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Benim İki Dünyam
“Arjantinli büyük yazar Chejfec, şüphesiz ki daha çok bilinmeyi hak ediyor. Benim İki Dünyam, geleceğin romanına giden yolun taşlarını döşüyor.”
– Enrique Vila-Matas
Benim İki Dünyam’ın elli yaşındaki yazar anlatıcısı, bir edebiyat konferansına katılmak için Brezilya’ya gider; fakat yazar için önemli olan konferans değil, şehirde yaptığı yürüyüşlerdir. İsimsiz yazar, neresi olduğunu bilmediğimiz bir şehirde haritadan rastgele ”büyük, yeşil bir lekeye benzeyen park”ı seçer ve bu noktaya ulaşana dek amaçsızca ilerler. Zamanla, zihninin kendi içinde yaptığı bir gezintiye dönüşen bu yürüyüşlerin her adımında/cümlesinde, kendi benliğinin iki farklı dünyadan oluştuğunu keşfeder. İçinde küçük bir gölü barındıran parktaki “göl saatleri”nde somut ile soyutun, gerçek ile hayalin, yaşanılan ile yazılan dünyanın sınırları biraz daha belirginleşir.
Metafizik düşüncenin kendi kurgusunu oluşturduğu ve Latin Amerika edebiyatının dinamizmini metafizik bir alana taşımasıyla tüm dünyada dikkatleri üzerine çeken Benim İki Dünyam, Bülent Kale’nin İspanyolca aslından çevirisi ve Enrique Vila-Matas’ın önsözüyle…
– Enrique Vila-Matas
Benim İki Dünyam’ın elli yaşındaki yazar anlatıcısı, bir edebiyat konferansına katılmak için Brezilya’ya gider; fakat yazar için önemli olan konferans değil, şehirde yaptığı yürüyüşlerdir. İsimsiz yazar, neresi olduğunu bilmediğimiz bir şehirde haritadan rastgele ”büyük, yeşil bir lekeye benzeyen park”ı seçer ve bu noktaya ulaşana dek amaçsızca ilerler. Zamanla, zihninin kendi içinde yaptığı bir gezintiye dönüşen bu yürüyüşlerin her adımında/cümlesinde, kendi benliğinin iki farklı dünyadan oluştuğunu keşfeder. İçinde küçük bir gölü barındıran parktaki “göl saatleri”nde somut ile soyutun, gerçek ile hayalin, yaşanılan ile yazılan dünyanın sınırları biraz daha belirginleşir.
Metafizik düşüncenin kendi kurgusunu oluşturduğu ve Latin Amerika edebiyatının dinamizmini metafizik bir alana taşımasıyla tüm dünyada dikkatleri üzerine çeken Benim İki Dünyam, Bülent Kale’nin İspanyolca aslından çevirisi ve Enrique Vila-Matas’ın önsözüyle…
120 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2008
16 people are currently reading
921 people want to read
About the author
Sergio Chejfec
37 books49 followersSergio Chejfec is an Argentine Jewish writer. He was born in Buenos Aires in 1956. From 1990 to 2005 he lived in Venezuela, where he published Nueva sociedad, a journal of politics, culture and the social sciences. He currently lives in New York City and teaches in the Creative Writing program in Spanish at New York University.
Chejfec has written novels, essays and a poetry collection. His works include Lenta biografía (1990), Los planetas (1999), Boca de lobo (2000), Los incompletos (2004), Baroni: un viaje (2007), Mis dos mundos (2008), and La experiencia dramática (2012). He has been compared to Juan José Saer, which he finds flattering but not accurate. His novels usually feature a slow-paced narration that interweaves a minimal plot with reflection. Memory, political violence, and Jewish-Argentine culture and history are some of the recurring themes in his work.
Chejfec has written novels, essays and a poetry collection. His works include Lenta biografía (1990), Los planetas (1999), Boca de lobo (2000), Los incompletos (2004), Baroni: un viaje (2007), Mis dos mundos (2008), and La experiencia dramática (2012). He has been compared to Juan José Saer, which he finds flattering but not accurate. His novels usually feature a slow-paced narration that interweaves a minimal plot with reflection. Memory, political violence, and Jewish-Argentine culture and history are some of the recurring themes in his work.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 89 reviews
May 23, 2020
Bu kitap ne anlatıyor derseniz, parkta yürüyen bir adamı..
Güzel bir parkta yürüyüşe çıkamayalı uzun zaman oldu. O nedenle çok doğru bir zamanda okuduğumu düşünüyorum. Sanki o parkta ben yürüdüm, durumu kitabın kendi cümleleri ile anlatmak gerekirse,
"Çünkü bazen okuduğumuz şeylerin hatırası, somut deneyimlerimizi şekillendirir ve bu deneyim fiziksel bir şeyden öte, okunanın gerçekleşmesi olur artık."
Yazarla ilgili olarak; kitabın önsözünü Vila Matas ın yazdığını, yazarın da Bartleby şürekasından yazar olamamayı tercih eden bir yazar olduğunu belirtmek isterim. Bu şürekayı sevenlere tavsiye edebilirim.
Güzel bir parkta yürüyüşe çıkamayalı uzun zaman oldu. O nedenle çok doğru bir zamanda okuduğumu düşünüyorum. Sanki o parkta ben yürüdüm, durumu kitabın kendi cümleleri ile anlatmak gerekirse,
"Çünkü bazen okuduğumuz şeylerin hatırası, somut deneyimlerimizi şekillendirir ve bu deneyim fiziksel bir şeyden öte, okunanın gerçekleşmesi olur artık."
Yazarla ilgili olarak; kitabın önsözünü Vila Matas ın yazdığını, yazarın da Bartleby şürekasından yazar olamamayı tercih eden bir yazar olduğunu belirtmek isterim. Bu şürekayı sevenlere tavsiye edebilirim.
May 3, 2019
Prospero Kitaplığı serimizin dördüncü kitabı olarak yakında...
Bülent Kale'nin İspanyolca aslından çevirisiyle.
Bülent Kale'nin İspanyolca aslından çevirisiyle.
July 17, 2019
Yine zorunlu bir oturma vakti ve yine bir novella elimde. Ama inanılmaz bir şey bu. Parklar konusundaki düşüncelerimde yapayalnız olduğumu düşünürken bir anda bir kitap karakterinin de parklarla ilişkisinin neredeyse benimle aynı olduğunu görmek beni dehşete düşürdü. Chejfec gizliden gizliye beni mi gözetliyor acaba dedim.
Bu kitap romanlarda hareket ve olay örgüsü sevenlere göre değil. Çünkü olaysız bir kitap. Ancak aklın yollarında bir labirentte yürümek gibi. Düşüncelerin sizi nereye götüreceği belli olmuyor. Günlük hayatta da beynimiz aynen böyle savruk işliyor. Düşüncelerimiz aslında birbirleriyle ilişkisi yokmuş gibi görünen bağlar kurabiliyor. "Benim İki Dünyam" da aynı böyle savruk düşüncelerin ve bağıntısız bağların anlatıldığı bir kitap. Sanki zihni kağıda dökün deseler tıpkı bunun gibi bir şey çıkarmış ortaya gibi geliyor.
"Beni bu şehirde ziyaret etmek istediğim bir park olduğu düşüncesine getiren şeyin, bu kalabalığın içinde kapıldığım sıkışmışlık hissi olduğunu söylemek istiyorum. Telafi olarak addedilebilecek bir adalet beklentisi içindeyim". Ah, benim parklarla kurduğum ilişki de tıpkı böyle! Ne zaman hayatımda canımı sıkan bir şey olsa parka gider otururum ben de böyle. Şehrin bana borcunu parklarla ödediğini düşünürüm çünkü. Yolda yürürken de öyle, bizlerin artık flanör/ flanöz olma lüksü yok sanki; vaktimiz bize ait değil. Şehirde yürürken etrafı gerçekten görebiliyor muyuz diye düşünmeden edemiyor insan. "bir noktadan sonra, farklı nedenlerden ötürü, sadece tekrar edileni görebiliyorum" diyor karakter. Zihnimizin filtresi kalınlaşıyor çünkü o filtreyi boşaltmıyoruz. Değişikliklere dikkat edemiyoruz bir müddet sonra. Ve o beni çarpan "hiçbir şey beni kendisini seçmeye ikna edemedi" cümlesi. Vasatlığın tanımı bu olsa gerek. Hiçbir şeyi seçmedim çünkü ikna olmadım; ikna olmadım çünkü ben de dahil olmak üzere her şey vasattı?
Haftaya Chejfec'in ülkesine gidiyorum, sürekli bahsedilen Buenos Aires sokaklarını ve mate çayını bir de kendim göreceğim. Ancak taa oralara gitmeden önce bana bu yazarı tanıştıran @jaguar kitap ve muhteşem çevirisiyle Bülent Kale'ye de teşekkürü bir borç biliyorum. Jaguar'dan şu ana kadar okuduğum en iyi kitap açık ara.
Bu kitap romanlarda hareket ve olay örgüsü sevenlere göre değil. Çünkü olaysız bir kitap. Ancak aklın yollarında bir labirentte yürümek gibi. Düşüncelerin sizi nereye götüreceği belli olmuyor. Günlük hayatta da beynimiz aynen böyle savruk işliyor. Düşüncelerimiz aslında birbirleriyle ilişkisi yokmuş gibi görünen bağlar kurabiliyor. "Benim İki Dünyam" da aynı böyle savruk düşüncelerin ve bağıntısız bağların anlatıldığı bir kitap. Sanki zihni kağıda dökün deseler tıpkı bunun gibi bir şey çıkarmış ortaya gibi geliyor.
"Beni bu şehirde ziyaret etmek istediğim bir park olduğu düşüncesine getiren şeyin, bu kalabalığın içinde kapıldığım sıkışmışlık hissi olduğunu söylemek istiyorum. Telafi olarak addedilebilecek bir adalet beklentisi içindeyim". Ah, benim parklarla kurduğum ilişki de tıpkı böyle! Ne zaman hayatımda canımı sıkan bir şey olsa parka gider otururum ben de böyle. Şehrin bana borcunu parklarla ödediğini düşünürüm çünkü. Yolda yürürken de öyle, bizlerin artık flanör/ flanöz olma lüksü yok sanki; vaktimiz bize ait değil. Şehirde yürürken etrafı gerçekten görebiliyor muyuz diye düşünmeden edemiyor insan. "bir noktadan sonra, farklı nedenlerden ötürü, sadece tekrar edileni görebiliyorum" diyor karakter. Zihnimizin filtresi kalınlaşıyor çünkü o filtreyi boşaltmıyoruz. Değişikliklere dikkat edemiyoruz bir müddet sonra. Ve o beni çarpan "hiçbir şey beni kendisini seçmeye ikna edemedi" cümlesi. Vasatlığın tanımı bu olsa gerek. Hiçbir şeyi seçmedim çünkü ikna olmadım; ikna olmadım çünkü ben de dahil olmak üzere her şey vasattı?
Haftaya Chejfec'in ülkesine gidiyorum, sürekli bahsedilen Buenos Aires sokaklarını ve mate çayını bir de kendim göreceğim. Ancak taa oralara gitmeden önce bana bu yazarı tanıştıran @jaguar kitap ve muhteşem çevirisiyle Bülent Kale'ye de teşekkürü bir borç biliyorum. Jaguar'dan şu ana kadar okuduğum en iyi kitap açık ara.
November 2, 2019
"İşte bu yüzden, daha önce yazdığım gibi, özensiz parkları, bu özensizliği terk edilmişliğine borçlu olan parkları tercih ediyordum, çünkü orada kimse savunduğu bir düşünceyi dayatmaya kalkmazdı insana, bu yüzden o parkların çok daha bağımsız bir hayatları olurdu, bu anlamda çok daha özgünlerdi."
Yürürken aklımızdan geçen savruk düşünceleri yazmış. Çok da güzel yazmış.
Gördüğüm kadarıyla birçok kişi kendinden bir şeyler bulmuş benim gibi... Prospero Kitaplığı'ndan güzel kitaplar devam ediyor...
Jaguar 💚
Yürürken aklımızdan geçen savruk düşünceleri yazmış. Çok da güzel yazmış.
Gördüğüm kadarıyla birçok kişi kendinden bir şeyler bulmuş benim gibi... Prospero Kitaplığı'ndan güzel kitaplar devam ediyor...
Jaguar 💚
November 30, 2020
Son otuz sayfadaki yoğunluk kitabın tamamına yayılabilmiş olsaydı, bu yıl okuduğum en iyi kitabın yorumunu yazıyor olacaktım.
August 1, 2019
Şehfek Bey, ne yapıyorsunuz? :) Şaka bir yana, ne yaptığını çok iyi bilen, yetenekli ve cesur bir yazarın eseri Benim İki Dünyam. Yazarın deneysel çabasını anlıyorum; sıradan, hatta sıkıcı bir günün zaten yavaşlamaya eğilimli akışını bir donma noktasına kadar çekip, yüzlerce ayrıntıya parçalamak. Tek referansı bir önceki cümle olan cümlerle ilerleyerek yavaşça yazının neredeyse yazarından bağımsız şekilde kendi zihinini oluşturduğu bir simyaya varmaya çalışmak. Sanatta bu türden atılımların itici gücüne ben de inanıyorum; gelgelelim yazarın düşüncesini yönelttiği şeyler (yürümekle ilgili bir izlek haricinde) ilgimi çekmedi diyebilirim kısaca.
July 18, 2019
Arjantinli yazar Chejfec’in (nasıl telafuz edildiğini merak ediyorum doğrusu) sanırım dilimize çevrilen ilk kitabı Benim İki Dünyam. Anlatının kahramanı isimsiz bir yazarın (belki de kendisi) bir konferans için gittiği yabancı bir şehirde yaptığı yürüyüşlerin hikayesi. Hikaye derken yanlış izlenim vermek istemem, klasik bir olay örgüsü, diyalog vs yok, zihinsel bir yolculuk bu. Gezerken gördüklerinin kendisinde uyandırdığı izlenimlere, hatıralara değiniyor ve giderek yazarın bir tür kendisiyle, hatta yazma fiiliyle hesaplaşmasına dönüşüyor. Kitabın hoş bir ritmi var, sağlam bir üslupla yazılmış. ”İnsan nasıl ki doğacağı anı seçemiyor, sakini olacağı değişken dünyaları da bilemiyor.” Kısa ve derinlikli bir şey okumak isteyenlere önerilir. Çeviri Bülent Kale’den ve çok iyi. Böyle değerli ve en azından bizde pek bilinmeyen eserleri dilimize kazandırıp, özenli şekilde okura sunan yayıncı Jaguar’a da teşekkürler.
December 28, 2020
Yeni tanıştığım şehirlerin kent parklarında mutlaka zaman geçirmek üzere plan yapan bir turist olarak kitabı çokça sevdim. Ama evdeki dokuzuncu ayımı tamamlarken benden alınmış tanışmaları hatırlattığı için hiç mutlu olmadım. Momina Slza’da akarçeşme yanında bulduğum bankta okuduğum kitapları; İvan Franko’da birbirine vurulan ceviz sesine şartlanmış sincapları, Tsar Simeon’da oturmuş satranç oynayan dedeleri izlemeyi özledim. (Evet, fazlaca öznel oldu bu.)
March 21, 2020
Okuması zor bir metin, sebat edip okuyunca seviliyor ama yoruyor. Değer mi benim için evet, yürümek bilip bilmeden sokaklarda kaybolmak turist olduğum günübirlik bir seyahatte dahi en sevdiğim şeydir belki ondan. Durağan sorgulayan okumaları seviyorsanız şans verin derim.
Teşekkürler Jaguar!
Mutlu azınlığa!
Teşekkürler Jaguar!
Mutlu azınlığa!
March 16, 2016
I don't know what a fair rating for this book would be. It's very interesting but very odd. A writer is attending a conference in a foreign city. He goes for a walk and his thoughts make up this book. A way of organizing a book that has honorable precedents (for example, Robert Walser). He explores the city's big part and muses on each area: an aviary that's closed, a lake with boats in the shape of swans, a cafe where he writes at his shame at being seen writing.
I enjoyed thinking about the book more than I enjoyed actually reading it. And that may be a good thing. It's just different from how I usually read. The narrator's mind was a hard place to enter, at least for me, and that's an unusual experience for me. This time I felt I was really grappling with something to be able to enter this book.
The three stars are a provisional rating. I may need to reread this book-but, I don't know, it was so much work to spend time with this narrator. He's not really hospitable. So I'm going to have to live with this for a while before coming to any conclusion about how I feel-or think-about this book. So far, I'd say interesting but only pleasurable for brief moments.
If anyone else has read this book, I'd love to read their responses.
I enjoyed thinking about the book more than I enjoyed actually reading it. And that may be a good thing. It's just different from how I usually read. The narrator's mind was a hard place to enter, at least for me, and that's an unusual experience for me. This time I felt I was really grappling with something to be able to enter this book.
The three stars are a provisional rating. I may need to reread this book-but, I don't know, it was so much work to spend time with this narrator. He's not really hospitable. So I'm going to have to live with this for a while before coming to any conclusion about how I feel-or think-about this book. So far, I'd say interesting but only pleasurable for brief moments.
If anyone else has read this book, I'd love to read their responses.
Read
January 26, 2025When the Author Clearly Knows Things the Narrator Supposedly Doesn't
This is a book about an afternoon spent wandering in a park. It's endorsed enthusiastically by Vila-Matas as an example of the future of the novel.
The problem here is that I just can't believe the implied author (Chejfec). The book has airs of the universalism of Beckett and the everyday despondency of Pessoa. The narrator (in this case distinct from the implied author) isn't particularly good at remembering things, making distinctions, or observing (there are echoes, for me, of Beckett's Ill Seen Ill Said). The city he's exploring could be any city (as in Pessoa). But I just can't believe it: the detachment, the indifference, are poses put on for this book. The narrator carries books with him, and he is attending a literary conference, but we hear very little about either: it's as if the narrator is so deeply abstracted that he has lost touch with the day-to-day reality of the business of writing fiction. But I don't believe that: it's more like he's an ordinary academic, but he wants to write a novel in which he appears as a detached, indifferent observer of the world.
What's especially telling (and, in the end, annoying) is that he won't tell us what city he's in. It's "a large city" in "the south of Brazil." Cities are never named in the novel. On the one hand, that's reasonable if the purpose is to avoid the travelogue genre. But here it's a spurious seriousness. It's portentous and pretentious to keep saying "a city," and it has to be supported by an equally forceful strangeness in the narrator. Chejfec isn't "K," roaming unnamed cities, and he isn't Levi's protagonist, cataloging imaginary cities. Clearly he is a perfectly ordinary writer, traveling for a literary conference; he needs to get away, so he goes out wandering. An interview that came with the book confirms this; Chejfec tried to obscure it by writing a nameless, placeless prose. But he, and his narrator, aren't as absent-minded, or as transcendently indifferent, as they want us to think. All sorts of clues show this.
He says he's excellent at map reading, but when the book opens he's lost. That seems inadequately imagined, by which I mean the implied author is clearly good at maps, and hasn't convinced me his narrator isn't. He also adds "map reading is one of my few skills": that's one of many disavowals of skill and knowledge that are meant to establish the narrator as a slightly abstracted personality, but which read, to me, as entirely gratuitous assertions of a degree of detachment that the writer himself doesn't possess.
The narrator's observations are not engaging, except in one or two cases: there's a good but brief passage on looking at animals, and another on William Kentridge's depiction of people seeing. Again it would be fine if the entire book were full of average, disconnected, stray thoughts about things, at the level of reverie appropriate to a city park (i.e., something like Perec's descriptions of Paris): but it appears that in some passages the implied author thinks he's being insightful in the mode of Musil, Canetti, or Benjamin. He's more like his narrator than he would like to think, but not enough like his narrator to make the book convincing.
Vila-Matas's attitude to this is perplexing. I would have thought he would pick up on the book's artificiality: but the artifice of writerly writing about writing is something he also loves. (And falls for, and therefore excuses.)
This is a book about an afternoon spent wandering in a park. It's endorsed enthusiastically by Vila-Matas as an example of the future of the novel.
The problem here is that I just can't believe the implied author (Chejfec). The book has airs of the universalism of Beckett and the everyday despondency of Pessoa. The narrator (in this case distinct from the implied author) isn't particularly good at remembering things, making distinctions, or observing (there are echoes, for me, of Beckett's Ill Seen Ill Said). The city he's exploring could be any city (as in Pessoa). But I just can't believe it: the detachment, the indifference, are poses put on for this book. The narrator carries books with him, and he is attending a literary conference, but we hear very little about either: it's as if the narrator is so deeply abstracted that he has lost touch with the day-to-day reality of the business of writing fiction. But I don't believe that: it's more like he's an ordinary academic, but he wants to write a novel in which he appears as a detached, indifferent observer of the world.
What's especially telling (and, in the end, annoying) is that he won't tell us what city he's in. It's "a large city" in "the south of Brazil." Cities are never named in the novel. On the one hand, that's reasonable if the purpose is to avoid the travelogue genre. But here it's a spurious seriousness. It's portentous and pretentious to keep saying "a city," and it has to be supported by an equally forceful strangeness in the narrator. Chejfec isn't "K," roaming unnamed cities, and he isn't Levi's protagonist, cataloging imaginary cities. Clearly he is a perfectly ordinary writer, traveling for a literary conference; he needs to get away, so he goes out wandering. An interview that came with the book confirms this; Chejfec tried to obscure it by writing a nameless, placeless prose. But he, and his narrator, aren't as absent-minded, or as transcendently indifferent, as they want us to think. All sorts of clues show this.
He says he's excellent at map reading, but when the book opens he's lost. That seems inadequately imagined, by which I mean the implied author is clearly good at maps, and hasn't convinced me his narrator isn't. He also adds "map reading is one of my few skills": that's one of many disavowals of skill and knowledge that are meant to establish the narrator as a slightly abstracted personality, but which read, to me, as entirely gratuitous assertions of a degree of detachment that the writer himself doesn't possess.
The narrator's observations are not engaging, except in one or two cases: there's a good but brief passage on looking at animals, and another on William Kentridge's depiction of people seeing. Again it would be fine if the entire book were full of average, disconnected, stray thoughts about things, at the level of reverie appropriate to a city park (i.e., something like Perec's descriptions of Paris): but it appears that in some passages the implied author thinks he's being insightful in the mode of Musil, Canetti, or Benjamin. He's more like his narrator than he would like to think, but not enough like his narrator to make the book convincing.
Vila-Matas's attitude to this is perplexing. I would have thought he would pick up on the book's artificiality: but the artifice of writerly writing about writing is something he also loves. (And falls for, and therefore excuses.)
October 1, 2025
#️⃣5️⃣2️⃣4️⃣ Read & Reviewed in 2025 💔🩸
Date : 🚀 Tuesday, September 30, 2025 🚫🔻❌
Word Count📃: 22k Words 🧨🔪🎈
⋆⭒𓆟⋆｡˚𖦹𓆜✩⋆ >-;;;;€ᐷ °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
( ˶°ㅁ°) !! My 98th read in "READING AS MANY BOOKS AS I CANNN 😢 cuz smth....happened.....irl.........😥" September ⚡
5️⃣🌟, absurdist literature at its highest excellence embodied by lol. (Love the books that is initially a character case study)
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Imagine crossing the line between two dimensional and three dimensional. Imagine seeing your own thoughts and questioning whether you are schizophrenic or not. That is the journey that the main character faced in this book. This is weirdly written and has scenes that will make you question its absurd nature and the intention of why this was written but that confusingness aspect is intentional. It is more of a character study as the entire book primarily focuses on his thoughts and his view on the world around him. He goes on a simple adventure just around the establishments to look up at the sky and wonder questions about existence. It is a fascinating experience but has some unusual elements to it. The conclusion doesn't add anything to it too as it still continues the same thought provoking discussions that is present all throughout the book so this brief account of the narrator's life is an appealing way to read on a person's thoughts and our relationship to the environment around us.
Date : 🚀 Tuesday, September 30, 2025 🚫🔻❌
Word Count📃: 22k Words 🧨🔪🎈
⋆⭒𓆟⋆｡˚𖦹𓆜✩⋆ >-;;;;€ᐷ °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
( ˶°ㅁ°) !! My 98th read in "READING AS MANY BOOKS AS I CANNN 😢 cuz smth....happened.....irl.........😥" September ⚡
5️⃣🌟, absurdist literature at its highest excellence embodied by lol. (Love the books that is initially a character case study)
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Imagine crossing the line between two dimensional and three dimensional. Imagine seeing your own thoughts and questioning whether you are schizophrenic or not. That is the journey that the main character faced in this book. This is weirdly written and has scenes that will make you question its absurd nature and the intention of why this was written but that confusingness aspect is intentional. It is more of a character study as the entire book primarily focuses on his thoughts and his view on the world around him. He goes on a simple adventure just around the establishments to look up at the sky and wonder questions about existence. It is a fascinating experience but has some unusual elements to it. The conclusion doesn't add anything to it too as it still continues the same thought provoking discussions that is present all throughout the book so this brief account of the narrator's life is an appealing way to read on a person's thoughts and our relationship to the environment around us.
September 2, 2012
a 50 year old man takes a walk in a foreign city. by looking at objects and scenery he falls into reveries which lead to memories, associations, insights, wisdom. as his walk progresses it becomes increasingly clear this is a higher and more essential level of thought and presence than the linear mode required and rewarded by our culture. taking place in buenos aries, the same may ring true for any major city and shows the universality of this message.
July 18, 2019
Öncelikle bu bir roman değil, anlatı. Ben de yazar gibi yalnız seyahat edip özellikle şehrin parklarına uğradığımdan ve tam da doğum günüme denk gelen günlerde okuduğumdan bu anlatıya bayıldım diyebilirim. Yazar adeta içimize bir ayna tutmuş gibi o yalnız seyahatlerde kafamızdan geçen her şeyi gözler önüne seriyor. Şayet böyle bir insan değilseniz kitap sizi içine çekmeyebilir.
April 3, 2022
Rest in peace Master! Sergio Chejfec (1956-2022)
If this work of fiction alone is sufficient to gauge this writer, then it is more than safe to say that Chejfec is a unique writer who writes, not with any plot per se, rather it serving as an instrument, an addendum to what Enrique Vila Matas describes as a writer of the Incidental.
The book, through the eyes of flaneur, conjures a mystical air to our supposedly quotidian surrounding, allows the writer-character to ruminate on his eccentric philosophy of walking, detachment from the speeding world and its people, on present time as a flexible string stretching to not only the past but pulling the unknown future as a spectre.
Why it is titled my two worlds? Is it the everlasting stress on the past, that he laments missing the action of the present, as a normal lost-in-thought-yet-stays-in-present or as the book towards the end suggests - staticity vs action ( from getting up to go in search of a stranger's shoe or watch from his position the still lake )? Now, usually when one describes a condition like this, we particularly stress on the second (no 2) possibility, which assumes that the said person is already is in the first state, in this case contemplating the still lake or the static. But the character here wants to be in neither of those worlds, or in both (the latter, which he confesses always the case is), hence to tread a middle part he adopts something, to decipher it you need to read the book.
One of the beauties of reading literature is that we are able to see the world in a never before perspective and here comes to fore one of the most sought out day or days (if you consider the entire life) of one's life - the birthday.
At each point in time, the way we view birthday changes, but one thing remains constant and you all people perhaps would agree with me - it will always put a smile on the people around us, even for a fleeting second it might be, it does nevertheless.
Also whether one likes it or not, or however one lives or views himself or herself, he or she for a day becomes the centre of attraction, all the gaze falls on him/ her, with whatever reaction or response it may create on them.
At one point here, there comes a moment, where the future is pulled back to present, with a help from a Borges quote, to present a lovely, other worldly description, of the moment arriving and the character feeling shy after realizing the momentous importance bestowed on him by his strange companions.
From the book:
I was ensconced in my birthday month, and what’s more, the day itself was only a few days off. By now I’m sufficiently acquainted with the fatal succession of nights—Borges said this, I believe—to understand that no distraction or idea can stop time from being realized and the future from arriving. It’s not that I wanted to postpone my birthday, it was my certainty that it made no difference to start thinking about it in advance, though I hadn’t expected to, in that park in the south of Brazil.
Then I happened to have the thought, as I mentioned before, of the two friends whose birthdays seemed to them an opportunity, or alibi, for writing about themselves in relation to time, or to life and its possible changes, and the impact all this had on them. And as I remembered them, an odd thing happened, my birthday vanished from the horizon as a looming eventuality, to assume the validity of the present itself. I felt, as I say, truly ensconced in the day of my birthday. I mean, in one way or another, reality had organized itself in such a way as to anticipate this date, and it inspired in me a feeling of solidarity and concord toward both friends and their books, and one of gratitude toward the carp and the turtles for prompting the moment and having allowed me to preside over that near-secret aquatic celebration. Consequently, from where I sat, I could devote myself to contemplating the calm waters of the lake, and also to reconsidering for a moment these most recent events and thanks to them, understanding that the whole park in its entirety had worked as an unexpected catalyst for my birthday.
A young waiter had left me the menu, only to take refuge immediately inside the café, probably wanting to benefit from the air conditioning. By now a brief age had gone by since his first appearance—short if one takes into consideration the span of a lifetime, long compared with the time most anyone would spend deciding what to order. For a moment, I thought I saw him keeping an eye on me from one of the windows. Not openly, like someone looking straight out, but diagonally, most of his body hidden behind the wall and his face peeking out a bit. I didn’t give much thought to him, because at the same time I discovered I was being observed from another angle: swan No. 15 was headed right toward where I was sitting.
It had its eyes riveted on me, as if it were trying to memorize what it would say when it arrived and wanted to get a head start. I recognized the swan because the father and daughter were aboard, their heads peeking out from behind the animal’s neck, one on either side. I recall that the girl was laughing as the father talked, and that her laughter became heartier just after her father said something and she looked at me. They were talking about and laughing at me, I supposed. It was the worst that could happen to me that day, being sensitized to the opinions of others in such a way. Perhaps I was mistaken, but it’s not easy to overlook certain signs, especially when someone wants to disguise them. The swan kept coming nearer, despite almost touching the shore and having the entire lake to itself, spread out behind it like a mirrored metal fan, tinged slightly with green because of the reflections of the plant life. The father and daughter seemed to be in control of the boat; but seeing them like that, sunken up to their necks inside the enormous body, made me think of them as involuntary yet unnecessary participants in the actual scene that was unfolding.
End of the unfinished quote ( I noticed the word limit had exceeded!)
And not to say a word on his digressions is a crime. Digressions are tricky trick to present as we know. The celebrated writer Javier Marias, who is known for his digressions, of whose works I have read only one - A heart so white, failed miserably at it, at least for me.
Chejfec thankfully, brings digressions at its most beautiful and effective form - with multiple threads branching out, connecting and coming to its source. And even in the digressions, the stress and play on time is evident and something fresh for the style. And to my dismay I fear I won't be able to share one of my favourite digressions from the book, which curiously takes its theme as nothing but the 'time' itself.
I yet to read anything else by the author, but if he keeps up to the expectations he has kicked start in me, he is easily one of the greatest writers working currently.
P.S: When i searched YouTube to see if there are any videos and excerpt readings of the author, I was so surprised to note that, in the few videos available, he had come all the way down in my country, as close to my state, and gave a talk and reading of his work at the Kochi Biennale.
I still know, that I have not conveyed my thoughts on the work properly, the way I would have loved it to be. But yet, I think I need to introduce this writer, however shoddy my output may be, to the people who follow my reviews here, in the hope that they too would find the same beauty in this work.
Ah, a word on the translation. I always forget to acknowledge the translators, without whom, we, the anglophones, never would have had the opportunity to enjoy these literary treasures.
I am no expert, but I can imagine the difficulty it would have posed for the translator ( Margaret B.Carson) to bring this unconventional work to its form it is now.
And also, heartful thanks to the open letter publications to bring out these unique writers to us!! I am tracking more of their works and which I would be reading soon enough.
A small caution : Just keep to it if you find the initial bits difficult to follow. It took me 30 pages to orient myself to the style.
September 30, 2011
This book did not work for me--or, better put: the work in this book did not get under my skin, nor did it move me. There is talent here, and I recognize it as such. Chejfec dives into his character's head and carves out a life that extends into different places at different times. There is a definite feeling of space to this story, both in the literal and the metaphysical senses. What lies in these pages can only exist in prose, and that is an accomplishment that I admire and respect.
Still, for all of the mental wandering that takes place, I rarely felt like I was getting anywhere. The narrator sells himself as an unremarkable personality, and then careens from one tentative thought to the next with narcissistic aplomb. Unfortunately, I agreed with his self-assessment to such an extent that I had difficulty caring about these mental peregrinations. Since the latter constitute the substance of the story, little was left for me to hold on to.
Here is what happened every time I opened this book: I found myself in a park, walking beside a man who yearns for something he cannot name--who wants to complain about this lack of vocabulary and experience, yet lacks the confidence to commit his thoughts to any act other than wandering, staring, sitting, and brooding. So I followed him in an envelope of quiet impotence, never sure where to look, or what to listen to, while my own thoughts wandered in different, and ultimately separate, directions.
Still, for all of the mental wandering that takes place, I rarely felt like I was getting anywhere. The narrator sells himself as an unremarkable personality, and then careens from one tentative thought to the next with narcissistic aplomb. Unfortunately, I agreed with his self-assessment to such an extent that I had difficulty caring about these mental peregrinations. Since the latter constitute the substance of the story, little was left for me to hold on to.
Here is what happened every time I opened this book: I found myself in a park, walking beside a man who yearns for something he cannot name--who wants to complain about this lack of vocabulary and experience, yet lacks the confidence to commit his thoughts to any act other than wandering, staring, sitting, and brooding. So I followed him in an envelope of quiet impotence, never sure where to look, or what to listen to, while my own thoughts wandered in different, and ultimately separate, directions.
August 17, 2019
Benim İki Dünyam, Sergio Chejfec'in Türkçeye çevrilen ilk kitabı. Jaguar umarım bunun devamını getirir zira Chejfec'le tanıştığıma inanılmaz memnun oldum ben. Yazarın -daha da önemlisi bir yürüyüşçünün- hem Brezilya'da hem de geçmişte, o anda, gelecekte ve diğer ihtimallerde savruluşuna şahit oluyoruz kitabı okurken. Chejfec, yürümenin "bir insana hayatta eşlik etmek için en iyi sentaksa sahip fiziksel meleke" olduğunu söylüyor. Kuzguncuk yürüyüşlerimin arasında azar azar okuduğum bir kitapta böyle tespitlere rastlamak benim için muazzamdı. Açıkçası benim yürümeye verdiğim önemi, aklımdan geçenleri ve bunlara dair tespitlerimi paylaşabileceğim birini bulmayı beklemiyordum. Bayılıyorum böyle sürprizlere.
April 16, 2012
a meandering and somewhat melancholic work, my two worlds is the tale of a nameless author, whom, on the cusp of his fiftieth birthday, finds himself in brazil to attend a literary conference. likely an unsuccessful novelist, the narrator spends his day traversing the city, strolling through the park, and ruminating on whatever crosses his path. my two worlds is the first novel(la?) by argentine author and poet sergio chefjec to appear in english translation (despite having written a dozen or so books). apparently, this book is not quite indicative, stylistically or thematically, of chefjec's other works, yet it nonetheless provides for an interesting and colorful introduction to his fiction.
*translated from the spanish by margaret b carson
walking is, in part, a kind of superficial archaeology, which i find greatly instructive and somehow moving, because it considers evidence that's humble, irrelevant, even random- the exact opposite of a scientific investigation. it's evidence that, because of its unimportance and its secondary nature, restores a way of inhabiting time: one is an eyewitness to the anonymous, to what history can't classify, and simultaneously witness to what will survive with some difficulty.there isn't much that happens in the book, but as the narrator wends his way through previously unfamiliar pathways, we are treated to a glimpse of an interior world shaped as much by present encounters as by previous experiences. chejfec's prose flows with the rhythm and cadence of an afternoon stroll, and is, to further the metaphor, often punctuated with dazzling, if not sometimes disorienting, breaks of illumination that shine through the swaying, verdant scenery. my two worlds is a muted, understated work, but ultimately a rewarding one that invites the reader to accompany the narrator on his contemplative and introspective ambulation.
as is evident, the occasion served as in invitation to meditate on the passage of time, on the past and on the future, the unknown and the abandoned, what had been lost and what had been squandered, on consolations and the promises of the future, etc. all of it like that, fairly messy. an invitation i don't believe i wasted.enrique vila-matas authored the rather laudatory introduction, in which he succinctly offers his praise of both my two worlds and chejfec himself.
*translated from the spanish by margaret b carson
June 7, 2021
Uyarı: zor kitap. Bana epeyce Mrs. Dalloway’i anımsattı, muhtemelen park yürüyüşü boyunca karakterin düşüncelerinde gezindiğimiz için. Bu da tipik bir bilinç akışı romanı. Oldukça durağan ilerliyor. Yazarın yapmaya çalıştığı işi anlıyor ve takdir ediyorum lakin düşüncelerinin akışı, takıldığı konular benim özellikle ilgimi çekmedi. Kim bilir belki bir başka zaman bir başka ruh halinde okusam içine daha çok girebilirim. Sorduğu bazı soruların yine de beni düşündürdüğünü belirtip, bir örnekle bu faslı tamamlayayım: “Bu, benim aslında yaşlanmadığıma, zamanın ilerleyişinin yaşanmış olayların birikmesinden çok yaşantıların tuhaf sündürülebilme özelliğinden kaynaklandığına dair daimi hissiyatımla mı ilişkiliydi?”
January 4, 2020
Although I have a strong interest in pedestrianism, this report of a Southern American dérive really got on my nerves. Depressing. A waste of time.
December 29, 2020
keşke bu kitabı işe gidip gelirken toplu taşımada değil de tek seferde rahat bir kafayla okusaydım...
May 8, 2022
Lost in Repetitions
I start reading My Two Worlds. I've been looking forward to it. I’ve had it for over ten years. I found it in a little city bookshop that always has terrific little surprises, obscure books, small press books, interesting writers I cannot find elsewhere. I’d go there during lunch hours for the relief from dull working days. I’d buy books to console myself that at the end of the day there was something left of myself. Because most days, work is about other people – agendas, demands, directives. I live as the title suggests, in two worlds. The world of the book and the world where I have more choices. Like reading this book. I would get to the book shop via a route that takes me through historical streets and lanes, via underground walkways until I end up in another historical part of the city surrounded by plane trees. The walk is always refreshing. I start in one mood defined by workplace problems and emerge in another, regenerated, optimistic, my own self. The route is essential to the transformational state I experience by walking. It’s partly expectation that the journey would be the same, so there can be the expectation of joy at the end.
I read about twenty pages. And I’m enjoying myself. It’s cerebral, an ideas book. And I’m in the mood. My real self, the one that reads books is having a good time. Then I come across notes and under-linings. They are as interesting as the subject matter I've been reading. Here’s the first:
”When I walk my impression is that a digital sensibility overtakes me, one governed by overlapping windows. I say this not with pride but with annoyance: nothing worse could happen to me, because it affects my intuitive side and feels like a prison sentence. The places or circumstances that have drawn my attention take the form of Internet Links and this is only true for the objects themselves, which are generally urban, part of the life of the street or of the city as a whole, shaped precisely and distinguished from their surroundings, but also in the associations they call to mind, the recollections of what is observed, which may be related, kindred, or quite distinct, depend on whichever way these links are formed.”
I have to say, Chejfec echoes my thoughts exactly from ten or so years ago. But did I have those thoughts, or did I recall these words from another time?
I’ve read this book before. But when? They are MY underlinings. And did I in fact think exactly the same coincidence ten years ago, that my thoughts were echoed then. Yes, there are two worlds and in both worlds I read this book. Or two different time frames. Because in the end, two different times are like two different worlds. And think how easily we slip from one time – when we open the computer to the time we finish. Time is meaningless, we exist in two zones. Yet, I have no recollection. Also underlined:
”On a walk an image will lead me into a memory or into several, and these in turn summon other memories or connected thoughts, often by chance, etc, all creating a delirious branching effect that overwhelms me and leaves me exhausted.”
The walk I take is part of my memory, a collection of experiences I repeat that form who I am. I often dream about that walk, or idly think about it. Never about the reason I needed to take that walk. I freely associate it with several books purchased at the end of the walk. And the joy I experienced as I walked back wondering when the opportunity would arise to read the book. Knowing of course that when I got back to work, the day would change, the switch would flick and everything would go back to the way it was. And when I get home, the patterns would repeat.
So you see, by accidentally reading this book twice, I repeat myself, my experience of purchasing the book.
I start reading My Two Worlds. I've been looking forward to it. I’ve had it for over ten years. I found it in a little city bookshop that always has terrific little surprises, obscure books, small press books, interesting writers I cannot find elsewhere. I’d go there during lunch hours for the relief from dull working days. I’d buy books to console myself that at the end of the day there was something left of myself. Because most days, work is about other people – agendas, demands, directives. I live as the title suggests, in two worlds. The world of the book and the world where I have more choices. Like reading this book. I would get to the book shop via a route that takes me through historical streets and lanes, via underground walkways until I end up in another historical part of the city surrounded by plane trees. The walk is always refreshing. I start in one mood defined by workplace problems and emerge in another, regenerated, optimistic, my own self. The route is essential to the transformational state I experience by walking. It’s partly expectation that the journey would be the same, so there can be the expectation of joy at the end.
I read about twenty pages. And I’m enjoying myself. It’s cerebral, an ideas book. And I’m in the mood. My real self, the one that reads books is having a good time. Then I come across notes and under-linings. They are as interesting as the subject matter I've been reading. Here’s the first:
”When I walk my impression is that a digital sensibility overtakes me, one governed by overlapping windows. I say this not with pride but with annoyance: nothing worse could happen to me, because it affects my intuitive side and feels like a prison sentence. The places or circumstances that have drawn my attention take the form of Internet Links and this is only true for the objects themselves, which are generally urban, part of the life of the street or of the city as a whole, shaped precisely and distinguished from their surroundings, but also in the associations they call to mind, the recollections of what is observed, which may be related, kindred, or quite distinct, depend on whichever way these links are formed.”
I have to say, Chejfec echoes my thoughts exactly from ten or so years ago. But did I have those thoughts, or did I recall these words from another time?
I’ve read this book before. But when? They are MY underlinings. And did I in fact think exactly the same coincidence ten years ago, that my thoughts were echoed then. Yes, there are two worlds and in both worlds I read this book. Or two different time frames. Because in the end, two different times are like two different worlds. And think how easily we slip from one time – when we open the computer to the time we finish. Time is meaningless, we exist in two zones. Yet, I have no recollection. Also underlined:
”On a walk an image will lead me into a memory or into several, and these in turn summon other memories or connected thoughts, often by chance, etc, all creating a delirious branching effect that overwhelms me and leaves me exhausted.”
The walk I take is part of my memory, a collection of experiences I repeat that form who I am. I often dream about that walk, or idly think about it. Never about the reason I needed to take that walk. I freely associate it with several books purchased at the end of the walk. And the joy I experienced as I walked back wondering when the opportunity would arise to read the book. Knowing of course that when I got back to work, the day would change, the switch would flick and everything would go back to the way it was. And when I get home, the patterns would repeat.
So you see, by accidentally reading this book twice, I repeat myself, my experience of purchasing the book.
Read
February 27, 2024ÖKSÜRÜYORDU
Bu aralar nedir kardeşim bu böyle, kitaplara puan veremiyoruz. Bugün bu ikinci! Toparlanmam lazım.
Benim İki Dünyam romanının orijinaline en az beş yüz puan veriyorum, varsa daha yüksek puan onu da veririm.
Bırak şimdi puan vermeyi, kendine gel, yapılacak çok daha değerli bir şey var, saygıyla eğilmek. Tamam, ne duruyoruz:
Benim İki Dünyam romanının orijinaline saygıyla eğiliyorum.
Yürümeye düşkün bir yazar konferansa yabancı şehire gjdiyor. Fakat sokaklar yazarı yürümeye davet ediyor. Romanın başlangıç noktası böyle. Yazar durur mu, deliler gibi yürüyor. Bu arada zihni de yürüyor. Biz okurlar adamın zihinsel yürüyüşünü takip ediyoruz. Dış uyaranlar ve çağrışımları üzerinden yürüyor roman. Parkta kuşları görüyor, başlıyor kuşları anlatmaya, sonra birden mesela çakmağını hatırlıyor, mekanizması bozulmasın diye kullanmıyordu çakmağı herhalde, oturduğu banka yaşlı kadın geliyor, laflaşıyorlar, antika bir saati hatırlıyor... Sokak satıcısının soyulduğunu görüyor mesela... Bu sahne hoşuma gitti, aldığım notlarla anlatayım: Satıcı tezgaha arkasını dönmüş oradaki mallarıyla ilgilenirken yoldan geçen biri satıcının bu dikkatsizliğini fırsat bilerek tezgahtaki kaşkollar, şallarla dolu çantayı götürüyor. Yazar yorum yapıyor ister istemez; satıcıların en dikkatsiz anları malları açtıkları ya da topladıkları anlardır diyor. Satıcı malının çalındığını farketmiyor ama “bir tuhaflık var ama ne” hallerinde. Yazar satıcıyı uyarmayı düşünüyorsa da hemen vazgeçiyor bundan. Neden zamanında uyarmadığını açıklayamayacağını düşünerek yürüyüşüne kaldığı yerden devam ediyor. Güzel. İşte böyle böyle birbirine bağlanarak yürüyen metin. Bilinçaltı akışı diyorlar galiba. Okuması keyif verici, bundan eminim. Orijinalinde tabii, Türkçesinde eziyet verici.
Deneysel tarafı ağır basan metinler Türkçede şık durmuyor. Şöyle yazalım: Soğuk iklim balığını sıcak iklimlerde yiyemezsin. Karadeniz kuşağında yenen hamsi balığını mesela Girne’de yiyebilir misin veya Alanya’da veya... Kapitalist sistem her naneyi her yerde yedirir, o ayrı. Sistemin yedirdiği veya takıp takıştırdığı sahtedir.
Benim İki Dünyam’ın çeviri kalitesi zayıf. Bülent Kale’nin çevirisi iyi gözüküyor ama hayır, ‘olmak’lara yaslanarak kurmuş metni. Cümleler obez.
Zor metin diyorlar. Edebiyatçı yazarların okurlarını zorlamak gibi bir planla yazdıklarını sanmıyorum. Hele de ‘odaklanma’ güçsüzlüğü çekildiği bu zamanda. Zor metin değil, zorlayarak yapılan çeviriler var. Fazlalıklarla dolu cümleleri sürersen tabii ki zorlanacaksın; sıkılıp bunalacaksın.
Ben ‘olmak’lara öksürük diyorum. Benim İki Dünyam’ın öksürüğü çekilecek gibi değildi.
Bu aralar nedir kardeşim bu böyle, kitaplara puan veremiyoruz. Bugün bu ikinci! Toparlanmam lazım.
Benim İki Dünyam romanının orijinaline en az beş yüz puan veriyorum, varsa daha yüksek puan onu da veririm.
Bırak şimdi puan vermeyi, kendine gel, yapılacak çok daha değerli bir şey var, saygıyla eğilmek. Tamam, ne duruyoruz:
Benim İki Dünyam romanının orijinaline saygıyla eğiliyorum.
Yürümeye düşkün bir yazar konferansa yabancı şehire gjdiyor. Fakat sokaklar yazarı yürümeye davet ediyor. Romanın başlangıç noktası böyle. Yazar durur mu, deliler gibi yürüyor. Bu arada zihni de yürüyor. Biz okurlar adamın zihinsel yürüyüşünü takip ediyoruz. Dış uyaranlar ve çağrışımları üzerinden yürüyor roman. Parkta kuşları görüyor, başlıyor kuşları anlatmaya, sonra birden mesela çakmağını hatırlıyor, mekanizması bozulmasın diye kullanmıyordu çakmağı herhalde, oturduğu banka yaşlı kadın geliyor, laflaşıyorlar, antika bir saati hatırlıyor... Sokak satıcısının soyulduğunu görüyor mesela... Bu sahne hoşuma gitti, aldığım notlarla anlatayım: Satıcı tezgaha arkasını dönmüş oradaki mallarıyla ilgilenirken yoldan geçen biri satıcının bu dikkatsizliğini fırsat bilerek tezgahtaki kaşkollar, şallarla dolu çantayı götürüyor. Yazar yorum yapıyor ister istemez; satıcıların en dikkatsiz anları malları açtıkları ya da topladıkları anlardır diyor. Satıcı malının çalındığını farketmiyor ama “bir tuhaflık var ama ne” hallerinde. Yazar satıcıyı uyarmayı düşünüyorsa da hemen vazgeçiyor bundan. Neden zamanında uyarmadığını açıklayamayacağını düşünerek yürüyüşüne kaldığı yerden devam ediyor. Güzel. İşte böyle böyle birbirine bağlanarak yürüyen metin. Bilinçaltı akışı diyorlar galiba. Okuması keyif verici, bundan eminim. Orijinalinde tabii, Türkçesinde eziyet verici.
Deneysel tarafı ağır basan metinler Türkçede şık durmuyor. Şöyle yazalım: Soğuk iklim balığını sıcak iklimlerde yiyemezsin. Karadeniz kuşağında yenen hamsi balığını mesela Girne’de yiyebilir misin veya Alanya’da veya... Kapitalist sistem her naneyi her yerde yedirir, o ayrı. Sistemin yedirdiği veya takıp takıştırdığı sahtedir.
Benim İki Dünyam’ın çeviri kalitesi zayıf. Bülent Kale’nin çevirisi iyi gözüküyor ama hayır, ‘olmak’lara yaslanarak kurmuş metni. Cümleler obez.
Zor metin diyorlar. Edebiyatçı yazarların okurlarını zorlamak gibi bir planla yazdıklarını sanmıyorum. Hele de ‘odaklanma’ güçsüzlüğü çekildiği bu zamanda. Zor metin değil, zorlayarak yapılan çeviriler var. Fazlalıklarla dolu cümleleri sürersen tabii ki zorlanacaksın; sıkılıp bunalacaksın.
Ben ‘olmak’lara öksürük diyorum. Benim İki Dünyam’ın öksürüğü çekilecek gibi değildi.
June 25, 2024
Benim İki Dünyam - Sergio Chejfec
Kitabı bugün bitirdim. Roman diyemiyorum çünkü bu bir anlatı. Yorumlarda okunması zor bir kitap demişler. Bence zor değil. Kabul ediyorum benim de kaçırdığım yerler olabilir ama yürürken de her ayrıntıyı tek tek göremeyiz ki. Yakaladıklarımız üzerinden düşünür ve konuşuruz. O bir flanör. Her ne kadar kendini bu isimle tanımlamasa da o bir şehir yürüyüşcüsü. Yazarımız yürüyor. Yürürken düşünüyor gördüklerini, algıladıklarını şimdinin çemberinden geçirerek geçmişten geleceği uzatıyor.
Örnek: yazarımız Brezilya’da bir şehirde bir parkı bulmaya çalışıyor.
Yürürken Berlin’de bir mağaza vitrininde görmüş olduğu saati anımsıyor.
O saati almış olsaydı ölünce hangi yeğenine miras olarak bırakacağını düşünüyor.
Kitapta sürekli zaman algımız ile oynuyor. Bakma-görme, gördüğünü anlamlandırma, başka bir şeyle ilişkilendirme, nesneler arası ilişki kurmak için gözlere gerek olmaması… bunlar benim kitapta yakaladığım temalar. Ben çok sevdim ama başkasına önerir miyim? Bilmiyorum. Başka bir okur ile kitap hakkında konuşmayı çok isterdim. Son söz bana biraz Michel Tournier - Dışsal Günlük kitabını anımsattı.
Kitabı bugün bitirdim. Roman diyemiyorum çünkü bu bir anlatı. Yorumlarda okunması zor bir kitap demişler. Bence zor değil. Kabul ediyorum benim de kaçırdığım yerler olabilir ama yürürken de her ayrıntıyı tek tek göremeyiz ki. Yakaladıklarımız üzerinden düşünür ve konuşuruz. O bir flanör. Her ne kadar kendini bu isimle tanımlamasa da o bir şehir yürüyüşcüsü. Yazarımız yürüyor. Yürürken düşünüyor gördüklerini, algıladıklarını şimdinin çemberinden geçirerek geçmişten geleceği uzatıyor.
Örnek: yazarımız Brezilya’da bir şehirde bir parkı bulmaya çalışıyor.
Yürürken Berlin’de bir mağaza vitrininde görmüş olduğu saati anımsıyor.
O saati almış olsaydı ölünce hangi yeğenine miras olarak bırakacağını düşünüyor.
Kitapta sürekli zaman algımız ile oynuyor. Bakma-görme, gördüğünü anlamlandırma, başka bir şeyle ilişkilendirme, nesneler arası ilişki kurmak için gözlere gerek olmaması… bunlar benim kitapta yakaladığım temalar. Ben çok sevdim ama başkasına önerir miyim? Bilmiyorum. Başka bir okur ile kitap hakkında konuşmayı çok isterdim. Son söz bana biraz Michel Tournier - Dışsal Günlük kitabını anımsattı.
June 28, 2014
http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/9019366...
It never hurts to have a writer such as Enrique Vila-Matas introduce your book. And the introduction was a very good one at that, comparing Chejfec with Max Sebald and his artful use of digression and imagery such as employing to his page photographs and historical text. But the negative of all this praise and comparison is the possibility of not measuring up to the hype. The gushing introduction meant the actual beginning of my reading of this novel didn't carry as much weight as it normally does. Because of the words of Vila-Matas Chejfec was allowed enough creative license to get me where I needed to be. But after fifty pages or so, a little over half the length of the novel in total, it was apparent that Chejfec had too many props. He wasn't staying true to his object, that being the park in the center of an unnamed city in Brazil. Actually he wasn't digressing at all, instead he was getting me lost in his attempt to find his own way onto the page. I am of the opinion that we are in need of focus on only one walk here, not a Chejfec convergence of other excursions in far-off European countries equipped with foreigners more foreign than even the narrator was. This work is not art, it is not digression. In my opinion it is a cluster fuck.
I do think Sergio Chejfec can write a good book. As a matter of fact I have ordered his only other book available in English. The argument in the Scott Esposito essay found at Critical Flame was that this first offering of Chejfec's in English so happened to be the most recent book he wrote and by Esposito's opinion it is a shame we did not see and read his lesser ones first. That is not a good sign for me. If this novel is the one more evolved than all his previous work then we shall see if Esposito really knows his stuff when I read this other one. It is not always the case. Some early work in a writer's career far surpasses anything he writes later, especially if there was fame and celebrity involved in the publications of the early books.
http://www.criticalflame.org/fiction/...
The most serious problem I had with this particular novel My Two Worlds is with the writer Sergio who has absolutely no personality coming though the text whether his own or his narrator's. Whoever is speaking seems always attempting too hard to impress me with his ideas. I do not get to "know" him at all. He takes no hard stand as Thomas Bernhard does through his characters. For example, Bernhard's novella Walking, which is collected together with two others in a later offering titled Three Novellas, is full of hatred and vitriol for humans procreating. This is not a topic which would go unnoticed by most people if they actually read Bernhard. I don't believe most people read much of Bernhard. It is possible they try though, given his high regard as a writer, but often I think they must resist him or abruptly at some point abandon his books. He is too direct. Most people don't like somebody this direct. I do. The personality of the narrators and characters in Bernhard's books are so alive and even exuberant in the face of their even committing suicide often enough to be unsettling even to me. But this review is about Chejfec not Bernhard.
For Chejfec to be compared with Max Sebald is ludicrous to me. It is not even funny. Sebald has personality in spades. His subjects are interesting and all connected in one way or another to Sebald and his work on the page. They are all believable. Chejfec's are not. As for the digression and use of photographs similar to their use by Sebald, I see no comparison at all. Yes, Sergio did use descriptions of photographs, some valid in his enthusiasm for using them, but just not enough significance to be able to use them as a comparison to Max Sebald. It is not enough to say I have a photograph and this is what it looks like. Not only do I need to literally show you with my words, I need to make whatever is depicted in the photograph come alive in my description of it. I cannot recall one photograph Sergio Chejfic introduced to his text as evidence. There is little today I will take from this novel. It must be left for others to decide its fate.
But I will give Sergio Chejfec another go with this other translated novel of his which, for the moment, I have forgotten its title. But he better be present there on the page for me, or at least somebody better be in there who I can relate to, a person who has an opinion or a stance he, or she, is willing to die for. There must be some sort of jeopardy-in-writing for me to be bought out in a manner that actually counts. Otherwise it is a waste of my time. And if that is the case then it would be infinitely more worthwhile for me to stick to reading good poetry, which is basically a joke, that is, if you knew me.
It never hurts to have a writer such as Enrique Vila-Matas introduce your book. And the introduction was a very good one at that, comparing Chejfec with Max Sebald and his artful use of digression and imagery such as employing to his page photographs and historical text. But the negative of all this praise and comparison is the possibility of not measuring up to the hype. The gushing introduction meant the actual beginning of my reading of this novel didn't carry as much weight as it normally does. Because of the words of Vila-Matas Chejfec was allowed enough creative license to get me where I needed to be. But after fifty pages or so, a little over half the length of the novel in total, it was apparent that Chejfec had too many props. He wasn't staying true to his object, that being the park in the center of an unnamed city in Brazil. Actually he wasn't digressing at all, instead he was getting me lost in his attempt to find his own way onto the page. I am of the opinion that we are in need of focus on only one walk here, not a Chejfec convergence of other excursions in far-off European countries equipped with foreigners more foreign than even the narrator was. This work is not art, it is not digression. In my opinion it is a cluster fuck.
I do think Sergio Chejfec can write a good book. As a matter of fact I have ordered his only other book available in English. The argument in the Scott Esposito essay found at Critical Flame was that this first offering of Chejfec's in English so happened to be the most recent book he wrote and by Esposito's opinion it is a shame we did not see and read his lesser ones first. That is not a good sign for me. If this novel is the one more evolved than all his previous work then we shall see if Esposito really knows his stuff when I read this other one. It is not always the case. Some early work in a writer's career far surpasses anything he writes later, especially if there was fame and celebrity involved in the publications of the early books.
http://www.criticalflame.org/fiction/...
The most serious problem I had with this particular novel My Two Worlds is with the writer Sergio who has absolutely no personality coming though the text whether his own or his narrator's. Whoever is speaking seems always attempting too hard to impress me with his ideas. I do not get to "know" him at all. He takes no hard stand as Thomas Bernhard does through his characters. For example, Bernhard's novella Walking, which is collected together with two others in a later offering titled Three Novellas, is full of hatred and vitriol for humans procreating. This is not a topic which would go unnoticed by most people if they actually read Bernhard. I don't believe most people read much of Bernhard. It is possible they try though, given his high regard as a writer, but often I think they must resist him or abruptly at some point abandon his books. He is too direct. Most people don't like somebody this direct. I do. The personality of the narrators and characters in Bernhard's books are so alive and even exuberant in the face of their even committing suicide often enough to be unsettling even to me. But this review is about Chejfec not Bernhard.
For Chejfec to be compared with Max Sebald is ludicrous to me. It is not even funny. Sebald has personality in spades. His subjects are interesting and all connected in one way or another to Sebald and his work on the page. They are all believable. Chejfec's are not. As for the digression and use of photographs similar to their use by Sebald, I see no comparison at all. Yes, Sergio did use descriptions of photographs, some valid in his enthusiasm for using them, but just not enough significance to be able to use them as a comparison to Max Sebald. It is not enough to say I have a photograph and this is what it looks like. Not only do I need to literally show you with my words, I need to make whatever is depicted in the photograph come alive in my description of it. I cannot recall one photograph Sergio Chejfic introduced to his text as evidence. There is little today I will take from this novel. It must be left for others to decide its fate.
But I will give Sergio Chejfec another go with this other translated novel of his which, for the moment, I have forgotten its title. But he better be present there on the page for me, or at least somebody better be in there who I can relate to, a person who has an opinion or a stance he, or she, is willing to die for. There must be some sort of jeopardy-in-writing for me to be bought out in a manner that actually counts. Otherwise it is a waste of my time. And if that is the case then it would be infinitely more worthwhile for me to stick to reading good poetry, which is basically a joke, that is, if you knew me.
February 2, 2025
Çok arada kaldığım bir novella oldu. Yazarın iki dünyam dediği dünyalarından biri beni çekerken öteki beni inanılmaz sıktı ve itti sanırım. Bir yazarın hedefi bir parka varmak olan yürüyüşünün ve devamında kendini ve etrafını incelediği ve bu esnada da aklına kendi hayatından farklı farklı anılarının gelip bu inceleme sürecini böldüğü bir gününü okuyoruz aslında. Bir yandan çok gerçek, dürüst gelen bir tarafı var anlatının ama bir yandan da beni sıkılmaktan alıkoyamayan aşırı hayalperest ve her bulduğunu inceleyen bir tarafı vardı. Yine de okuduğuma sevindim.
March 7, 2012
Sometimes I feel bad for comparing every book I read to something I've read in the past. But a lot of times it seems helpful, especially when comparing books that have nothing to do with each other, in that they bring out a different way of reading, shadows of each reading experience accentuating the other.
Every once in a while, it isn't helpful, but also unavoidable. In cases like this, for instance. My Two Worlds is so firmly in the shadow of Sebald that I cannot not invoke his name. Chejfec uses many of the same devices, but doesn't achieve any of the magic of Sebald.
The question is: does he achieve anything else? Something of his own? That is hard to say. There are some good passages, but they quickly run out of steam, or become way too noodly, caught in a thought about a thought, instead of transcending it into a sort of meditation. A lot of it, while reading, seemed trivial while trying to be deep. The language, while interesting, doesn't sustain long enough for me to lose my breath. There is something here, but it's not enough of its own thing yet for me to truly love.
Next up on my Sebald-inspired reading list... Teju Cole's Open City
PS: But wait! This awesome review makes a good case for this book. Maybe you should give it a chance.
Every once in a while, it isn't helpful, but also unavoidable. In cases like this, for instance. My Two Worlds is so firmly in the shadow of Sebald that I cannot not invoke his name. Chejfec uses many of the same devices, but doesn't achieve any of the magic of Sebald.
The question is: does he achieve anything else? Something of his own? That is hard to say. There are some good passages, but they quickly run out of steam, or become way too noodly, caught in a thought about a thought, instead of transcending it into a sort of meditation. A lot of it, while reading, seemed trivial while trying to be deep. The language, while interesting, doesn't sustain long enough for me to lose my breath. There is something here, but it's not enough of its own thing yet for me to truly love.
Next up on my Sebald-inspired reading list... Teju Cole's Open City
PS: But wait! This awesome review makes a good case for this book. Maybe you should give it a chance.
August 18, 2011
Reading "My Two Worlds" by Sergio Chejfec was, to me, less like reading a book and more like watching an artist paint. Seeing the colors and shapes emerge here... trying to figure out how this stroke will add to the whole... sometimes needing excruciating patience to wait for layer upon layer to be added... and always being pulled along in anticipation of finally viewing the finished piece.
Who knew there could be this much to a walk through a park! The narrator's thoughts and observations linger on everything from a watch that runs counter-clockwise and its potential as a family heirloom to gigantic swan-shaped pedal boats, described in intimate detail and, at times, even imbued with life.
If a friend were to ask me if I would recommend this book, my answer would depend more upon the friend than the book. My Two Worlds is very different. It is relatively short but not a fast read. And, although it tells a story, it doesn't really have much of a plot. But for those who have the nature and the patience for it, it's a pretty amazing walk!
I received this book for free through Goodreads First Reads.
Who knew there could be this much to a walk through a park! The narrator's thoughts and observations linger on everything from a watch that runs counter-clockwise and its potential as a family heirloom to gigantic swan-shaped pedal boats, described in intimate detail and, at times, even imbued with life.
If a friend were to ask me if I would recommend this book, my answer would depend more upon the friend than the book. My Two Worlds is very different. It is relatively short but not a fast read. And, although it tells a story, it doesn't really have much of a plot. But for those who have the nature and the patience for it, it's a pretty amazing walk!
I received this book for free through Goodreads First Reads.
July 20, 2015
DISCLAIMER: I am the publisher of the book and thus spent approximately two years reading and editing and working on it. So take my review with a grain of salt, or the understanding that I am deeply invested in this text and know it quite well. Also, I would really appreciate it if you would purchase this book, since it would benefit Open Letter directly.
July 26, 2012
The second coming of Sebald. Or, maybe a cousin of Sebald. But hell, this book will never let you see birds, watches, fountains or gardens the same way again.
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