The Skin

by Curzio Malaparte, David Moore (Translation), Rachel Kushner (Introduction)

This is the first unexpurgated English edition of Curzio Malaparte’s legendary work The Skin. The book begins in 1943, with Allied forces cementing their grip on the devastated city of Naples. The sometime Fascist and ever-resourceful Curzio Malaparte is working with the Americans as a liaison officer. He looks after Colonel Jack Hamilton, “a Christian gentleman . . . an American in the noblest sense of the word,” who speaks French and cites the classics and holds his nose as the two men tour the squalid streets of a city in ruins where liberation is only another word for desperation. Veterans of the disbanded Italian army beg for work. A rare specimen from the city’s famous aquarium is served up at a ceremonial dinner for high Allied officers. Prostitution is rampant. The smell of death is everywhere.

Subtle, cynical, evasive, manipulative, unnerving, always astonishing, Malaparte is a supreme artist of the unreliable, both the product and the prophet of a world gone rotten to the core.

Genres: Fiction, Italian Literature, Italy, War, Classics, Literature, Historical Fiction

343 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1949

About the author

Born Kurt Erich Suckert, he was an Italian journalist, dramatist, short-story writer, novelist and diplomat.

Born in Prato, Tuscany, he was a son of a German father and his Lombard wife, the former Evelina Perelli. He studied in Rome and then, in 1918, he started his career as a journalist. He fought in the First World War, and later, in 1922, he took part in the March on Rome.

He later saw he was wrong in supporting fascism. That is proved by reading Technique du coup d`etat (1931), where Malaparte attacked both Adolf Hitler and Mussolini. This book was the origin of his downfall inside the National Fascist Party. He was sent to internal exile from 1933 to 1938 on the island of Lipari.

He was freed on the personal intervention of Mussolini's son-in-law and heir apparent Galeazzo Ciano. Mussolini's regime arrested Malaparte again in 1938, 1939, 1941, and 1943 and imprisoned him in Rome's infamous jail Regina Coeli. His remarkable knowledge of Europe and its leaders is based upon his own experiences as a correspondent and in the Italian diplomatic service.

In 1941 he was sent to cover the Eastern Front as a correspondent for Corriere della Sera. He wrote articles about the front in Ukrania, but the fascist dictatorship of Mussollini censored it. But later, in 1943, they were collected and brought out under the title Il Volga nasce in Europa (The Volga Rises in Europe). Also, this experience provided the basis for his two most famous books, Kaputt (1944) and The Skin (1949).

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

The book was banned by the Vatican. But what is poison for a sanctimonious priest is a freewheeling thinker’s titbit.
The war will be over soon… Naples is occupied by Allied forces…

We were clean, tidy and well fed, Jack and I, as we made our way through the midst of the dreadful Neapolitan mob – squalid, dirty, starving, ragged, jostled and insulted in all the languages and dialects of the world by troops of soldiers belonging to the Armies of Liberation, which were drawn from all the races of the earth. The distinction of being the first among all the peoples of Europe to be liberated had fallen to the people of Naples; and in celebration of the winning of so well-deserved a prize my poor beloved Neapolitans, after three years of hunger, epidemics and savage air attacks, had accepted gracefully and patriotically the longed-for and coveted honour of playing the part of a conquered people, of singing, clapping, jumping for joy amid the ruins of their houses, unfurling foreign flags which until the day before had been the emblems of their foes, and throwing flowers from their windows on to the heads of the conquerors.

The city is immersed in chaos… And Curzio Malaparte is outright sarcastic in everything… Also grotesque, metaphoric and scabrous… Chaos knows no refinement…

Every day there arrived in Naples, on carts drawn by wretched little donkeys or in Allied vehicles, but mostly on foot, parties of sturdily-built, robust girls, nearly all of them peasants, attracted by the mirage of gold. They came from the Calabrias, the Apulias, the Basilicata and Molise. And so the price of human flesh on the Neapolitan market had been crashing, and it was feared that this might have a serious effect on the whole economy of the city.

For some it is a victory… For some it is a defeat… The moral decay if in prime… Plague of disintegration…

It was death’s hour – the hour when the carts of the Municipal Cleansing Department, the few carts spared by the terrible, ceaseless air-raids of those years, went from alley to alley, from hovel to hovel, to collect the dead, just as, before the war, they used to go to collect the garbage. The misery of the times, the public disorder, the high death-rate, the greed of the speculators, the negligence of the authorities and the universal corruption were such that to accord the dead Christian burial had become almost an impossibility, the privilege of the few.

Man must survive even in the most apocalyptic times.

[Violet wells · Rating 4 out of 5]

Probably this gets the award for the most cynical novel I’ve ever read. Malaparte is a difficult chap to warm to. He’s racist, homophobic and was a fascist in the early days of Mussolini’s rise to power. Hitler blamed communism on the Jews; Malaparte blames it on homosexuals. What saves him, as an author, is his tremendous wit, his hugely impressive erudition and his ability to write so damn well.

The first interesting aspect of this book is that it perhaps shows how fascism in Italy was of a different hue to fascism in Germany. In Germany you feel fascism was largely the extorting opportunism of the disenfranchised lower middle class and intellect was something it always sought to purge; in Italy fascism began its life as an aesthetic and thus had more backing from the intelligentsia. Malaparte is like the personification of the deep embittering disillusionment that arrived when fascism showed itself to be little more than opportunistic thuggery. He’s a man who has been humiliated by his own beliefs. Which is why he is able to write so well about the humiliation of the Italian people when they know the ambivalence of being simultaneously defeated and liberated by the Allies. There are shades of Iraq here – a populace bewildered by the conundrum of liberated or defeated and humiliated.

The book begins in Naples in 1944. The city has just been liberated but resembles some kind of dystopian nightmare in its moral depravity and surreal breakdown of order. You’re never quite sure with Malaparte to what extent he’s exaggerating. He certainly isn’t a reliable reporter. He narrates one scene where American soldiers are paying money to see a Neapolitan virgin. She is a twelve year old girl lying spreadeagled on a mattress in a hovel. Narrates another where an American commander always serves his guests the ubiquitous spam accompanied by an exotic fish from the Naples aquarium because, due to German mines, fishing is banned in the bay of Naples. At the banquet Malaparte attends the served fish in question looks exactly like a girl child. Another scene where a man’s hand is blown off by a mine but no one can find the hand. Afterwards when everyone is eating stew at a field camp Malaparte looks distressed but remains silent. When asked what is wrong he informs everyone the man’s hand was in his stew and he ate it because he didn’t want to put a downer on the convivial mood at the dinner table. And this is what Malaparte does so well – highlights the horrors of war through a filter of macabre psychedelia. His journey through the aftermath of the war is like a relentless acid trip.

Should also be said that there are as many laugh out loud moments in this book as any I’ve read this year. Shades of Nabokov in his black humour. I especially enjoyed the banter between the sardonic and cynical Malaparte and the wet-behind-the-ears idealism and gullibility of his American colleagues. There’s also an absolutely brilliant description of Vesuvius erupting. Not an easy read but decidedly brilliant and original none the less.

[BlackOxford · Rating 5 out of 5]

Christ Was a Neopolitan

Malaparte was clearly a practical man. He had a sense in which direction the train of history was moving, and he knew at which stops to make transfers or even to reverse direction. In short, Malaporte was a survivor. The Skin is a novelistic memoir of his existential skills - intelligence, political awareness of context, acute insight into motives and unconscious intention, but most of all irony.

The Skin is intensely ironic from its opening sentence referring to the liberation of Naples in 1943 as a “plague” to its closing “It is a shameful thing to win a war.” Malaporte avoids sarcasm by never blaming anyone (which is effectively the same as blaming everyone) for the misery inflicted by not just war but its lingering aftermath. His irony is cool, detached, a sort of Stoic commentary on the inevitability of suffering.

Clearly Malaporte is empathetic with his Italian countrymen as they suffer the physical deprivation and spiritual degradation of defeat. He sees them and reports them in excruciating detail. But his is a sort of empathy without sympathy. His attitude toward the mass pain of Allied occupation is more or less that of an astute philosopher of history: “What else could have been expected?”

Apparently the Catholic Church condemned The Skin, perhaps because of its portrayal of the essential human corruption on which the church is built. But I’m sure that the condemnation was theological as well as political. The book is a profound statement of what it means to be human - the crassness of power, its casual infliction of pain, the vulgarity of those who serve power, and the ultimate falsehoods of idealistic myths. In other words, the world, or at least its human component, is evil at its core. Nothing can save it, certainly not more idealistic myths.

To put this more precisely: fighting for the good results in not better but worse. The implication is that the good cannot be protected by violent action because violence can always be rationalised as in the interests of the good. People lie, mostly to themselves, about why they do what they do. The more educated they are, the more facile the ability to find sufficient fictions to justify sheer stupidity - like participation in war.

This is the positive part of Malaparte’s extreme gnosticism. It is what makes his irony bearable. There are no just causes; there are only interests which are transformed into ideals and used to motivate harm and self-delusion. Perhaps the greatest irony is that this seeming hopelessness is the central principle of Christianity - only love wins. The fact that this principle has been consistently undermined by the churches, cultures, and individuals which claim to be Christian is the paradox at the heart of The Skin. No wonder the Catholic Church was keen to suppress it.

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Although entirely impossible (due to the fact of it being banned in the city), had there been a book signing event held in Naples for 'La Pelle' (The Skin), the pen of Kurt Erich Suckert (Curzio Malapatre) would in all likelihood stay firmly in the breast pocket of his suit. Many would want to see him yes, but not for the signing of any book. No, this queue about a mile long full of angry souls including Neapolitans, members of the Italian Government, The Pope, Blacks, Homosexuals, and Dwarfs, would want to give him a torrent of abuse. Even the sirens of the sea may feel obliged to come ashore out of the bay of Naples to throw chunks of coral at him. I for one would have gladly stood in line for a signed copy, even if it meant getting lynched by the locals; would even shake his hand and say "well done Mr Malaparte, sir!, I've just read my favourite WW2 novel; your WW2 novel" - Hoping then he would invite me back to his cliff side Villa on Capri for a spot of lunch out on the roof. Wow, and what a view indeed it is!

It's controversial, it's distasteful, degrading and obscene, but then isn't that war?. It's also brilliantly written, about human disgust, and the savagery that war inflicts upon a city and it's inhabitants. Every page captured my attention, whether believable or not. He has enlarged the art of inventive fiction in more surreal and perverse ways than I ever could have imagined.

Malaparte gets to star in his own book, as himself. A member of the National Fascist Party before the war he was a firm supporter of Mussolini, but turned to the left after Italy was left ravaged by conflict. Here he plays an Liaison officer (as he was in real life) to an American colonel (Jack Hamilton), they tour the battle-scarred and comfortless streets of a depraved and ruined Naples, a place where selling out was the cunning and ugly art of survival, mothers would sell their children, children would sell their mothers, whores would not only sell themselves but also beggars in the gutter. Malaparte - "the city was like a lump of cow dung, squashed by the foot of a passer-by". He is a lap dog, sucking up to the Americans, to him they are Gods, while he thinks of himself as nothing more than a 'filthy rotten Italian'. They involve themselves in some quite bizarre situations, that left me reeling in both horror and almost howls of laughter, because I simply could not believe what I was reading.

I knew within the early stages this was going to be a different kind of war novel, the mere mention of 'grotesque midget women who whine peculiar noises from within their hovels' had me rubbing my eyes just to make sure I was indeed awake. There are other shameful moments when the pair enter a shop selling 'strange blonde wigs', the repugnance casting of their eyes behind a curtain of a young virgin girl used for viewing pleasure, a party full of young bourgeois students, that ends like something out of a nightmare, and a banquet for high Allied officers that had the famous aquarium being raided for a prized fish. In fact at this point the films of both Pier Paolo Pasolini and Alejandro Jodorowsky came to mind for the use of shocking and surreal imagery.

If the Gods connived and double crossed one another over the fate of Troy, Mussolini, Hitler and lastly the Americans took a no lees lively interest in Naples. A place of vast suffering, men, women and children living in a destroyed city with barely a bite to eat, a drop of water to drink, would do just about anything to get by. Did the Americans come as conquerors or liberators?, their insistence on their own moral goodness is continually undermined and revealed as contradictory in The Skin, they are the John, while Naples is the whore. The Italians Malaparte says, jump for joy, out the windows of their ruined houses waving foreign flags, and hurtling flowers at the conquerors. Later in the novel when switching to Rome, a man so excited by the sight of the Allies falls under the caterpillars of a Sherman tank and ends up flat as pancake. Troubled by this the General at least offers money for a decent burial.
When talking of, or to the Americans Malaparte does so with a double edged voice, there is a quirky arrogance that he may be acting like a wolf in sheep's clothing, nothing is abundantly clear towards his actions. There is a frolicsome banter used in the dialogue, and lots of joking around, yet death is everywhere, in the air, the sea, and on the ground right in front of them.

I have to say there was an appalling political ignorance from all sides during WW2 towards the poor people of Naples, and the disbanded Italian army were looked at like the scum of the earth, Malaparte's attitude towards his own people is as complicated and contradictory as his views on the Americans. They are no more simple victims than the latter are simple victors.
'The Skin' is served up like a bottle of fancy wine, but along side a silver platter which sits a human head on a bed of olives. It's Malaparte's bad conscience, he taunts, teases and titillates one minute, before punishing the reader with the vile and humiliating the next.

The Skin is simply one of the finest and most remarkable novels I have read on World War II. It's probably my favourite work by any Italian writer.

[Hanneke · Rating 5 out of 5]

'The Skin' must have been considered a very scandalous book in 1947 when it was published. Its tragicomic account of the invasion of Naples in 1943 must have shocked the people who were only just recovering from the horrors of war. I would imagine that they were scandalized by a lot of the distressing and often bewildering observations about their recent past. Malaparte's story is still shocking to read today, so I cannot even imagine what an impact it must have had just after the end of the war. It is only in recent years that you see books published that allow for the occasional comic remark in a WW-II setting.

The story of what happens at the invasion of Naples and the following years is extremely tragic and farcical as well. I feel that Malaparte's account shows us the true reality of the madness of war. There is an intriguing question throughout the book whether Naples was invaded or liberated by the American army. Malaparte even implies that he and the people of Naples feel sorry for the American conquerors and that they themselves have the preferable position of being conquered. As he puts it in the last sentence of the book: "It is a shameful thing to win a war."

His observations on the behavior of his compatriots, as well as the American army and himself feel very realistic to me. Yet, there are some shocking stories that feel like scenes from a Jheronimus Bosch painting, as they are so dark and archaic that you have trouble taking in the real picture of what he is relating. This must be the real face of living through a war.
Curzio writes pure poetry for pages at a time. However cruel and even sadistic his observations often are, he does show alot of compassion for the people of Naples and their often grotesque behaviour. There are scenes in this book I will never forget. They are darkness visible. And then again, there are very hilarious scenes as well. Or very tender scenes, like the story of his friendship with the American army officer Jack or his recounting of the death of his beloved dog Febo. I feel that this book has a unique voice in WW-II literature.

So, I loved this book. And I also love that sardonic bastard, Curzio Malaparte. I love the title too. It is so appropriate in that we have only our own skin to live in.
I will read this book again. Highly recommended.

[Sana · Rating 4 out of 5]

"شاید هم که باختن یک جنگ از بردن آن مشکل تر است.شاید هرکسی که قادر است یک جنگ را ببرد ولی عده‌ی قلیلی قدرت باخت آن را دارند."

بالاخره یکی از کتاب‌های مالاپارته رو خوندم.
و خوشحالم که تونستم با کتابش ارتباط بگیرم و لذت ببرم.
اما رمان "پوست"جزو کتاب‌های ضد جنگ هست و قطعا قراره چهره‌ی کریه و زشت جنگ رو به ما نشان بده. رمان "پوست"تجربیات حقیقی مالاپارته از جنگ جهانی دوم و بازه آزادسازی ایتالیا توسط متفقین،از چنگال آلمان ها را دربرمی‌گیرد.
مالاپارته از کشوری می‌گوید که در حال فرو پاشیدن است.فقر،گرسنگی،طاعون و فساد را همه گیر کرده.
و مالاپارته سرافکنده و مغموم،کاری از او ساخته نیست جز روایت این دردها وزجرها برای آیندگان ثبت کند.
من هنوز کتاب "قربانی" رو نخوندم اما ترغیب شدم زودتر برم سراغش.
کتاب‌های ضدجنگ همیشه خواندنی هستن علیرغم روایت‌های دردناکی که داره ولی همچنان دوست داری بخونی.

[Maziyar Yf · Rating 3 out of 5]

کتاب پوست دیده های مالاپارته در ناپلی ایست که توسط نیروهای آمریکایی آزاد شده ، او که به عنوان یک افسر رابط در جبهه حضور دارد در کتاب پوست از رنج و درد ملت می گوید ، ملتی که پیش تر اسیر در چنگ موسولینی بوده و سپس کشورش صحنه جنگ و بمباران شده و در پایان هم آزاد و رها گشته اما درد و رنج آنان تمام نشده .
مالاپارته با طنزی سیاه و تلخ از جنگ و فجایع آن می گوید ، لحن او زمانی بسیار عادی ایست ، مانند زمانی که را مردی که به استقبال تانک می رود توصیف می کند ، اما مرد بدشانس زمین می خورد و زیر تانک می رود ،این صحنه دوزخی گویا خوراک ذهن و روح او می شود ، طنز مالاپارته از این نقطه است که اوج می گیرد .
اوجنازه مرد نگون بخت را به کت و شلواری تشبیه می کند که زیاد اتو خورده ، سپس با حوصله به بیان مشکلات جا به جایی جنازه او می پردازد و کاری هم ندارد که این جزییات برای خواننده ممکن است ناراحت کننده باشد ، او هر زمان که توانسته طنز تلخ خود را در دل جنگ گذاشته و به این ترتیب دید متفاوت خود را از جنگ به خواننده نشان می دهد .
همانند کتاب قربانی ، مالاپارته در کتاب پوست هم دنبال انسانیت نمی گردد ، کتاب او در مورد فداکاری یا ایثار در جنگ نیست ، او از قبل تکلیف خود را با این مسائل مشخص کرده ، قهرمانان کتاب او انسانهای شور بختی هستند که فقط می خواهند زنده بمانند ، تصویری که او از هموطنان خود نشان می دهد بسیار سیاه است ، در ابتدای کتاب از از بازار فروش یا اجاره کودکان می گوید ، قیمت آنان به دلار و البته با همان طنز لعنتیش ویژگی ها و مشخصات هر کالا ، در اینجا هر کودک را بیان می کند .
مالاپارته همزمان هم در بین فاتحان آمریکایی می گردد و هم در بین ایتالیایی های مغلوب و شکست خورده ، او دنیای جنگ را از دو دیدگاه روایت می کند . از نگاه او ، جامعه ایتالیا گویی فرو پاشیده و در حال پوسیدن است .
سفر پر ماجرای مالاپارته با سقوط رم به پایان می رسد ، آمریکایی ها از همان راهی به رم می روند که امپراطوران فاتح قبلا به آن جا رفته بودند ، اما در پایان این درد و رنج است که می ماند ، همه سوگوار و گریانند ، آمریکایی ها و آلمانی ها در سوگ سربازان از دست رفته ، ناپلی ها در سوگ شهر ویران شده و مالاپارته می ماند خسته و رنجور و بیمار از دیدن عذاب جنگ .

[مجیدی‌ام · Rating 5 out of 5]

*بدون خطر لو رفتن داستان

پوست، کتاب ضد جنگی بود که حجت رو بر من تموم کرد.
کتاب‌های ضد جنگ کم نخونده‌ام و درواقع ژانر مورد علاقه‌ام هست، اما از عظمت و بزرگی این کتاب هرچی بگم کم گفتم.
در عجبم که چطور تا همین اواخر، حتی اسم این کتاب رو نشنیده بودم، تا اینکه حدودا چند ماه پیش، یکی از دوستانم از کتاب‌های جدیدش برای من عکسی فرستاد و کتاب پوست در بین خریدهای اون روزش بود.
مدتی گذشت و کتاب رو خوند، و زمانی که ازش پرسیدم چطور بود، در یک کلمه جوابم رو داد، گفت شاهکار!
این شد که کتاب رو خریده و خوندم.

داستان کتاب، انقدر که عمیق و بزرگه، قابلیت لو دادن نداره.
نویسنده، یا همون مالاپارته، در کتاب پوست، از تجربیاتش در جنگ جهانی دوم می‌نویسه.
از روزهایی می‌نویسه که وطنش ایتالیا در جنگ ویران شده، از روزهایی که کشورش در فقر مطلقه! فقری که باعث شده خونواده‌ها بچه‌های خودشون رو به قیمت یک دلار به سربازان آمریکایی بفروشن!
فقری که زن‌ها رو مجبور کرده برای یک وعده جیره‌ی غذایی یک سرباز، تن خودشون رو بفروشن...
اما با وجود تمام این‌ها، مالاپارته معتقده که این فقر مقدسه! اون معتقده که تلاش برای نمردن، شرافتمندانه‌تر از تلاش برای زنده موندنه! معتقده که مرگ به پوسیدگی شرف داره!

این کتاب نسبتا طولانی، انقدر بزرگ هست که در توانم نیست حتی قطره‌ای از اون رو براتو توضیح بدم، یا نقد کنم.
فقط می‌تونم بگم که تا بحال هر کتابی از جنگ جهانی دوم خوندید رو فراموش کنید و پوست رو بخونید.
برای من، این کتاب بهترین اثر ضدجنگ بود که تا به امروز در عمرم خوندم!
ترجمه‌ی قلی خیاط، کیفیت ��اپ و نگارش انتشارات نگاه، همه و همه عالی بودند. امتیاز این کتاب، پنج از پنج!

از متن کتاب:
نمی‌دانم شغل فاتح مشکل‌تر است یا مغلوب. ولی مطمئنم که ارزش انسان مغلوب از پیروز زیادتر است.

جیمی گفت: شاید می‌خواهی به من بفهمانی که مسیح نیز جنگ را باخته است.
آهسته گفتم: بردن جنگ خجالت‌آور است...

[William2 · Rating 3 out of 5]

What an artistic vision! When not the blackest satire, it is scarifying, harrowing. Published in Italian in 1949.

The chapter “General Cork’s Banquet” is one of the novel’s finest set pieces. The section describing Mrs. Flat (p. 208 on), a WAC officer at a banquet in the Neapolitan palace of the Dukes of Toledo, is a marvel. There can be a little doubt that it was in part inspired by Proust.

The pages on buying and selling American “Negroes” in Naples will set your hair on fire.

A smidge of French, so you may need Google Translate.

The chapter “The Rose of Flesh” (page 86 of this edition) is a scathing portrait of Neapolitan homosexuality during the second half of World War II. Author essentially accuses “inverts” of feigning Marxism in order to pick up starving proletarian boys. This ends with an anti-gay harangue that today can only be called bigotry. But why the very lengthy interest in the subject?

Irony in author’s praise for the American conquerors on the one hand, and lamentations for conquered Naples on the other. As with all ironists, he has a gift for paradox.

“No one on this earth save the Americans can move about with such easy, smiling grace among people who are filthy, starved and unhappy. It is not a sign of insensibility: it is a sign of optimism and at the same time of innocence. The Americans are not cynics, they are optimists; and optimism is in itself a sign of innocence. He who is blameless in thought and deed is led not, to be sure, to deny that evil exists, but to refuse to believe in the necessity of evil, to refuse to admit that evil is inevitable and incurable. The Americans believe that misery, hunger, pain and everything else can be combated, that men can recover from misery, hunger and pain, that there is a remedy for all evil. They do not know that evil is incurable.” (p. 61)

The recounting of the phosphorus bombings of Hamburg, largely by the RAF, is a terrible thing to read about.

“Whole districts of the city had been set alight by phosphorus bombs, which had claimed a great number of victims. . . Thousands and thousands of unfortunate people, dripping with burning phosphorus, had thrown themselves into the canals which cross Hamburg in every direction, into the river, the harbor, into ponds, even into the basins in the public gardens, hoping thereby to extinguish the flames that were devouring them; or they had had themselves covered over with earth in the trenches that had been dug here and there in the squares and streets to provide immediate shelter in the event of sudden raids. Clinging to the banks and to boats and immersed in the water up to their mouths, or buried in the earth up to their necks, they waited for the authorities to find some antidote to those treacherous flames. For the nature of phosphorus is such that it adheres to the skin like a sticky leprous crust, and burns only when it comes in contact with the air. As soon as those wretched beings stuck an arm out of the ground or out of the water it started to burn like a torch. To protect themselves from the scourge the hapless victims were forced to remain immersed in the water or buried in the earth like the damned in Dante's Inferno.“ (p. 106)

I did some additional research on this. Apparently, the Allies added rubber and benzoyl gel to the phosphorus, which would allow it to stick to skin and clothing and continually burn.

The chapter called “The Black Wind” reminds me very much of the horrors of Jan Potoki’s The Manuscript Found in Saragossa. Here, a scene set in Ukraine in 1941 evokes the activity of the Einsatsgruppen.

Later in the same chapter is a scene in which a soldier, suffering from a terrible stomach wound, is entertained by his fellows as a way of taking his mind off his impending death. A deeply moving scene.

Author Malaparte is like Céline in some ways. He does not have the latter’s offended sense of honor— I’m thinking of the last three books on the run through wartime Europe—but both are cynics to the marrow.

Malaparte was an erudite writer with an astonishing eye for detail. The reader intuits from the many dinner parties that in life he was something of a raconteur.

If the book falters, it’s in the late chapters, “The Triumph of Clorinda” and “The Rain of Fire.” Author Malaparte, already has a tendency to overwrite; it’s tolerable until you get to these chapters where he discusses the 1944 eruption of Mount Vesuvius. It is this late overwriting that diminished the book in my eyes. It’s well worth reading, but be sure to read his Kaputt first. It’s the finer book.

[Tijana]

Razlozi za i protiv čitanja Malaparteove "Kože":
Za:
1) mnogo dobro piše. Ne, zaista. Neverovatno zavodljiva proza kojom može da ispriča i najgnusnije stvari a da se ipak ne manete knjige.
2) pruža fantazmagorične opise užasa rata da ga se ni Goja ne bi postideo.

Protiv:
1) pruža fantazmagorične opise užasa rata da ga se ni Goja ne bi postideo. (Obratite pažnju na reč fantazmagorični. Ovo nije dokumentarna proza iako izdaleka ume da zaliči, a to dovodi do niza problema.)
2) pa gde početi? Od jezivog rasizma, jer to kako piše o crncima među američkim vojnicima treba videti pa poverovati (oni samo žele naše bele žene!), ili od paranoične homofobije: poglavlje koje u ovom Laguninom izdanju zauzima sedamdesetak strana bavi se time kako je komunistička omladina = dekadentna razvratna gej omladina koja samo priređuje orgije. Plus detaljan opis takve orgije kombinovane sa paganskim ritualom plodnosti. Ali bitno je pre svega da je omladinu u homoseksualnost zaveo komunizam a možda i obratno; to se razmatra... naširoko.

Uopšte: u Koži se mnogo više nego u Kaputtu (ili sam samo ja čitala Kaputt kao mlada i neiskusna) vidi da je Malaparte, koji je promenio podosta političkih ubeđenja, poduže bio i fašista i to od one estetizovane salonske dragoškalajićevske sorte koja se, doduše, zgadila nad nacističkim zločinima, ali stoga ipak nije odbacila baš sve svoje ideje jer reda (i viših rasa) mora biti. I eto nama teorije o dekadentnim mladim komunistima koji su simptom truleži Evrope. Ima još tih često zbrkanih a uvek upečatljivo sročenih "teorija" o odnosu mrtvih i živih ili o sramoti pobednika i stoga, najiskrenije, ne znam šta da kažem - ovo je vrhunski pisano štivo ali ga treba čitati sa uključenim svim radarima za detekciju samoopravdavanja, uvlačenja u poziciju žrtve, fantaziranja na temu truleži i dekadencije... i proseravanja generalno. (Ali taj barokni stil koji čak i opis skuvane ribe-devojke čini prihvatljivim! Ti rečenični obrti! Taj cinični humor koji je uvek na ivici da se prometne u histerični napad! Suva šteta ne čitati uopšte.)

[Michael Finocchiaro · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was another amazing work from Malaparte, but I enjoyed it less than Kaputt. At times, I really felt he was trying to clear his rotten conscience by playing the good guy. At the same time, there are unforgettable images here: the skin, the "Siren", Vesuvius erupting...but I found that the end dragged. I did not really get what he was saying with the foetuses at the end that he had not already said in Kaputt or the previous chapters of The Skin. The questions I ask myself reading this book are: does Malaparte really have a conscience or is he faking it? I was also repulsed at his broad homophobic statements at various parts of the book. The Urania orgy just being the most outrageous of them.
Catch-22 and The Skin tell the story of the same part of WWII from opposite sides (American and Italo-Fascist) and I would have to admit that despite its horrors, Catch-22 while being as condemning on war, ignorance, and rape as The Skin, was certainly funnier if less horrifying. The Proustian prose of Malaparte is beautiful to read and I could picture many of the scenes he described rather vividly. Both books plus Kaputt make powerful argues that might does not always make right and that war is a living hell that I hope my son will never have to face.

[Tahani Shihab · Rating 1 out of 5]

الرواية الأصلية عدد صفحاتها 344 صفحة، تم اختزالها بعد الترجمة إلى ما دون 60 صفحة! ألا يُعتبر هذا إجحاف بحقِّ الكاتب وبحقِّ الرواية الأصلية، واستخفاف بالقارئ العربي؟

[Nafiseh · Rating 5 out of 5]

<<"پوست" مالاپارته ضد تاريخ است ، آن سوي تاريخ ، سمت تاريك و پنهان و حتي ممنوع آن، نوعي سند و گواهي از خرابي خاك و تن و روح محكوم در دادگاه تاريخي كه عادت دارد جنگ و پيروزي و شكست ملت ها را از زبان فاتح ثبت كند ، از ديدگاه حماسي و دلاورانه ي وي، در واقع وقتي از بالا مي نگريم، از دور ، با نگاهي گسترده ، اين رمان چيزي نيست مگر خاري كوچك بر پوست كلفت پاشنه ي هيولاي تاريخ.. ناچيز اما ماندگار./واقعيت امر اين كه ما با يكي از ماندگارترين رمان هاي دو قرن اخير سر و كار داريم ، يكي از ملعون ترين و محبوب ترين ، زيباترين و دهشتناك ترين آن ها ، فيلسوفان يوناني معتقد بودند كه "هر چيز نادر زيبا و هر زيبايي نيكوست". از زيبايي هاي كمياب اين كتاب همين بس كه تاريخ را از زيان دادباخته مي نويسد ، از آن پايين ،به شكل واروونه ، ناهمگون با جريانهاي روزگار ، نه با شيون و ناله و ندبه بلكه با خنده؛
خنده سياه ، به مثابه آخرين حربه ، استراتژي ياس.
خنده سياه به مثابه استتيك هولناك زيبايي مغلوب در قبال فاتحش...
پوست مالاپارته همچو شمعي ست كه سوسويش به چشم بسته كور نوهي نور و بينايي ياغي مي بخشد.
آن عبارت حيرت آور عين القضات همداني را كه به ياد داريد :" اي دوست مي پنداري كه بينا شدن به نور كاري ست اندك؟ ">>( بخشي از گفتگوي مترجم محترم كتاب جناب آقاي ق.خ با سالنامه شرق ١٣٩٦)



شرح حال بنده حين خوانش پوست :
اولين باري كه قرار بود بخيه بزنم رو خوب يادم هست، زخمي بود با ابعاد خيلي زياد در خيلي زياد در ناحيه اگزيلاري راست يك آقاي جوان در اثر قمه و در يك نزاع خياباني.
اولين باري كه از انقدر نزديك با زخمي انقدر تازه با خشونتي انقدر عجيب مواجه ميشدم.
غدد بزاقيم غيرفعال شده بودند ، دست هام مي لرزيدند و داشتم از بوي خون فينت مي شدم .
دست چپم رو گذاشته بودم روي لبه تخت و با پوزيشني عجيب منتظر استادم، نيمه ايستاده بودم.
طب اورژانش شيفت آن شب مهربان و آرام بود
زخم را شستيم ، به لبه هاش ليدوكايين تزريق كرديم و در محيط سبز گان پهنش كرديم.
استاد مهربان دست راستش رو گذاشت روي دست راستم ، سوزن فرو مي رفت و بيرون مي اومد و لبه هاي زخم روبروي هم قرار مي گرفتند، من در واقع دو تا دست كوچولو و لرزون و وحشت زده بودم با اداي دوختن كه توي دست هاي بزرگ استاد گم شده بودند.
از اون شب تا حالا دوختن زخم هاي مرئي ( دوختن زخم هاي نامرئي رو نميشه يك شبه آموخت )رو ياد گرفتم ديگه دستام نمي لرزند و سرگيجه نمي گيرم ديگه چشمام مرطوب نميشن و خجالت زده نميشم اما از چند روز پيش كه با اين پوست آش و لاش مواجه شدم دقيقن شدم عين همون شب دهشتناك با دست هايي كه مي لرزند از دلهره هاي ناتمام .
پوست در واقع پيكر مالاپارته (انسان)ست با زخم هاي عميق ، بسيار عميق ، كه باعث ميشن تنگي نفس و وز وز گوش و تپش قلب و بيي خوابي هاي فراموش شده ت عود كنن ، هزار سال پير تر ميشي و چروك هاي زير چشمات عميق تر ميشن و از خودت متنفر ميشي كه اصن چه نيازي به بازگويي اين هاست...
انگار كه پيكر مالاپارته (انسان) روي دوشت سنگيني ميكنه و تو مجبوري به تنهايي در كورترين نقطه بينايي ت زير له ترين بافت مغزت پنهانش كني و به حافظه ت گوشزد كني كه به هيچ عنوان به هيچ عنوان از اون حوالي عبور نكنه(اما از ته قلبت مي خواي كه هر زمان باران باريد زير سقف همان قسمت از حافظه ي له شده ت پياده روي كني).

من رد اشك هاي مالاپارته رو وقتي هنوز توي "پوست "زنده بود ديدم ،هزار بار ديدم اما دستي كه نمي تونه زخم هاي كهنه رو بدوزه آيا ميتونه اشك هاي خشكيده رو لمس كنه؟ ( كار دوم به مراتب سخت تره )
بيشتر شرح حال خودم حين خوانش بود تا ريويوي كتاب اما من بلد نيستم اين مجموعه φ شده رو اين "پوست "منزجركننده و زيبا رو تشريح كنم.
دلم مي خواهد چشمهام رو ببندم و لحن مالاپارته رو حين گفتگو با جك وقتي نگران كاسينو بود و بعد مجبور شد به كاسينو لعنت بفرسته رو پيدا كنم ، دلم ميخواهد چشم هام رو ببندم و لحن مالاپارته رودر پاسخ به اين جمله ژنرال گيبوم :شما كه كودك خود را نخواهيد فروخت
مالاپارته : چه كسي مي داند ؟ اگر كودكي داشتم ، شايد مي رفتم بفروشمش تا براي خودم سيگار آمريكايي بخرم ، مرد روزگار بايد بود. در رذل و پستي، تا نهايت رذالت بايد رفت.
دلم ميخواهد چشم هام رو ببندم و لحن مالاپارته رو در پاسخ به آن مرد مصلوب شناور در باد سياه : ما روي اين ترحم شما تف مي اندازيم.
مالاپارته :به خاطر عشق خدا ، مرا پس نزنيد ! بگذاريد شما را از اين صليب هايتان رها كنم! دست مرا پس نزنيد! اين دست يك مرد است ، دست يك انسان !
دلم مي خواهد چشم هام رو ببندم و لحن مالاپارته رو در تقابل با آمپول مرگ وقتي كه فِبو روي آن گهواره كلينيك دامپزشكي درد مي كشيد
مالاپارته :من چشمم را مي بندم ، دكتر. تاب تماشاي مرگ او را ندارم، اما زود عمل كنيد! زود
دلم مي خواهد چشم هام رو ببندم و لحن مالاپارته را وقتي آن فرش انساني روي نوك بيل قرار گرفت و شد پرچم و مالاپارته گفت: اين تنها پرچم ميهن واقعي ماست؛ پرچمي از پوست انسان، ميهن واقعي ما پوست ماست.
مي خواهم همه ي اينها را، ،سطر به سطر كتاب را بيابم اما نميشه مي دوني نميشه، فقط سكوته يعني اين كلمه هاي لعنتي فقط روي كاغذ قادر به تكلم اند، فقط بايد با چشم هايي دنبال بشن كه چروك هاي زيرش هر لحظه عميق تر ميشه و به حفره هاي خالي شبيه تر . همون سكوتي كه روي لب هاي آن "مسيح هاي نگون بخت آويزان" ،دلمه بسته بود.همان سكوتي كه مالاپارته مي شناختش.همان سكوتي كه ناشي "از بريدن تارهاي صوتي شان (مان)بود قبل از عمل".
"پوست "همان (همين) دوزخي ست كه با دمل هاي كريه "زيستن" آراسته شده ، با شيوه هاي دردناك انساني مدام و مدام و مدام سرباز مي كنند و زير پانسمان متعفن تاريخ در خود طغيان مي كنند بارها و بارها و بارها.

" و آنگاه ، شنا كردم من در شعر دريا
اشباع از ستاره ها و راه هاي شيري
آنجا ، در انتهاي افق هاي سبز كه گاهي
فرو مي رود غريق متفكر ، شناور رنگ باخته و شيفته"
(آرتور رمبو)

مبهوت و بدون تاريخ و مبهوت.

[Nora Barnacle · Rating 5 out of 5]

Koža je vrhunski napisan roman. Sledno, svako kome je to premisa čitalačkog užitka ne bi trebalo da propusti ovako maestralno preplitanje najtananije ljudske senzitivnosti i najužasnijih fantazmagorija sa prelivom od bizarnosti, čemernog sarkazma i gneva. Iako je tema ratna, tačnije posleratna (što se ispostavlja većim paklom), Koža nikako nije puko lamentiranje nad nevinim stradalnicima, moralistički apel ili humanistički vapaj, niti slična vrsta angažmana sa ciljem da ovaj svet već jednom postane bolji.

Za sve to Malapartea zabole (na pesku Kaprija osunčano) dupe.

Odavde, od pominjanja autorovog imena, beri, čitaoče, kožu na šiljak: počinju problem koji eskaliraju u brojnim pravcima i preko svih granica obzira, da se u nekom trenutku može stići i do podatka da je pomenuto dupe, pride, bivalo depilirano. Beš šale, to stvarno piše.

Da li je Kurcio Malaparte bio salonski fašista, iskompleksirani elistista, snobovski ništak, intelektualni klovn, šovinista, homofob, rasista i licemer?
Ne znam. Deluje verovatno, ali to pitanje smatram irelevantnim, uz opasku da Malaparte nije za one koji između piščeve biografije i njegovog dela vide neraskidivu vezu i jedno tumače drugim.

Da li postoje indicije da je Kožu napisao salonski fašista, iskompleksirani elistista, snobovski ništak, intelektualni klovn, šovinista, homofob, rasista i licemer?
Postoje. Štaviše, ima ih u priličnoj meri, uz opasku da, uprkos i kvantitetu i kvalitetu, one ostaju samo indicije koje čak i najposvećeniji čitalac, razborit i nepodjarmljen aktuelnim demokratskim submisivnostima, ne može proglasiti čvrstim dokazima.

Atmosfera Kože nalikuje atmosferi Pazolinijevog Saloa, čak bih rekla da je Malaparteovo švenkovanje sa bizarnosti i brutalnosti na raskoš i ekstravaganciju još uspelije. Ipak, koliki god da je katatonični šok u koji Pazolini baca svog gledaoca, on mu pošteno saopšti šta je bila poenta i zašto je sve moralo baš tako. Malaparte se tu, sav raspilavljen od jetkosti, svom zabezeknutom, zbunjenom i zgroženom čitaocu pobednički ceri u lice. Ali ne bez osnova. On jeste pobednik, jer je (i dalje) interesantan i desno i levo. Pobedio je veoma vispreno, a prilično prostom računicom: niko nije imun na opsenarsko dejstvo paradoksa, a gvozdena doslednost izazviva svačije poštovanje. Trebalo je, dakle, samo biti dosledan – čak i u licemerju.

Za spajanje zaista izuzetno napisanog romana i zaista izuzetno problematične piščeve ličnosti, ovo bi mogla biti jedna od mogućnosti: Kurcio Malaparte koji je rođen u Toskani, jednoj od najlepših i kulturološki najvažnijih regija čitave Evrope, mogao je sebi da priušti krasnu vilu na ostrvu Kapri čija je izuzetnost hiljadama godina bila rezervisana za napravljene u ređe korišćenim kalupima, poput careva, uglednika, bogataša i drugovrsne elite. Ništa od navedenog Malapartea nije učinilo ni lepšim, ni kulturnijim, niti u ma kom smislu izuzetnijiim, ali je on, pasionirani zaljubljenik u lagodan život (a pre svega u samoga sebe) rešio da se tako oseća. Nije, ustalom, imao od koga da traži dozvolu, sve i da mu je tako nešto moglo pasti na pamet. I tako je taj Malaparte, kad bi mu dosadilo ribarenje barkom po Napuljskom zalivu, kad bi izgustirao i novu ljubavnicu ili kad mu se prosto ćefne da prošeta novi brilijantin, sa tog svog Kaprija, kao sa Olimpa, povremeno silazio u stvarnost: na francuski front kao dobrovoljac, u Etopiju da se poigra fotoreportera, pa onda kod Dučea na bunga – bunga žurku, pa malo koktel prijema po diplomatskim korovima, malo i u Beograd (a šestoaprilsko bombardovanje – gruuum! – ko poručeno), malo do Rusije, malo do Kine, na kafu do Pavelića… i kad se, što bi kazale Nišlije, promaje po svet, ode si kući. Tamo je dobro vino, blagorodni maslinjaci, vazduh miriše na ruzmarin i lovor, toplo je, sunčano i daleko od nemernih ljudskih patnji i nedaća koje izuzetno dobro vidi, razume i može da oseti. Na sve to, Nebo ga je obdarilo raskošnom uobraziljom, te je bio kadar da piše uverljive ratne izveštaje sa ukrajinskih frontova, iscrpnih strahovitosti, a sve ležeći na žalu Tirenskoga mora. Rečju, nije morao ni da ide ako mu se nije htelo.

Moguće je da je pisao samo da bi isprovocirao toliko žuđenu javnu pažnju, kao što je moguće da je pisanje bio njegov način da podnese teret svih tih stradalnika sa kojima se sretao i sa kojima je saosećao; ili način da se bori, pre svega sopstvenim demonima koje ga neštedimice bacakaju po ćoškovima krajnosti; način da se opravda ili čak ponizi pred sobom samim – što ne preduzima ništa ili što se svaka strana koju odabere ubrzo ispostavi pogrešnom ili što bi svako njegovo poduzeće na kraju ispalo mizerno jer je, najzad, svestan svoje mizernosti.

A možda ga je stvarno bolelo dupe: zato što mu se moglo da sve (i dalje) zajebava ili zato što bezbolna depilacija postoji samo na reklami - svejedno, važna je doslednost.

[Σωτήρης Αδαμαρέτσος · Rating 5 out of 5]

Μην το διαβάστε! Ειλικρινά. Όχι !
Ποιον μπορεί να ενδιαφέρει ένας συγγραφέας που πολεμά στην Ιταλία, μετά την παράδοση της στους Συμμάχους το '43, και γράφει για την Ήττα, τη Βία, το Κακό, το Μίσος , τα Πτώματα , τον Φόβο , την Πίκρα των ηττημένων και την Άγνοια των νικητών, τις Γυναίκες που δίνονται για την Επιβίωση , τα Παιδιά που εκπορνευονται για την Πείνα (θέλετε να αγοράσετε την πείνα μας), την Τραγωδία ανθρώπων κ των ζώων (σε μια σκηνή που με έκανε να...λυγισω άσχημα),τον Πόνο των αθώων και το Βλέμμα των νεκρών, κι όλα αυτά με μια γραφή ιδεατά ειρωνική και μοναδικά κυνική μέσα σε όλο αυτό το Χάος;;;
Άλλωστε ο πρωταγωνιστης κ σε αυτό το έργο του, όπως και στο Καπουτ, παραμένει ο... Θάνατος !
Για αυτό σας λέω. Μακρυά! Ούτε 3 αστέρια...

[Steve]

Curzio Malaparte (1898-1957)

To win a war - everyone can do that, but not everyone is capable of losing one. - Curzio Malaparte


Curzio Malaparte, born Kurt Suckert to a German father and Italian mother, was a journalist and novelist who was a member of the Italian fascist party and took part in Mussolini's march on Rome in 1922. I don't know why he was initially a fascist, but he was too much of a free thinker to be one for long. He was kicked out of the party for his free thinking (and for lambasting both Hitler and Mussolini in various publications) and exiled on an island for five years; subsequently he was arrested and imprisoned multiple times. In between incarcerations he was an editor of a literary journal and of La Stampa for a time. During the Second World War he was a war correspondent for the Corriere della Sera. His most important novels, Kaputt (1944) and La pelle (1949), were both set in the war, the former on the Eastern Front and the latter during the invasion and occupation of Italy by the Allies.

I first read La pelle (The Skin, available in English translation) decades ago and was deeply affected by its merciless depiction of the misery and degradation of both the Italians and the occupying forces. After finishing John Horne Burns' outstanding satirical promenade through occupied North Africa and Naples, The Gallery, in which the same misery and degradation are among the primary focuses, I thought it was a good time to revisit La pelle, to see these portrayals of the same circumstances, one from an Italian and one from an American,(*) side by side.(**)

Though Burns added touches of bitter humor to his portrait, for Malaparte it is a dominant color right from the outset, where the first person narrator - a captain in the newly formed Italian Liberation Corps, garbed in the recycled uniforms of British soldiers killed in North Africa and Sicily - is introduced to his company of former POWs, whose pale, inexpressive faces and uniforms on which one could still make out the blood stains and sewn up bullet holes convince him that he is commanding dead men.

Burns was an upper middle class American idealist, so his primary reactions to what he saw in North Africa and Italy were outrage, disgust and disillusionment. Malaparte was twenty years older (he had served with distinction in WW I) and more experienced, not to mention Italian and thus not quite so laden down with illusions. Illusions like: the victors are not merely the winners but are chosen of God and are Right, whilst those others are not merely defeated but are cast down into the fires and must clamber back out by the grace of our helping hands, with the proviso that they accept our True Beliefs and open their markets to our entrepreneurs, of course.

Both authors skewer America. Burns' tone is satirical or directly accusatory, while Malaparte's is bitterly ironic, though Malaparte seems to manifest more sympathy for the Americans than Burns does. And while Burns' portrayal of the misery, degradation and widespread corruption was graphic enough, Malaparte is just merciless. In fact, I hope he was exaggerating for effect.(***) The delicate of spirit should steer well clear of this book. But for the strong of stomach La pelle is a powerfully written panorama of mankind in extraordinary circumstances, both the good and the horrible, savorously spiced with all the idiosyncrasies of that ancient city by the beautiful Golfo di Napoli, whose people - as Malaperte emphasizes - have become through centuries of domination by others masters of survival and gaming the system, every system.

Yet other elements are brought together in this agonizing masterpiece. The narrator, who is called Captain Curzio Malaparte, is constantly torn between admiration/respect and distaste/hate for the victors and, for the Italians, sympathy/love and shame/hate. He can oscillate from one extreme to the other within a five minute conversation. The man's tension is incredible. The author Malaparte also looks closely at the many and varied relationships between victors and the defeated in a manner significantly more nuanced and multifold than Hegel's famous analysis of Herrschaft und Knechtschaft. And along with all this, Malaparte effortlessly incorporates allusions to wide swaths of English, American and Greco-Roman literature.

I must mention a final element which caused me much thought in light of current events: the Italians were both defeated and liberated, but even the anti-fascists were made to taste the defeat on occasion. Another pair of oscillating poles, that of gratitude/joy and resentment/shame towards the liberators/conquerors, contributes to the shimmering, shifting, contradictory nature of this remarkable and unclassifiable text.


(*) In point of fact, Burns excoriated Americans and American culture in The Gallery and returned to Italy permanently after the war to write and drink himself to a very early death.

(**) Norman Lewis' Naples '44 is occupied with the same set of circumstances, but it appears he saw quite a bit less of the misery and degradation than Burns and Malaparte did (or at least chose not to write of most of it in such a graphic manner).

(***) Exaggeration is certainly part of his ironic stance, but some of the most horrible passages are provided with detail that does not grace the passages which are clearly exaggerations.

Rating

http://leopard.booklikes.com/post/116...

[Hamid · Rating 4 out of 5]

حالا هِی به جای نعره ی جنگ زدن و جِر دادن دشمنانِ خارجی و داخلی بنشینید کمی داستان بخوانید تا بدانید داستان ها زنده ی تاریخ هستند. هیهات از این نادانی دامنه دارِ ما. هِی که تمام نمی شود این جهلِ مرکب. سیاه، مرطوب به لای و لجن
پوست یعنی بدنِ سوخته ی بریده شده، بوی فساد و غربتِ انسانِ بی پناه. ای تُف به شرافتِ نداشته ی قدرت! ای وای بر انسانِ بیچاره ترین در زمان و مکان و پیوسته مدعیِ برتر بودن. و پوست یعنی نکبتِ بشریت؛ تا هنوز و همیشه. نه یک داستان که عریانیِ شر! امان از پوستِ کنده شده

1398/05/25

[Siti · Rating 5 out of 5]

Del perché sia un libro bello

Della famigerata lettera di Alessandro Manzoni, iniziatore del romanzo storico in Italia, al marchese D'Azeglio “Sul Romanticismo” (1823) tutti ricorderete le parole: “Il principio, di necessità tanto più indeterminato quanto più esteso mi sembra poter esser questo: che la poesia e la letteratura in genere debba proporsi l’utile per iscopo, il vero per soggetto e l’interessante per mezzo.” La necessità, dunque, per fare letteratura, di un argomento legato al contingente, al reale; di un argomento capace di “scoprire e di esprimere il vero storico e il vero morale”, perché “sorgente del bello”, perché” il vero storico e il vero morale generano pure un diletto, e questo diletto è tanto più vivo e tanto più stabile, quanto più la mente che lo gusta è avanzata nella cognizione del vero: questo diletto adunque debbe la poesia e la letteratura proporsi di far nascere.”
Dopo aver vissuto sensazioni contrastanti, allontanamenti repentini e riappacificazioni altrettanto estemporanee , tanto da farmi dubitare di un qualsivoglia residuo di giudizio, mio, personale, nel leggere questo controverso testo cardine della nostra letteratura italiana del novecento, mi sento ora di poter affermare che oltre a essere un libro utile , esso sia pure un libro bello. Sì, avete ben compreso, un libro bello, inteso, ricalcando le parole di Manzoni, come un libro capace di esprimere il vero storico e il vero morale. Non sono giunta a questa convinzione facilmente, in maniera netta, pulita; tutt’altro anzi, perché la materia di questo romanzo storico è respingente, su più fronti, nel contenuto, macabro, grottesco, a tratti surreale e orrido come le peggiori visioni infernali; perché il rischio di leggerlo seguendo una qualsivoglia ideologia (basti , per tutti, ma non è l’unico, il binomio fascista/ comunista - partigiano)è molto elevato; perché ancora l’ombra del suo controverso autore è feroce: rischia di oscurare tutto. Leggere questo romanzo, a mio parere, per ben leggerlo, significa entrare in una dimensione asettica, come quella necessaria prima di un intervento chirurgico; leggerlo evitando dunque qualsiasi contaminazione e soprattutto leggerlo con gli occhi di un lettore non del narratario ipotetico che possiamo presumere possa essere stato il primo destinatario dell’opera. Noi non lo stiamo leggendo all’indomani del secondo conflitto mondiale, io personalmente non l’ho nemmeno vissuto, per mia fortuna, anche se ha lasciato viva memoria in mia madre ancora vivente e di conseguenza indirettamente anche in me; noi abbiamo la fortuna di una lettura meno ideologizzata della storia italiana, della stessa lotta partigiana anche se viviamo ancora in un’epoca di forti strumentalizzazioni ideologiche( basti pensare alle vergognose polemiche che hanno annebbiato il 10 febbraio scorso e l’incapacità generale di leggere ancora alcune pagine della nostra storia); noi siamo i lettori dell’oggi che possono solo, a mio modesto parere, ringraziare il dato oggettivo fotografato da Curzio Malaparte. Un Paese sotto una dittatura, un Paese vinto, un Paese infine liberato da un vincitore, un Paese sconfitto, sotto tutti i punti di vista; un Paese infine ammorbato dal male, come tutta l’Europa, ma, a ben vedere come tutto il mondo; perché non c’è distanza alcuna tra vinto e vincitore dove a trionfare è solo il Male. Una storia che non lascia spazio a espiazione o a redenzione alcuna ma che condanna, in una disfatta generale, qualsiasi ideologia, qualsiasi posizione: quella del vinto, quella del vincitore, quella del fascista, del comunista, del partigiano, del cattolico … è il trionfo della morte dell’uomo, del suo umanesimo schiacciato dalla guerra.
Sono dunque convinta assertrice della necessità di recuperare questo libro, di farlo conoscere, perché penso sia un libro profondamente coerente, leale, oggettivo e coraggioso per le posizioni espresse. È vero, non è un libro perfetto, a tratti è ripetitivo e disturbante, ma letto fino in fondo esprime una profonda umanità, un interesse vivo e reale per il bene del nostro popolo, non è un libro “bello” perché racconta l’orrore ma è un libro originale perché lo fa attraverso molteplici moduli stilistici e letterari, senza risparmiare il grottesco e il surreale, è un libro dall’intelligente ironia ma anche un libro doloroso. È l’esperienza di un uomo in un ennesimo viaggio al termine della notte; una notte che spesso è stata metafora della perdita dell’umanità. L’unico tratto peculiare che rende l’essere umano, o dovrebbe, renderlo tale.
Mi dispiace di non aver scritto niente di dettagliato e forse di utile ai fini di una recensione, posso solo sperare che le mie parole permettano ad altri di accostarsi , nella maniera corretta, a questo scritto che annovero, a livello stilistico, tra i più alti e belli, dunque, che mi sia capitato di leggere nella mia esperienza di lettura.

[Edita · Rating 5 out of 5]

A memorable and admirable book that can't leave you undisturbed. Perhaps nobody could describe Curzio Malaparte's writing better than it was praised in NYRB: "Subtle, cynical, evasive, manipulative, unnerving, always astonishing, Malaparte is a supreme artist of the unreliable, both the product and the prophet of a world gone rotten to the core."

I was tired of the sight of people being killed. For four years I had done nothing but watch people being killed. To watch people die is one thing, to watch them being killed is another. You feel as if you were on the side of the killers, as if you were yourself one of the killers. I was tired of it, I could stand it no longer.
[...] In those days the war of liberation against the Germans was gradually transforming itself, so far as we Italians were concerned, into a fratricidal war against other Italians.
[...] The same old Italian disease was flaring up again in each one of us. It was the usual sordid war between Italians, begun on the usual pretext of liberating Italy from the foreigner. But the thing about that age-old disease which appalled and horrified me most of all was the fact that I felt as if I too had succumbed to the contagion. I too felt thirsty for the blood of my kinsmen. During those four years I had succeeded in remaining a Christian. And now—great heavens! —I found that my heart was rotten with hatred, that I too was walking about, pale as a murderer, with an automatic rifle in my hand, that I too felt a horrible lust to kill consuming my very soul.
[...] I was nauseated by the hatred which consumed my heart, but I had to cling to the floor with my nails to prevent myself from going into the houses and killing all the false heroes who one day, when the Germans had abandoned the city, would emerge from their hiding-places with cries of "Long live freedom!" looking at our bearded faces and tattered uniforms with contempt, pity and hatred in their eyes.
[...] Now I understood the reason for that hatred, that lust for killing, which gnawed at my vitals and consumed the souls of all the peoples of Europe. It was that we felt impelled to hate something that was alive, warm, human, something that belonged to us, something that resembled us, something that was of our own kind, that belonged to our own country, life, instead of hating those foreigners who had invaded Europe, and for five years had lain motionless, cold, livid, with empty eye-sockets, oppressing our country, which was life, and crushing our freedom and dignity, love, hope and youth, beneath the appalling weight of their ice-cold flesh. Why was it that we were hurling ourselves like wolves against our brothers? Why was it that in the name of freedom Frenchmen were pitting themselves against Frenchmen, Italians against Italians, Poles against Poles, Rumanians against Rumanians? It was that we all felt impelled to hate something that resembled ourselves, something that belonged to us, something in which we could recognize and hate ourselves.
*
There is no sadder or more sickening sight than a man or a nation in the hour of triumph. But what nobler or more beautiful thing is there in the world than a man or nation that has been conquered, humiliated, reduced to a heap of putrid flesh?
*
We were living men in a dead world. I was no longer ashamed of being a man. What did it matter to me whether men were innocent or guilty? The earth contained only living men and dead men. All the rest counted for nothing. All the rest was nothing but fear, despair, repentance, hatred, bitterness, forgiveness and hope. We were on the summit of an extinct volcano. The fire which for thousands of years had burned the veins of this mountain, of this soil, of the whole earth, had suddenly been quenched, and now little by little the ground was cooling beneath our feet. That city down below us, standing on the shore of a sea covered with a shining crust, beneath a sky heavy with storm-clouds, was inhabited not, indeed, by the innocent and the guilty, the victors and the vanquished, but by living men who were roaming about in search of the means to allay their hunger and dead men who lay buried beneath the ruins of the houses.

[amapola · Rating 5 out of 5]

«È una vergogna vincere la guerra» dissi a voce bassa.

Questo libro è molte cose, è il testimone di un’epoca della nostra storia in cui i sentimenti non conoscono mezze misure: amore e odio, vita e morte, crudeltà e bontà, corruzione e pietà, esaltazione e umiliazione si danno battaglia per contendersi il mondo e il cuore degli uomini.
Questo è un libro grottesco, disgustoso, eccessivo, urticante… ma sarà poi tutto vero quello che Malaparte ci racconta? Certamente esagera, schiaccia l’acceleratore a tavoletta, ma lo fa in maniera impeccabile, con uno stile superbo e con una prosa splendida, anche se a tratti pomposa, ridondante, autocompiaciuta.
E ancora, questo libro è irritante, sgradevole, provocatorio… tanti sono gli aggettivi che si potrebbero usare. Resta il fatto che questo romanzo mi ha messa a dura prova, ha provocato in me sentimenti fortemente contraddittori. Come facevo a dargli meno di cinque stelle?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZXMPry...

[Dovilė Filmanavičiūtė · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sako, būna žmonių pralenkusių laiką. Arba rašiusių savo laiku, tik nenujautusių kaip skausmingai istorija sukasi ratu.
Ech tu, Malaparte, kiek tu tiršto karo glitėsio čia pripilstei…
Toks turtingas tekstas, toks fantaziją kutenantis siaubas. Lyg ir karo padarinių gatvėse, bet išties labiausiai moralinio žmonių nuosmūkio karo griūvėsiuose.
Ir koks skirtumas, kokia to karo forma ir kada jis vyksta…
Nelengva, bet THE knyga.

[Gauss74 · Rating 4 out of 5]

Alla fine, credo che la fama di questo libro sia meritata, e per diverse ragioni. Innanzi tutto perché è scritto tecnicamente benissimo: con una scrittura che riesce ad essere prolissa ma non pesante allo stesso tempo ed un immaginario potente ed efficace; perché è stato il primo romanzo che ha gettato una luce su uno dei momenti più tragici (e vergognosi, perché negarlo?) della nostra storia; infine perché la vicenda personale ed artistica di Curzio Malaparte è uno strrumento importante di riflessione su cosa sia stato il fascismo nelle varie fasi della sua vita (tema questo che ha ovviamente sofferto di visioni stereotipate e strumentali).
La vicenda prende l’addio dalla fine: l’ 8 Settembre del 1943, con l’invasione americana dell’Italia meridionale che fa seguito alla disfatta siciliana del regime (gli italiani di fatto si rifiutarono di combattere) suona la campana a morto del regime fascista di Benito Mussolini, che risorgerà come parodia di sé stessa nella RSI, e che finirà con l’essere molto più un fantoccio nazista che la rievocazione dei fasti (?) passati.
Curzio Malaparte in qualità di attendente italiano presso la quinta armata americana, oltre che famoso ed apprezzato autore di “Kaputt”, approfitta della sua posizione per scrivere questa sorta di autobiografia romanzata che da una parte racconta della sua esperienza della guerra civile, dall’altra cerca di presentare al mondo un’ Italia al di fuori della retorica della liberazione, distrutta materialmente dalle bombe americane ed avvelenata nell’anima dalla ricchezza del consumismo americano che compra e distrugge i nuovi valori. Dove finisce la rabbia giornalistica verso l’ipocrita e tutta italiana celebrazione delle sconfitte e dove comincia il risentimento dell’ex fascista rimasto senza prospettive, ed alla disperata ricerca di un improbabile voltafaccia per poter sopravvivere, è difficile dirlo. Probabilmente sono presenti entrambi questi aspetti in una miscela indissolubile.
Il romanzo avrebbe dovuto intitolarsi “La peste”, facendo riferimento al veleno consumista che il benessere americano porta con sé e che è in grado di avvelenare ed uccidere le anime oltre che il corpo. Non fu possibile perché proprio in quel periodo Albert Camus pubblicava con lo stesso titolo il suo immenso capolavoro (che a mio parere è tra l’altro una lettura irrinunciabile). Non potendo restituire l’immagine diretta, Malaparte sceglie il suo negativo e intitola il libro “La pelle”: titolo la cvuii spiegazione si spiega all’interno del libro ed è la tipica recriminazione fascista verso un popolo che non ha saputo battersi fino alla morte e che ha scelto di vendersi al nuovo vincitore. Fino a ieri gli italiani lottavano per salvarsi l’anima, oggi lottano per salvarsi la pelle; come a dire che il regime era in grado di dare all’Italia qualcosa per cui morire e per cui aspirare all’eternità, mentre la vuota ricchezza americana rende l’italiano un fagotto di carne pulsante.
E non a caso parti importanti del romanzo sviscerano senza veli il putridume morale della Napoli di allora, non risparmiando crude immagini di prostituzione minorile, di perversione sessuale che arriva alla necrofilia ed alla pedofilia; e non acaso la gran parte del romanzo si svolge a Napoli, città di grande umanità ma votata per cultura a vendersi al nuovo invasore per poi avvolgerlo e confonderlo con la sua bellezza e le sue tentazioni. Come siamo lontani dal granitico sistema di valori fascista! (tale camaleontica capacità del regime di essere di volta in volta rivoluzionario distruttore e conservatore dei buoni valori di un tempo probabilmente è una delle ragioni del suo successo).
Ma tutto, in “La pelle”, è travolgente e carnalità, inclusa la natura che si manifesta in tutta la sua bellezza e la sua smisurata potenza in bellissime pagine descrittive; una natura di carne che però, esattamente come gli uomini che sono passati agli americani, non tarda a marcire ed ad imputridirsi in modo sempre più purulento.
Man mano che andavo avanti nella lettura, mi sorprendevo a percepire la stessa perplessità degli ufficiali americani che parlavano con l’autore in carne ed ossa. Chi è stato davvero Curzio Malaparte, e più in generale chi era l’intellettuale fascista alla caduta del regime? Un uomo di grande dirittura morale che fustiga i costumi decaduti degli italiani sconfitti, che si concedono ad ogni orgia nel delirio della vita salvata e di un rinnovato benessere comprato vendendosi al nemico? Un uomo ed uno storico rigorosi, che smascherano e denunciano l’ennesimo tentativo italiano di trasformare una sconfitta in un atto di eroismo, consegnando al futuro l’immagine di una disfatta senza se e senza ma, una disfatta che è insieme politica, culturale e morale? Un bieco trasformista che per sopravvivere alla sconfitta che lo aveva reso un borghese in mezzo ai morti di fame mescola le carte, confonde le idee, cambia bandiera in nome di valoro generici e fin troppo aerei, magari approfittando della necessità dei nuovi padroni di una continuità della classe dirigente?
Probabimente tutte queste cose insieme. E se consegna alla storia un’immagine struggente e drammatica del nostro sud che ancora una volta consegna i suoi panorami mozzafiato al nuovo vincitore, e se giustamente impedisce facili giramenti di frittata agli storici del nuovo regime che pure hanno bisogno di celebrare qualcosa se vogliono ricostruire una vita culturale italiana dalle macerie (ed i valori forgiati nel fuoco della lotta partigiana forse da soli non sarebbero bastati), il terzo motivo per cui secondo me questo libro è un libro da leggere è proprio che tentare di dare un volto ed una spiegazione della multiforme creatura che era il fascista del 45 ci aiuta a capirlo meglio: per non diventare uno dei loro, per fare in modo che non ritorni.

[باقر هاشمی · Rating 4 out of 5]

از مقدّمه، برای مقدّمه
این کتاب را به فارسی برگرداندم تا روشنفکر و روشنفکر نمای کشور من-مخصوصاً روشنفکر نما اگر عقلی داشته باشد-از آن رویِ سکّه‌ی جنگ دوم جهانی و «آزاد شدن» اروپا از دست اروپایی باخبر گردد و بداند اگر آلمانها مردم را کشتند آمریکاییها-پس از سزارین جنگ که به‌وسیله‌ی «موجودات پر جیب» ماورای اطلس انجام شد-آنانرا پوساندند و کشتن کسی از پوساندنش شرافتمندانه‌تر است.
؛
تا آنجا که دیده‌ام رسم بر این است که در انتها باید پوزش خواست و من چنین کاری نمی‌کنم چرا که در مقابل مزدی که گرفته‌ام کوششم-در ترجمه‌ی این کتاب-از سرِ خیلی‌ها زیادتر است.
بهمن محصص

پوستِ کاغذی
اگر از اون دسته آدم‌ها هستین که با خودشون تعارف دارن و برای اینکه ناراحت نشن، به خودشون دروغ می‌گن و خودشون رو فریب می‌دن ، پیشنهاد می‌کنم هیچ وقت به سراغ این کتاب نرین. چون مالاپارته، تیغ جراحی در دست، پیشبند خونی پوشیده و منتظر خواننده‌ی بعدیه که کارش رو شروع کنه. مالاپارته شکافتن رو از پوست شروع می‌کنه، به گوشت و استخون می‌رسه و بعدش به روح می‌رسه. از کشته شدن و آوارگی و گرسنگی و تن‌فروشی و برادر فروشی میگه. از اینکه تلاش برای نمردن خیلی شرافتمندانه‌تر از تلاش برای زنده موندنه میگه. دیدن اون همه فجایع چیزی از روحِ یک نویسنده‌ی حسّاس باقی نگذاشته و گاهی کلمات برای وصف اون صحنه‌ها ناتوان میشن.

پوستِ مالاپارته
موضوعش درباه‌ی ایتالیا، این کشور مغلوب در جنگه که بیشتر از ثروت و خوشبختی به دنبال شرافت و بزرگواری بوده. این کتاب رو یک ایتالیایی درباره‌ی حضور آمریکایی‌ها در شهر ناپل نوشته و با تمام قوا از مغلوب بودن دفاع کرده. آمریکایی ها ایتالیایی ها رو دهاتی می دونن و مالاپارته در این کتاب نشون داده که این آمریکایی‌های تازه به دوران رسیده هستن که از انسانیت چیزی سرشون نمیشه. اونها رو تازه به دوران رسیده‌ می‌دونه. چون آمریکای‌ها هیچ تاریخی ندارند که بهش ببالن.
این رمان شروعی طلایی داره و خیلی خوب پیش میره اما هرچی جلوتر میره داستان ضعیف‌تر میشه طوری که صفحات آخرش رو به زور خوندم. این رمان خوب پرداخت نشده. یعنی یک قسمتش خیلی خشک و منطقی نوشته شده و یک قسمتش شاعرانه نوشته شده. در قسمت های ابتدایی کتاب ماجرا خیلی خوب پیش میره و جملاتش کوبنده و قوی‌ان اما از نیمه‌ی کتاب به بعد، نویسنده به سمت شاعرانه نویسی و توصیف محیط پیرامون اش می پردازه. شاید نویسنده برای این کارش دلیل داره، اما موجّه نیست.

پوست شناس
خوندن رمان پوست رو اولین بار عبدالله کوثری حدود یک سال قبل پیشنهاد کرد. اسم این رمان رو تا اون روز نشنیده بودم و اسم مترجم‌اش رو هم نشنیده بودم. اما با اعتمادی که به آقای کوثری داشتم توی ارزشمند بودن این رمان شک نکردم. وقتی خواستم تهیه‌اش فهمیدم همه‌ی افست فروش‌ها هم ندارن این کتاب رو! اما آخرسر تهیه‌اش کردم اما هر بار به بهانه‌ای خوندنش به تعویق می‌افتاد تا اینکه همین چند وقت پیش، مستندی دیدم از بهمن محصّص: فی‌فی از خوشحالی زوزه می‌کشد، و اینقدر از شخصیت محصّص خوشم آمد که نتونستم بیشتر از این، خوندن پوست رو به تأخیر بندازم و شروع‌اش کردم.

پوستِ فارسی
تا جایی که اطلاع دارم این کتاب دو ترجمه داره. من ترجمه ی محصص رو انتخاب کردم چون کسی که این کتاب رو به من پیشنهاد کرد، با ترجمه ی محصص پیشنهاد کرد. ترجمه ی دیگه‌ی این کتاب رو هم چند شب پیش نگاه کردم. از لحاظ رسم‌الخط خیلی شبیه به ترجمه‌ی محصص بود و برای اینکه شُبهه ایجاد نکنم چیزی درباره اش نمی نویسم. از اونجایی که شخصیت محصص رو به شخصیت مالاپارته شبیه می دونم، با اطمینان میگم که ترجمه‌ی محصص اون ترجمه خوبه‌ست.

قسمت‌هایی از متن کتاب:
شاید تقدیر بر این بود که چون آزاد شدن زاییده‌ی رنج و بردگی و جنگ بود آزادی نیز می‌بایست زاییده‌ی رنج تازه و وحشتناک طاعونی باشد که آزاد شدن بهمراه داشت. آزادی گران است. خیلی گران‌تر از بردگی. و بهای آن نه طلاست و نه خون و نه شریف‌ترین فداکاری‌ها. بلکه پستی است و جندگی و خیانت و همه‌ی گندیدگی روح انسانی.
؛
اجتماع سرمایه داری(اگر به رحم مسیحی و خستگی و استفراغ آور بودن این رحم که کاملاً احساسات دنیای جدید است توجه نکنیم) ممکن ترین شکلِ مسیحیت است. و مسیحِ بدون بدی نمی تواند وجود داشته باشد. و اجتماع سرمایه داری بر این فکر بنا شده است که بدون رنجِ دیگران نمی توان کاملاً از ثروت و خوشبختی لذت برد و سرمایه داریِ بدون بهانه ی مسیحیت نمی تواند برقرار باشد.
؛
چرا فقط باید پرچم انگلیس و آمریکا و روس و فرانسه و اسپانیا پر افتخار باشد؟ پرچم ایتالیا نیز پر افتخار بود. اگر بی افتخار بود به لجن کشیدنش چه لذتی داشت؟ هیچ ملتی در دنیا نیست که لااقل یکبار لذت انداختن پرچمش را بپای فاتحین حس نکرده باشد. پر افتخارترین پرچمها نیز به لجن انداخته خواهند شد.
افتخار-آنچه که آدمیزاده افتخار می‌نامد-اغلب ته‌نشست لجن است.
؛
اشک، آدامس مردم ناپل است و جیمی نمی‌دانست که اگر اشک نه فقط آدامس ناپلی بلکه از آنِ آمریکایی نیز بود، آمریکا واقعاً کشوری بزرگ و خوشبخت و انسانی می‌شد.

[Mohammed Ali · Rating 3 out of 5]

* و قلت للجاويش " دعني أراه " فقال " و هل أنت طبيب " ؟
قلت :
" لست طبيبا و لكنني رأيت الكثير من الجرحى " *

" و وجدت الفرصة سانحة للتدخل فقلت : و لكن ليس هنالك مدافن للسمك في نابولي .. إن أهل نابولي يأكلون السمك و يدفنون الناس، و لكنهم لا يأكلون الناس و يدفنون السمك "


قصة قصيرة مؤلمة جدا .. تتناول باختصار يوميات مدينة نابولي المفجوعة بعد سقوط الفاشية أثناء الحرب العالمية الثانية و دخول الحلفاء إليها بقيادة أمريكا .


" كنت أفضل الحرب على الإستسلام ثم الطاعون " .

[Srđan Vidrić · Rating 5 out of 5]

Pojedini izdavački poduhvati velikih i komercijalnih izdavačkih kuća, kakva je nesumnjivo Laguna, zaslužuju pažnju i pohvalu ne samo šire čitalačke javnosti, već i one uže stručne, da ne kažem akademske. Edicija Amerikana, u kojoj su se do sada pojavile tek dve knjige - Kafkina "Amerika" i Malaparteova "Koža", svakako zaslužuje takvo interesovanje. Ovu prvu knjigu još uvek nisam stigao da pročitam, ali me je ova druga doslovno raspametila.
Naime, u pitanju je roman koji bih svrstao u dela visokog modernizma i koji, samo okvirno, tematizuje dešavanja koja su zahvatila Italiju, pre svega Napulj, tokom oslobađanja ove zemlje od strane Amerike u Drugom svetskom ratu. Međutim, ono što ovu knjigu čini privlačnom za čitanje jeste izuzetno vešt i pronicljiv pripovedač koji nosi autorovo ime i koji uočava i naslućuje dublja značenja odigranih događaja. Ističući u prvi plan odnos pobednika i pobeđenih, autor pokazuje šta su sve ljudi u stanju da urade kada u potpunosti izgube dostojanstvo i samopoštovanje, ali i nagoveštava u kom pravcu bi u budućnosti mogao da se razvija odnos između Amerike, s jedne, i Evrope, s druge strane. Premda Malaparte poseže za verističkim i naturalističkim opisima, njegov pripovedač nije realističan što se vidi po čestom oneobičavanju pripovedanja. Pojedini pasaži, kao i čitava poglavlja, toliko su upečatljivi da mislim da će mi do kraja života ostati u sećanju. Na momente, protagonista i narator "Kože" me je u velikoj meri podsetio na Crnjanskog u "Hiperborejcima". Ne samo po tome što su obojica u Italiji tokom Drugog svetskog rata i što dele fascinaciju nebom, već i po pogledima na svet. I jedan i drugi svedoče o propasti Evrope i dolaze do zaključka koliko se svet dehumanizovao. Takođe, treba pohvaliti i izvrstan pogovor koji je za ovu knjigu napisao Milan Kundera takođe oduševljen Malaparteovom prozom. Ako bih svoj utisak o ovom romanu morao da sažmem u tri reči, on bi glasio ovako - obavezno je pročitajte!

[Narjes Dorzade · Rating 5 out of 5]

مالاپارته اشک را با لبخندی تلخ ترسیم می کند و شبیه به تابلوهای فرانسیس بیکن.

[Ubik 2.0 · Rating 4 out of 5]

La pelle, l’anima, la storia…

Forse non era il modo corretto per affrontarlo, ma ho voluto lasciare in secondo piano le implicazioni politiche e morali del romanzo e la traiettoria tortuosa e contraddittoria dell’uomo Malaparte che molte (e non ingiustificate…) polemiche ha suscitato, tanto che ne rammentavo, anche senza averlo letto, l’aura di maledettismo ben più che il valore letterario.

Ma forse è questo che oggi mi ha aiutato ad abbandonarmi senza diaframmi o pregiudizi alla bellezza di pagine memorabili, numerose in particolare nei capitoli ambientati a Napoli, che mi hanno riverberato assonanze prevedibili (Céline) ma anche sorprendenti collegamenti sotterranei: la descrizione di alcuni itinerari nella città martoriata dalla guerra percorsi da Malaparte insieme all’ufficiale americano, ad esempio la salita ai Gradoni di Chiaia oppure il Pendino di Santa Barbara, mi hanno evocato il fascino brutale, visionario ed emozionante di certe carrellate nel Satyricon di Fellini, dove lo sguardo del testimone, e indirettamente il nostro, cade in modo fugace ma folgorante su squarci di vita e immagini via via fantastiche, lubriche, marce, meravigliose, senza soluzione di continuità.

Alternati a queste visioni, si susseguono lunghi colloqui e cene in case patrizie, insieme ad ufficiali americani, inglesi, francesi, rampolli della vecchia nobiltà napoletana e antiche conoscenze di Malaparte; rappresentano pause contrassegnate, a volte in modo eccessivo, da frasi sentenziose, apodittiche, massimaliste nell’esercizio delle quali spicca soprattutto la personalità dell’autore narrante che si compiace di assumere questo ruolo così come nell’intermediare i mondi e le culture che si confrontano in tali occasioni.

Anche lontano da Napoli, come ad esempio nell’avvicinamento e nell’entrata in Roma attraverso la via Appia Antica, si accumulano i contrasti, fra le meraviglie delle vestigia dell’antica Roma che invano la guida Malaparte si sforza di trasmettere agli incolti yankee, e gli orrori contemporanei, le stragi, le esecuzioni sommarie e le nuove rovine causate dai bombardamenti e dalle cannonate, il degrado materiale e morale di quel che resta della popolazione italiana estenuata da anni di privazioni.

In definitiva, nella mia personale difficoltà nel trarne una sintesi, mi resta di questo romanzo tanto suggestivo quanto a tratti repellente, una galleria di immagini contraddittorie che toglie il fiato, non permette paragoni sostenibili e, comunque si giudichi, non invecchia affatto e merita ancora il suo posto particolare ma rilevante fra le opere significative della narrativa italiana del novecento.

[Lobstergirl · Rating 4 out of 5]

This brutal, beautifully written novel about the arrival of American troops in Naples in 1943, and their two-year occupation, is sad but also deeply, darkly comical. Malaparte, novelizing his real life war experiences, seemed to be sliding back and forth between an ironical tone, and an almost innocent sincerity. It's grotesque and at times surreal, but even when it's surreal it gives the appearance of being real, because that's war - so awful you can't really believe it.

My favorite chapter featured a fancy dinner where the Allied commanders and guests are served Spam with corn (which horrifies Malaparte) and a giant fish from the Naples aquarium (fishing in the Gulf of Naples is forbidden because of mines) which, to everyone's astonishment and horror, looks like a young girl. (Apparently a manatee from the aquarium was served at a fancy dinner, according to Naples '44: A World War II Diary of Occupied Italy.)

Completely coincidentally, I happened to be reading the pianist Arthur Rubinstein's first memoir My Young Years as I was reading The Skin. There's a passage in it where Arthur goes to Naples as a tourist while in Italy for a concert prior to World War I. Malaparte's descriptions of erupting Mount Vesuvius, and the sex trade in Neapolitan children, were at the forefront of my mind as Rubinstein described riding a donkey to the top of Vesuvius with a conniving tour guide who encourages him to dismount, whereupon he sinks knee-deep into the soft volcanic ash and can't get out. His tour guide demands lira payment before he will throw a rope to Arthur. Then later as Arthur is taking another tour through the city in a horse driven carriage, his tour guide (a different one) points to a house and urges, "Look!" Thinking this was the house of someone famous, Arthur gets out for a closer look, whereupon a mother thrusts her very underage child at Arthur and forces his hand onto the child's small breasts.

I like to take note of these reading serendipities which often happen to me.

[Tony]

Malaparte could switch sides, not always out of convenience. His political philosophy was a work in progress. Shifty. He wrote satirically, sarcastically. He is the narrator in his books and he can't always be trusted, but maybe only when he writes about his better self. As he skewered Germans in Kaputt , here it's Americans that get skewered. Liberators, but in the sense of Operation Neapolitan Freedom.

This is Naples near War's end. The story was told in John Horne Burns' The Gallery , and more artistically there. Or so I thought. And then I came to this paragraph in The Skin:

Now and then a burst of rifle fire rent the dusty air. The smell of mint and rue was wafted toward us on the wind; it was like the smell of incense, the smell of Rome's thousand churches. By now the sun was sinking and the purple sky was filled with swollen clouds, marshaled as in the cloud scenes of the baroque painters. The roar of a thousand aircraft created a vast whirlpool of sound, through which the sunset river of blood went coursing down.

I was taken, first, by the music in the phrase the smell of mint and rue. Rue is a strong-scented shrub, but the word of course has a more common meaning, and I think that is how the reader first hears it. And I think that was intended. There is a sleight of hand at work here. The smell of incense we know, but it is not the same as when multiplied by a thousand. Like a burst of rifle fire is not the same as the roar of a thousand aircraft. The numbers are exact. And we know those Baroque paintings, clouds dark with the wrath of God. Forever now, I will wait for the whirlpool of sound in those paintings, and watch for the first plane.

[Laura V. لاورا · Rating 3 out of 5]

Promesse non mantenute

Pubblicato nel secondo dopoguerra, “La pelle” è uno dei titoli più noti di Curzio Malaparte. Più che di un romanzo vero e proprio, a nostro avviso si tratta di una serie di episodi e ricordi che prendono le mosse a Napoli dopo l’arrivo delle truppe alleate nel ’43. E proprio questo avvio nella Napoli bombardata e occupata con la descrizione delle sue ferite nei primissimi capitoli lo rendono inizialmente molto interessante, data anche l’ottima prosa dell’autore che punta i riflettori sulla miseria materiale e, soprattutto, morale in cui versava la città partenopea: “Erano i giorni della «peste» di Napoli.” Fame e prostituzione vagavano inquiete tra i vecchi vicoli e i caratteristici “bassi” senza risparmiare la dignità di nessuno, nemmeno l’innocenza dei bambini.
L’accento, fin da subito, viene posto anche sulla sconfitta dell’Italia e sulla condizione di vinti degli italiani, rappresentati anzitutto dal popolo napoletano che, dopo la Liberazione, deve lottare per sopravvivere. È nella pelle del titolo, infatti, che si esprime il concetto principale dell'opera: “Non è più la lotta contro la schiavitù, la lotta per la libertà, per la dignità umana, per l'onore. È la lotta contro la fame.” E Malaparte, aggirandosi per le vie con alcuni ufficiali americani, ci mostra scene anche molto crude ed emblematiche di questa lotta per la vita.
Tuttavia, dopo le più che buone promesse iniziali, la narrazione inizia a perdersi in episodi, ricordi ed elucubrazioni che anzitutto allontanano la scena da Napoli e poi tengono sempre meno alta l’attenzione di chi legge. Oltre che abbastanza ripetitivo nei concetti espressi, in più di una circostanza si rivela un libro molto “dotto” per via di vari riferimenti letterari e artistici che, obiettivamente, non lo rendono per tutti di facile comprensione. Allontanandosi da Napoli, Malaparte risale per lo Stivale con gli alleati durante le varie tappe di Liberazione ma ormai non c’è più quel filone ben intrapreso all’inizio di parlare delle condizioni del popolo italiano, preso com’è da certi suoi fantasmi e da questi “esercizi di stile” che appesantiscono la lettura. Peccato perché un maggiore ancoraggio alla realtà tumultuosa di quel periodo l’avremmo di gran lunga preferito. Tre stelle quindi perché riconosciamo obiettivamente la validità della sua prosa, ma ha perso alla fine in coerenza.

(Recensione di Sciarpina e Laura)