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Col corpo capisco

by David Grossman, Alessandra Shomroni (Translator)

3.52 of 5 stars 3.52 · rating details · 122 ratings · 12 reviews

Grossman invita il lettore ad affrontare uno dei sentimenti più potenti: la gelosia. E lo fa in due lunghi racconti, in cui un personaggio narra ad un altro (ma sarebbe meglio dire a se stesso), una storia di tradimento della quale è o si sente vittima. Nel primo è Shaul a confessare con quanta passione lui stesso vive la relazione che sua moglie intrattiene con un altro u...more

Paperback, Oscar Contemporanea, 301 pages

Published January 1st 2009 by Arnoldo Mondadori (first published 2002)

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Jan 31, 2013 Mariel rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: smother me in wild discovery

Recommended to Mariel by: sometimes I'd rather burn than let you help me

I wrote the tourist stories and collected them into a book. I tried to dabble with cinema a little, and journalism, and I discovered my limitations, and mainly I learned that there was a price to pay for that childhood (it turns out there's no such thing as a free starvation), and that in the meantime the world had filled up with other children who hadn't wasted all their strength on just surviving but had simply grown and opened and deepened, and that only in her innocent eyes could I still be

...more

I wrote the tourist stories and collected them into a book. I tried to dabble with cinema a little, and journalism, and I discovered my limitations, and mainly I learned that there was a price to pay for that childhood (it turns out there's no such thing as a free starvation), and that in the meantime the world had filled up with other children who hadn't wasted all their strength on just surviving but had simply grown and opened and deepened, and that only in her innocent eyes could I still be considered worth anything.

If they were out to lunch with someone and that someone spent the quality of that time on their cell phone calling someone else they would nurse the baby bird on a wing shadow of their organs. The throb, the pump, the beat bleeding ink to write the future. Fantasies birthed of what they would say, maybe calling the person on the phone, or getting up and leaving. It is like the recurring dream when you wake up before you find out the important secret, or a sex fantasy without orgasm. Repeat, reject, I am so hurt and look at my pretty thorn in my paw. It starts to become important to be rejected. A proof to become superstition. I recognize myself in the putting oneself in the ground opened up and covered it with dirt. In my early twenties I had this sort of crush (the kind refused to dwell on to sidestep lifting it into full blown love. I don't do crushes, although I miss where they would be because they slow time) on this guy who was the sort of person who talked to you in whispers of "I have been waiting for someone to get this my whole life". There was never enough time to talk about everything. When his cooler friend was around he pretended that he didn't know me. Once he made fun of me. (The cooler friend still checks up on me once or twice a year. He's a nice guy.) I lost the not enough time and replaced it with wake up every hour talking to him in front of people to be embarrassing. I just wish that I had said "Fuck anyone who doesn't like me. The world has enough cool people anyway" and left any time anyone ever called me just to tell me how they were too busy for me. The people in Grossman's novellas made me think of that. I asked myself a lot when rereading it what they had to lose in their honesty (I've been thinking about this a lot. Why people think they have to be cool and pretend that nothing matters). But it's not that kind of honesty. It's a climbing into your grave honesty. Pinning yourself to the operation table and guts are out. What is left inside?

Now I tell her, with a relief uncommon in these lands, about the feeling I had during the last weeks of writing. "It was as if someone were grabbing me hard by my neck and taking off with me. Honestly, like they were actually forcing me to leap out of my skin and take off..."
Her eyes glimmer. "That's happiness, isn't it?"

Yes, it is. I've said this before and I will say it again. I love David Grossman because he has the guts to have a heart. I've been mulling over these for years and come close to my breath on the words. It reminds me of the remorse I feel when I have opened up after the setting myself on fire. It's not a there is nothing left feeling. I almost had it when reading (only one story left. I could finish it any time I want!) Amos Oz's The Hill of Evil Counsel. (David Grossman cited it as an influence in his essay collection Writings in the Dark. I love how he agreed that he was influenced by other authors he had not yet read at the time of writing his novels. Kind of like finding a long lost sister. It's a wonderful way to see that, I think.) It's a skinless feeling. I think Grossman (particularly in the earlier works. This was early, I THINK first, but translated later) stays in the bared feeling where it isn't cool, staring. More than that, the rising of red where the skin had been. I'm not kidding I have been thinking about this for freaking years. Jonathan Safran Foer didn't do it right in his DG influenced novels. It's past squirming on the parents lap when you are too old and get off me, people are looking. It's further down the street from never come home again hospitals. It's like what Aesop Rock says about "if you choose to build you will die by the tools you build with". The skin is where the nutrients or tasty parts are, so say meat eaters. You want to shed it all. Break everything and build it and die over and over again.

Rotem in "Her Body Knows" wrote a story about her mother, Nili, to be read on her deathbed. Read with interruption, the fear you will be understood. Tell me that I was wrong. Make a liar out of me. I wasn't as into the story of Nili training the young boy, Kobi (he says that is his name. It is the name of a boy he wishes he was close to all of the time) in the art of yoga. If this wasn't written first I would have thought Kobi was "self-portrait" from someone who hates themselves (however much Nili is obsessed with him. Something I never got). The prince who was a toad in all save for the eyes that kissed him. Squirming in laps of your parent when you are too old. I once knew this (awful) girl who sat in her adopted parents lap as a teenager of seventeen. I felt the kind of repulsion like watching a thousand people chew tuna fish sandwiches with their mouths opened. Maybe it is the Rotem in me that felt betrayed by Nili's wanting to save Kobi. From what? To save herself, only it wouldn't be. An ego drowning in a car wreck of led conversations that didn't orgasm in praise. See, I'm being harsh on her as if she had hurt me too. The perfect part of this novella was that Rotem gave herself two sisters she did not have in real life, as if those sisters could be a protection. They never existed and she invented them. So long as she is writing they exist. "Her Body Knows" is my least favorite of anything DG has written. It isn't ambivalence. I wouldn't have written about this boy that Nili loved. It wasn't instead of her daughter. It felt like remembering, when your birthday falls every year, how your mother forgot your birthday. It's ritualized pain, right? I didn't give a damn about Kobi, his boyfriend, the abusive father, his prostitution, fears of insanity. He isn't real. He's an obstruction. Maybe he was real. It was important to Rotem to imagine it as it had really happened to her mother. That is something I love about Grossman in later books so much. It was important between them for Rotem to take Nili's side (I can imagine her older sister cum mother, Leora. Judge, jury, executioner eagling in to say you are WRONG. DG must know everything about them. I envied him his description of writing this way. The freedom to be naked with them). But when they both wonder if she would understand her mother better if she was a mother herself... The story could be being a mother, only it isn't, quite. Maybe it is because it is the last chance death bed. It should have happened because they both wanted it. Nili smiles her Mona Lisa smile that doesn't extend to her daughter's face. It's allowed. She said just don't tell me not to write. I would have liked it better if they didn't go off without me and say they were glad they finally talked. Touching, knowing. I am stranded in the land of glorifying rejection.

I haven't, Leora thinks sourly, and a horrible headache suddenly erupts on the edges of her skull and advances quickly, and a lump in her throat starts darting up and down like a little devil stomping his feet furiously. Me! I haven't!

She drives to him. Elisheva, Shaul's wife of twenty years, his only love, the curve in the back to fit. He sees her in her very green car he insisted for her. A microchip to bolt into her neck like Frankenstein Godzillaing the tiny village of lonely Japanese men. He searches for her in a search party of torch carriers that have his face and facelessness of every man who could see a part of her he would want for only him. It wasn't because Elisheva wanted her sacred lonely swim every day. Her annual four day trip without him, scorched civilization in the distressed damsel's flaxen grip. The love she shares with another man. He waits for her. They share a language together when Elisheva decides she must learn Portuguese. Everything in its place before she gets back. Shaul's head is on the back of the chair and her swim is a stormed village of a sperm bank. He drives to her with his sister-in-law Esti. I felt Esti's longing for the true honesty that Elisheva would not keep the love she cannot live without from her husband. She can't leave Shaul for him because she can't. His broken body under the monster's foot? I suspected there was no man and this does not exist outside of the shared oxygen between them as he talks. He wishes, she still loves her first boyfriend who did not turn her to the best side of face when standing before him. I did not wish that Esti and Shaul would embrace outside the door of breaking down the castle in the air. Fortress around your heart, the king's men and his search party, self-fulfilling prophecies. David Grossman's power was the building. Shaul breaks his own heart but it is more than that. It is where he wanted to be. He could have tattooed her name over his heart and instead he sees her every day for ten years going to this other man, Paul. He gives him a name, they dance, make love. Elisheva is a person without him. I could have wanted it to be true, as Esti did, to think you knew a person and shift them into a person without you, or them. Pull back the woolen eyes and it didn't have to be that way.

Esti felt the blood pulsing quickly in her knuckles as they grasped the wheel. The thought was so foriegn that her tongue and lips moved with it in a slow chewing motion.
But how?
He nodded, defeated.
I don't understand. Her voice faded, lost. You just sit at home-
He wiped his face with both hands. His burning forehead, his temples.
Why? She practically yelled.
Why? He spoke into himself, sealed and dark. Why indeed?
Like a man shouting in a well, she thought.

His family never had him and I don't think they ever could. He could have been born unrelated to anyone. He loves Elisheva in another womb. I am not mentioning the past fear between Esti when she is peeled by Shaul into admitting things about her past (orphaned, tortured in school, married into a family that sees her side of face) she hasn't told anyone. I wondered about their glances between each other that could have turned into talking about things you never talked about. It was the pleasure of putting yourself down and embarrassment. Could be a relief, if it wasn't willed to hurt.

Jessica Cohen translated. I sorta "stalked" her website for news on her translation of Grossman's newest book (not yet. Sighs). I noticed a couple of times she was not too happy about being overlooked for her job as translator. (Mostly I don't often because it'd get repetitive.) If I were to write about myself as a character it would be good to get down the rushing forward to hug and then the invisible body (if you could step out of yourself) holding you back. "No, that's not true! Can't you see..." It takes a lot of bravery from me to say anything, to push my arms away. That's a big part of the David Grossman appeal to me. He gets the good part of the bravery/heart as well as the twisted energy of the flames on flesh. You can do it to pick the wound and on good days you do it because there's no much other chance. So I wrote a letter to Jessica Cohen how I felt about her work as David Grossman translator. She translated his To the End of the Land (my treasure). She took it as part of herself to write that. She must have felt to talk about these people as if you could think the best of them and give of yourself too. I believe the spirit of David Grossman (I've read him through different translators) is seen. (I wish I knew Hebrew. When I was a kid I wanted to be Jewish because I was envious of the Jewish kids who were forced to attend Hebrew classes. I was not jealous of me who was forced to go to a Southern Baptist church because my mother said "Sure, I don't give a shit" [different words with that essence. Hey, I can write too] to some pushy lady in ugly clothes borrowed from your Kindergarten teacher. You know, jean skirts and Christmas sweaters.)(less)

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Aug 08, 2011 Charlotte added it · review of another edition

I’d never read Grossman before, but had recently read a glowing review of his latest semi-autographical novel that made me desperate to read something of his. He began his career as journalist who was fired from a prominent Israeli newspaper after writing a piece that was too sympathetic to Palestinians, and now he takes his place with Amos Oz as one of the foremost Israeli writers. Her Body Knows is part of his earlier work.

The book contains two novellas, both about the internal machinations of...more I’d never read Grossman before, but had recently read a glowing review of his latest semi-autographical novel that made me desperate to read something of his. He began his career as journalist who was fired from a prominent Israeli newspaper after writing a piece that was too sympathetic to Palestinians, and now he takes his place with Amos Oz as one of the foremost Israeli writers. Her Body Knows is part of his earlier work.

The book contains two novellas, both about the internal machinations of obsession, and about what can happen when obsession—which is very private—is shared. I have never read anything like it!

The first novella, “Frenzy,” is—the reader only gradually realizes—about a husband’s conviction that his wife betrays him every day from noon to 1 when she goes swimming. He has constructed every detail of her double life which, in turn, forces him to lead a double life. It’s philosophical, deeply personal and unique, and I never for a moment felt I wasn’t inside this man’s head. Sharing his obsession has unexpected consequences.

The second novella, after which the book is named, is just breathtaking. It’s a story within a story—but without feeling at all gimmicky. A writer visits her dying mother to read her the story she’s working on—a story that encapsulates her imagined version of her mother’s life (which has been hidden from her) and she is able to share, finally, her mysterious sense of betrayal. The daughter’s fictionalized story reveals raw, enigmatic truths. The relationship between daughter and mother changes subtly as the story is read. It is completely believable and moving and strange. The fictionalized story is about a yoga teacher, which was her mother’s occupation, who learns about herself and her student through the body, through asanas and massage, as if the body is capable of revealing the whole truth of who we are, as if the body is capable of transforming our psyche. (Which I believe, after reading this!)

Oddly, the writing itself was imperfect. This could be due to translation problems, or it could simply be Grossman. Mixed metaphors abound and there is a very casual feeling—casual but confident and always with sense of inevitability that makes one accept everything he writes.

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Jul 11, 2012 Callie S. rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Allusivo e prezioso, come molti esponenti della letteratura israeliana (al tempo stesso ben caratterizzato e distinto dalla prosa eccellente di Amos Oz), Grossman realizza quel delicato miracolo che riesce solo agli autentici scrittori - e non ai pennivendoli di moda: scrive in un genere non suo, dipingendo nevrosi e debolezze, mancanze e virtù, estasi e caduta di una femminilità evocata e vissuta attraverso le esperienze dei sensi; una comprensione non distinta dalla percezione, attraverso la q...more Allusivo e prezioso, come molti esponenti della letteratura israeliana (al tempo stesso ben caratterizzato e distinto dalla prosa eccellente di Amos Oz), Grossman realizza quel delicato miracolo che riesce solo agli autentici scrittori - e non ai pennivendoli di moda: scrive in un genere non suo, dipingendo nevrosi e debolezze, mancanze e virtù, estasi e caduta di una femminilità evocata e vissuta attraverso le esperienze dei sensi; una comprensione non distinta dalla percezione, attraverso la quale donne incredibilmente diverse compongono un mosaico in cui chiunque potrebbe rispecchiarsi, indignarsi o commuoversi. Col corpo capisco non è però solo una sublimazione del femminile, quanto l'espressione di due distinte espressioni di disagio e morbosità: quella di Shaul, in Follia, che sublima l'amore per la moglie Elisheva inventando un intero universo di tradimento e fuga - un amore non più vissuto attraverso il rapporto, ma attraverso la proiezione del rapporto stesso in un alter ego più libero e selvaggio, che realizza quel godimento che si sente impossibilitato a dare. Quella di Rotem e della madre Nili, nella novella che titola il volume, l'una carica di oscuro livore, l'altra morente e ancora spaventosa nella sua incombenza; un rapporto giocato sulle allusioni e celato attraverso il dipanarsi del metatesto (il romanzo nel romanzo: Rotem, divenuta scrittrice, dipinge in un racconto un evento del passato della madre), in un caleidoscopio avvolgente e rifranto in mille, inafferrabili schegge.
Un romanzo che concede molto: all'ispirazione, alla riflessione, all'emozione. Spesso tortuoso, complesso nei repentini mutamenti di registro - ora ellittico e prezioso, ora colloquiale - rappresenta un'esperienza quasi catartica di immersione ed esplorazione del proprio privato universo emotivo. Racconta infatti alle donne molto del proprio essere donne - fragili, umorali, protese ad assimilare la vita attraverso la propria stessa pelle - eppure, al tempo stesso, racconta di come gli uomini guardano e vivono le donne, in un gioco di rifrazioni in cui la sostanza del genere sfuma fino a divenire inconsistente. (less)

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Apr 06, 2012 Lia rated it 4 of 5 stars

Follia

Shaul non parla che dal silenzio di un auto, quel silenzio che incrollabile custodisce da tempo. Esti, la moglie di suo fratello Miha, al volante, impossibilitata com’è a corrispondere cautamente al proprio malumore, non sa ancora decidere quale sia la natura profonda di questo atteggiamento; esso infatti si pone in rotta di collisione con la sua più tenace convinzione di un disciplinato distacco: il problema è tutto inscritto nel tipo di distanza, sempre uguale e misurabile, che entrambi...more Follia

Shaul non parla che dal silenzio di un auto, quel silenzio che incrollabile custodisce da tempo. Esti, la moglie di suo fratello Miha, al volante, impossibilitata com’è a corrispondere cautamente al proprio malumore, non sa ancora decidere quale sia la natura profonda di questo atteggiamento; esso infatti si pone in rotta di collisione con la sua più tenace convinzione di un disciplinato distacco: il problema è tutto inscritto nel tipo di distanza, sempre uguale e misurabile, che entrambi intrattengono col mondo e nel mondo. C’è però dell’altro ed è ciò che più conta. Solo a partire dalla prospettiva di Shaul, la destinazione darà senso al viaggio. Dal momento in cui lasceranno la superstrada di Tel Aviv in direzione sud, ciò che accade sembrerà assurdo, un autentico delirio. Eppure proprio in esso, al suo insorgere, Esti avvertirà il grido e sentirà Shaul infrangere il silenzio. Il racconto del desiderio di Elisheva, sua moglie, la sua attrazione e l’incanto, per un altro uomo rimbalzerà proprio in quello stesso luogo, la loro casa, là dove il silenzio è avvertito ed è anche sorto. La posizione di Shaul, la sua fama, gli onori che tutti gli attribuiscono e, come si dice, l’identità stessa dell’uomo, la sua famiglia proiettano sulla scena tutto ciò che accade nella testa del nostro personaggio, come suo orizzonte o punto di vista, come suo presupposto o pregiudizio, come sua prospettiva, e intorno a lui; più esattamente poiché in “Follia” Grossman fa uso del discorso diretto e, insieme, indiretto, il lettore assume uno sguardo panoramico come se si trovasse nella realtà di Esti e Shaul e in più facesse esperienza della lucida follia di Shaul seguendo monologhi ritmici in una successione di dialoghi che priveranno di velo l’intimità di una coppia. L’uno dopo l’altro, Esti Shaul Elisheva, staccandosi dal presente, lungo un viaggio, in un’interconnessione di immagini psichiche, afferreranno il lettore, che, sballottato e invaso da ogni parte nello spazio sonoro emotivo, indovinerà le loro intenzioni udendone l’assordante sofferenza.
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Mar 30, 2013 Hobbes rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Se trata de dos novelas pequeñas: Delirio y La memoria de la piel. En la primera, un esposo atormentado le cuenta a su cuñada las "infidelidades" de su esposa durante un viaje que ambos hacen para descubrirla con su amante. A lo largo de esa jornada Grossman nos deja ver hasta donde puede llegar el delirio de una persona dominada por los celos imaginando y contando con todo detalle lo que su esposa hace todos los días con su amante; y también lo que esas confidencias provocan en la persona que l...more

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Jan 29, 2011 Tancredi rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: preferiti, israeliani

"Lei mi interrompe dopo la terza frase: ieri ho visto un programma alla televisione e ho pensato a te.
Poso i fogli, non riesco a credere che mi interrompa in questo modo. Mi sono svegliata alle tre di notte, dice, e non avevo niente da fare. Il suo viso gonfio si muove a fatica sul cuscino. Era un programma su certi pazzi in America che salvano gli uccelli andati a sbattere contro un grattacielo.
Resto in attesa. Il nesso non mi è chiaro."

Non senza ragione Grossman è considerato uno dei migliori

...more

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May 14, 2012 Louise Silk rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: fiction

It's a thrill to discover an author I am not familiar. Thanks GoodReads for introducing me to David Grossman.

These are two fascinating stories in one volume. I didn't give the book five stars because it is challenging to follow all of the thoughts as the author moves back and forth between the characters- although it was clearly the best way to allow the stories to unfold and be revealed in an interesting thought provoking manner.

Interesting topic, great work!

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May 17, 2009 Theresa rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Rhapsodic writing. A story of the human heart: to love, to be loved, to find a home. And we can't always choose who it will be; there needs to be an acceptance. For some, this is hard, But when it is found, it is all.

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Dec 15, 2008 Grier rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: fiction

I gave up. Dont know what I was missing but I thought it was horrible.

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Jun 19, 2008 Eliza T. Williamson rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

The novella "Frenzy" contains more amazing, head spinning metaphors and similes than I have ever encountered. Grossman truly inhabits the mind of a man who is obsessed by his wifes infidelity...or is it the possibility of her being unfaithful? At times the story was tough to follow and that was due to dreamlike flashbacks which I still don't completely understand. Overall a curious, physically provocative and suspensful read.

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Jul 25, 2012 Leka added it · review of another edition

Shelves: israele, racconti

Se fossi Cleopatra, questo libro sarebbe l'aspide da nascondermi in seno.
Ovvio che non sono Cleopatra e che i libri non hanno denti.
Ma il risultato è lo stesso.

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Jul 19, 2007 Michael Orbach rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

The Plot Bus got stuck at the station.

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About David Grossman

From ithl.org:

Leading Israeli novelist David Grossman (b. 1954, Jerusalem) studied philosophy and drama at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and later worked as an editor and broadcaster at Israel Radio. Grossman has written seven novels, a play, a number of short stories and novellas, and a number of books for children and youth. He has also published several books of non-fiction, including int...more

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Quotes from Col corpo capisco

“She seems to be resuscitating me from far away as soon as I start to weaken. I close my eyes and see myself fleeing from the bed to the mattress on the floor, and from there to the couch, and the rug, and Melanie following me sleepily from one place to the next. I shout that I can’t fall asleep within the magnetic field of another body, and she mumbles, half asleep, “Come on, try a little longer.” And so for a few bleary-eyes, sleepwalking weeks—and as if having no knowledge of it the next morning—she gave me the nocturnal portion of a withdrawal treatment from the loneliness: one night we spent a whole hour together, the next night two hours, then a week of regression and crisis as I tried to adapt to the horrific idea of a shared blanket. Until suddenly, out of utter exhaustion, I discovered that our bodies had already reached an agreement—even mine, the illiterate one, must have caught on, because one night I woke up from a deep sleep and realized how beautifully we turned over together in bed, embraced.” — 2 people liked it

“and I discovered my limitations, and mainly I learned that there was a price to pay for that childhood (it turns out there’s no such thing as a free starvation), and that in the meantime the world had filled up with other children who hadn’t wasted all their strength on just surviving but had simply grown and opened and deepened, and that only in her innocent eyes could I still be considered worth anything.” — 1 person liked it

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