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Embers

by Sándor Márai, Carol Brown Janeway (Translator)

3.82 of 5 stars 3.82 · rating details · 4,371 ratings · 593 reviews

Originally published in 1942 and now rediscovered to international acclaim, this taut and exquisitely structured novel by the Hungarian master Sandor Marai conjures the melancholy glamour of a decaying empire and the disillusioned wisdom of its last heirs.

In a secluded woodland castle an old General prepares to receive a rare visitor, a man who was once his closest friend...more

Paperback, 213 pages

Published August 13th 2002 by Vintage (first published 1942)

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May 13, 2011 K.D. Oliveros rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to K.D. by: 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die (2006-2010); 501 Must Read Books

Shelves: 1001-core, 501, favorites

Embers is perfect. I just cannot find anything not to like about this book. It’s a kind of book I have never quite read before. It’s a simple novel but will definitely stay in my memory for a long time. To think that it sat there, gathering dust, in my bookshelves for more than 2 years. What a pity if I died without reading this flawlessly engrossing work. I only picked this because it is thin and seemed to me like a quick read. I was behind by 8 books in my 2011 Reading Challenge here in Goodre...more Embers is perfect. I just cannot find anything not to like about this book. It’s a kind of book I have never quite read before. It’s a simple novel but will definitely stay in my memory for a long time. To think that it sat there, gathering dust, in my bookshelves for more than 2 years. What a pity if I died without reading this flawlessly engrossing work. I only picked this because it is thin and seemed to me like a quick read. I was behind by 8 books in my 2011 Reading Challenge here in Goodreads last weekend and I thought of catching up.

Sandor Marai (1900-1989), a Hungarian novelist and journalist, wrote Embers in Hungarian when he was 42 and already living in San Diego, CA. He had to flee Hungary during the Nazi occupation not because he was a Jew but because he was profoundly an anti-Fascist. Just like Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson and Richard Brautigan he committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. He was 89 years old. His works had been largely forgotten outside of Hungary and were only “rediscovered” in 1992 when Embers was re-published in France then translated to other European languages. In fact, Marai’s works are now considered as part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon. (Source: Wiki).

Embers or “The Candles Burn Down to the Stump” is written in a precise and clear realist-style narrative. It tells the story of two male friends: the rich man, Henrik and a poor man, Konrad. Their friendship started when they were in school and Henrik introduced Konrad to his rich father. They became best friends, almost like real brothers and inseparable. Kondrad was even the one who introduced a girl called Krisztina to him who later became Henrik’s wife. Then one day, when the two men were 34 years old, they went hunting and Henrik saw that Konrad was aiming his gun at him. Later that day, the three, Henrik, Konrad and Krisztina, had their last dinner together in Henrik’s castle. The following day, Konrad left to Singapore without saying goodbye. Henrik went to Konrad’s apartment and when he was about to leave, he saw Krisztina there and uttered her last word to Henrik: “Coward”. From that day on, Hendrik and Krisztina separated by living in the different buildings in Henrik’s property. They did not talk to each other until Krisztina’s death 8 years after. On her deathbed, Krisztina was calling for Henrik.

The novel opens when Henrik is 75 years old and Krisztina has been dead for 33 years. Henrik receives a letter from Konrad, also 75, saying that Konrad will come for dinner that same day. What follows next is the slow and engrossing unfolding of truth on what happened 41 years ago: during the hunt, the dinner and the day at Konrad’s apartment. The plot is this thin and almost no twists. The storytelling is dominated by Henrik’s monologue that is a mixture of lamentation, reminiscences and philosophy but delivered in composed, swift, firm yet almost in monotone. That style makes the mood of the novel as chilling, suspenseful and mind-boggling as it delves into the core of our being human: the pain of friendship, love, betrayal, revenge and acceptance. For 41 years, Hendrik only thought of that day and he waited for Konrad’s return to know the truth. The slow unfolding of it amidst the eerie locale - Hungarian castle in the middle of the forest – the silence, the dark and the image of the two old men talking to each other. The slowness of the development of the story strangely makes the reading interesting. It is like the slow opening of the castle’s door with all the creaking sound while the stillness of the night reverberates in one’s brain.

The only caution? If you are a type of a reader who wants fast-paced action and lots of twist, don’t go for this book. I guess you will appreciate this more if you are at least in your middle-age already and/or you’ve been wronged or hurt by a loved one before and you haven’t forgiven him or her. Marai’s words, uttered by Hendrik, can be a good start for you to find forgiveness lurking somewhere inside your heart.
(less)

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May 22, 2013 Samadrita rated it 4 of 5 stars Recommends it for: those who can pardon the absence of a real story

Shelves: 1001-and-more, historical, european-literature, hungary, novella-short-stories, human-drama, philosophical, cherished, awesomesauce, austria

Embers is a tale of heart-breaking beauty. The kind of beauty which is not apparent right at the onset but which makes its omnipresence felt as you keep turning the pages and reach that state of involvement with the narrative, where you cannot wait to feast your eyes and senses on another delicately structured sentence.
It lies in the pall of gloom cast by the shadow of some tragedy unspoken of, lurking in the dark, cobwebbed nooks and corners of a secluded castle, the relentless flow of time th...more Embers is a tale of heart-breaking beauty. The kind of beauty which is not apparent right at the onset but which makes its omnipresence felt as you keep turning the pages and reach that state of involvement with the narrative, where you cannot wait to feast your eyes and senses on another delicately structured sentence.
It lies in the pall of gloom cast by the shadow of some tragedy unspoken of, lurking in the dark, cobwebbed nooks and corners of a secluded castle, the relentless flow of time the sense of which the book tries to capture quite successfully and in the hollowness of life itself.

There is no worthwhile story to be found at its core since a reflection on love, betrayal and the consequences of human folly is nothing new. But it is the handling of these themes which is.
Sándor Márai has a way of creating a mood consistent with the dreariness of the story within and it is this mood which metamorphoses into an important character itself. Like an invisible, guiding force, this mood becomes the reader's constant companion as he/she slowly navigates his/her way around the imperfect lives of Márai's characters.
He ends up imparting a restrained elegance even to the meanest of human tendencies like the insane urge to kill another and to the chilling finality in a man's feelings of disillusionment with life and the people he held dear to his heart.

It is as if Márai's aim from the beginning had been not to bestow significance on numerous life events of a handful of people but instead on an acute analysis of human actions and how individual acts of indiscretion feature in the greater scheme of things. How eventually everything dies out and ceases to matter, after creating a few evanescent ripples on the surface of the placid lake of human existence.

A few irritants have kept me from placing this book on my personal, metaphysical pedestal of absolute literary perfection - the objectification of women, a subtle nod of approval to medieval values like the appreciation of gender specific character traits, the seemingly endless and tedious monologue in the latter half of the book and a sense of perverse vanity the central characters seem to derive out of their European ancestry caused me to take away that 1 star.

Barring these minor causes of botheration, Embers is near perfect. It glows powerfully with the spirit of all actions and emotions so distinctly characteristic of life itself, before burning out and surrendering itself to the inevitability of an ending. (less)

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Jan 03, 2012 Mariel rated it 1 of 5 stars Recommends it for: dentures

Recommended to Mariel by: it's Hungarian. My usual methods. I'm unpriginal

Blah blah blah put on a puffed up high horse pedestal. I really hate this book. Pseudo "and this was happening cause that's how it happens" styling itself as meaning of shit you could read on a quote of the day site. I HATE books that think telling you this is the same as actually having any meaning. You don't get to just say it and tell me you said it, you awful book. Please, stop coming into my life if you are one of these books!

Or it is a greeting card. The greeting card is to give to the s...more Blah blah blah put on a puffed up high horse pedestal. I really hate this book. Pseudo "and this was happening cause that's how it happens" styling itself as meaning of shit you could read on a quote of the day site. I HATE books that think telling you this is the same as actually having any meaning. You don't get to just say it and tell me you said it, you awful book. Please, stop coming into my life if you are one of these books!

Or it is a greeting card. The greeting card is to give to the spineless seventy something year old man in your life to avoid coming over and listening to him beat about the bush until you feel as old as his ninety-one year old nursemaid. I don't want to wipe the spit off his weak chin because he's too much of a pussy to have a thought! He can wipe his own ass, I hope it goes without saying.

It's Of Human Bondage if it sucked, pretty much. OHB was essentially a series of conversations to tell the protagonist about life issues that mattered to the author. But they were good conversations! This was shoehorning into meaningless pontifications for... I have no idea. He probably loved to hear himself talk. I didn't need to be miserable to know that people talk up stuff to the point it resembles a bad soap opera with themselves as the lead (with looks and charm enough to rescue them from the fast paced world of fashion modeling for K-Mart fashions). I don't need to be bored into a black hole to know that there are people who are as boring as a black hole.

Ok, here's an example.
"From the first moment, they lived together like twins in their mother's womb. For this they had no need of one of those pacts of the kind that is common among boys their age, who swear friendship with comical solemn rituals and the sort of portentous intensity invoked by people when for the first time they experience, in unconscious and distorted forms, the need to remove another human being from the world, body and soul, and make him uniquely theirs. For that is the hidden force within both friendship and love, Their friendship was deep and wordless, as are all the emotions that will last a lifetime. And like all great emotions, this one contained within itself both shame and a sense of guilt, for no one may isolate one of his fellows from the rest of humanity with impunity."

It all reads like that. Nothing happens. Just that kind of happening which is shit. Don't think for yourself here.

I read on amazon that this was a translation from German (from Hungarian). Maybe the original was good. I'm not going to lose sleep over it. If I were a better reviewer I could be more graphic in my hate levels. I would need my own chin and ass wiped. Alas.(less)

26 likes · like · see review

Nov 09, 2012 Giulia rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: adelphi-scaffale-blu, mitteleuropei

"Un segreto che le parole non sono in grado di sostenere."

A dispetto dei fiumi di parole del soliloquio del generale, questo libro è un inno al silenzio. Il silenzio perché la parola molto spesso non riesce a trovare il suo referente. Il silenzio perché tutto si è svolto senza bisogno di espliciti suoni linguistici: il generale ed il suo amico Konrad hanno vissuto un evento che si è svolto nel silenzio e che per quarantun anni è stato il loro silenzioso segreto.

Più che un inno all’amicizia come...more

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Mar 24, 2012 Michela rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: hearts-books

E' difficile articolare a parole quello che questo libro ha provocato in me, le riflessioni che ne sono scaturite, le angosce che ha riportato in superficie...
E' un romanzo breve, brevissimo, ma 170 pagine possono bastare a turbare un'anima già turbata di suo, a fornire risposte che proprio adesso, in questo periodo e soprattutto in questi giorni stavo cercando.
Risposte scomode alle quali ti rifiuti di credere ma che poi sei costretta ad accettare, a mani alte, arresa, perché a volte è inutile...more

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Apr 26, 2012 Luana rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Non credi anche tu che il significato della vita sia semplicemente la passione che un giorno invade il nostro cuore, la nostra anima e il nostro corpo e che, qualunque cosa accada, continua a bruciare in eterno, fino alla morte?

C’è un aspetto dell’inverno a casa mia molto affascinante. Noi quattro, i miei genitori, io e mia sorella, ci raccogliamo intorno al camino mentre, nella luce accesa del fuoco, attendiamo che il giorno vada a spegnersi del tutto per consegnarci alla benevolenza della notte che concede il sonno. Quando ormai gli altri tre membri si ritirano a letto, io, che soffro spesso e volentieri d’insonnia, rimango a vedere il fuoco che si spegne e rimango a rovistare tra le braci con il mantice, e rovisto un po’ anche tra i miei pensieri affascinata dal mistero dello spegnimento lento tra mozziconi ancora arancioni risucchiati sempre più lentamente dal legno che si fa cenere.
Ed in questo silenzio interrotto da scoppiettio mi ritrovo spesso a confabulare con la mia mente di ventenne pensierosa che parla tutto il giorno e pensa tutta la notte, una volta sola. Ora, è un quadretto abbastanza solito, molti come me subiscono la fascinazione del fuoco nel camino che d’inverno rappresenta un rifugio, ma non mi sarei mai aspettata che settant’anni fa qualcuno avesse scritto un libro sul tema.

Ma Sándor Márai non era prevedibile, era un uomo inquieto, irrequieto, politicamente spossato, padre deluso, vedovo, e quando ha parlato delle braci di cui così infantilmente ho parlato io ha deciso di ambiare il racconto in estate. Pensateci, un libro che si intitola Le braci è ambientato in estate. Perché le braci, come le passioni umane, covano in gran segreto sempre tutto l’anno e nascondono sotto un fuoco ormai spento segreti inestimabili di freddi venuti, passati e pronti a tornare, magari addirittura 41 anni e 43 giorni dopo, come Konrad, amico di sempre di Henrik che un giorno si è dissolto in aria per andare a vivere nei Tropici trascinando con sé risposte che hanno maledetto Henrik che per tutta la vita le ha rincorse senza riuscire ad acchiapparle. E dunque, quando nel bel mezzo dell’estate, torna l’uomo che cela il tuo segreto, tutto si fa freddo e allora si riaccende il camino, il fuoco, addirittura scoppia un incendio che dissotterra le parole ancora non dette e i segreti ancora da svelare.
Un fuoco che come le passioni umane si innalza e giganteggia prima di spegnersi per sempre e diventare cenere.
Il nostro autore ungherese non si è però lasciato scappare quel momento di mezzo, quel momento in cui il fuoco non è più fuoco, ma non è nemmeno non fuoco, perché rimangono ancora le braci come a voler ricordare che c’è ancora qualcosa di acceso, qualcosa che dev’essere spento, ma non subito, non troppo presto.

Ed è di fronte a questo fuoco non fuoco che i due personaggi intessono un discorso fatto di valanghe di parole da parte di uno e di pochi cenni di assenso da parte dell’altro, decidono di riesumare dalle ceneri ciò che ormai è morto per svelare le parti di un segreto che per quarant’anni ha nuociuto come un cancro invasivo lentamente padrone di pensieri, atti, desideri di vendetta. Sapere la verità, una vendetta inaudibile, una vendetta quasi innocua di fronte alle vendette solite di spade, fucili, tradimenti, spargimenti di sangue, ma se ben ci si riflette forse più infida, perché è una vendetta che pretende dall’altro di parlare, di riesumare, di riaprire ferite mai cucite, ma forse ormai nemmeno più tanto aperte. Ed è intorno a questo desco che si sviluppa la storia del segreto che smette di essere segreto per farsi accusa durante il processo che Henrik impone a Konradin. Un processo informale, fatto di accuse ormai non presentabili di fronte ad un giudice vero, ma mirate a colpire il giudice più spietato che esista, la coscienza; un processo in cui esiste solo l’accusa, perché la difesa si è ormai mostrata colpevole, consumata dalle passioni ha già portato a termine il delitto dal quale non può e non vuole difendersi in nome dell’ego dell’animo umano.

Sto scrivendo come se avessi settant’anni anche io, ma non è colpa mia, è colpa di Márai che con questo stile angoscioso, enigmatico ed elegante ti entra dentro e ti instilla un segreto e ti pone domande che lascia senza risposte in un finale aperto a domande che, in fondo, di risposte, come altre cose della vita, non ne meritano.

Ho una sola altra cosa da dire riguardo Le braci: questo libro mi ha incantata.(less)

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Feb 20, 2012 Elisa rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Commento in fase di fermentazione

(Fase uno: quando non ero mica sicura che mi fosse piaciuto)
Quando chiudi un libro con la faccia distesa tra un "bah" di indifferenza e un "beh" di compromesso, non è mai un buon segnale. Quando il giudizio deve fare ricorso alla struttura del romanzo per strappare un margine di positività alla lettura conclusa, è segno che le parole sono cadute su un terreno forse arido, inadatto a farne germogliare qualcosa. In fin dei conti, il romanzo può avere una struttura...more Commento in fase di fermentazione

(Fase uno: quando non ero mica sicura che mi fosse piaciuto)
Quando chiudi un libro con la faccia distesa tra un "bah" di indifferenza e un "beh" di compromesso, non è mai un buon segnale. Quando il giudizio deve fare ricorso alla struttura del romanzo per strappare un margine di positività alla lettura conclusa, è segno che le parole sono cadute su un terreno forse arido, inadatto a farne germogliare qualcosa. In fin dei conti, il romanzo può avere una struttura d'eccezione, ogni componente può essere calibrata con un'esattezza millimetrica, tale da imprimere sulla copertina il bollino "inaffondabile", eppure può non stregarti. "Forse non l'ho capito", ti dici, ignaro del fatto che questa è solo una timida giustificazione per tacere su di te, sulla tua sensibilità che potrebbe uscire a pezzi dal confronto. C'è sempre questo senso di necessità che grava sulle opere definite capolavori. Eppure non c'è niente di inaffondabile, neppure la terra su cui pestiamo i piedi, nemmeno la nostra voce che grida "inaffondabile" è inaffondabile.

Le braci, di te ho apprezzato la teatralità della narrazione, la scelta precisa di gesti e scenografia. I personaggi non compiono mai un gesto per riempire il tempo, lo fanno per caricare le loro mani di significato. Un silenzio vissuto con gli occhi chiusi "come un cieco" quando il personaggio si scontra con un dubbio, la scoperta di un vino fermentato nella propria cantina alla vigilia del ritorno di un amico perso di vista da quarant'anni, l'allestimento di una stanza da pranzo maniacalmente identico a quello di quarant'anni prima, la postura da "uccellino con la testa incavata nel corpo" di una balia ormai novantenne che raramente ha lasciato la casa dove presta servizio ma che conosce meglio di altri i tumulti interiori dei suoi padroni, la battuta di caccia di due amici in un bosco ancora buio. La scelta delle musiche, la direzione dei raggi solari che bussano alle finestre: tutto è sapientemente diretto da un regista fuori campo.

Il tema è legato alla lotta tra dionisiaco e apollineo, nelle sue infinite manifestazioni: personalità, appartenenza di classe, scelte di vita. Lo scontro è aperto in senso assoluto, a partire dalla cornice: lo splendore dell'impero asburgico tutto divise, lustrini e valzer deve fare i conti con l'incubo delle guerre mondiali e con il tumulto delle popolazioni che si son stufate di chiedere pietà dal di sotto gli stivali lucidi dell'imperatore. Sulla scena, sono i personaggi a farsi carico delle due armature, a schierarsi in fronti contrapposti in base a quella che loro chiamano "diversità". Il rigido generale tutto onore ed etichetta e l'artista soffocato dal peso dell'uniforme, fratelli e nemici di sangue come il giorno e la notte, capaci di vedersi veramente solo in quel sottile momento che segna il confine tra notte e alba: non è ancora giorno, non è più notte, è una terra di nessuno e le passioni corrono lontane da ogni imposizione. Ci si può finalmente abbracciare solo nel momento di massima bestialità.

Dionisiaco e apollineo: che senso ha questa lotta? Chi vince? La risposta sta in una non risposta, in un silenzio, nella perdita di significato di tutti gli oggetti in scena, prima così simbolici e chiacchieroni. Quel teatro costruito in precedenza si accartoccia, si annienta. Al suo posto sorge una nuova scenografia, identica alla precedente, solo più scolorita, priva persino del calore rossastro di un cumulo di braci. Dal simbolismo universale alla vacuità assoluta: è un bel salto.

(Fase due: la presa di coscienza)
Mentre scrivevo queste righe, mi son resa conto che dentro di me l'idea sull'opera è maturata. Volevo scrivere che non mi ha trasmesso quasi nulla, ma non è vero. Riguardando le parole scritte all'inizio, penso addirittura di aver esagerato con lo scetticismo. Cosa volevo, un libro mordi e fuggi, che ti consegni tutto in mano in un sacchetto striminzito come il maltolto dopo una rapina? No, certo che no. Forse mi aspettavo di avere un'opinione ferma e rigida a fine lettura. Non ho pensato che alcuni libri sono solo trampolini di partenza.

E allora, priva di alcun senso di colpa, posso dire chiaramente che la parola d'ordine per questo libro è quella che ricorre spesso nella narrazione: fermentare . Prima di esprimere qualsiasi giudizio, estatico o scoraggiato che sia, cercate di gustarlo per bene e, una volta terminato, aspettate con calma che la composizione si modifichi. Poi assaggiate, distinguete le diverse note, separate il dolce dall'amaro.

Ma piano, mi raccomando, a costo di impiegarci quarantun'anni e quarantatré giorni. O forse di più.

Io nel mentre aspetto, e le stelline le relego momentaneamente in cantina.(less)

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Apr 18, 2013 Aubrey rated it 4 of 5 stars

Shelves: 1001-06-12, translated, on-hand, hungarian, 4-star, reviewed

This book grew and accustomed itself to my senses as an oblong piece of grit would first irritate, then slowly become smoothly subsumed by the oyster surrounding it. The final result was just as beautiful and deceptively complex as a perfectly round pearl would be, a piece of wonderful simplicity with a surprisingly sordid history of formation. Fortunately, the world at large did not feel the need to wrest this slowly wrought jewel from its protective nest, unlike its more physically cohesive co...more This book grew and accustomed itself to my senses as an oblong piece of grit would first irritate, then slowly become smoothly subsumed by the oyster surrounding it. The final result was just as beautiful and deceptively complex as a perfectly round pearl would be, a piece of wonderful simplicity with a surprisingly sordid history of formation. Fortunately, the world at large did not feel the need to wrest this slowly wrought jewel from its protective nest, unlike its more physically cohesive counterpart.

The writing grasped at beauty in form as often as some books grasp at plot or characters. This did not go so well at the beginning, and for the most part the imagery was a patronizing mess of shoddy similes. Constantly telling the reader how to picture something, think about something, rather than showing them. Yet another author that could have done better in cultivating their skill with metaphor. Needless to say, during the first half of the story my attention was not drawn into the story enough to pass by instances of misogyny and racism without feeling perturbed.

However, as the book continued, so did the development of the writing. The beauty lessened its forceful display, and slipped more comfortably into subtly delighting my point of view. The truths that the author wanted to convey to the reader became less of a lesson, and more of a confession. The author even grew to gift their female characters with a complexity that consisted of more than a pretty face and relationships to men. This augmentation could have been better, but in this old world setting that had yet to be scarred by WWII, it would be a waste to depreciate the successes of the book with standards that at that time were not the norm. The past is a foreign country, after all.

In addition to the moments of visual beauty, there are long passages of metaphysics to be found within these pages. While it is true that other authors have done it better, I had not yet run across one who have devoted as much of their mental capacities to the thought of old age, and come up with conclusions that are utterly heartbreaking in their beauty. I with my youth cannot claim to innately relate with all of these conclusions, but I do know something about the slow death that passion dies over the long passage of time, and I can say that the book captured that mental state, that whirling chaos of wasted dreams and futile existence, with a pain bordering on the exquisite.

To reiterate, this book is a pearl. A single event filled with high emotion and murderous impulses, layered over with more than twoscore years of thought and solitude, enough for the fires of passion and youth to die and glaze over with the weight of accumulated smoothness wrought by time. There is a beauty here that cannot exist without implicit awareness of the closeness of death, as well as the unanswerable question of why this death has not yet come. The glowing gold of embers sinking into the dark of a once roaring fire, a last glimpse of the barest trace of light before the all encompassing night. They linger on, and that is all.(less)

19 likes · like · see review

Jan 25, 2009 James rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: favorites, fiction, lincoln-park-group, u-of-chicago, mitteleuropa

Sandor Marai has an uncanny ability to demonstrate his ideas through things that are not said. The novel is permeated with nostalgia for the past, a past that, as in Proust, cannot be recaptured. This book is excellent not just for how it is written and how well it is structured, but for the author's ability to demonstrate his ideas through what is not said.
"My homeland no longer exists . . . Everything's come apart. My homeland was a feeling, and that feeling was mortally wounded. When that hap...more Sandor Marai has an uncanny ability to demonstrate his ideas through things that are not said. The novel is permeated with nostalgia for the past, a past that, as in Proust, cannot be recaptured. This book is excellent not just for how it is written and how well it is structured, but for the author's ability to demonstrate his ideas through what is not said.
"My homeland no longer exists . . . Everything's come apart. My homeland was a feeling, and that feeling was mortally wounded. When that happens the only thing to do is to go away."(p 92) This is the statement of Konrad, the childhood friend of Henrik who is the protagonist of this amazing novel. We are introduced to Henrik in the first line of the book, "In the morning, the old general spent considerable time in the wine cellars," where he is aging in his seventies just like a fine wine. With his aging come memories of a long life, of youthful friends, of love and betrayal. All this is narrated in a short novel of little more than two hundred pages. It is a story that depends more on feelings and of contrasts between Henrik and his former friend Konrad who is returning for one final confrontation. The contrasts include that of passion and reason, of the world with and without music, of the differing personalities of the south, where Konrad has spent much of his life and the north of Austria and Hungary where Henrik has remained. Interlaced with their lives are the figures of Nini, a mother figure to Henrik who i s described as, " a power that surged through the house, the people in it, the walls, the objects, the way some invisible galvanic current animates Punch and the Policeman on the stage at the traveling puppet show. Sometimes people has the feeling that the house and its contents could, like ancient fabrics, fall apart at a touch and crumble to nothing if Nini were not there to hold them together with her strength."(p 11) Nini is always in the background, appearing in the first chapter and present in the last. But there is also Kristina who would marry Henrik, but spend years estranged from her husband even as she does not leave their estate. It is Henrik who enigmatically isolates himself, yet opens the house for one last elaborate meeting with Konrad, once his friend and now his nemesis. The world of the past no longer exists except in their memory. Some people have moved on, but the past must be revisited on one last evening. Marai is superb in capturing the feeling of the end of an era, of centuries of empire in his simple brushstrokes. One could compare him to Mann or perhaps Proust in his ability to explore philosophy and memory and desire, but ultimately his is a unique voice that bears reading and rereading to explore the complex relationships and meanings that are hidden within his beautiful novel. (less)

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Jul 04, 2012 Filipa rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: classics, library, not-own, portuguese-books, 2012-reads, 5-stars

Entre uma floresta húngara, existe uma mansão imponente pertencente a um general. Após a morte deste, a mansão foi herdada pelo seu filho, que sempre acreditou que a vida lhe ofereceu as melhores sensações que se pode ter. O filho do general desde a sua meninice que tem um amigo que é como se fosse uma extensão do seu próprio corpo, da sua própria personalidade. Durante 22 anos, ambos viram esta amizade florescer e prosperar sob os olhos de todos os seus conhecidos, que ficavam admirados por ver...more Entre uma floresta húngara, existe uma mansão imponente pertencente a um general. Após a morte deste, a mansão foi herdada pelo seu filho, que sempre acreditou que a vida lhe ofereceu as melhores sensações que se pode ter. O filho do general desde a sua meninice que tem um amigo que é como se fosse uma extensão do seu próprio corpo, da sua própria personalidade. Durante 22 anos, ambos viram esta amizade florescer e prosperar sob os olhos de todos os seus conhecidos, que ficavam admirados por ver tal relação.
No entanto, de um momento para o outro e sem qualquer aviso, esta amizade chega a um momento em que parece parar no tempo, fica em suspenso durante 40 anos. Sem qualquer aviso anterior, estes dois amigos perdem o contacto durante 4 longas décadas. Cada um deles viveu a sua vida, atingiu (ou não) os seus objectivos, sorriu quando pôde, chorou quando quis. O filho do general, depois de viver muitos anos no estrangeiro, acabou por se enclausurar dentro da sua mansão e ao mesmo tempo esta, começou a perder os seus encantos antigos e a sua vivacidade. O seu amigo mudou a sua nacionalidade e depois de ter vivido algum tempo em Londres, foi viver para os trópicos, zona geográfica que segundo os rumores, mudava de forma absoluta o carácter dos homens que lá vivessem.

Passados 40 anos, estes dois amigos irão encontrar-se nesta mansão que já passou a época do seu esplendor há muitos, muitos anos. Os dois amigos irão sentar-se na mesa do salão de jantar e irão reviver um jantar muito similar a este, que teve lugar no mesmo salão há 4 décadas atrás. Irão reavivar sentimentos passados e irão por fim, perceber até que ponto a amizade deles é genuína. Irão aperceber-se de que o segredo que se interpõe entre os dois é demais para sustentar a sua amizade e vão, por fim, desenterrar todos os ressentimentos e tudo aquilo que minou aquela que foi uma ligação de 22 anos.

De que forma é que podemos definir a amizade? A maneira de descrever tal relação é muito vasta e pode ser feita das mais variadas maneiras. Até podemos dizer que a amizade é um relacionamento humano onde várias características saltam à vista: a afeição, lealdade, o facto de sabermos tudo sobre a(s) outra(s) pessoas. A amizade envolve de igual forma o altruísmo. Poderíamos ir buscar muitas definições para definir esta palavra latina, que se crê ter derivado da palavra amor.
Contudo, até que ponto uma amizade entre duas pessoas vai? O que é que se pode exigir ou não exigir de uma amizade desse tipo? E até que ponto é que podemos ter a certeza que essa pessoa é cem por cento nossa amiga, ou não se crê apenas ser nosso amigo, mas acaba por se revelar outra coisa totalmente diferente?
Será que uma amizade pode ter segredos? Será que se uma amizade começar a alimentar um segredo, a relação fica igual? Poderá sobreviver a tal provação?

Já tinha ouvido falar neste livro há alguns anos, mas a verdade é que nunca pensei que o chegasse a ler tão cedo. Contudo, muito recentemente durante uma conversa sobre livros inesquecíveis, o título deste livro foi mencionado e decidi que seria finalmente este ano que acabaria com as dúvidas e que leria o livro de uma vez por todas. Não havia razão para adiar mais, afinal o livro era tão pequeno que num instante estaria lido. E assim foi a minha estreia com o autor Sándor Márai que acabou por mudar a minha vida na mais subtil das maneiras.
Nunca esperei que este As Velas Ardem Até ao Fim me afectasse da maneira como afectou. De facto, não sabendo, no início da leitura, o que esperar desta obra, nunca poderia adivinhar que o autor iria pegar numa temática tão interessante como é a amizade e tudo aquilo que implica esta relação humana (que implica muito mais do que aquilo que estamos à espera).
A escrita do autor é simplesmente maravilhosa. Além de envolver o leitor de uma maneira quase enfeitiçadora, é capaz de fazer com que este reflicta sobre a ordem das coisas. Apesar do autor ter um relato bastante preciso, tem o dom de formular questões que atingem o seu leitor bem no centro da sua consciência. Estas perguntas pairam no nosso espírito sem resposta e é nesse momento em que nos vemos envolvidos na obra, sem existir nenhum remédio para o mesmo, que não seja continuar a ler na esperança de que o autor responda concisamente a estas questões.

É altamente provável que o leitor tenha, nalgum momento da sua vida, reflectido sobre estas questões da forma mais imperceptível que existe. As questões pairavam à beira da sua consciência, nunca sendo realmente analisadas em profundidade. Inconscientemente, o leitor sabe perfeitamente que as perguntas lá estão à espera de ser respondidas, mas nunca sentiu inclinação para tentar encontrar a resposta ou simplesmente acha que as respostas virão com a vivência da vida. No entanto, ao ler esta obra, essas perguntas deixam simplesmente de pairar à beira da nossa consciência e o leitor passa a activamente procurar essas respostas, correndo o risco de acabar visivelmente frustrado, pois a resposta a estas perguntas não se encontram ao virar da esquina. Esta obra aponta directamente à dúvida fulcral de um dos vários aspectos da nossa existência - o que é amizade, o que podemos exigir do nosso amigo, como aceitar as diferenças, como aceitar que o nosso amigo mantenha um segredo e que isso mine a relação.

O autor reflecte sobre vários aspectos da amizade e o leitor vai igualmente percebendo que segredo é que se interpõe entre estes amigos e vai poder perceber igualmente de que forma isso prejudica a relação entre os dois. As perguntas que o autor deixa no ar atingiram-me de tal maneira que acabei por chegar ao final da obra como que dormente, anestesiada. Após essa reacção inicial, acabei por retornar bruscamente à realidade, como se tivesse acordado de um pesadelo. E percebi que a forma como o autor retrata a natureza humana, como apresenta a origem das relações humanas nunca antes fez tanto sentido para mim como agora. Adorei a forma como o autor me fez pensar seriamente sobre as ligações humanas que formamos ao longo da nossa vida - umas importantes e fundamentais, outras nem por isso - e acabei por reflectir sobre de que forma essas ligações humanas nos moldam para a vida futura, de que forma moldamos o nosso carácter e nos adaptamos a pessoas diferentes, sem nunca percebemos na totalidade o que é que podemos exigir dessa ligação. Sem nunca atingir o verdadeiro objectivo de tal ligação e sem conseguir responder à pergunta que sabemos que paira lá atrás da nossa mente - esta pessoa seria capaz de trair esta amizade? Seria capaz de trair a minha confiança? Seria capaz de destruir esta ligação por qualquer motivo?

As velas arderão até ao fim, mas as perguntam-se manter-se-ao até depois disso, deixando que a nossa mente ande às voltas até encontrar uma solução para tal dilema, sem nunca encontrar uma resposta que a satisfaça completamente. Uma obra realmente inesquecível, um livro que manterei junto do coração para o resto da minha vida.
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Apr 17, 2012 Marco Tamborrino rated it 2 of 5 stars · review of another edition

C'era qualcosa su cui non riuscivano a comprendersi. Eppure si amavano.

1. Questo libro è scritto benissimo.
2. Questo libro è strutturato benissimo.
3. Alcuni passi e certe pagine raggiungono vette di poesia altissime.
Ma:
1. Questo libro è completamente raccontato, non presenta parti mostrate. Nemmeno nei romanzi più romantici del romanticismo c'è così poco show e così tanto tell.
2. Più di metà del romanzo è un monologo.
3. Per dire cose che si potevano dire in qualche riga, l'autore impiega decine...more C'era qualcosa su cui non riuscivano a comprendersi. Eppure si amavano.

1. Questo libro è scritto benissimo.
2. Questo libro è strutturato benissimo.
3. Alcuni passi e certe pagine raggiungono vette di poesia altissime.
Ma:
1. Questo libro è completamente raccontato, non presenta parti mostrate. Nemmeno nei romanzi più romantici del romanticismo c'è così poco show e così tanto tell.
2. Più di metà del romanzo è un monologo.
3. Per dire cose che si potevano dire in qualche riga, l'autore impiega decine di pagine ripetendo anche più volte lo stesso concetto, certo delle sue convinzioni tanto che pone domande e si risponde da solo.

A pagina centosessantasei su centosettantadue, l'interlocutore del generale - il protagonista autore del pedante monologo - dice: "Credo che ormai abbiamo parlato di tutto. È ora di andar via."

Che fai, mi prendi per il culo? "Abbiamo parlato di tutto"? Ma se tu non hai detto un cazzo. Ha fatto tutto Henrik, il generale. Ha detto per tutto il libro che voleva la verità e non ha fatto altro che dirla da solo! Allora non c'era nemmeno bisogno di scrivere il libro, scusa eh.

La prima parte mi è piaciuta perché mi ha ricordato molto "L'amico ritrovato" e mi sono sentito a casa. Anche se l'amiciza tra i due bambini assumeva toni ancora più rosa di quella narrata da Uhlman. Sembravano veramente gay questi due. Cioè, hanno pure fatto voto di castità (?) durante l'adolescenza.

Passiamo al monologo di Henrik. Aggiungiamo il fatto che se fossi stato Konrad, avrei ucciso l'amico con un candelabro seduta stante. Dopo un po' taci, insomma. Parli a vanvera per una notte intera, dici che mi devi fare delle domande e poi ti rispondi da solo? Sei scemo o mangi sassi?
E poi a volte fa delle riflessioni così petulanti, barbose, proprio da vecchio annoiato, che non puoi essere d'accordo nemmeno se ti piace alla follia il modo in cui sono scritte.

Detto questo, forse Màrai, con tutto quello che ha scritto, ha scritto di meglio. Gli darò un'altra occasione, più avanti. Lo stile lo merita. Il troppo raccontato e il mostrato inesistente non glielo farebbero meritare, ma quando mi piace com'è scritto qualcosa, ci sono sempre dei dettagli da salvare.

Ultima cosa: l'aspetto più positivo del romanzo è la balia Nini. L'unico personaggio veramente ben caratterizzato e interessante, è bello sentirne parlare. E poi è tenerissima.(less)

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Apr 28, 2013 Ben Winch rated it 1 of 5 stars

Shelves: mainland-european, hungarian

In a way it's reassuring that trite, lazy, self-consciously 'literary' writing is not unique to our time. Aside from that reassurance, I got nothing from this. Not even worth cutting to pieces. A fart in the wind.

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Apr 30, 2012 Patrizia O rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: contemporanei, autori-autrici-ungheria, recensioni, club-del-libro-gdl

Guardiamo in fondo ai nostri cuori: che cosa vi troviamo? Una passione che il tempo ha soltanto attutito senza riuscire a estinguerne le braci.

Dopo quarantuno anni e quarantatré giorni due uomini, amici inseparabili in gioventù, si incontrano per affrontare il loro passato e, soprattutto, far chiarezza sulle ragioni che li hanno portati ad allontanarsi.
Heinrich, ricco possidente, ex-generale dell’esercito austroungarico, prepara con cura l’incontro facendo in modo che tutto, dall’arredamento a...more Guardiamo in fondo ai nostri cuori: che cosa vi troviamo? Una passione che il tempo ha soltanto attutito senza riuscire a estinguerne le braci.

Dopo quarantuno anni e quarantatré giorni due uomini, amici inseparabili in gioventù, si incontrano per affrontare il loro passato e, soprattutto, far chiarezza sulle ragioni che li hanno portati ad allontanarsi.
Heinrich, ricco possidente, ex-generale dell’esercito austroungarico, prepara con cura l’incontro facendo in modo che tutto, dall’arredamento alle pietanze alla disposizione delle sedie intorno al tavolo, sia uguale all’ultima volta che aveva cenato con il suo amico Konrad, proprio in quella dimora ai piedi dei Carpazi. Dopo cena, si siedono accanto al camino e Heinrich inizia il suo personale processo al vecchio amico, un processo in cui l'ex-generale fa da avvocato difensore, pubblica accusa, giudice e giuria. Un lungo monologo in cui Márai ha modo di chiarire la sua visione del mondo e della vita.

È sempre difficile esprimere opinioni negative nei confronti di libri acclamati da molti come capolavori: io finisco sempre per concludere che il problema è mio che non riesco a capirne la grandezza.
Márai scrive molto bene (e questa è la motivazione delle quattro stellette): riesce a scandagliare negli angoli più nascosti dell’animo umano e usa le parole con grande maestria. E allora dove è il problema? Per rispondere a questa domanda ho riletto (quasi) tutto il libro e ho anche approfondito la biografia di questo autore alla ricerca del bandolo che mi aiutasse a districare la massa di sensazioni che non riuscivo a esprimere con chiarezza. Il punto è che non condivido molto delle posizioni che Márai assume attraverso il protagonista del libro, Heinrich.
Per fare un esempio, la concezione di amicizia di Márai è molto suggestiva e poetica ma io non condivido la sua idea che il vero amico non si aspetta nulla in cambio.

Mentre fra l’uomo e la donna tutto è definito in termini precisi come in una sorta di contratto, fra due uomini il significato profondo dell’amicizia consiste nell’abnegazione, nel non esigere dall’altro né sacrifici né tenerezza, soltanto il rispetto di un’alleanza tacitamente conclusa. (pag. 114)
Questa legge, la legge dell’amicizia, vive nel cuore degli uomini al di sopra dell’egoismo e delle passioni. Ed è più forte della passione amorosa che spinge irresistibilmente l’uomo e la donna a congiungersi: l’amicizia non è soggetta a delusioni, perché non pretende nulla dall’altro (pag. 117)

Credo che in tutti i rapporti umani debba esserci reciprocità (e quindi scambio), ovviamente si può perdonare e dimenticare ma come si fa a non aspettarsi nulla dall'altro?

Io penso che il filo che lega tutti i personaggi sia l’impossibilità di cambiare, di andare oltre la propria natura anche se si tratta di adattarsi a un nuovo mondo. Il desiderio di essere diversi è forte ma impossibile da realizzare e condanna tutti i personaggi del libro all’infelicità.

Perché le cose non accadono così, per caso […] Gli uomini contribuiscono al loro destino, a determinare certi eventi. Invocano il loro destino, lo stringono a sé e non se ne separano più. Agiscono così pur sapendo fin dall’inizio che il loro modo di agire porterà a risultati nefasti. L’uomo e il suo destino si realizzano reciprocamente modellandosi l’uno sull’altro. Non è vero che il destino si introduce alla cieca nella nostra vita: esso entra dalla porta che noi stessi gli abbiamo spalancato, facendoci da parte per invitarlo a entrare. Non c’è infatti essere umano abbastanza forte e intelligente da saper allontanare, con le parole e con i fatti, il destino infausto che deriva, secondo una ferrea legge, dalla sua indole e dal suo carattere.(pag. 139)

Le parole di Márai, inoltre, mi sembrano anche il suo testamento: anche se lo scrittore ungherese si suiciderà più di quarant’anni dopo aver scritto “Le braci”, mi è sembrato spesso di sentire l’eco della sofferenza che lo condurrà a mettere fine alla sua vita senza riuscire a vedere, solo nove mesi dopo la sua morte, la caduta del muro di Berlino e la fine del Comunismo, che lui aveva tanto avversato in vita.

“[…] Esisteva un mondo per il quale valeva la pena di vivere e di morire. Quel mondo è morto. Quello nuovo non fa più per me. È tutto ciò che posso dire”.
“Per me quel mondo è sempre vivo, anche se non esiste più nella realtà. È vivo perché gli ho giurata fedeltà. È tutto ciò che posso dire”(pag. 81)
Alle domande più importanti si finisce sempre per rispondere con l’intera esistenza. Non ha importanza quello che si dice nel frattempo, in quali termini e con quali argomenti ci si difende. Alla fine, alla fine di tutto, è con i fatti della propria vita che si risponde agli interrogativi che il mondo ci rivolge con tanta insistenza. (pag. 101)
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Mar 08, 2013 S©aP rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: 1900, letteratura-ungherese

Un bel romanzo, intenso, concepito da una mente solida. Alta sensibilità. Acutezza di analisi. Una storia ottocentesca, resa paradigmatica e universale dalla profondità del pensiero.

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Nov 11, 2008 lisa_emily rated it 5 of 5 stars Recommends it for: dwellers and memorists

Recommended to lisa_emily by: Libby

Shelves: fictions

I loved this little book. It is short, and I could have finished within a few days, but I wanted to linger over it. What I loved most of about this book is its deliberation. The author wanted to work out one very small but potent aspect of a life- friendship and its death-and he took his time unfolding the details and complexities of feeling. In a way, one could say that nothing really happens in this book, except memories and thoughts. And it is true, the first half of the book consists of the...more I loved this little book. It is short, and I could have finished within a few days, but I wanted to linger over it. What I loved most of about this book is its deliberation. The author wanted to work out one very small but potent aspect of a life- friendship and its death-and he took his time unfolding the details and complexities of feeling. In a way, one could say that nothing really happens in this book, except memories and thoughts. And it is true, the first half of the book consists of the main character's (the General) memories of his childhood. The second half is built on the dinner & conversation between the General and his exiled childhood friend, Konrad. The whole plot of the story can be summed up as thus: A man who is betrayed by both his wife and best friend becomes a philosopher.

This book is exceptional is its carefully crafted ambiance and the internal musing of the main character. So much in today we are in a hurry to have things happen that we rarely reflect about our reactions or the reasons why others make the choices that they make. In this book, the General spends a lifetime reflecting upon what makes up a character and how that character unfolds in a person. When you look at someone you are closest to, can you understand what motivates that person and can you ever be objective enough to be reconciled with that person's choice, even if it opposes you?

And then there is the language- here is an excerpt:

"The castle was a closed world, like a great granite mausoleum full of the moldering bones of generations of men and women from earlier times, in their shrouds of slowly disintegrating gray silk or black cloth. It enclosed silence itself as if it were a prisoner persecuted for his beliefs, wasting away numbly, unshaven and in rags on a pile of musty rotting straw in a dungeon. It also enclosed memories as if they were the dead, memories that lurked in damp corners the way mushrooms, bats, rats, and beetles lurk in the mildewed cellars of old houses. Door-latches gave off the traces of a once-trembling hand, the excitement of a moment long gone, so that even now another hand hesitated to press down on them. Every house in which passion had loosened itself on people in all its fury exudes such intangible presences."
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Sep 02, 2007 Dottie rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: ndr, 1001-read, two-box-belgian-library-addenda, theclosetshelf, own, 2003, favorites

I can only say that this book went to the top of the all-time top list and will likely stay there for the foreseeable future. I shed buckets of tears on and off throughout – and largely on during the last half or so.
Is it going to be that strong a book for others? I have no idea. But if it is and if your experience of it is anything near to mine, you are in for one amazing time.

Adding: read it at a leisurely pace to savor the whole of it, would be my recommendation.

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Apr 08, 2012 Ninja Neko rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Pfff. It felt way longer than 156 pages to finally finish this book. The more I read on the less I liked it. The beginning was mildly interesting, presenting the background story of two former best friends in turn of the (20th) century Hungary. We know that one took off and the other has been waiting ever since for him to come back so he can get some answers. But what happens? The rest of the book consists of a long rambling monologue where the waiting guy tells his runaway friend everything he...more

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Mar 02, 2013 Ensiform rated it 4 of 5 stars

Shelves: fiction, hungarian

Translated, strangely enough, from German by Carol Brown Janeway, though the original is Hungarian, so it’s possible something was lost. In his long-deserted castle, an elderly general waits the return of a guest, his childhood friend whom he has not seen in 41 years. Over dinner, the General launches into a monologue that dissects their friendship, his dead wife, and why the man left suddenly. Passion, betrayal, trust, loss, and revenge are all discussed – but reasonably, with the patience of t...more

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Jul 17, 2008 Will rated it 2 of 5 stars

I initially bought this book in a hardback edition from a charity shop because of its beautiful cover (a wistful, charcol drawing of a pine forest).

Rather than duplicate the other reviews of this work I'm going to try and give a flavour of what I learned and experienced when reading it.

Embers is a book about memory, time, melancholy and reflection. The pace is sedate, the prose simple and the imagery solomn. The plot centres around an incident which rived a close friendship and profoundly affect...more

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Apr 11, 2008 Briynne rated it 5 of 5 stars

Absolutely perfect from start to finish. I'm still reeling from how good this was - I happened upon it in the book-drop at NOR and thought that such a beautiful cover deserved a shot.

The novel, which is beautifully and sparsely written, tells the story of the lifelong and life-altering friendship of two men, now old and very changed from when they were boys. The entire story is set in one evening, when one friend receives the other in his home after a separation of over 41 years. The two men ha...more

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Aug 06, 2012 Hannah Bray rated it 1 of 5 stars

Shelves: read-book-club

"In a secluded woodland castle an old General prepares to receive a rare visitor, a man who was once his closest friend but who he has not seen in forty-one years. Over the ensuing hours host and guest will fight a duel of words and silences, accusations and evasions."

Reviews like this make me wonder if the reviewer ever reads anything but the first three chapters.

Remember those conversations you had in young adulthood, in college or after, with those friends who naively and with bravado exhort...more

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Mar 17, 2012 Blanca rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: 2011, lan-sp, fiction

This may be the first book I finish out of sheer stubbornness, and even then I had to skim through the last 40 pages.

Such a terrible, terrible book. It's basically 200 hundred pages where a bitter old man rambles about every paranoid supposition he has made in the last 40 years of his life. He does so very condescendingly and at times he's rude and misogynist. I really should have known he was going to be a drama-queen when at the very beginning he explains how as a child he fell terribly ill in...more

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Feb 10, 2013 ☽ Moon ☯ 佛月球 Будда Луны rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition

The human heart is embossed with the silence of unspoken intentions, inconspicuous and unrecognizable in its secured haven until unleashed from the safety of its vessel in forms manifesting beyond the incomprehensible volition that translates to human actions...

The narrative style incorporated in Embers follows this obscured design of nature as it hides the mystery of its creation that relates to the black veil that seems to curtain human actions, which conceals the truthfulness of one's intenti...more

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Aug 08, 2007 Lorenza rated it 5 of 5 stars

I suggested this book to a friend of mine even if i didn't know him very well. After having read it, in a couple of days, he told me: "Great"
Yes, it is, it's one of my favourite books: well written (as usual for Marai), brilliant, deep, charming, rapting. A story of a friendship, old men, a short life left, revelation, feeling of guilty, thirstly of reverenge, violence of emotions.

2 likes · like · see review

Jan 04, 2009 Rob rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: favorites, hungary, book-club

A very very quick read. This novel would be fun to discuss in a book club or in an old High School English class. Lots of questions and interpretations.

Story revolves around 2 old friends who meet after 41 years a part to discuss the events of their last meeting. Takes place in WWI era Austro-Hungarian empire with main character being member of nobility class, a general in the army.

Really a deep meaning - explores friendship, trust, relationships, deceit, coward, jealousy, and many related emoti...more

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Dec 11, 2010 Célia rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: dom-quixote, own, 2010, 4-stars, bought

Este pequeno livro do autor húngaro tem tido grande sucesso em Portugal desde que foi publicado, em 2001. Do mesmo autor, este ano já tinha lido A Herança de Eszter , que me deixou bem impressionada, por isso decidi pegar neste para confirmar (ou não) essa impressão.

Já que falei no outro livro que li do autor, são curiosas algumas semelhanças: a personagem principal recebe uma carta de alguém que não vê há muitos anos, carta essa que se transforma no elemento que despoleta uma série de recordaçõ...more Este pequeno livro do autor húngaro tem tido grande sucesso em Portugal desde que foi publicado, em 2001. Do mesmo autor, este ano já tinha lido A Herança de Eszter , que me deixou bem impressionada, por isso decidi pegar neste para confirmar (ou não) essa impressão.

Já que falei no outro livro que li do autor, são curiosas algumas semelhanças: a personagem principal recebe uma carta de alguém que não vê há muitos anos, carta essa que se transforma no elemento que despoleta uma série de recordações sobre o passado. Neste caso, um velho general que vive num castelo na Hungria recôndita vê-se perante a perspectiva do regresso de um amigo de longa data, quando recebe uma carta deste avisando-o de uma visita em breve.

O primeiro terço do livro apresenta-nos as memórias do general em relação à sua família e a Konrad, o tal amigo, bem como de alguns acontecimentos que decorreram antes da sua súbita partida deste último, 41 anos antes. O resto do livro decorre após o reencontro e consiste, basicamente, num monólogo do general, em que este discorre sobre tudo o que aconteceu entre os dois e as suas interpretações e sentimentos em relação à amizade de ambos.

Tal como já me tinha apercebido no livro anterior, Sándor Márai tem uma escrita limpa, que embala o leitor. Aqui, achei-a mais profunda e cativante. Apesar de pouco ou nada acontecer neste livro, somos levados a reflectir sobre o valor da amizade, a solidão e a ambiguidade das nossas interpretações face aos acontecimentos que vão (des)construindo a nossa vida. Por vezes, parece um pouco monótono, para o que não contribui o facto de apenas estarmos a “ouvir” um dos lados da barricada, mas gostei muito, mas mesmo muito, da forma como o autor nos faz pensar na nossa própria vida e no relacionamento com os outros. Existem tantas passagens citáveis que é quase impossível escolher só uma.

Termino dizendo que é um livro cuja leitura se adequa melhor a um determinado estado de espírito, e se este for encontrado, pode tornar-se no livro perfeito.(less)

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Sep 18, 2008 Drgibson63 rated it 5 of 5 stars Recommends it for: Everyone

Recommended to Drgibson63 by: Mentioned in Tony Blankley column

The late Hungarian Sandor Marai's novel Embers takes place in Hungary in 1940, in a secluded castle. There lives the very old general Henrik, with his even older nanny, who has cared for him most of his life. The general's wife died a generation ago. It is a big night. Coming to dine that evening is Konrad, once the general's closest friend. The general and Konrad have not seen each other in 42 years, nor communicated.

It will be a tense dinner and evening. Prior to Konrad's arrival, the aged n...more The late Hungarian Sandor Marai's novel Embers takes place in Hungary in 1940, in a secluded castle. There lives the very old general Henrik, with his even older nanny, who has cared for him most of his life. The general's wife died a generation ago. It is a big night. Coming to dine that evening is Konrad, once the general's closest friend. The general and Konrad have not seen each other in 42 years, nor communicated.

It will be a tense dinner and evening. Prior to Konrad's arrival, the aged nanny places her hand on the general and gently tells him not to get too excited. When Konrad arrives, the pair take the same places they had the last time they met. After dinner, the host begins a discourse, with the guest mostly listening. Traced through the rest of the novel is a deconstruction of a dead friendship. Two lives, friendship, pride, guilt, anger, loathing, deceit, adultery, regret, hunting and thoughts of murder and betrayal are recalled during the long evening spent together by the pair.

Embers is a marvelous, lucid, engrossing novel that deals with male friendships and emotions from a male perspective. Two men with great potential are explored. One betrays the other and runs away without the courage to explain why. As a result the other shields his love from who needs it most, and lives an empty life. The dialogue between the old friends is masterfully crafted. Marai's style compares with Thomas Mann in that this is a European novel that builds slowly with much patience. The reader who delves into Embers one evening may encounter dawn before he turns from the pages.

Notes: Marai was an acclaimed Hungarian novelist 70 years ago but his works were mostly destroyed and he was forced into exile when communists grabbed power in Hungary. He emigrated to America and died in San Diego in 1989. Shortly afterwards, his novels were returned to circulation and his stature as one of the best European novelists of the first half of the 20th century was restored.

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Jan 05, 2009 Ági rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: modern-perennials

Jan 26, 2008 Doug Bradshaw rated it 4 of 5 stars

The book is a short, intense, powerful psychological study of friendship, love and honor. There is really only the voice and viewpoint of one intelligent, somewhat spoiled, wealthy aristocrat who has wasted a lot of his life worrying about how his beautiful and cherished wife and best friend may have betrayed him over 40 years ago. At this moment in time 40 years earlier, his life basically crashes and he wonders for the rest of his life what has happened because he really doesn't know, he's jus...more

1 like · like · see review

May 29, 2008 Cat rated it 1 of 5 stars

I just didn't get this one.

This book is full of philosophical nonsense that fails to make an impact.

The main character is an uninteresting aristocrat with a victim mentality. He spends the entire book finding new and clumsy ways to say, "Woe is me."

The book is 213 pages long. It takes Sandor Marai 133 pages to pose his question, and another 70 pages to say that he doesn't need to hear the answer.

The real failure of this book is that Marai creates the background of a few other characters who ar...more

12 likes · like · see review

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About Sándor Márai

Sándor Márai (originally Sándor Károly Henrik Grosschmied de Mára) was a Hungarian writer and journalist.
He was born in the city of Kassa in Austria-Hungary (now Košice in Slovakia) to an old family of Saxon origin who had mixed with magyars through the centuries. Through his father he was a relative of the Ország-family. In his early years, Márai travelled to and lived in Frankfurt, Berlin, and P...more Sándor Márai (originally Sándor Károly Henrik Grosschmied de Mára) was a Hungarian writer and journalist.
He was born in the city of Kassa in Austria-Hungary (now Košice in Slovakia) to an old family of Saxon origin who had mixed with magyars through the centuries. Through his father he was a relative of the Ország-family. In his early years, Márai travelled to and lived in Frankfurt, Berlin, and Paris and briefly considered writing in German, but eventually chose his mother language, Hungarian, for his writings. He settled in Krisztinaváros, Budapest, in 1928. In the 1930s, he gained prominence with a precise and clear realist style. He was the first person to write reviews of the work of Kafka.
He wrote very enthusiastically about the Vienna Awards, in which Germany forced Czechoslovakia and Romania to give back part of the territories which Hungary lost in the Treaty of Trianon. Nevertheless, Márai was highly critical of the Nazis as such and was considered "profoundly antifascist," a dangerous position to take in wartime Hungary.
Marai authored forty-six books, mostly novels, and was considered by literary critics to be one of Hungary's most influential representatives of middle class literature between the two world wars. His 1942 book Embers (Hungarian title: A gyertyák csonkig égnek, meaning "The Candles Burn Down to the Stump") expresses a nostalgia for the bygone multi-ethnic, multicultural society of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, reminiscent of the works of Joseph Roth. In 2006 an adaptation of this novel for the stage, written by Christopher Hampton, was performed in London.
He also disliked the Communist regime that seized power after World War II, and left – or was driven away – in 1948. After living for some time in Italy, Márai settled in the city of San Diego, California, in the United States.
He continued to write in his native language, but was not published in English until the mid-1990s. Márai's Memoir of Hungary (1944-1948) provides an interesting glimpse of post World War II Hungary under Soviet occupation. Like other memoirs by Hungarian writers and statesmen, it was first published in the West, because it could not be published in the Hungary of the post-1956 Kádár era. The English version of the memoir was published posthumously in 1996. After his wife died, Márai retreated more and more into isolation. He committed suicide by a gunshot to his head in San Diego in 1989.
Largely forgotten outside of Hungary, his work (consisting of poems, novels, and diaries) has only been recently "rediscovered" and republished in French (starting in 1992), Polish, Catalan, Italian, English, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Czech, Danish, Icelandic, Korean, Dutch, and other languages too, and is now considered to be part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon.(less)

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Quotes from Embers

“No, the secret is that there's no reward and we have to endure our characters and our natures as best we can, because no amount of experience or insight is going to rectify our deficiencies, our self-regard, or our cupidity. We have to learn that our desires do not find any real echo in the world. We have to accept that the people we love do not love us, or not in the way we hope. We have to accept betrayal and disloyalty, and, hardest of all, that someone is finer than we are in character or intelligence.” — 34 people liked it

“She said she never wanted to have secrets from me nor from herself, which is why she wanted to write down everything that otherwise would be hard to talk about. As I said, later I understood that someone who flees into honesty like that fears something, fears that her life will fill with something that can no longer be shared, a genuine secret, indescribable, unutterable.” — 21 people liked it

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