لم أستطع أن أغمض عيني. في الليل كنت أحسّ بالجبال في رأسي.". يا للعظمة و الجنون !
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