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Brodeck's Report
Libro usado en buenas condiciones, por su antiguedad podria contener señales normales de uso
288 pages, Hardcover
First published August 22, 2007
244 people are currently reading
6037 people want to read
About the author
Philippe Claudel
81 books557 followersPhilippe Claudel is a French writer and film director.
His most famous work to date is the novel " Les Âmes Grises " - " Grey Souls ", which won the prix Renaudot award in France, was shortlisted for the American Gumshoe Award, and won Sweden's Martin Beck Award. In addition to his writing, Philippe Claudel is a Professor of Literature at the University of Nancy.
His most famous work to date is the novel " Les Âmes Grises " - " Grey Souls ", which won the prix Renaudot award in France, was shortlisted for the American Gumshoe Award, and won Sweden's Martin Beck Award. In addition to his writing, Philippe Claudel is a Professor of Literature at the University of Nancy.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 770 reviews
November 3, 2023
Brodeck is a very gloomy and bleak parable of conformity… Conformity is dangerous… “The truth is that the crowd itself is a monster.” Conformity can become deadly…
Conformity makes people gather in herds and those who are different; who don’t belong in their herd must be destroyed… Conformity makes nations hate other nations and wage wars…
Conformists always wish to destroy those who are outside their herd.
Sometimes, when I looked at him, the figure of a saint crossed my mind. Saintliness is very odd. When people encounter it, they often take it for something else, something completely unlike it: indifference, mockery, scheming, coldness, insolence, perhaps even contempt. But they’re mistaken, and that makes them furious. They commit an awful crime. This is doubtless the reason why most saints end up as martyrs.
Conformity makes people gather in herds and those who are different; who don’t belong in their herd must be destroyed… Conformity makes nations hate other nations and wage wars…
The war… maybe the peoples of the world need such nightmares. They lay waste to what they’ve taken centuries to build. They destroy today what they praised yesterday. They authorize what was forbidden. They give preferential treatment to what they used to condemn. War is a great broom that sweeps the world. It’s the place where the mediocre triumphs and the criminal receives a saint’s halo; people prostrate themselves before him and acclaim him and fawn upon him. Must men find life so gloomy and monotonous that they long for massacre and ruin? I’ve seen them jump up and down on the edge of the abyss, walk along its crest, and look with fascination upon the horror of the void, where the vilest passions hold sway. Destroy! Defile! Rape! Slash!
Conformists always wish to destroy those who are outside their herd.
September 7, 2024
DIE ANDERER
Ieri sera, gli uomini del paese hanno ucciso l’Anderer. È successo alla locanda di Schloss, semplicemente, come una partita a carte o la firma di un compromesso per la vendita. Era da un pezzo che covava. Io sono arrivato dopo, ero andato a comprare del burro, non ho partecipato al massacro. Io sono semplicemente incaricato di stendere il Rapporto. Devo spiegare cosa è successo dopo il suo arrivo e perché non si poteva fare a meno di ucciderlo. Tutto qua.
“Fiaba per adulti” è una definizione che normalmente mi farebbe astenere dalla lettura, non sono mai stato in grande sintonia con le favole, a cominciare da quelle per bambini, figuriamoci quelle per i ‘grandi’: mi aspetto sempre che la Morale salti fuori ogni momento con vocina querula a reclamare la nostra attenzione e a darsi un sacco d’importanza, che sdolcinate principesse ci insegnino a vivere, e vecchi saggi re dalla barba canuta ne sappiano più di tutti su tutto...
Il y a longtemps que je t'aime (Ti amerò sempre), 2008, film scritto e diretto da Philippe Claudel
Ma questa volta l'artefice è Philippe Claudel, mi ha già regalato un libro molto bello, e almeno due regie notevoli, sono pronto a fidarmi.
E, quindi, questa “fiaba per adulti” non mi delude: con incedere classico e senza nessuna semplificazione, affronta, come si addice al genere, il Bene e il Male, portati all’estremo.
E sono il Bene e il Male del nostro tempo, soprattutto il Male che temiamo, che conosciamo e ancora cerchiamo di spiegare, quel Male che ha lasciato segni indelebili a Srebenica, a Murambi, ad Auschwitz…
Tous les soleils (...Non ci posso credere), 2001, scritto e diretto da Philippe Claude
A volte, guardandolo, avevo pensato a qualche faccia di santo. È stranissima, la santità. Quando la si incontra, la si scambia spesso per qualcos’altro, per tutt’altro: indifferenza, derisione, presa in giro, freddezza o insolenza, magari disprezzo. Ci si inganna, e allora ci si adira. Si fanno le cose peggiori. Probabilmente è per questo che i santi finiscono sempre martiri.
Un uomo è stato assassinato: era uno straniero, l’Anderer, l’altro, come lo chiamavano nel villaggio in cui era giunto un giorno di maggio, subito dopo la fine di una guerra.
Silenzioso e gentile, agli abitanti era comunque apparso strano e sospetto. Un diverso. Uno straniero.
Generando un malessere collettivo che si trasforma in follia collettiva.
Per far luce sui fatti, Brodeck – l’unico nel villaggio che ha studiato e sa scrivere – viene incaricato di redigere un rapporto dettagliato, affinché colui che un giorno leggerà capisca e perdoni.
Massimo Girotti in ‘Teorema’ di PierPaolo Pasolini, 1968
L’Anderer di Claudel mi ricorda l’ospite nel film Teorema di Pasolini, che arriva e sconvolge, niente rimane come prima.
Ma PPP lo risparmia, è soprattutto interessato agli effetti del suo passaggio.
Nel villaggio di Claudel, invece, non c’è spazio per il dopo, prima che la luce faccia sparire le ombre, il rito va consumato, lo straniero deve pagare il suo essere ‘altro’, diverso.
Era come uno specchio, non aveva bisogno di dire niente. Rimandava a ciascuno la sua immagine. O forse era l’ultimo inviato di dio, prima che lui chiudesse bottega e buttasse via la chiave. Gli specchi possono soltanto rompersi.
Avant l'hiver, 2013, scritto e diretto da Philippe Claudel
Dio non c’è più in questa parte del mondo che corrisponde al confine francotedesco, zona di vini pregiati: se mai è esistito, adesso non c’è più, è andato via, ha visto la Guerra e ha scelto di andarsene.
Anche il prete non crede più alla sua esistenza. Dio non è degno della maggior parte degli uomini, perché se la creatura ha potuto generare l’orrore, è soltanto perché il suo Creatore gliene ha suggerito la formula.
Claudel anche qui affronta una Guerra: dopo la carneficina della guerra di trincea nella Prima Mondiale in Le anime grigie, adesso siamo alla Seconda, ai lager, qui chiamato Campo.
Brodeck, il protagonista, citato nel titolo originale, e cancellato nella traduzione in italiano (Le Rapport de Brodeck) il narratore, e colui che stenderà il Rapporto, è a sua volta un altro Anderer, è arrivato bambino non si da dove, ma tutti ricordano che viene da un altrove e questo basta, per lui si apre il cancello del Campo, dove imparerà che prezzo può avere la sopravvivenza, e cioè che l’unica morale vincente è la vita, soltanto i morti hanno sempre torto.
Eppure, sia l’Anderer che Brodeck sono anime gentili, dolci, sensibili:
È sempre stato difficile per me parlare ed esprimere l’essenza del mio pensiero. Preferisco scrivere. Allora mi sembra che le parole diventano docilissime, tanto da venire a mangiare nella mia mano come uccellini, e ne faccio più o meno ciò che voglio, mentre quando cerco di riunirle nell’aria, mi sfuggono.
Non è solo la piccola comunità (il villaggio ha circa quattrocento abitanti) che è incapace di accogliere e inglobare: anche la grande capitale reagisce allo stesso modo, è la folla in sé che nasconde il delitto, perché nella folla ognuno si cela dietro il vicino e perde individualità, può così dar corpo alla sua paura ed esprimere senza timore di punizione la sua viltà e ferocia.
Il finale è un’altra immagine forte che emerge dalle pagine di Claudel: Brodeck prende i suoi cari e parte, se ne va, ed è impossibile non pensare a Enea col padre Anchise sulle spalle e il figlio Ascanio tenuto per mano che si allontanano da Troia in fiamme – qui non c’è il fuoco, ma probabilmente le stesse tenebre, anche se la scena è immersa in una luce così viva da sembrare quasi rassicurante.
Gian Lorenzo Bernini: Enea, Anchise e Ascanio, 1619, Galleria Borghese di Roma
Ieri sera, gli uomini del paese hanno ucciso l’Anderer. È successo alla locanda di Schloss, semplicemente, come una partita a carte o la firma di un compromesso per la vendita. Era da un pezzo che covava. Io sono arrivato dopo, ero andato a comprare del burro, non ho partecipato al massacro. Io sono semplicemente incaricato di stendere il Rapporto. Devo spiegare cosa è successo dopo il suo arrivo e perché non si poteva fare a meno di ucciderlo. Tutto qua.
“Fiaba per adulti” è una definizione che normalmente mi farebbe astenere dalla lettura, non sono mai stato in grande sintonia con le favole, a cominciare da quelle per bambini, figuriamoci quelle per i ‘grandi’: mi aspetto sempre che la Morale salti fuori ogni momento con vocina querula a reclamare la nostra attenzione e a darsi un sacco d’importanza, che sdolcinate principesse ci insegnino a vivere, e vecchi saggi re dalla barba canuta ne sappiano più di tutti su tutto...
Il y a longtemps que je t'aime (Ti amerò sempre), 2008, film scritto e diretto da Philippe Claudel
Ma questa volta l'artefice è Philippe Claudel, mi ha già regalato un libro molto bello, e almeno due regie notevoli, sono pronto a fidarmi.
E, quindi, questa “fiaba per adulti” non mi delude: con incedere classico e senza nessuna semplificazione, affronta, come si addice al genere, il Bene e il Male, portati all’estremo.
E sono il Bene e il Male del nostro tempo, soprattutto il Male che temiamo, che conosciamo e ancora cerchiamo di spiegare, quel Male che ha lasciato segni indelebili a Srebenica, a Murambi, ad Auschwitz…
Tous les soleils (...Non ci posso credere), 2001, scritto e diretto da Philippe Claude
A volte, guardandolo, avevo pensato a qualche faccia di santo. È stranissima, la santità. Quando la si incontra, la si scambia spesso per qualcos’altro, per tutt’altro: indifferenza, derisione, presa in giro, freddezza o insolenza, magari disprezzo. Ci si inganna, e allora ci si adira. Si fanno le cose peggiori. Probabilmente è per questo che i santi finiscono sempre martiri.
Un uomo è stato assassinato: era uno straniero, l’Anderer, l’altro, come lo chiamavano nel villaggio in cui era giunto un giorno di maggio, subito dopo la fine di una guerra.
Silenzioso e gentile, agli abitanti era comunque apparso strano e sospetto. Un diverso. Uno straniero.
Generando un malessere collettivo che si trasforma in follia collettiva.
Per far luce sui fatti, Brodeck – l’unico nel villaggio che ha studiato e sa scrivere – viene incaricato di redigere un rapporto dettagliato, affinché colui che un giorno leggerà capisca e perdoni.
Massimo Girotti in ‘Teorema’ di PierPaolo Pasolini, 1968
L’Anderer di Claudel mi ricorda l’ospite nel film Teorema di Pasolini, che arriva e sconvolge, niente rimane come prima.
Ma PPP lo risparmia, è soprattutto interessato agli effetti del suo passaggio.
Nel villaggio di Claudel, invece, non c’è spazio per il dopo, prima che la luce faccia sparire le ombre, il rito va consumato, lo straniero deve pagare il suo essere ‘altro’, diverso.
Era come uno specchio, non aveva bisogno di dire niente. Rimandava a ciascuno la sua immagine. O forse era l’ultimo inviato di dio, prima che lui chiudesse bottega e buttasse via la chiave. Gli specchi possono soltanto rompersi.
Avant l'hiver, 2013, scritto e diretto da Philippe Claudel
Dio non c’è più in questa parte del mondo che corrisponde al confine francotedesco, zona di vini pregiati: se mai è esistito, adesso non c’è più, è andato via, ha visto la Guerra e ha scelto di andarsene.
Anche il prete non crede più alla sua esistenza. Dio non è degno della maggior parte degli uomini, perché se la creatura ha potuto generare l’orrore, è soltanto perché il suo Creatore gliene ha suggerito la formula.
Claudel anche qui affronta una Guerra: dopo la carneficina della guerra di trincea nella Prima Mondiale in Le anime grigie, adesso siamo alla Seconda, ai lager, qui chiamato Campo.
Brodeck, il protagonista, citato nel titolo originale, e cancellato nella traduzione in italiano (Le Rapport de Brodeck) il narratore, e colui che stenderà il Rapporto, è a sua volta un altro Anderer, è arrivato bambino non si da dove, ma tutti ricordano che viene da un altrove e questo basta, per lui si apre il cancello del Campo, dove imparerà che prezzo può avere la sopravvivenza, e cioè che l’unica morale vincente è la vita, soltanto i morti hanno sempre torto.
Eppure, sia l’Anderer che Brodeck sono anime gentili, dolci, sensibili:
È sempre stato difficile per me parlare ed esprimere l’essenza del mio pensiero. Preferisco scrivere. Allora mi sembra che le parole diventano docilissime, tanto da venire a mangiare nella mia mano come uccellini, e ne faccio più o meno ciò che voglio, mentre quando cerco di riunirle nell’aria, mi sfuggono.
Non è solo la piccola comunità (il villaggio ha circa quattrocento abitanti) che è incapace di accogliere e inglobare: anche la grande capitale reagisce allo stesso modo, è la folla in sé che nasconde il delitto, perché nella folla ognuno si cela dietro il vicino e perde individualità, può così dar corpo alla sua paura ed esprimere senza timore di punizione la sua viltà e ferocia.
Il finale è un’altra immagine forte che emerge dalle pagine di Claudel: Brodeck prende i suoi cari e parte, se ne va, ed è impossibile non pensare a Enea col padre Anchise sulle spalle e il figlio Ascanio tenuto per mano che si allontanano da Troia in fiamme – qui non c’è il fuoco, ma probabilmente le stesse tenebre, anche se la scena è immersa in una luce così viva da sembrare quasi rassicurante.
Gian Lorenzo Bernini: Enea, Anchise e Ascanio, 1619, Galleria Borghese di Roma
August 13, 2025
At the end of the Second World War, a foreigner was murdered in a village. Brodeck writes nature notes for his administration. Asked by the villagers, he agrees to write a report on the facts that led to this tragedy. Meticulous, orderly, and in search of truth, he embarks on this writing after obtaining the agreement of these fellow citizens to reveal the truth, even if this one disturbs him. The grey souls have become very black; Claudel builds his novel as a puzzle, from one character to another, from one period to another; he does not judge. Instead, he describes what Brodeck discovers. There is no need to 'bring judgment, the facts justify themselves,' the Anderer has paid with his life, cowardice, the fear of the unknown, and intolerance in what he has most abject. Ultimately, the story is timeless; human stupidity brings its share of horrors at any time. Claudel succeeds in a novel that haunts that ice. His writing is clear, precise, no-frills, and simply overwhelming. It also serves that literature.
June 15, 2019
Una gran novela en el que cada final de capítulo te hace imposible no empezar el siguiente.
“Yo decidí vivir y mi castigo es la vida.”Esta triste amargura marca la narración entera, la constatación de una derrota: todos pierden, absolutamente todos, vencedores y vencidos. Un relato que no necesita ser verosímil para impactarnos con toda su verdad, del que emana belleza describiendo la terrible fealdad que anida en el ser humano, capaz de todo cuando en él se introduce el miedo y la desesperanza. No nos hacen falta monstruos a los que acusar, lo monstruoso está en cada uno de nosotros.
March 3, 2019
مع السطور الأولى تظهر قوة وتميز الرواية في الفكرة والأسلوب
يكتب فيليب كلوديل الكاتب الفرنسي عن الطبيعة البشرية بمختلف أحوالها
توحش وسادية البشر في الحروب, والقيم الانسانية التي لا تصمد أمام الكره والتعصب والعنصرية
النظرة للآخر المختلف, واختيارات الناس واختلاف تفكيرهم وتصرفاتهم في مواجهة الخوف والتهديد
في قرية صغيرة منعزلة وبعد الحرب يروي بروديك قصته التي تبدأ بتكليفه بكتابة تقرير عن جريمة قتل
ومع كتابة التقرير يحكي عن تفاصيل حياته ما قبل وبعد الحرب, وداخل معسكر الاعتقال, وعن القرية وأهلها وأسرارها
بروديك يُمثل الانسان بكل ما فيه من تخاذل وضعف وخوف, وكل ما بداخله أيضا من حب وأمل ورغبة في الحياة
عدم تحديد كلوديل للحرب وجنسيات الشخصيات وبلادهم أضاف للرواية قيمة انسانية عامة
أسلوب جميل ومميز في الوصف والتشبيه, والترجمة ممتازة وهي أول ترجمة أدبية للمترجم لطفي السيد
يكتب فيليب كلوديل الكاتب الفرنسي عن الطبيعة البشرية بمختلف أحوالها
توحش وسادية البشر في الحروب, والقيم الانسانية التي لا تصمد أمام الكره والتعصب والعنصرية
النظرة للآخر المختلف, واختيارات الناس واختلاف تفكيرهم وتصرفاتهم في مواجهة الخوف والتهديد
في قرية صغيرة منعزلة وبعد الحرب يروي بروديك قصته التي تبدأ بتكليفه بكتابة تقرير عن جريمة قتل
ومع كتابة التقرير يحكي عن تفاصيل حياته ما قبل وبعد الحرب, وداخل معسكر الاعتقال, وعن القرية وأهلها وأسرارها
بروديك يُمثل الانسان بكل ما فيه من تخاذل وضعف وخوف, وكل ما بداخله أيضا من حب وأمل ورغبة في الحياة
عدم تحديد كلوديل للحرب وجنسيات الشخصيات وبلادهم أضاف للرواية قيمة انسانية عامة
أسلوب جميل ومميز في الوصف والتشبيه, والترجمة ممتازة وهي أول ترجمة أدبية للمترجم لطفي السيد
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November 27, 2018Near the end of this book, Brodeck, the narrator, mentions a fable he remembers hearing as a child, a strange little story about a poor tailor who makes three suits for the king only to be rewarded by having, first his mother, then his wife, then his daughter, taken from him as if by magic. Brodeck says that the story used to make him feel as if the ground had been pulled from under him, as if there was nothing left to hold on to, nothing he could trust.
When I read about Brodeck's reaction, I had to pause and take stock. Philippe Claudel had given his narrator an experience that seemed to mirror my own experience as I read his novel, the novel in turn mirroring the childhood tale in an odd way though there is no tailor in the main story, nor is there a king. But there is definitely a fable-like quality to the events that are played out in Claudel's book, and they left me confused and disoriented. And, just as in Brodeck's childhood fable, the moral of Claudel's novel is very elusive. I wasn't sure what he was really saying — in the little story or in the larger one. But now that I've typed that sentence I realise it isn't accurate because Claudel has constructed his main story, set near the French/German border during and after WWII, in such a way that we can't not understand that it is about people's inherent xenophobia, about how their fear for their own safety can drive them to carry out atrocities, and about the dangers posed by mobs. But in spite of all those well developed themes, I'm still feeling confused about what I've just read and I don't know why.
Coincidently, alongside this book, I've been reading Giorgio Bassani's novels about the experience of an Italian Jewish community during WWII. There's a scene in one of Bassani's stories where a man returns from a concentration camp at the end of the war to find his name carved on the local memorial monument to the dead. In Claudel's book, there is a similar scene. At the end of the war, Brodeck returns to his French border village from a concentration camp, and he too finds his name on the local memorial monument.
The way the two authors deal with the concentration camp experience is very different however. Bassani begins his character's story at the moment he returns, and doesn't attempt to fill in the missing years. Other characters in Bassani's stories are sent to the camps too but he never tries to write about their time there. I took that to mean that he was unwilling to try to render a concentration camp experience in fiction since he had no experience of such a thing himself, having been lucky enough to have escaped to a safe place.
Claudel, on the other hand, though writing fifty years after Bassani, tries to gives us every detail of his main character's time in the camp. He doesn't give it all in one go however. Instead, he makes Brodeck reveal his back story little by little. This drip-feed revelation of events from the past, some of them quite dramatic, combined with the gradual revelation of equally dramatic events in the present time of the story, make the novel quite a page-turner. But every now and again, Claudel drops some well-phrased words of wisdom into the text which make us halt in our page-turning haste and take time out to think.
Speaking of taking time out to think, I've just realised that in writing down my thoughts about this book as they came to me, I may have worked out why I felt so destabilized while reading it. I think it was the combination, on the one hand, of those alternating dramatic and reflective passages, and on the other, of the melding of very grim reality with the fable-like elements I mentioned earlier, the entire narrative making me feel as if I were on uneven ground and unsure about what I was really reading.
Unsettling the reader to this extent may have been Claudel's intention. If so, he succeeded very well.
When I read about Brodeck's reaction, I had to pause and take stock. Philippe Claudel had given his narrator an experience that seemed to mirror my own experience as I read his novel, the novel in turn mirroring the childhood tale in an odd way though there is no tailor in the main story, nor is there a king. But there is definitely a fable-like quality to the events that are played out in Claudel's book, and they left me confused and disoriented. And, just as in Brodeck's childhood fable, the moral of Claudel's novel is very elusive. I wasn't sure what he was really saying — in the little story or in the larger one. But now that I've typed that sentence I realise it isn't accurate because Claudel has constructed his main story, set near the French/German border during and after WWII, in such a way that we can't not understand that it is about people's inherent xenophobia, about how their fear for their own safety can drive them to carry out atrocities, and about the dangers posed by mobs. But in spite of all those well developed themes, I'm still feeling confused about what I've just read and I don't know why.
Coincidently, alongside this book, I've been reading Giorgio Bassani's novels about the experience of an Italian Jewish community during WWII. There's a scene in one of Bassani's stories where a man returns from a concentration camp at the end of the war to find his name carved on the local memorial monument to the dead. In Claudel's book, there is a similar scene. At the end of the war, Brodeck returns to his French border village from a concentration camp, and he too finds his name on the local memorial monument.
The way the two authors deal with the concentration camp experience is very different however. Bassani begins his character's story at the moment he returns, and doesn't attempt to fill in the missing years. Other characters in Bassani's stories are sent to the camps too but he never tries to write about their time there. I took that to mean that he was unwilling to try to render a concentration camp experience in fiction since he had no experience of such a thing himself, having been lucky enough to have escaped to a safe place.
Claudel, on the other hand, though writing fifty years after Bassani, tries to gives us every detail of his main character's time in the camp. He doesn't give it all in one go however. Instead, he makes Brodeck reveal his back story little by little. This drip-feed revelation of events from the past, some of them quite dramatic, combined with the gradual revelation of equally dramatic events in the present time of the story, make the novel quite a page-turner. But every now and again, Claudel drops some well-phrased words of wisdom into the text which make us halt in our page-turning haste and take time out to think.
Speaking of taking time out to think, I've just realised that in writing down my thoughts about this book as they came to me, I may have worked out why I felt so destabilized while reading it. I think it was the combination, on the one hand, of those alternating dramatic and reflective passages, and on the other, of the melding of very grim reality with the fable-like elements I mentioned earlier, the entire narrative making me feel as if I were on uneven ground and unsure about what I was really reading.
Unsettling the reader to this extent may have been Claudel's intention. If so, he succeeded very well.
August 25, 2014
There are many reasons we read: for enlightenment, escape, education, and in some rare instances, to confront ourselves with truths and insights we never would have encountered otherwise.
Brodeck is one of those rare instances. It is, quite simply, one of the best contemporary books I have ever read. And I have read a lot.
The book – which reads like an allegory or dark adult fairy tale – transcends those genres by strongly tethering itself to recognizable events and images. Brodeck, by many indications, appears to be Jewish, yet he served as an acolyte to a priest in his youth, implying that he isn’t. The locale appears to be in France’s Alsace-Lorraine, yet many of the geographical features do not fit. And the Nazis have wrecked havoc in the region, yet they are never mentioned by name.
What we DO know is this: Brodeck has been taken prisoner of war and has scratched and scraped his way to survival, serving as “Broderick the Dog” to sadistic camp officials. Against all odds, he has returned to his insular village where he is greeted with less than 100% enthusiasm.
And now, an elusive stranger referred to as the Anderer – the Other – has appeared in the village with his horse and donkey and sketch pads, serving as a mirror to the truth of the village’s betrayals….its cowardice dishonorable conduct, spinelessness and moral stain. Early on, we learn that the village participated in a mass murder of the Anderer and it falls upon Brodeck – a low-level bureaucrat who now makes his living cataloguing the area’s flora and fauna – to write a whitewashing report about the event.
Brodeck himself is “the other”; he is an orphan, with only the sketchiest recollections of where he comes from and how he got to where he is. He knows that “each of us was a nothing. A nothing handed over to death. Its slave. Its toy. Waiting and resigned.” His survival has not changed that fact: “The others the ones who came out of it alive, like me – all of us still carry a part of it, deep down inside, like a stain. We can never again meet the eyes of other people without wondering whether they harbor the desire to hunt us down, to torture us, to kill us.”
His quest to discover what really happened to the Anderer is also a personal quest; to find out his own back story. At the start, the reader knows little: we know he has a mute wife Amelie and a young baby daughter and that he is merely tolerated by the village. As the book progresses, the picture begins to fall more and more into focus.
As he interacts with the various members of the community, he at one point meets with the village priest. In one of the most harrowing passages, the priest says, “Men are strange. They commit the worst crimes without question, but later they can’t live anymore with the memory of what they’ve done. They have to get rid of it. And so they come to me, because they know I’m the only person who can give them relief, and they tell me everything. I’m the sewer, Brodeck. I’m not the priest; I’m the sewer man.”
This book achieves something I thought would be impossible in literature: it universalizes the Holocaust. It offers up Brodeck as “every man” and his tormenters as “every man” as well. It reveals mankind’s ability to perpetrate the worst deeds and to turn its collective eye elsewhere when heinous deeds are being perpetrated. It displays our fervent struggle to forget and to absolve ourselves in the worst of times.
The prose is luminous and masterful. For that, I must partially give credit to the incredible translator, John Cullen. In reading international books, I’ve learned that a good translator can make or break a work of literature, and Cullen does Philippe Claudel proud. As for Claudel, his insights are astounding and his words are transformational. Some of the scenes are exquisitely painful to read; I gasped and shed tears on some of the more horrific.
Some evocations to works such as Camus’ The Stranger and Ibsen’s Enemy of the People come to mind but make no mistake: this is a highly original work. In the end, I knew that I had read something fiercely important – a modern masterpiece.
Brodeck is one of those rare instances. It is, quite simply, one of the best contemporary books I have ever read. And I have read a lot.
The book – which reads like an allegory or dark adult fairy tale – transcends those genres by strongly tethering itself to recognizable events and images. Brodeck, by many indications, appears to be Jewish, yet he served as an acolyte to a priest in his youth, implying that he isn’t. The locale appears to be in France’s Alsace-Lorraine, yet many of the geographical features do not fit. And the Nazis have wrecked havoc in the region, yet they are never mentioned by name.
What we DO know is this: Brodeck has been taken prisoner of war and has scratched and scraped his way to survival, serving as “Broderick the Dog” to sadistic camp officials. Against all odds, he has returned to his insular village where he is greeted with less than 100% enthusiasm.
And now, an elusive stranger referred to as the Anderer – the Other – has appeared in the village with his horse and donkey and sketch pads, serving as a mirror to the truth of the village’s betrayals….its cowardice dishonorable conduct, spinelessness and moral stain. Early on, we learn that the village participated in a mass murder of the Anderer and it falls upon Brodeck – a low-level bureaucrat who now makes his living cataloguing the area’s flora and fauna – to write a whitewashing report about the event.
Brodeck himself is “the other”; he is an orphan, with only the sketchiest recollections of where he comes from and how he got to where he is. He knows that “each of us was a nothing. A nothing handed over to death. Its slave. Its toy. Waiting and resigned.” His survival has not changed that fact: “The others the ones who came out of it alive, like me – all of us still carry a part of it, deep down inside, like a stain. We can never again meet the eyes of other people without wondering whether they harbor the desire to hunt us down, to torture us, to kill us.”
His quest to discover what really happened to the Anderer is also a personal quest; to find out his own back story. At the start, the reader knows little: we know he has a mute wife Amelie and a young baby daughter and that he is merely tolerated by the village. As the book progresses, the picture begins to fall more and more into focus.
As he interacts with the various members of the community, he at one point meets with the village priest. In one of the most harrowing passages, the priest says, “Men are strange. They commit the worst crimes without question, but later they can’t live anymore with the memory of what they’ve done. They have to get rid of it. And so they come to me, because they know I’m the only person who can give them relief, and they tell me everything. I’m the sewer, Brodeck. I’m not the priest; I’m the sewer man.”
This book achieves something I thought would be impossible in literature: it universalizes the Holocaust. It offers up Brodeck as “every man” and his tormenters as “every man” as well. It reveals mankind’s ability to perpetrate the worst deeds and to turn its collective eye elsewhere when heinous deeds are being perpetrated. It displays our fervent struggle to forget and to absolve ourselves in the worst of times.
The prose is luminous and masterful. For that, I must partially give credit to the incredible translator, John Cullen. In reading international books, I’ve learned that a good translator can make or break a work of literature, and Cullen does Philippe Claudel proud. As for Claudel, his insights are astounding and his words are transformational. Some of the scenes are exquisitely painful to read; I gasped and shed tears on some of the more horrific.
Some evocations to works such as Camus’ The Stranger and Ibsen’s Enemy of the People come to mind but make no mistake: this is a highly original work. In the end, I knew that I had read something fiercely important – a modern masterpiece.
January 19, 2019
Iš paskirų komentarų internete buvau susidariusi klaidingą įspūdį apie "Brodeką" - ar bent tokį, kuris visai nepasitvirtino skaitant. Neva didžiausias knygos privalumas ar įdomumas - kad ji yra apie Holokaustą, bet tas žodis nėkart nepaminėtas romane. Taip išties ir yra, nėra nei "Holokausto", nei Hitlerio, nei "arijų". Veiksmas vyksta neaišku kokiam kaimelyje (kažkodėl vis galvojau apie Austriją ir Marlen Haushofer, nors vietomis išlįsdavo ir, pavyzdžiui, Žagarė), kalbančiam sava tarme - darkyta panašybe į vokiečių. Bet nuo to knyga nepasidaro kokia nors strugackiška alegorija ir niekur nedingsta jos aiškiai apibrėžtas istoriškumas. Čia išties kalbama apie Holokaustą, pasakojama iš jį išgyvenusiojo - išgyvenusio koncentracijos stovyklą, ir tas aiškiai įvardijama - Brodeko perspektyvos.
Šioj knygoj man patiko ir buvo svarbūs du dalykai.
Pirmas - kad pasakojama "kas po to", kalbama apie kaimelį, į kurį iš koncentracijos stovyklos pavyko sugrįžti Brodekui, ir tai, kaip tas sugrįžimas nelygu išsilaisvinimui, kaip karas ir žiaurumas paveikia mažą bendruomenę ir tarsi paskatina ją toliau vykdyti ir skleisti karo schemas. (Terminą pavogiau iš Judith Butler, kuri kalba apie tai, kokias formas įgyja ir kaip yra retransliuojamas bei padauginamas šiuolaikinis žiaurumas.) To miestelio vaizdas - tarsi iš Bela Tarro filmų, nykus, juodai baltas, purvinas, bet ir toks - su savo santykiais, žmonėmis, apgyventas. Labai panašu į irgi išverstą Claudelio "Pilkosios sielos". Žiaurumo čia daug, nors ne tokio, kur nuolat taškytųsi kraujai, o labiau tokio, kuris yra nykiai neišvengiamas, būtinai anksčiau ar vėliau kaip nors apsireikšiantis, todėl nuspalvinantis visą knygą. Kažkoks labai realus.
Antras - kad tai aiškiai fikcinis pasakojimas, ir tai jaučiasi. Todėl pati knyga - visai kas kita nei Rudaševskio dienoraštis, Wieselio ar Primo Levi tekstai ar visa Lanzmanno / Resnais vizualika, ir skaitant nereikia grumtis su kone religine baime, kad turi reikalą su gyvu žodžiu, iš kūno ir kraujo, kuriam galioja neknyginio pasakojimo taisyklės - nelabai geras jausmas kritikuoti Wieselį už blogą metaforą arba Anne Frank už banalybes. Aišku, tai toli gražu nėra pirmas fikcinis pasakojimas apie Holokaustą. Bet jis geras, skirtingai nuo viso masinio kančios tiražavimo a la Doerr ir Zusak (kad ir koks guilty pleasure tie tekstai būtų). Kitaip nei Littelo "The Kindly Ones", čia kalba ne piktadarys, o auka, tačiau jis sugeba išlaikyti ir orumą, ir kažkokį pusiau iš apatijos, pusiau iš stiprybės sudėtą atsparumą, kad ir kokias bjaurastis patirtų.
Priminėjau čia ir A, ir B ir Z, su kuo man rezonuoja pasakojimas, ir galvoju, kad jis kažkuo būtent tuo ir geras - iškelia bendrus dalykus, tuo susikerta su daugybe kitų tekstų, bet daugiausia, ką padaro, - tai kalba apie baisius ir nužmoginančius dalykus, tačiau beveik nepameta savotiško orumo ir empatijos, beveik nenuslysta į baisėjimąsi, smerkimą, šiurpinimą (išskyrus vieną visai kinematografinę vietą, kuri pusiau privalomai spaudžia ašaras; tokia, atsimenu, buvo ir "Pilkosiose sielose").
Paskutinė asociacija - vis galvojau apie "Dievų mišką" ir niekaip negalėjau suprast, kodėl, nes šiaip tekstai visai nepanašūs - nei stilium, nei nuotaika. Bet gal būtent tuo prisiimtu ir stebuklingai nepamestu orumu.
Čia turbūt ir toks wishful thinking pamaitinimas - kad net didžiausio masto žiaurumas galbūt sugriauna ne viską. Nu to tai labai norėtųsi tikėtis.
Šioj knygoj man patiko ir buvo svarbūs du dalykai.
Pirmas - kad pasakojama "kas po to", kalbama apie kaimelį, į kurį iš koncentracijos stovyklos pavyko sugrįžti Brodekui, ir tai, kaip tas sugrįžimas nelygu išsilaisvinimui, kaip karas ir žiaurumas paveikia mažą bendruomenę ir tarsi paskatina ją toliau vykdyti ir skleisti karo schemas. (Terminą pavogiau iš Judith Butler, kuri kalba apie tai, kokias formas įgyja ir kaip yra retransliuojamas bei padauginamas šiuolaikinis žiaurumas.) To miestelio vaizdas - tarsi iš Bela Tarro filmų, nykus, juodai baltas, purvinas, bet ir toks - su savo santykiais, žmonėmis, apgyventas. Labai panašu į irgi išverstą Claudelio "Pilkosios sielos". Žiaurumo čia daug, nors ne tokio, kur nuolat taškytųsi kraujai, o labiau tokio, kuris yra nykiai neišvengiamas, būtinai anksčiau ar vėliau kaip nors apsireikšiantis, todėl nuspalvinantis visą knygą. Kažkoks labai realus.
Antras - kad tai aiškiai fikcinis pasakojimas, ir tai jaučiasi. Todėl pati knyga - visai kas kita nei Rudaševskio dienoraštis, Wieselio ar Primo Levi tekstai ar visa Lanzmanno / Resnais vizualika, ir skaitant nereikia grumtis su kone religine baime, kad turi reikalą su gyvu žodžiu, iš kūno ir kraujo, kuriam galioja neknyginio pasakojimo taisyklės - nelabai geras jausmas kritikuoti Wieselį už blogą metaforą arba Anne Frank už banalybes. Aišku, tai toli gražu nėra pirmas fikcinis pasakojimas apie Holokaustą. Bet jis geras, skirtingai nuo viso masinio kančios tiražavimo a la Doerr ir Zusak (kad ir koks guilty pleasure tie tekstai būtų). Kitaip nei Littelo "The Kindly Ones", čia kalba ne piktadarys, o auka, tačiau jis sugeba išlaikyti ir orumą, ir kažkokį pusiau iš apatijos, pusiau iš stiprybės sudėtą atsparumą, kad ir kokias bjaurastis patirtų.
Priminėjau čia ir A, ir B ir Z, su kuo man rezonuoja pasakojimas, ir galvoju, kad jis kažkuo būtent tuo ir geras - iškelia bendrus dalykus, tuo susikerta su daugybe kitų tekstų, bet daugiausia, ką padaro, - tai kalba apie baisius ir nužmoginančius dalykus, tačiau beveik nepameta savotiško orumo ir empatijos, beveik nenuslysta į baisėjimąsi, smerkimą, šiurpinimą (išskyrus vieną visai kinematografinę vietą, kuri pusiau privalomai spaudžia ašaras; tokia, atsimenu, buvo ir "Pilkosiose sielose").
Paskutinė asociacija - vis galvojau apie "Dievų mišką" ir niekaip negalėjau suprast, kodėl, nes šiaip tekstai visai nepanašūs - nei stilium, nei nuotaika. Bet gal būtent tuo prisiimtu ir stebuklingai nepamestu orumu.
Čia turbūt ir toks wishful thinking pamaitinimas - kad net didžiausio masto žiaurumas galbūt sugriauna ne viską. Nu to tai labai norėtųsi tikėtis.
November 2, 2023
As for me, I chose to live, and my punishment is my life. That is the way I see things. My punishment is all the suffering I have endured since. It is Brodeck-the-Dog. It is Emélia’s silence, which sometimes I interpret as the greatest reproach of all. It is my constantly recurring nightmares. And more than anything else, it is this perpetual feeling of inhabiting a body I stole long ago thanks to a few drops of water.
Brodeck's Report translated from Philippe Claudel's French original by John Cullen, won the 2010 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize (now the Man Booker International) from a longlist that included the 3rd and concluding part of Javier Marias's magnificent Poison, Shadow, and Farewell (translated by Margaret Jull Costa).
Following his win, Claudel told The Independent (https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-en...
):
Brodeck opens his first person report with the striking (and actually rather Marias-like):
My name is Brodeck and I had nothing to do with it. I insist on that. I want everyone to know. I had no part in it, and once I learned what had happened, I would have preferred never to have spoken of it again, I would have liked to bind my memory fast and keep it that way, as subdued and still as a weasel in an iron trap. But the others forced me.
He goes on, as he begins to explain his story, to relay why he was told he was chosen:
“You know how to write,” they said, "you've been to University. You know about words and how to use them, you know how they can say things. That’s what we need. We can’t do it ourselves. We’d get into a muddle, but you, you’ll say it right, and people will believe you. Besides, you’ve got the typewriter."
It is very old, the typewriter. Several of its keys are broken, and I have nothing to repair it with. It is capricious. It is worn out. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, it jams, as though suddenly baulking. But I said nothing about any of that, because I had no desire to end up like the Anderer.
"We’re not asking you for a novel. You just have to say what happened, that’s all. The way you do in your reports.
...
You must say everything, so that whoever reads the Report will understand and forgive.”
This was early last autumn. The war had been over for a year. Mauve autumn crocuses were blooming on the slopes, and often in the morning, on the granite crests of the Prinzhornï which border our valley to the east, the first snows left a fresh, dazzling white powder, soon to melt away in the hours of sunlight. It had been three months almost to the day since the Anderer arrived in our village, with his enormous trunks, his embroidered clothes, his mystery, his bay horse and his donkey.
Part of the novel's brilliance is that it is set in a time and place that seems both highly specific but at the same time generic, recognisable and yet somehow unfamiliar. The nearest equivalent that comes to mind is Ishiguro, but where his narrators are reserved and his settings dream like, Claudel's world is sketched vividly and at times brutally.
The setting both is, and yet is not quite, a beautifully described mountain village in (or somewhere like) Alsace-Lorraine set in a time (like) the aftermath of the second world war. The village had been occupied during the war, but the once thriving stopover for passing travellers is now rather isolated, the elaborately attired Anderer the first traveller to pass by since the end of the conflict, except it becomes clear that he is planning to stay and also that he certainly isn't from these parts:
The Anderer’s, toilette, especially on that day, did everything but blend in: white jabot frothing between two black satin lapels; watch chain, key chain, and chains for I do not know what else, covering his paunch with golden hardware; dazzling cuffs and matching buttons; navy-blue frock coat, woven belt, impeccable sash-poche, braided trousers; polished shoes and garnet gaiters; not to mention the rouge on his cheeks - his fat cheeks, as full as perfectly ripe apples - his shiny moustache, his brushed side whiskers, or his rosy lips.
One of the ways the novel achieves its unsettling effect is via an invented dialect used by Brodeck and the villagers. For example, as to the subject of his report:
I do not know what to call it. The event? The drama? The incident? Or maybe the Ereigniës. Ereigniës is a curious word, full of mists and ghosts; it means, more or less, “the thing that happened”. Maybe the best way of saying that is with a word taken from the local dialect, which is a language without being one, and which is perfectly wedded to the skin, the breath, and the souls of those who live here. Ereigniës, a word to describe the indescribable. Yes, I shall call it the Ereigniës.
The Ereigni��s is that the Anderer has disappeared, almost certainly collectively killed at the local inn by the able-bodied men of the villager (or all except Brodeck), perhaps instigated by a mysterious association of the senior men in the village who meet in a private room at the inn:
De Erweckens’Bruderschaf, which means something like “the Brotherhood of the Awakening”. A peculiar name for a peculiar association. No-one knows exactly when it was created or what its purpose is or how you get into it or who its members are – the big farmers, no doubt, maybe Lawyer Knopf, Schloss himself, and definitely the Mayor, Hans Orschwir, who owns the most property in these parts. Nor does anyone know what they get up to or what they say to one another when they meet. Some say that that room is where crucial decisions are taken, strange pacts sealed, and promises made. Others suspect that the brothers dedicate themselves to nothing more than the consumption of brandy and the playing of draughts.
They want Brodeck to write his report so as to draw a line under what happened, to justify it so that it can be forgiven, forgotten and life can go on.
But as he reflects on why he was really chosen (to be innocent in the midst of the guilty was, after all, the same as being guilty in the midst of the innocent. Then it occurred to me to wonder why, on that infamous night - the night of the Ereigniës - all the men of the village were in Schloss’ inn at the same time; all of them except me.) he decides to prepare two reports: one factual and unemotional, which he submits to the villagers, and and his own private, and personal, reflections, which we are reading.
As to the Anderer himself:
Do not ask me his name – no-one ever knew it. Almost immediately, people coined expressions in dialect and started applying them to him: Vollaugä, literally “Full-Eyes” (because his bulged a bit); De Murmelnër, “the Whisperer” (because he spoke very little, and always in a small voice that sounded like a breath); Mondlich, “Moony” (because he seemed to be among us, but not of us); Gekamdörhin, “Came-from-over-there”. To me, however, he was always the Anderer, “the Other”. Maybe I thought of him that way because not only had he arrived out of nowhere, but he was also different, and being different was a condition I was quite familiar with; sometimes, I must admit, I had the feeling that, in a way, he was me.
And as the Report progresses, Brodeck's aim is for him, and us, to understand that last sentence as much as anything. Brodeck is not originally from the village, where he now lived with his wife and daughter and an elderly lady who brought him there as a child and orphaned refugee from a previous war. And during the recent war, he was taken away from the village by the Frategekeime to the Kazerskwir:
Fratergekeime. That is the word in our dialect for those who came here to spread death and ashes, for the men who turned me into an animal, men very much like us. Having gone to university in their Capital, I happened to know them well. We associated with some of them since they often visited our village, brought here by business and trade fairs, and spoke a language which is the twin sister of our own.
...
The Kazerskwir - that was because of the war: I spent nearly two long years far from our village. I was taken away, like thousands of other people, because we had names, faces or beliefs different from those of others. I was confined in a distant place from where all humanity had vanished, and where there remained only conscienceless beasts which had taken on the appearance of men.
Those were two years of total darkness. I look upon that time as a void in my life - very black and very deep - and therefore I call it the Kazerskwir, the crater. Often, at night, I still venture out onto its rim.
One of the novel's themes is the risk of not conforming, of asking too many questions, or of being too enigmatic. The local schoolmaster, who committed suicide a few weeks after the Ereigniës, told Brodeck that most people do not even want to understand.
"Men live, in a way, as the blind do, and generally that’s enough for them. I’d go so far as to say that it’s what they’re looking for: to avoid headaches and dizzy spells, to fill their stomachs, to sleep, to lie between their wives’ thighs when their blood runs too hot, to make war because they’re told to do so, and then to die without knowing what awaits them afterwards, but hoping that something is awaiting them, all the same. Ever since I was a child, I’ve loved questions, and I’ve loved the paths you must follow to find the answers. Sometimes, of course, I end up knowing nothing but the path itself, but that’s not so bad; at least I’ve made some progress.”
Maybe that was the cause of his death: Diodème wanted to understand everything, and he tried to give words and explanations to what is inexplicable and should always remain unexplored.
But the rather enigmatic Anderer also aroused people's hostility:
I have already noted that he spoke but little. Very little. Sometimes, when I looked at him, the image of a saint crossed my mind. Saintliness is very odd. When people encounter it, they often take it for something else, something completely unlike it: indifference, mockery, scheming, coldness, insolence, perhaps even contempt. But they are mistaken and that makes them furious. They commit a grievous crime. This is no doubt the reason that most saints end up martyrs.
Another strength of the novel is that as it progresses, the seemingly hostile mass of villagers resolves into individuals, and with their own issues and guilt. For example, the village priest, welcoming when Brodeck first arrived ("it. We were all God’s people") and morally upright, is, when Brodeck returns to the village, a drunken disgrace. But he explains:
Men are strange. They commit the worst crimes without a second thought, but afterwards they cannot live with the memory of what they have done. They have to rid themselves of it. And so they come to me, because they know I’m the only person who can give them relief, and they tell me everything. I’m the sewer, Brodeck. I’m not the priest; I’m the sewer-man. I’m the man into whose brain they can pour all their filth, all their shit, and then they feel relieved, they feel unburdened. When it’s over, they go away as though nothing has happened. They’re all new and pristine. Ready to start afresh. They know that the sewer has closed over what they dumped into it and will never repeat what it has heard to anybody. They can sleep in peace, Brodeck, and at the same time I am awash, I am overflowing, I cannot take any more, but I hold on, I try to hold on. I shall die from this build-up of horrors in me. You see this wine? It’s my only friend. It puts me to sleep and makes me forget for a little while the great, vile mass I carry around within me, the putrid load they have all entrusted to me.
And as to what happened to the Anderer, the Priest simply comments:
I am the sewer, but that fellow was the mirror. And mirrors, Brodeck - mirrors can only be smashed.
But perhaps the best, if cynical, explanation is provided by the captain of the troops that occupied the village, who described his favourite species of butterfly:
They frequently tolerate the presence among them of butterflies of a different species.
But if a predator suddenly appears, it seems that the Rex flammae warn one another in who knows what form of language and hide themselves. The other butterflies that were integrated with the group an instant earlier apparently fail to receive the information, and they are the ones that get eaten by the bird. By providing their predators with prey, the Rex flammae guarantee their own survival. When everything is going well for them, the presence of one or more foreign individuals in their group does not bother them. Perhaps they even profit from it in some way. But when a danger arises, when it is a question of the group’s integrity and survival, they do not hesitate to sacrifice an individual of a different species.
And as for Brodeck himself, his own story reveals his survivor's guilt, guilt not just at surviving but also at what he had to do to survive.
But perhaps the final word should belong to the Anderer when the villagers complain, just before the incident, that they don't even know his name:
‘How can that be important now?’ the Anderer said. ‘A name is nothing. I could be nobody or everybody.’
Highly recommended.
Brodeck's Report translated from Philippe Claudel's French original by John Cullen, won the 2010 Independent Foreign Fiction Prize (now the Man Booker International) from a longlist that included the 3rd and concluding part of Javier Marias's magnificent Poison, Shadow, and Farewell (translated by Margaret Jull Costa).
Following his win, Claudel told The Independent (https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-en...
):
I wanted to compose a real metaphor for the destruction brought by genocide. The reader understands the background – which may be the Nazi genocide – but at the same time I never write the words. I wanted to work with the intelligence and sensibility of the reader.He certainly achieves this in a quite magnificent novel, one that hasn't had the subsequent critical attention it deserves.
Brodeck opens his first person report with the striking (and actually rather Marias-like):
My name is Brodeck and I had nothing to do with it. I insist on that. I want everyone to know. I had no part in it, and once I learned what had happened, I would have preferred never to have spoken of it again, I would have liked to bind my memory fast and keep it that way, as subdued and still as a weasel in an iron trap. But the others forced me.
He goes on, as he begins to explain his story, to relay why he was told he was chosen:
“You know how to write,” they said, "you've been to University. You know about words and how to use them, you know how they can say things. That’s what we need. We can’t do it ourselves. We’d get into a muddle, but you, you’ll say it right, and people will believe you. Besides, you’ve got the typewriter."
It is very old, the typewriter. Several of its keys are broken, and I have nothing to repair it with. It is capricious. It is worn out. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, it jams, as though suddenly baulking. But I said nothing about any of that, because I had no desire to end up like the Anderer.
"We’re not asking you for a novel. You just have to say what happened, that’s all. The way you do in your reports.
...
You must say everything, so that whoever reads the Report will understand and forgive.”
This was early last autumn. The war had been over for a year. Mauve autumn crocuses were blooming on the slopes, and often in the morning, on the granite crests of the Prinzhornï which border our valley to the east, the first snows left a fresh, dazzling white powder, soon to melt away in the hours of sunlight. It had been three months almost to the day since the Anderer arrived in our village, with his enormous trunks, his embroidered clothes, his mystery, his bay horse and his donkey.
Part of the novel's brilliance is that it is set in a time and place that seems both highly specific but at the same time generic, recognisable and yet somehow unfamiliar. The nearest equivalent that comes to mind is Ishiguro, but where his narrators are reserved and his settings dream like, Claudel's world is sketched vividly and at times brutally.
The setting both is, and yet is not quite, a beautifully described mountain village in (or somewhere like) Alsace-Lorraine set in a time (like) the aftermath of the second world war. The village had been occupied during the war, but the once thriving stopover for passing travellers is now rather isolated, the elaborately attired Anderer the first traveller to pass by since the end of the conflict, except it becomes clear that he is planning to stay and also that he certainly isn't from these parts:
The Anderer’s, toilette, especially on that day, did everything but blend in: white jabot frothing between two black satin lapels; watch chain, key chain, and chains for I do not know what else, covering his paunch with golden hardware; dazzling cuffs and matching buttons; navy-blue frock coat, woven belt, impeccable sash-poche, braided trousers; polished shoes and garnet gaiters; not to mention the rouge on his cheeks - his fat cheeks, as full as perfectly ripe apples - his shiny moustache, his brushed side whiskers, or his rosy lips.
One of the ways the novel achieves its unsettling effect is via an invented dialect used by Brodeck and the villagers. For example, as to the subject of his report:
I do not know what to call it. The event? The drama? The incident? Or maybe the Ereigniës. Ereigniës is a curious word, full of mists and ghosts; it means, more or less, “the thing that happened”. Maybe the best way of saying that is with a word taken from the local dialect, which is a language without being one, and which is perfectly wedded to the skin, the breath, and the souls of those who live here. Ereigniës, a word to describe the indescribable. Yes, I shall call it the Ereigniës.
The Ereigni��s is that the Anderer has disappeared, almost certainly collectively killed at the local inn by the able-bodied men of the villager (or all except Brodeck), perhaps instigated by a mysterious association of the senior men in the village who meet in a private room at the inn:
De Erweckens’Bruderschaf, which means something like “the Brotherhood of the Awakening”. A peculiar name for a peculiar association. No-one knows exactly when it was created or what its purpose is or how you get into it or who its members are – the big farmers, no doubt, maybe Lawyer Knopf, Schloss himself, and definitely the Mayor, Hans Orschwir, who owns the most property in these parts. Nor does anyone know what they get up to or what they say to one another when they meet. Some say that that room is where crucial decisions are taken, strange pacts sealed, and promises made. Others suspect that the brothers dedicate themselves to nothing more than the consumption of brandy and the playing of draughts.
They want Brodeck to write his report so as to draw a line under what happened, to justify it so that it can be forgiven, forgotten and life can go on.
But as he reflects on why he was really chosen (to be innocent in the midst of the guilty was, after all, the same as being guilty in the midst of the innocent. Then it occurred to me to wonder why, on that infamous night - the night of the Ereigniës - all the men of the village were in Schloss’ inn at the same time; all of them except me.) he decides to prepare two reports: one factual and unemotional, which he submits to the villagers, and and his own private, and personal, reflections, which we are reading.
As to the Anderer himself:
Do not ask me his name – no-one ever knew it. Almost immediately, people coined expressions in dialect and started applying them to him: Vollaugä, literally “Full-Eyes” (because his bulged a bit); De Murmelnër, “the Whisperer” (because he spoke very little, and always in a small voice that sounded like a breath); Mondlich, “Moony” (because he seemed to be among us, but not of us); Gekamdörhin, “Came-from-over-there”. To me, however, he was always the Anderer, “the Other”. Maybe I thought of him that way because not only had he arrived out of nowhere, but he was also different, and being different was a condition I was quite familiar with; sometimes, I must admit, I had the feeling that, in a way, he was me.
And as the Report progresses, Brodeck's aim is for him, and us, to understand that last sentence as much as anything. Brodeck is not originally from the village, where he now lived with his wife and daughter and an elderly lady who brought him there as a child and orphaned refugee from a previous war. And during the recent war, he was taken away from the village by the Frategekeime to the Kazerskwir:
Fratergekeime. That is the word in our dialect for those who came here to spread death and ashes, for the men who turned me into an animal, men very much like us. Having gone to university in their Capital, I happened to know them well. We associated with some of them since they often visited our village, brought here by business and trade fairs, and spoke a language which is the twin sister of our own.
...
The Kazerskwir - that was because of the war: I spent nearly two long years far from our village. I was taken away, like thousands of other people, because we had names, faces or beliefs different from those of others. I was confined in a distant place from where all humanity had vanished, and where there remained only conscienceless beasts which had taken on the appearance of men.
Those were two years of total darkness. I look upon that time as a void in my life - very black and very deep - and therefore I call it the Kazerskwir, the crater. Often, at night, I still venture out onto its rim.
One of the novel's themes is the risk of not conforming, of asking too many questions, or of being too enigmatic. The local schoolmaster, who committed suicide a few weeks after the Ereigniës, told Brodeck that most people do not even want to understand.
"Men live, in a way, as the blind do, and generally that’s enough for them. I’d go so far as to say that it’s what they’re looking for: to avoid headaches and dizzy spells, to fill their stomachs, to sleep, to lie between their wives’ thighs when their blood runs too hot, to make war because they’re told to do so, and then to die without knowing what awaits them afterwards, but hoping that something is awaiting them, all the same. Ever since I was a child, I’ve loved questions, and I’ve loved the paths you must follow to find the answers. Sometimes, of course, I end up knowing nothing but the path itself, but that’s not so bad; at least I’ve made some progress.”
Maybe that was the cause of his death: Diodème wanted to understand everything, and he tried to give words and explanations to what is inexplicable and should always remain unexplored.
But the rather enigmatic Anderer also aroused people's hostility:
I have already noted that he spoke but little. Very little. Sometimes, when I looked at him, the image of a saint crossed my mind. Saintliness is very odd. When people encounter it, they often take it for something else, something completely unlike it: indifference, mockery, scheming, coldness, insolence, perhaps even contempt. But they are mistaken and that makes them furious. They commit a grievous crime. This is no doubt the reason that most saints end up martyrs.
Another strength of the novel is that as it progresses, the seemingly hostile mass of villagers resolves into individuals, and with their own issues and guilt. For example, the village priest, welcoming when Brodeck first arrived ("it. We were all God’s people") and morally upright, is, when Brodeck returns to the village, a drunken disgrace. But he explains:
Men are strange. They commit the worst crimes without a second thought, but afterwards they cannot live with the memory of what they have done. They have to rid themselves of it. And so they come to me, because they know I’m the only person who can give them relief, and they tell me everything. I’m the sewer, Brodeck. I’m not the priest; I’m the sewer-man. I’m the man into whose brain they can pour all their filth, all their shit, and then they feel relieved, they feel unburdened. When it’s over, they go away as though nothing has happened. They’re all new and pristine. Ready to start afresh. They know that the sewer has closed over what they dumped into it and will never repeat what it has heard to anybody. They can sleep in peace, Brodeck, and at the same time I am awash, I am overflowing, I cannot take any more, but I hold on, I try to hold on. I shall die from this build-up of horrors in me. You see this wine? It’s my only friend. It puts me to sleep and makes me forget for a little while the great, vile mass I carry around within me, the putrid load they have all entrusted to me.
And as to what happened to the Anderer, the Priest simply comments:
I am the sewer, but that fellow was the mirror. And mirrors, Brodeck - mirrors can only be smashed.
But perhaps the best, if cynical, explanation is provided by the captain of the troops that occupied the village, who described his favourite species of butterfly:
They frequently tolerate the presence among them of butterflies of a different species.
But if a predator suddenly appears, it seems that the Rex flammae warn one another in who knows what form of language and hide themselves. The other butterflies that were integrated with the group an instant earlier apparently fail to receive the information, and they are the ones that get eaten by the bird. By providing their predators with prey, the Rex flammae guarantee their own survival. When everything is going well for them, the presence of one or more foreign individuals in their group does not bother them. Perhaps they even profit from it in some way. But when a danger arises, when it is a question of the group’s integrity and survival, they do not hesitate to sacrifice an individual of a different species.
And as for Brodeck himself, his own story reveals his survivor's guilt, guilt not just at surviving but also at what he had to do to survive.
But perhaps the final word should belong to the Anderer when the villagers complain, just before the incident, that they don't even know his name:
‘How can that be important now?’ the Anderer said. ‘A name is nothing. I could be nobody or everybody.’
Highly recommended.
February 6, 2022
Magnifica. Una novela que desde diferentes situaciones pone la mirada en un tema fascinante como lo es la psicología de las masas.
¿Que tan lejos pueden llegar nuestros actos cuando nos dejamos llevar por el actuar colectivo y perdemos el discernimiento individual?
Claudel nos sitúa en un pequeño pueblo europeo, un valle rodeado de montañas que se encuentra aislado y sin comunicación con otras ciudades, un lugar alejado de todo al que nunca llegan visitantes y del que nunca se va nadie.
A este pueblo llega siendo muy pequeño Brodeck, el protagonista de la novela. Él fue uno de los pocos que en algún momento dejó el pueblo para ir a estudiar a la ciudad, pero no pudo adaptarse y regresó, y tras él llegó también la guerra que cambiaria su vida para siempre.
A través de la vida de Brodeck y de las cosas que suceden en el pueblo, Claudel toca principalmente dos temas. Por un lado el sentido de pertenencia, sea a un lugar o a un grupo; el sentirse excluido de la sociedad, el no formar parte de, el sentirse siempre extraño aún en el lugar elegido para vivir.
Y por otro lado vamos a ser testigos de los hechos mas denigrantes que pueden ser capaces de cometer los individuos cuando actúan como un colectivo. Vemos como desaparecen las inhibiciones y la responsabilidad individual, y en cambio despiertan los instintos primitivos mas crueles y brutales.
Y si en Almas grises la prosa de Claudel ya era encantadora, aquí lo es mas aún, porque parece estar más pulida y la voz narradora se oye más natural.
Sin duda una novela super recomendable, al igual que Almas grises
“Hace mucho tiempo que evito las multitudes. Las rehúyo. Sé que todo, o casi todo, fue culpa suya (…) He visto a los hombres en acción cuando saben que no están solos, que pueden diluirse, disimularse en una masa que los engloba y supera, una masa formada por miles de rostros como los suyos. Se alegará que la responsabilidad es de quien los arrastra, los azuza, los hace bailar como a una serpiente alrededor de un bastón, y que las muchedumbres no son conscientes de sus actos, su dirección ni su futuro. Es mentira. Lo cierto es que la muchedumbre en sí es un monstruo, un enorme cuerpo que se engendra a sí mismo, compuesto de miles de otros cuerpos pensantes. Y también sé que no hay muchedumbre feliz.”
¿Que tan lejos pueden llegar nuestros actos cuando nos dejamos llevar por el actuar colectivo y perdemos el discernimiento individual?
Claudel nos sitúa en un pequeño pueblo europeo, un valle rodeado de montañas que se encuentra aislado y sin comunicación con otras ciudades, un lugar alejado de todo al que nunca llegan visitantes y del que nunca se va nadie.
A este pueblo llega siendo muy pequeño Brodeck, el protagonista de la novela. Él fue uno de los pocos que en algún momento dejó el pueblo para ir a estudiar a la ciudad, pero no pudo adaptarse y regresó, y tras él llegó también la guerra que cambiaria su vida para siempre.
A través de la vida de Brodeck y de las cosas que suceden en el pueblo, Claudel toca principalmente dos temas. Por un lado el sentido de pertenencia, sea a un lugar o a un grupo; el sentirse excluido de la sociedad, el no formar parte de, el sentirse siempre extraño aún en el lugar elegido para vivir.
Y por otro lado vamos a ser testigos de los hechos mas denigrantes que pueden ser capaces de cometer los individuos cuando actúan como un colectivo. Vemos como desaparecen las inhibiciones y la responsabilidad individual, y en cambio despiertan los instintos primitivos mas crueles y brutales.
Y si en Almas grises la prosa de Claudel ya era encantadora, aquí lo es mas aún, porque parece estar más pulida y la voz narradora se oye más natural.
Sin duda una novela super recomendable, al igual que Almas grises
“Hace mucho tiempo que evito las multitudes. Las rehúyo. Sé que todo, o casi todo, fue culpa suya (…) He visto a los hombres en acción cuando saben que no están solos, que pueden diluirse, disimularse en una masa que los engloba y supera, una masa formada por miles de rostros como los suyos. Se alegará que la responsabilidad es de quien los arrastra, los azuza, los hace bailar como a una serpiente alrededor de un bastón, y que las muchedumbres no son conscientes de sus actos, su dirección ni su futuro. Es mentira. Lo cierto es que la muchedumbre en sí es un monstruo, un enorme cuerpo que se engendra a sí mismo, compuesto de miles de otros cuerpos pensantes. Y también sé que no hay muchedumbre feliz.”
November 29, 2018
It's an unnamed village in an unnamed country. The people there speak a kind of German, but they are not German. There is an unnamed war. Troops from the aggressor nation come to the village. The people do not resist. There is a Cleansing. SCHMUTZ FREMDËR. Brodeck is one of the "dirty foreigners" delivered.
But that was then. Brodeck survives the camp and returns to the village, though a kind of oracle advises him not to.
Then the Anderer comes to the village. The other. He too refuses to be named.
It will not be plot-spoiling to tell you about the Ereigniës. "The thing that happened" is that the villagers kill the Anderer.
But who or what was the Anderer? And why was he killed? That turns the pages.
We think we recognize the story: of Nazis and concentration camps, of appeasers and collaborators. But that the people and places are unnamed gives the story a universal quality; or, at least, it makes a fable of history. And, thus, lessons.
I've seen how men act when they know they're not alone, when they know they can melt into a crowd and be absorbed into a mass that encompasses and transcends them, a mass comprising thousands of faces fashioned like theirs. One can always tell himself that the fault lies with whoever trains them, exhorts them, makes them dance a slowworm around a stick, and that the crowds are unconscious of their acts, of their future, and of their course. This is all false. The truth is that the crowd itself is a monster. It begets itself, an enormous body composed of other conscious bodies. Furthermore, I know that there are no happy crowds. There are no peaceful crowds, either. Even when there's laughter, smiles, music, choruses, behind all that there's blood: vexed, overheated, inflamed blood, stirred and maddened in its own vortex.
And I think about this when I watch political rallies (and not just one side), or see votes or policies determined by any us versus any them. Fables are timeless.
----- ----- ----- ----- -----
This book has a wonderful construct to it. There is a constant shifting of time and place but it's seamless and works.
Also, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the wonderful use of symbolism. In particular, there is a monument in the middle of the village with the names of those that perished in the "war". Brodeck's name was on it. No one comes back from the "camp". But Brodeck did return. A craftsman sets to work erasing Brodeck's name from the stone, a task he never quite completes.
There is also the Zeilenesseniss. A beautiful, elegant woman. She came every morning to the "camp" where ritualistically one of the FREMDËR would be hung. The soldiers waited for her sign, a simple nod of her elegant head. I will always remember that image. That, and when she was swallowed by the crowd.
----- ----- ----- ----- -----
An addendum: If you like this one, maybe try Schopenhauer's Telescope.
But that was then. Brodeck survives the camp and returns to the village, though a kind of oracle advises him not to.
Then the Anderer comes to the village. The other. He too refuses to be named.
It will not be plot-spoiling to tell you about the Ereigniës. "The thing that happened" is that the villagers kill the Anderer.
But who or what was the Anderer? And why was he killed? That turns the pages.
We think we recognize the story: of Nazis and concentration camps, of appeasers and collaborators. But that the people and places are unnamed gives the story a universal quality; or, at least, it makes a fable of history. And, thus, lessons.
I've seen how men act when they know they're not alone, when they know they can melt into a crowd and be absorbed into a mass that encompasses and transcends them, a mass comprising thousands of faces fashioned like theirs. One can always tell himself that the fault lies with whoever trains them, exhorts them, makes them dance a slowworm around a stick, and that the crowds are unconscious of their acts, of their future, and of their course. This is all false. The truth is that the crowd itself is a monster. It begets itself, an enormous body composed of other conscious bodies. Furthermore, I know that there are no happy crowds. There are no peaceful crowds, either. Even when there's laughter, smiles, music, choruses, behind all that there's blood: vexed, overheated, inflamed blood, stirred and maddened in its own vortex.
And I think about this when I watch political rallies (and not just one side), or see votes or policies determined by any us versus any them. Fables are timeless.
----- ----- ----- ----- -----
This book has a wonderful construct to it. There is a constant shifting of time and place but it's seamless and works.
Also, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the wonderful use of symbolism. In particular, there is a monument in the middle of the village with the names of those that perished in the "war". Brodeck's name was on it. No one comes back from the "camp". But Brodeck did return. A craftsman sets to work erasing Brodeck's name from the stone, a task he never quite completes.
There is also the Zeilenesseniss. A beautiful, elegant woman. She came every morning to the "camp" where ritualistically one of the FREMDËR would be hung. The soldiers waited for her sign, a simple nod of her elegant head. I will always remember that image. That, and when she was swallowed by the crowd.
----- ----- ----- ----- -----
An addendum: If you like this one, maybe try Schopenhauer's Telescope.
February 2, 2021
ان الانسان ذئب لأخيه الانسان ..........توماس هوبز
عندما تقتل القرية كلها رجلا , فأعلم أن المسألة ليست قضية عدالة انما مسألة رعب
لا ينبغي -حتى بلا تعمد وبلا وعي -النبش في الرعب, والا فسينتعش و يتفشى, انه ي��قح الرؤوس, يكبر, يلد مرة أخرى من نفسه
فالحرب , معسكرات التعذيب ليست سوى أحداث على حافة الهوة , ذكرى الذئب انما الرعب هو رحم الذئبة و ثديها , المرايا التى تعكس – بلا قصد و بلا وعي - ذكرى الذئب والتي يجب تحطيمها, الصورة التي يجب نسيانها ومحوها حتى لو تطلب ذلك أن تنضم للقطيع وتكون ذئبا مرة أخرى لتقتلوا رجلا أمسك المراّه
فالحقيقة , أن الحشد نفسه وحش يتولد , جسم يتألف من الاف الاجسام الاخرى , الواعية , أعرف أيضا أنه ما من حشود مسالمة , و أيضا فيما وراء الضحكات وأنغام الموسيقى و اللازمات المتكررة , ثمة دم يسخن , دم يثور , ينقلب على نفسه و يصبح مجنونا
عندما تقتل القرية كلها رجلا , فأعلم أن المسألة ليست قضية عدالة انما مسألة رعب
لا ينبغي -حتى بلا تعمد وبلا وعي -النبش في الرعب, والا فسينتعش و يتفشى, انه ي��قح الرؤوس, يكبر, يلد مرة أخرى من نفسه
فالحرب , معسكرات التعذيب ليست سوى أحداث على حافة الهوة , ذكرى الذئب انما الرعب هو رحم الذئبة و ثديها , المرايا التى تعكس – بلا قصد و بلا وعي - ذكرى الذئب والتي يجب تحطيمها, الصورة التي يجب نسيانها ومحوها حتى لو تطلب ذلك أن تنضم للقطيع وتكون ذئبا مرة أخرى لتقتلوا رجلا أمسك المراّه
فالحقيقة , أن الحشد نفسه وحش يتولد , جسم يتألف من الاف الاجسام الاخرى , الواعية , أعرف أيضا أنه ما من حشود مسالمة , و أيضا فيما وراء الضحكات وأنغام الموسيقى و اللازمات المتكررة , ثمة دم يسخن , دم يثور , ينقلب على نفسه و يصبح مجنونا
June 25, 2025
"Eu escolhi viver e a minha punição é a minha vida."
Um livro com um título sem pretensão e é soberbo!
Na verdade não sabia o que me esperava, simplesmente que estava muito bem cotado no Goodreads.
Inicia modestamente e evolui para um livro para a vida.
Somos arrebatados!
Será possível algum dia superar o que se vive, como vitima directa de um holocausto?
As mazelas são tantas, tão profundas, muito para além do corpo, gravadas a ferros no seu íntimo, que será possível viver de novo, ou apenas sobreviver?
Será possível haver uma réstia de esperança e renascer das cinzas?
Senti-me impregnada de horror, de indignação, de dor, de infindáveis adjectivos deploráveis sobre o ser humano. Que malévolos conseguimos ser, que cobardes.
E, senti-me arrepiada pela resiliência e pelo amor acima de todas as coisas.
A aldeia pitoresca isolada sobre si mesma, o rio, as florestas, os animais, as árvores, os rochedos das montanhas, as personagens e as suas singularidades completam um quadro difícil de esquecer.
Tudo o que disser ficará aquém do que me provocou.
Imperdível!
"... Em todo o caso, posso jurar que não houve sofrimento ... faltam-me os orgãos essenciais para experimentar a dor. Não os possuo. Retiraram-mos, um a um, no campo de concentração. E depois, infelizmente, nunca mais os recuperei."
"Ó pequena Poupchette... alguns dir-te-ão que és filha de ninguém, filha da ignomínia, que foste gerada pelo ódio e o horror. Alguns dir-te-ão que és a filha abominável do abominável, a filha da desonra, já desonrada antes de nasceres. Peço-te que não os ouças. Eu digo-te que és a minha filha e que te amo. Digo-te que do horror nasce por vezes a beleza, a pureza e a graça. Digo-te que serei sempre teu pai. Digo-te que as mais belas rosas nascem por vezes numa terra conspurcada. Digo-te que és a aurora, o amanhã, todos os amanhãs, e que só interessa o que faz de ti uma promessa. Digo-te que és a minha ventura e o meu perdão. Digo-te, minha Poupchette, que és toda a minha vida."
Um livro com um título sem pretensão e é soberbo!
Na verdade não sabia o que me esperava, simplesmente que estava muito bem cotado no Goodreads.
Inicia modestamente e evolui para um livro para a vida.
Somos arrebatados!
Será possível algum dia superar o que se vive, como vitima directa de um holocausto?
As mazelas são tantas, tão profundas, muito para além do corpo, gravadas a ferros no seu íntimo, que será possível viver de novo, ou apenas sobreviver?
Será possível haver uma réstia de esperança e renascer das cinzas?
Senti-me impregnada de horror, de indignação, de dor, de infindáveis adjectivos deploráveis sobre o ser humano. Que malévolos conseguimos ser, que cobardes.
E, senti-me arrepiada pela resiliência e pelo amor acima de todas as coisas.
A aldeia pitoresca isolada sobre si mesma, o rio, as florestas, os animais, as árvores, os rochedos das montanhas, as personagens e as suas singularidades completam um quadro difícil de esquecer.
Tudo o que disser ficará aquém do que me provocou.
Imperdível!
"... Em todo o caso, posso jurar que não houve sofrimento ... faltam-me os orgãos essenciais para experimentar a dor. Não os possuo. Retiraram-mos, um a um, no campo de concentração. E depois, infelizmente, nunca mais os recuperei."
"Ó pequena Poupchette... alguns dir-te-ão que és filha de ninguém, filha da ignomínia, que foste gerada pelo ódio e o horror. Alguns dir-te-ão que és a filha abominável do abominável, a filha da desonra, já desonrada antes de nasceres. Peço-te que não os ouças. Eu digo-te que és a minha filha e que te amo. Digo-te que do horror nasce por vezes a beleza, a pureza e a graça. Digo-te que serei sempre teu pai. Digo-te que as mais belas rosas nascem por vezes numa terra conspurcada. Digo-te que és a aurora, o amanhã, todos os amanhãs, e que só interessa o que faz de ti uma promessa. Digo-te que és a minha ventura e o meu perdão. Digo-te, minha Poupchette, que és toda a minha vida."
May 2, 2024
رواية مؤلمة وبديعة، الإبداع يشمل المؤلف والمترجم معا، نجح المترجم في ايصال فكرة وروح الرواية فى لغة جميلة جذابة وقوية نفتقدها كثيرا في الأعمال المترجمة، على الرغم من أنها باكورة أعماله المنشورة فى كتاب.
الحديث عن الروايات لا يعطيها حقها في كثير من الأحيان لأن تجربة قراءة الرواية هي تجربة فردية يتواصل فيها القاريء والكاتب بشكل ما مما يجعل الانطباعات تختلف من قارئ إلى آخر.
حتى ما كتب على غلاف الرواية الخلفى كتب بشكل فلسفى جميل لا أشعر أنى أستطيع أن أزعجه بأسلوبي البسيط😊😊😊😊 .
"رواية "تقرير بروديك" بلا "بطولة"، بالمعنى الأخلاقي، أو الإنساني العام، أو بالمعنى الإبداعي المعتاد، فلعل المؤلف لم يكن يسعى إلى تمجيد بطولة ما، أو إعلانها، بقدر ما كان يسعى إلى النقيض، تماماً. وفي الطريق إلى "التقرير" يتكشف العالم - بأشخاصه الفرديين، وتوجهاته الجمعية - عما لا يخطر على البال.
فهي ليست فحسب رواية جريمة قتل غريبة لشخص يبدو بالغ الغرابة (وهي حدثها الرئيسي)، لا هي أيضاً رواية فظائع الاحتلال ومعسكرات النازية (وهي أحد أبعادها المهمة)؛ بقدر ما هي إعادة طرح الأسئلة الأساسية، ومعاني الفعل الإنساني، وغاياته، من خلال جريمة القتل وفظائع الاحتلال النازي".
المراجعة والتقديم بقلم رفعت سلام مهمة جدا ومفيدة للغاية.
استمتعوا كثيرا وتألموا كثيرا كثيراااااا.
الحديث عن الروايات لا يعطيها حقها في كثير من الأحيان لأن تجربة قراءة الرواية هي تجربة فردية يتواصل فيها القاريء والكاتب بشكل ما مما يجعل الانطباعات تختلف من قارئ إلى آخر.
حتى ما كتب على غلاف الرواية الخلفى كتب بشكل فلسفى جميل لا أشعر أنى أستطيع أن أزعجه بأسلوبي البسيط😊😊😊😊 .
"رواية "تقرير بروديك" بلا "بطولة"، بالمعنى الأخلاقي، أو الإنساني العام، أو بالمعنى الإبداعي المعتاد، فلعل المؤلف لم يكن يسعى إلى تمجيد بطولة ما، أو إعلانها، بقدر ما كان يسعى إلى النقيض، تماماً. وفي الطريق إلى "التقرير" يتكشف العالم - بأشخاصه الفرديين، وتوجهاته الجمعية - عما لا يخطر على البال.
فهي ليست فحسب رواية جريمة قتل غريبة لشخص يبدو بالغ الغرابة (وهي حدثها الرئيسي)، لا هي أيضاً رواية فظائع الاحتلال ومعسكرات النازية (وهي أحد أبعادها المهمة)؛ بقدر ما هي إعادة طرح الأسئلة الأساسية، ومعاني الفعل الإنساني، وغاياته، من خلال جريمة القتل وفظائع الاحتلال النازي".
المراجعة والتقديم بقلم رفعت سلام مهمة جدا ومفيدة للغاية.
استمتعوا كثيرا وتألموا كثيرا كثيراااااا.
July 31, 2020
Šedevras. Viena stipriausių perskaitytų grožinės literatūros knygų. Šių dienų klasika, aktuali visais laikais ir epochomis. Tiesiog WOW.
June 18, 2018
Read this as part of 2018 Ultimate Reading Challenge, Category: "A book translated from another language".
4.5 stars
This book was originally written in French and I read the English Translation of it.
This is one of those books that has a soul to it. It's not just words written on paper but every single thing here is soo much deeper.
The beauty of the story it, it does not specify the time-line it takes place in but certain references made me think of WW2.... But the scary thing is, it can be some place where this is happening right now or it can be a place where this may happen in future.
Makes one realize that the world has evolved in certain areas but in some cases the world is stagnant as a pool of dirty water.
Brodeck is our main protagonist and we see the world through his eyes. He has suffered a lot and still suffers. Looking at his suffering made me wonder how life can be this unjust and cruel to one person in particular?
This story also deals with Herd mentality which is one of the dangerous things to be caught-up in..
This story shows that sometimes there is strength in just surviving and not fighting back! There are lots of angles to this story that I loved but also broke my heart. By the end of it all, all I wanted was Brodeck to find peace.
4.5 stars
This book was originally written in French and I read the English Translation of it.
This is one of those books that has a soul to it. It's not just words written on paper but every single thing here is soo much deeper.
The beauty of the story it, it does not specify the time-line it takes place in but certain references made me think of WW2.... But the scary thing is, it can be some place where this is happening right now or it can be a place where this may happen in future.
Makes one realize that the world has evolved in certain areas but in some cases the world is stagnant as a pool of dirty water.
Brodeck is our main protagonist and we see the world through his eyes. He has suffered a lot and still suffers. Looking at his suffering made me wonder how life can be this unjust and cruel to one person in particular?
"God? Well, in that case, if He exists, if He really exists, let Him hide his face. Let Him put His two hands on His head, and let Him bow down. It may be, as Peiper used to teach us, that many men were unworthy of Him, but now I know that He, too, is unworthy of most of us, and that if the creature is capable of producing horror, it's solely because his Creator has slipped him the recipe for it."-- Really the things that Brodeck went through one after the other made my heart hurt a lot.
This story also deals with Herd mentality which is one of the dangerous things to be caught-up in..
"I thought about what those men had just done. I had known them all for years. They weren't monsters; they were peasants, craftsmen, farmworkers, foresters, minor government officials; in short, men like you and me."
This story shows that sometimes there is strength in just surviving and not fighting back! There are lots of angles to this story that I loved but also broke my heart. By the end of it all, all I wanted was Brodeck to find peace.
August 7, 2017
Hesitei em escrever alguma coisa sobre este livro. Pensei em dar-lhe 5* e ficar quieta. A razão é simples: com a minha queda para a lamechice corro o risco de dar uma conotação imerecida ao livro.
Não me prendeu logo nas primeiras páginas, levei algum tempo a entrar na história e nas personagens, na verdade achei até um pouco confuso ao início.
Porém aos poucos…
...sabem como é estar a chapinhar na praia nos dias de mar calmo, quando repentinamente vem uma onda maior que vos apanha de surpresa e vos deita abaixo, vos arrasta pela areia e só vos resta esperar que recue para poderem levantar-se de novo?
É o que acontece quando se lê Philippe Claudel.
Não li a sinopse do livro, gosto de começar as leituras “às escuras” e deixar que a história me vá guiando, o que me levou à asneira de andar a pesquisar nomes de montes e regiões – aparentemente numa região nórdica – para vir a perceber que o local e a data dos acontecimentos são indeterminados. Adiante, que isso é o que menos importa, o homem é semelhante em toda a parte; tanto pode ser bom e generoso, como alimentar-se de um ódio profundo cujas raízes se desconhecem, cultivar o medo e a violência que se vai multiplicando e alimentando dela própria. Foi o que aconteceu naquela aldeia remota. O ódio gratuito, e os atos violentos são terreno fértil para a vingança. O protagonista, Brodeck, consigiu libertar-se dessa espiral e focar-se no essencial: no silêncio de um amor intenso, no riso da inocência, na segurança de uma mão sempre estendida e encontrada.
Num ambiente paradisíaco são relatadas as maiores barbaridades que o ser humano pode cometer sobre o seu semelhante. Como consegue viver consigo mesmo é um mistério.
Termina com uma mensagem de esperança e a certeza de que o nosso lugar no mundo pode ser em qualquer parte. A nossa casa, será sempre onde estiverem as pessoas que amamos.
Não me prendeu logo nas primeiras páginas, levei algum tempo a entrar na história e nas personagens, na verdade achei até um pouco confuso ao início.
Porém aos poucos…
...sabem como é estar a chapinhar na praia nos dias de mar calmo, quando repentinamente vem uma onda maior que vos apanha de surpresa e vos deita abaixo, vos arrasta pela areia e só vos resta esperar que recue para poderem levantar-se de novo?
É o que acontece quando se lê Philippe Claudel.
Não li a sinopse do livro, gosto de começar as leituras “às escuras” e deixar que a história me vá guiando, o que me levou à asneira de andar a pesquisar nomes de montes e regiões – aparentemente numa região nórdica – para vir a perceber que o local e a data dos acontecimentos são indeterminados. Adiante, que isso é o que menos importa, o homem é semelhante em toda a parte; tanto pode ser bom e generoso, como alimentar-se de um ódio profundo cujas raízes se desconhecem, cultivar o medo e a violência que se vai multiplicando e alimentando dela própria. Foi o que aconteceu naquela aldeia remota. O ódio gratuito, e os atos violentos são terreno fértil para a vingança. O protagonista, Brodeck, consigiu libertar-se dessa espiral e focar-se no essencial: no silêncio de um amor intenso, no riso da inocência, na segurança de uma mão sempre estendida e encontrada.
Num ambiente paradisíaco são relatadas as maiores barbaridades que o ser humano pode cometer sobre o seu semelhante. Como consegue viver consigo mesmo é um mistério.
Termina com uma mensagem de esperança e a certeza de que o nosso lugar no mundo pode ser em qualquer parte. A nossa casa, será sempre onde estiverem as pessoas que amamos.
January 28, 2021
Tokia graži alegorija, gal net geriausias grožinės literatūros kūrinys mano skaitytas apie Holokaustą. Prie temos prieinama taip subtiliai ir iš tolo, turi įjungti protą, kad suprastum visus simbolius tekste. Iš pradžių knyga pasirodė neįtraukianti, bet perkopus į antrąją pusę pajutau, kaip auganti kulminacija prikausto prie teksto. De Anderer atlieka nuodėmių išklausytojo ir išganymo vaidmenį. Kokia puiki pastaba apie tai, kad žmonių banda visada yra pavojinga, nors jei ir yra besidžiaugianti, euforijoje, nes galop giliai, o gal ir ne taip giliai, joje slypi žiaurumas ir blogis.
September 20, 2023
تقرير بروديك
رواية لفيليب كلوديل
تقرير بروديك هي رواية فرنسية غامقة اللون مكفهرة الأجواء تحكي عن جراح الماضي وعن الذنوب التي تلاحقنا وعن بغضنا للآخر.
جراح لا تندمل
من قال إن الزمن يداوي كل الجروح؟ أما صدمات الطفولة فتتوارى في زوايا الروح حتى حين، تتوارى ولا تتلاشى. وأما عذابات الزمن الحاضر فتكسر فينا شيئاً. تتظاهر شخصيات الرواية بالتعافي، تكذب على نفسها وعلى الآخرين، ولكن ذلك لا يخفف من الألم شيئاً.
كلنا مذنبون
تختلف المبررات، والجميع في النهاية مذنبون. من شخصيات الرواية من ارتكب خطأ بحق الآخرين بسبب الحقد، وهناك من أضر بهم لينجو بنفسه، وآخر لزيادة مكاسبه، وهناك من لم يكن لديه خيار آخر. هل الأسباب تبرؤنا مما اقترفناه؟ وهل الأهم هو أن يسامحنا من جنينا عليهم أو أن نسامح أنفسنا؟
هم والآخر
من أشد الأمور وقعاً على النفس هو أن نتعرض للنبذ والتحقير والتعذيب بناءً على هويتنا. شيء لا نستطيع تغييره ولم نختره من الأساس. كونك تقع في تصنيف "الآخر"، أمر يجعلك تقف على جرف. في أول منعطف قد تتحول إلى عدو أو خائن أو كبش فداء.
أجواء خانقة
قرية منزوية بين الجبال، معتقل تحاصره البنادق وعاصمة يعيث فيها الثوار فساداً. ليس هناك ما يبهج. الرواية كئيبة الأحداث والأماكن. ليس هذا فحسب، بل أن القتامة تزحف حتى على الزمن. نحن هنا نعاصر ثورة دموية إلى جانب الحرب العالمية الثانية. نشهد أكثر من مذبحة وعدد من مشاهد امتهان كرامة الإنسان.
سرد متعرج
يفترض أن لبروديك مهمة واضحة: أن يكتب تقريراً موجزاً عن مصير الزائر الغامض. ذلك الزائر الذي أثار البهجة والريبة في الآن ذاته. بدلاً من ذلك، قام بروديك بكتابة تاريخه، عن كل ما قاساه وكل ما شهده في حياته البائسة. ولا تتوقع من كاتب مكسور الروح معتل النفس مثل بروديك أن يسرد الأحداث بخط مستقيم. على العكس تماماً، فنصه يتهادى بين الماضي والحاضر، بين طفولته، وأيام دراسته، ومعتقله والأحداث الأخيرة مع الزائر. هذا لا يعني أن النص معقد، فالنسبة لي كان واضح المعالم ويعكس الحالة الذهنية للراوي.
تقرير بروديك رواية مؤلمة ولكن متقنة، مقبضة ولكن تستحق القراءة.
رواية لفيليب كلوديل
تقرير بروديك هي رواية فرنسية غامقة اللون مكفهرة الأجواء تحكي عن جراح الماضي وعن الذنوب التي تلاحقنا وعن بغضنا للآخر.
جراح لا تندمل
من قال إن الزمن يداوي كل الجروح؟ أما صدمات الطفولة فتتوارى في زوايا الروح حتى حين، تتوارى ولا تتلاشى. وأما عذابات الزمن الحاضر فتكسر فينا شيئاً. تتظاهر شخصيات الرواية بالتعافي، تكذب على نفسها وعلى الآخرين، ولكن ذلك لا يخفف من الألم شيئاً.
كلنا مذنبون
تختلف المبررات، والجميع في النهاية مذنبون. من شخصيات الرواية من ارتكب خطأ بحق الآخرين بسبب الحقد، وهناك من أضر بهم لينجو بنفسه، وآخر لزيادة مكاسبه، وهناك من لم يكن لديه خيار آخر. هل الأسباب تبرؤنا مما اقترفناه؟ وهل الأهم هو أن يسامحنا من جنينا عليهم أو أن نسامح أنفسنا؟
هم والآخر
من أشد الأمور وقعاً على النفس هو أن نتعرض للنبذ والتحقير والتعذيب بناءً على هويتنا. شيء لا نستطيع تغييره ولم نختره من الأساس. كونك تقع في تصنيف "الآخر"، أمر يجعلك تقف على جرف. في أول منعطف قد تتحول إلى عدو أو خائن أو كبش فداء.
أجواء خانقة
قرية منزوية بين الجبال، معتقل تحاصره البنادق وعاصمة يعيث فيها الثوار فساداً. ليس هناك ما يبهج. الرواية كئيبة الأحداث والأماكن. ليس هذا فحسب، بل أن القتامة تزحف حتى على الزمن. نحن هنا نعاصر ثورة دموية إلى جانب الحرب العالمية الثانية. نشهد أكثر من مذبحة وعدد من مشاهد امتهان كرامة الإنسان.
سرد متعرج
يفترض أن لبروديك مهمة واضحة: أن يكتب تقريراً موجزاً عن مصير الزائر الغامض. ذلك الزائر الذي أثار البهجة والريبة في الآن ذاته. بدلاً من ذلك، قام بروديك بكتابة تاريخه، عن كل ما قاساه وكل ما شهده في حياته البائسة. ولا تتوقع من كاتب مكسور الروح معتل النفس مثل بروديك أن يسرد الأحداث بخط مستقيم. على العكس تماماً، فنصه يتهادى بين الماضي والحاضر، بين طفولته، وأيام دراسته، ومعتقله والأحداث الأخيرة مع الزائر. هذا لا يعني أن النص معقد، فالنسبة لي كان واضح المعالم ويعكس الحالة الذهنية للراوي.
تقرير بروديك رواية مؤلمة ولكن متقنة، مقبضة ولكن تستحق القراءة.
October 11, 2021
Una novela impresionante que te adentra en lo más profundo y terrible del alma humana, como no podría ser de otra manera con Claudel, con su estilo moroso. La historia se sitúa en un pasado imaginario pero muy parecido a lo que vivió Europa durante el nazismo y la posguerra. El personaje Brodeck sobrevive a duras penas, tras la vuelta del lager, en la sociedad cerrada y opresiva de su pequeño pueblo, un auténtico enjambre de personas egoístas y deshumanizadas. El drama latente se desencadena con el asesinato de un visitante extraño que se instala en el pueblo, a Brodeck le toca hacer el informe de lo ocurrido a la vez que nos relata su vida. Una novela magistral.
October 21, 2018
Iš pradžių skaityti buvo neįdomu. Gal net nemalonu kažkiek - trūkčiojimai, šokinėjimai pirmyn ir atgal erzino, atrodė, kad neaišku, ką iš viso norima pasakyti. Tačiau paskui kontekstas darėsi vis aiškesnis ir vaizdas susidėliojo. Buvo pikta ir gaila, ir labai apmaudu. Pradėjau galvoti, kaip patogu neprisiminti, kai niekas neprimena, kaip norisi apsimesti, kad nieko nebuvo, niekas nekaltas, aplinkybės susidėliojo ir t.t., pamirštant, kad toms aplinkybėms dėliojantis pats irgi buvai ir irgi dėliojaisi.
April 2, 2020
Knyga tokia lengva ir vaiski teksto grakštumu, kur metaforos sukasi grakščiai it balerinos ir tokia psichologiškai sunki savo turiniu, kad bendras mišinys trenkia per galvą kaip bulvių maišas ir palieka gulinti be amo.
January 9, 2018
A história narrada neste livro decorre numa aldeia remota, num tempo e lugar não definidos, mas que podemos situar no pós Segunda Guerra Mundial a talvez algures na região fronteiriça franco-alemã. Um dia, um estrangeiro de apresentação e hábitos singulares, todavia obsequioso e gentil, instala-se na aldeia. Inicialmente é recebido de forma pacífica mas, aos poucos, os habitantes locais começam a vê-lo como um corpo estranho - De Anderer, "o outro" - que desperta fantasmas adormecidos e esqueletos no armário, e acabam por proceder ao seu linchamento matando-o.
Brodeck, um escrivão sobrevivente de um campo de concentração, é incumbido pelas autoridades de escrever um relatório sobre o incidente, em moldes que desresponsabilizem a população interveniente. Enquanto vai escrevendo esse relatório "oficial", escreve também um outro, mais secreto, em que não só dá conta do seu passado, como exibe um retrato da aldeia e dos seus habitantes, e expõe as suas próprias reflexões sobre o acontecido e aquilo que ele considera ser a verdade dos factos e das motivações que conduziram ao incidente.
O Relatório de Brodeck é um livro soberbo, poderoso e terrivelmente actual, que, com recurso a uma escrita primorosa, nos fala da condição humana e do lado mais negro dos seres humanos, do preconceito, da amoralidade, da falta de empatia, do ódio gratuito, enfim, da desumanidade que neles pode grassar, sobretudo quando estes se podem esquivar à responsabilidade individual, acobertando-se sob o anonimato das massas e dos comportamentos colectivos. Imperdível.
Brodeck, um escrivão sobrevivente de um campo de concentração, é incumbido pelas autoridades de escrever um relatório sobre o incidente, em moldes que desresponsabilizem a população interveniente. Enquanto vai escrevendo esse relatório "oficial", escreve também um outro, mais secreto, em que não só dá conta do seu passado, como exibe um retrato da aldeia e dos seus habitantes, e expõe as suas próprias reflexões sobre o acontecido e aquilo que ele considera ser a verdade dos factos e das motivações que conduziram ao incidente.
O Relatório de Brodeck é um livro soberbo, poderoso e terrivelmente actual, que, com recurso a uma escrita primorosa, nos fala da condição humana e do lado mais negro dos seres humanos, do preconceito, da amoralidade, da falta de empatia, do ódio gratuito, enfim, da desumanidade que neles pode grassar, sobretudo quando estes se podem esquivar à responsabilidade individual, acobertando-se sob o anonimato das massas e dos comportamentos colectivos. Imperdível.
October 3, 2021
Neseniai pirmą kart skaičiau Dostojevskio "Nusikaltimą ir bausmę", pavadinčiau ją įžanga į "Brodeką". Rašau šviežiai (tik perskaičiusi), negaliu atsitokėti nuo aplankiusio jausmo. Aiškumo + kažkokio egzistencinio nusiraminimo ar tai nuolankumo? Žmonijos kelias vienas ir jis veda ir į pragarą, ir į dangų. Nėra kitų kelių. Ir jų pabaigos irgi nėra. Ir nei vieno individo, reikšmingai skirtingo irgi nėra.
Klausimai ne kilo, jie iškilę seniai. Į juos buvo atsakyta. Atsakymai tapo suvokti. Kokia knyga!
Atsisakyti atminties - tai atsisakyti esaties. Atsisakyti prisiminimo - tai bandyti apsimesti, nusisukti nuo žmogaus pažinimo. Atmintyje telpa viskas, kas esame ir kas tik begalime būti. Jei sunaikinsim - ieškosim vėl, kol rasim iš naujo.
Klausimai ne kilo, jie iškilę seniai. Į juos buvo atsakyta. Atsakymai tapo suvokti. Kokia knyga!
Atsisakyti atminties - tai atsisakyti esaties. Atsisakyti prisiminimo - tai bandyti apsimesti, nusisukti nuo žmogaus pažinimo. Atmintyje telpa viskas, kas esame ir kas tik begalime būti. Jei sunaikinsim - ieškosim vėl, kol rasim iš naujo.
August 19, 2024
Um livro muito doloroso sobre a natureza humana.
February 28, 2020
(review in English below)
Deixei passar uns dias após ter terminado este livro, para ver se a fraca impressão com que fiquei se mantinha. E, na verdade, não fiquei impressionada.
A história é intensa, entrelaçando episódios do presente e do passado, sendo que este vai-nos sendo desvendado a pouco e pouco - sobretudo cenas dramáticas da viagem do protagonista e narrador para um campo de concentração e da sua permanência nesse lugar infernal.
A escrita também é boa, rica, mantendo-nos em tensão permanente ao mesmo tempo que descreve personagens e ambientes duma forma interessante e envolvente.
Então, o que faltou? Não sei exactamente. Acho que sei, no entanto, o que estava a mais. Para mim, há demasiadas comparações e outros recursos literários que, embora tenham elevado a experiência da leitura, tornaram o relato na primeira pessoa menos "relacionável" (aceitam-se sugestões de tradução para "relatable"). Assim, acabei por não sentir a empatia com o narrador que seria expectável e que teria tornado esta leitura marcante.
Este livro esteve vários meses na minha mesa de cabeceira porque, pelo que tinha lido sobre ele, tinha algum receio de ficar demasiado afectada. Afinal, a montanha pariu um rato...
I let some days go by after finishing this book, to see if the poor impression it had left on me stayed that way. And, in fact, I wasn’t impressed.
The story is intense, weaving episodes from the present and the past, which is revealed to us bit by bit –consisting mostly in dramatic scenes of the protagonist’s journey to a concentration camp and his stay in that infernal place.
The writing is also good, rich, keeping you in permanent tension while describing characters and ambiences in an interesting and engaging way.
So, what was missing? I don’t know exactly. I think I know, however, what was in excess. For me, there are too many comparisons and other literary devices which, although enhancing the reading experience, turned the first person account less relatable. As a result, I didn’t feel the empathy with the narrator that I should have and that would have made this a memorable reading.
This book was in my bedside table for several months because, for what I’d read about it, I feared I’d be too affected by it. In the end, the mountain gave birth to a mouse.
Deixei passar uns dias após ter terminado este livro, para ver se a fraca impressão com que fiquei se mantinha. E, na verdade, não fiquei impressionada.
A história é intensa, entrelaçando episódios do presente e do passado, sendo que este vai-nos sendo desvendado a pouco e pouco - sobretudo cenas dramáticas da viagem do protagonista e narrador para um campo de concentração e da sua permanência nesse lugar infernal.
A escrita também é boa, rica, mantendo-nos em tensão permanente ao mesmo tempo que descreve personagens e ambientes duma forma interessante e envolvente.
Então, o que faltou? Não sei exactamente. Acho que sei, no entanto, o que estava a mais. Para mim, há demasiadas comparações e outros recursos literários que, embora tenham elevado a experiência da leitura, tornaram o relato na primeira pessoa menos "relacionável" (aceitam-se sugestões de tradução para "relatable"). Assim, acabei por não sentir a empatia com o narrador que seria expectável e que teria tornado esta leitura marcante.
Este livro esteve vários meses na minha mesa de cabeceira porque, pelo que tinha lido sobre ele, tinha algum receio de ficar demasiado afectada. Afinal, a montanha pariu um rato...
I let some days go by after finishing this book, to see if the poor impression it had left on me stayed that way. And, in fact, I wasn’t impressed.
The story is intense, weaving episodes from the present and the past, which is revealed to us bit by bit –consisting mostly in dramatic scenes of the protagonist’s journey to a concentration camp and his stay in that infernal place.
The writing is also good, rich, keeping you in permanent tension while describing characters and ambiences in an interesting and engaging way.
So, what was missing? I don’t know exactly. I think I know, however, what was in excess. For me, there are too many comparisons and other literary devices which, although enhancing the reading experience, turned the first person account less relatable. As a result, I didn’t feel the empathy with the narrator that I should have and that would have made this a memorable reading.
This book was in my bedside table for several months because, for what I’d read about it, I feared I’d be too affected by it. In the end, the mountain gave birth to a mouse.
July 20, 2020
Debo reconocer que la prosa de este señor es maravillosa. Sin embargo he estado debatiéndome todo el libro entre las 3 y las 4 estrellas.
Me explico: Al principio la historia no me acababa de enganchar debido a dos factores: Los continuos saltos en el tiempo que el narrador de la historia, Brodeck, utiliza para contárnosla y luego he invertido tiempo en intentar comprender donde se encontraba situado el pueblo donde se desarrollan los hechos, que describe con todo lujo de detalles geográficos y lingüísticos, ya que hablan una especie de dialecto del alemán, lo que nos lleva a pensar que nos encontramos en alguna parte de Centroeuropa, próxima a Alemania y de cultura germánica.
A medida que avanzas en el libro, te das cuenta de que todo esto da igual, que el libro es un gran artificio, una gran metáfora, donde Claudel intenta desnudarnos el alma humana, al ser humano, como capaz de lo mejor, pero sobre todo de lo peor.
Nos presenta la reacción de una pequeña comunidad aislada y marcada por la Guerra Mundial que ha asolado la comarca recientemente, ante la llegada de un extranjero, culto, amanerado y sobre todo distinto, muy distinto. La evolución de la relación entre los habitantes del pueblo y el extranjero, así como la historia personal de muchos de los personajes descritos en el libro, es un reflejo de una buena parte de la Historia de Europa, terrible historia. Es un reflejo de cómo la ignorancia, el miedo, las crisis económicas convierte a muchos hombres en marionetas de unos pocos que acaban haciéndose con el poder, utilizando como chivo expiatorio a los de siempre: los débiles, los extranjeros, los inmigrantes. Es una lección que deberíamos conocer, pero parece que nunca acabamos de aprender.
Leer a Claudel, con su prosa exquisita, ayuda a recordar, pero sobre todo a no olvidar.
Me explico: Al principio la historia no me acababa de enganchar debido a dos factores: Los continuos saltos en el tiempo que el narrador de la historia, Brodeck, utiliza para contárnosla y luego he invertido tiempo en intentar comprender donde se encontraba situado el pueblo donde se desarrollan los hechos, que describe con todo lujo de detalles geográficos y lingüísticos, ya que hablan una especie de dialecto del alemán, lo que nos lleva a pensar que nos encontramos en alguna parte de Centroeuropa, próxima a Alemania y de cultura germánica.
A medida que avanzas en el libro, te das cuenta de que todo esto da igual, que el libro es un gran artificio, una gran metáfora, donde Claudel intenta desnudarnos el alma humana, al ser humano, como capaz de lo mejor, pero sobre todo de lo peor.
Nos presenta la reacción de una pequeña comunidad aislada y marcada por la Guerra Mundial que ha asolado la comarca recientemente, ante la llegada de un extranjero, culto, amanerado y sobre todo distinto, muy distinto. La evolución de la relación entre los habitantes del pueblo y el extranjero, así como la historia personal de muchos de los personajes descritos en el libro, es un reflejo de una buena parte de la Historia de Europa, terrible historia. Es un reflejo de cómo la ignorancia, el miedo, las crisis económicas convierte a muchos hombres en marionetas de unos pocos que acaban haciéndose con el poder, utilizando como chivo expiatorio a los de siempre: los débiles, los extranjeros, los inmigrantes. Es una lección que deberíamos conocer, pero parece que nunca acabamos de aprender.
Leer a Claudel, con su prosa exquisita, ayuda a recordar, pero sobre todo a no olvidar.
June 19, 2018
The Stranger
Imagine a region on the border between two powers, its nominal sovereignty shuffled between them with the ebb and flow of history. Imagine a place whose personal and place names belong to one country, but whose official language is that of the other, and whose local dialect is a hybrid known only to its inhabitants. Imagine a land of mountains and forests, where individual villages are isolated "like eggs in nests," and where even somebody arriving from three hours' walk away will seem a stranger. Philippe Claudel was born in Lorraine, parts of which have shifted between France and Germany, but the setting of his novel is left deliberately vague. The country borders on Germany, of that there is no doubt, but the mountains seem a lot higher than the Vosges, and the isolation is more complete.
I read the book in French (as Le rapport de Brodeck), to find that Claudel does something similar with language. The French (sometimes elevated, sometimes down to earth, always brilliant) is sewn with numerous German words in italics. But they are German with a French accent, German in a dialect, words which may mean one thing but suggest others. The word for their neighbors over the border, for instance: Fratergekeime, with its suggestion of both brother and stranger. Added to the mostly-Germanic proper names and the vagueness about place and time, Claudel creates a kind of fog with his writing, despite the clarity of his actual descriptions. It made a doubly interesting experience for me, to add that extra layer of a foreign language not my own to a book where foreignness is a major subject.
For Claudel's fog parallels a moral miasma, where nothing is as it seems. There is absolute evil, certainly, and at least one radiant touch of absolute good, but for the most part the moral lines are not so clearly drawn. Brodeck, who admits to being a nobody, stumbles into the village inn to find all the men of the village there, following the murder of a visitor from outside, a man known only as the Anderer (the Other). This stranger, oddly dressed, smiling but saying little, came to them three months earlier, riding a horse and leading a donkey, and has stayed to make sketches of people and places around the village. We know nothing else about him, and only gradually realize that he is dead. Brodeck, who has had some university education, is asked to write a report that will exculpate them all for their actions. As the period appears to be just after the Second World War, there are obviously many reasons why the villagers might decide to take justice into their own hands. Brodeck writes his report at the behest of the mayor, a huge pig-farmer named Orschwir, but he feels increasingly uneasy in doing so, and simultaneously tells his own story in a separate document.
Brodeck apologizes for telling his story out of sequence, but really this is one of Claudel's greatest technical achievements. It soon becomes clear that we are dealing with a Holocaust narrative, and that Brodeck is one of the very few who have survived the camp and returned. The horror is simply there as a fact, a touchstone of absolute evil among so much moral uncertainty. Much as Styron did in Sophie's Choice, Claudel takes us there, then pulls away, only to return with further details later. So Brodeck's story is layered like sheets of paper cut up and folded together. It is also compressed in time; we recognize the events, but they do not fit the normal timeline. Similarly, Claudel avoids any facile type-casting. Brodeck, for instance, might be Jewish, but he might equally be Romany; at any rate, he was brought to the village as an orphan child, a stranger from far away. And the confused nationality of the villagers themselves also precludes easy classification, as friends, collaborators, or even enemies.
Claudel has a way of introducing major plot points in almost casual throwaways, but with each revelation we learn more about the other people in the story, whether these be Brodeck's immediate family (his wife Emélia, his infant daughter Poupchette—an especially tender creation—or his adopted mother Fédorine) or the various inhabitants of the village. One by one, we meet the drunken priest, the old schoolmaster, the frightened innkeeper, the nosy neighbor Göbbler (another wonderfully evocative name), and many others. We also get many different views of the Anderer, who says little but seems to have the power to reflect each person's character back on themselves, like a mirror. The curious thing is that the more we see the villagers as individuals, the more they seem to coalesce into a group, joining forces against all outsiders. They are shut in as much by the narrowness of their own minds as by their mountains. Much evil in those years was the result of group pathology, yet Claudel also shows us why, in certain circumstances, group solidarity is necessary.
Grim though this story is, Claudel lightens it with almost ecstatic descriptions of the mountain countryside. Its harsh facts are offset by rays of unexpected grace, unexplained events, and persistent Biblical overtones. As a novel, it is impossible to pin down, and deliberately so. It is all too easy to take a Holocaust story and tell it in the past; it happened, but it is over, and the people responsible were not ourselves. By refusing to pin people down with places, dates, and nationalities, Claudel avoids the easy distinction of Them and Us, and suggests that something very similar might happen now. Focusing on what happens when the survivors come home is a brave and powerful approach. I can think of only two other examples: Dawn by Elie Wiesel and Wandering Star by JMG LeClézio. Both these authors are winners of the Nobel Prize; from the evidence of this novel, Philippe Claudel might well enter their company.
June 28, 2025
“É tão estranha, a vida de um homem. Precipitados para a vida, perguntamo-nos muitas vezes o que cá andamos a fazer. Talvez seja por isso que alguns, um pouco mais espertos do que outros, se limitam a empurrar ligeiramente a porta, a lançar um olhar e, apercebendo-se do que há por trás, são acometidos do desejo de a fechar o mais depressa possível.
Talvez sejam estes os que têm razão.”
Um livro que tanto nos fala da condição humana, da relação entre o indivíduo e o mundo que o rodeia, das condições que moldam a sua existência, do amor e até onde pode ir a crueldade humana…
Original, triste e perturbador, onde o personagem Brodeck nos fica grudado à pele.
Recomendo vivamente!
Talvez sejam estes os que têm razão.”
Um livro que tanto nos fala da condição humana, da relação entre o indivíduo e o mundo que o rodeia, das condições que moldam a sua existência, do amor e até onde pode ir a crueldade humana…
Original, triste e perturbador, onde o personagem Brodeck nos fica grudado à pele.
Recomendo vivamente!
July 19, 2020
Ich bin nichts. I am nothing.
Moi je n’ai rien fait.... Me, I have done nothing....
A line in German; another in French. What do we report when we are in the middle? When our lives are suppressed; turned upside down. Something bad happens; the same bad thing that happened to ourselves. We want to tell what happened and at the same time, stress that we did nothing. We are innocent and at the same time, we want to be more than nothing. To be someone. Are we complicit?
The past.
Are you with us or against us? What if your home is being taken over by the others? The superior race. Who are you to complain? Why fight history when you can join history? You stand your ground but go through hell in the camps. On the train, a chilling scene of the mother and child who die. They never uttered a word. They died alone among others cramped in a rail car, five days without food or water. They were nothing. You are nothing.
The present.
After the war, Brodeck sets out to make reports for the village. A simple, non descript government position. A new life. But one day a stranger comes to town.
The wanderer paints images of people and the countryside. His presence disturbs the village officials. He is not well received. Is the stranger a friend or foe? “What is he doing over there?” to quote Tom Waits. We can never be sure and we sure don’t want him here. “God is a faraway creature of books and incense, the Devil is a neighbor that we think will show up one day or the next.” p. 195 We need to take precautions.
I have to admit this book started very slowly but somewhere along the way I became caught up in the past and the present twists. Although no date nor location is given, one presumes it was set during WW2 and just after the war somewhere near in France near a German border.
However this story could have ramifications today. How often the stranger is not welcome or under scrutiny. We don’t like to have our balance tipped. Our past and present become jumbled. Our thoughts are scrambled. We try to do right but at what cost?
The ending did not surprise me but sadly, I understand what happens. A good but challenging read. Hard to read at times and yet, some beautiful passages. Worth the read.
Moi je n’ai rien fait.... Me, I have done nothing....
A line in German; another in French. What do we report when we are in the middle? When our lives are suppressed; turned upside down. Something bad happens; the same bad thing that happened to ourselves. We want to tell what happened and at the same time, stress that we did nothing. We are innocent and at the same time, we want to be more than nothing. To be someone. Are we complicit?
The past.
Are you with us or against us? What if your home is being taken over by the others? The superior race. Who are you to complain? Why fight history when you can join history? You stand your ground but go through hell in the camps. On the train, a chilling scene of the mother and child who die. They never uttered a word. They died alone among others cramped in a rail car, five days without food or water. They were nothing. You are nothing.
The present.
After the war, Brodeck sets out to make reports for the village. A simple, non descript government position. A new life. But one day a stranger comes to town.
The wanderer paints images of people and the countryside. His presence disturbs the village officials. He is not well received. Is the stranger a friend or foe? “What is he doing over there?” to quote Tom Waits. We can never be sure and we sure don’t want him here. “God is a faraway creature of books and incense, the Devil is a neighbor that we think will show up one day or the next.” p. 195 We need to take precautions.
I have to admit this book started very slowly but somewhere along the way I became caught up in the past and the present twists. Although no date nor location is given, one presumes it was set during WW2 and just after the war somewhere near in France near a German border.
However this story could have ramifications today. How often the stranger is not welcome or under scrutiny. We don’t like to have our balance tipped. Our past and present become jumbled. Our thoughts are scrambled. We try to do right but at what cost?
The ending did not surprise me but sadly, I understand what happens. A good but challenging read. Hard to read at times and yet, some beautiful passages. Worth the read.
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