What do you think?
Rate this book
The Diary of Mr. Pinke
The Diary of Mr. Pinke is poet Ewald Murrer's first full length work of prose. Written as a compilation of journal entries spanning March to December, it relates the strange happenings amongst a group of village residents, including a rabbi, a magic goat, an ancient Gypsy, and a fortune teller in a mythical region that could be the Galician countryside. The entire atmosphere is suffused with a surrealistic quality as people and beasts float across the landscape, leaving only cryptic traces of their passage. Through the combination of poetry and prose, Murrer gives the narrative a unique and personal lyricism. His use of folklore and myth both connects him to a tradition of Czech literature begun early in this century and places him amidst the new generation of Czech writers.
- GenresFiction
112 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1993
2 people are currently reading
85 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
October 19, 2022
**October 2022: back in print with Murrer's original color illos: https://twistedspoon.com/diary-mr-pin...**
The Twisted Spoon site describes Ewald Murrer's first prose work as a novella in verse. Structured like a diary (as implied by the title), it chronicles the life of Voronskie Put' village as seen through the eyes of the titular Mr. Pinke. Within his entries mundane events intermingle with supernatural occurrences and surreal tableaux. Visitors from Prague and other locales beyond the borders of this dreamscape arrive and depart, including a figure with the same name as the author, for whose benefit Mr. Pinke in part writes his journal entries. Shrouded in fog and populated by not only humans but werewolves, goblins, dwarves, and a talking goat, Voronskie Put' is a place existing outside of standard time and geography. Mr. Pinke's impassive notetaking, never wavering in tone from his descriptions of banal shopping trips in town to those of failed unicorn hunts, recalls some of my favorite Central European dream-prose, such as that which flowed from the magical pens of Bruno Schulz, Max Blecher, and Gellu Naum. To enhance the effect, five entries are accompanied by black-and-white illustrations reflective of their themes.
Many entries walk that alluring line between the hermetic and the universal, where whether you cross the barrier of understanding or not, you still feel the effects as a familiar broth seeps out from the fringes of myth and culture into our common undercurrent.
The Twisted Spoon site describes Ewald Murrer's first prose work as a novella in verse. Structured like a diary (as implied by the title), it chronicles the life of Voronskie Put' village as seen through the eyes of the titular Mr. Pinke. Within his entries mundane events intermingle with supernatural occurrences and surreal tableaux. Visitors from Prague and other locales beyond the borders of this dreamscape arrive and depart, including a figure with the same name as the author, for whose benefit Mr. Pinke in part writes his journal entries. Shrouded in fog and populated by not only humans but werewolves, goblins, dwarves, and a talking goat, Voronskie Put' is a place existing outside of standard time and geography. Mr. Pinke's impassive notetaking, never wavering in tone from his descriptions of banal shopping trips in town to those of failed unicorn hunts, recalls some of my favorite Central European dream-prose, such as that which flowed from the magical pens of Bruno Schulz, Max Blecher, and Gellu Naum. To enhance the effect, five entries are accompanied by black-and-white illustrations reflective of their themes.
Many entries walk that alluring line between the hermetic and the universal, where whether you cross the barrier of understanding or not, you still feel the effects as a familiar broth seeps out from the fringes of myth and culture into our common undercurrent.
I am the pilgrim of a small region. The region has solid borders that I cannot cross.
Every morning I leave, awakened by the singing of the birds or by the bell in the tree towers or by the voice of someone who is an awakener. I leave by the road which runs along the wall of blue stones. I leave secretly through the wall of my determined existence. I leave the door closed to cover the emptiness I hide.
I love colored rocks.
Sometimes, I go as an ascetic, in a borrowed suit.
At night I return. I am welcomed by the canine understanding of the quiet darkness, which also leaves in the morning without looking around.
October 26, 2007
A delightful attempt at writing interesting things without narrative cohesion. The land alludes, the people happen, the poetry sometimes strikes home. Structured like a diary, there are beautiful meetings, lines of unintelligible poetry, and haunting describtions of a region that is like Bohemia, Galicia, and (in my mind) Transylvania. Worth a shot.
July 21, 2017
I can't even imagine how to review this gem. Instead I'm going to quote my favorite passages.
June 17 The rabbi was shuffling tarot cards.
September 3 In Pluzhno I first visit the photographer's salon on Jakubska street. He stole my face.
In the evening I caught sight of my face in the window, after all. Suddenly, the glass in the window was surrounded by houses and the window was turning into a square. A square with a fountain. The fountain- that was my face.
September 25 The dead cat lay calmly on the doorstep. Shaggy funeral guests sat around it in a semicircle and, with thin, high voices, sang mournful songs.
September 26 Bearded old men under chestnut trees. New-borns on their knees.
A shimmering automobile drove along the road, full of bat ears. In a graveyard, a celebration. The sounds of a lute.
December 5 Snow fell. I ran off to the white countryside. Elem Ryschon ran at my heels, sumersaulting grandly.
June 17 The rabbi was shuffling tarot cards.
September 3 In Pluzhno I first visit the photographer's salon on Jakubska street. He stole my face.
In the evening I caught sight of my face in the window, after all. Suddenly, the glass in the window was surrounded by houses and the window was turning into a square. A square with a fountain. The fountain- that was my face.
September 25 The dead cat lay calmly on the doorstep. Shaggy funeral guests sat around it in a semicircle and, with thin, high voices, sang mournful songs.
September 26 Bearded old men under chestnut trees. New-borns on their knees.
A shimmering automobile drove along the road, full of bat ears. In a graveyard, a celebration. The sounds of a lute.
December 5 Snow fell. I ran off to the white countryside. Elem Ryschon ran at my heels, sumersaulting grandly.
February 23, 2023
I reminisced in a silence made for reminiscing. 29
The past does not return, it runs along the present.A mask on its face. 34
scythes sharpened, let's fling ourselves at their feet! 38
'I am other than I would have been had I known myself before I was born 40
In the evening tell yourself something to keep yourself awake all night. 56
When the tree fell, I found a book in its trunk. We examined the trunk like a doctor would a wound 68
Let the solitude teach it 72
The storm left legible words written in the clouds, and then an entire hand, as if human 73
Even his eyes are eternal 76
The road was long, rolling away from me, and right when I was about to catch it by the coat, it disappeared over the horizon. 81
Time trickled like water 95
A song from my own lips will awaken me from a dream. 109
Do not stay put lest you lose the gift of being a child. Where you put down roots, you become an adult with all their cares and worries, all their fears, all their blindness and deafness. Wander the world from place to place in the joy of gaining knowledge. 117
-In the Diary, they come and they go, creatures of folklore and myth and humans alike.
The strange is a daily occurrence and the mundane rests gently by its side.
The natural does as it needs to and abides by its own rhythm, by certain set of rules and laws and motion.
The near silent whispering of words brings about unicorns.
Stars and words become one and the same. Each in their own way making an impression and disappearing into the night sky.
The past does not return, it runs along the present.A mask on its face. 34
scythes sharpened, let's fling ourselves at their feet! 38
'I am other than I would have been had I known myself before I was born 40
In the evening tell yourself something to keep yourself awake all night. 56
When the tree fell, I found a book in its trunk. We examined the trunk like a doctor would a wound 68
Let the solitude teach it 72
The storm left legible words written in the clouds, and then an entire hand, as if human 73
Even his eyes are eternal 76
The road was long, rolling away from me, and right when I was about to catch it by the coat, it disappeared over the horizon. 81
Time trickled like water 95
A song from my own lips will awaken me from a dream. 109
Do not stay put lest you lose the gift of being a child. Where you put down roots, you become an adult with all their cares and worries, all their fears, all their blindness and deafness. Wander the world from place to place in the joy of gaining knowledge. 117
-In the Diary, they come and they go, creatures of folklore and myth and humans alike.
The strange is a daily occurrence and the mundane rests gently by its side.
The natural does as it needs to and abides by its own rhythm, by certain set of rules and laws and motion.
The near silent whispering of words brings about unicorns.
Stars and words become one and the same. Each in their own way making an impression and disappearing into the night sky.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 16, 2008
The actual author of this book is Ewald Murrer.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews