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De avonden
De Avonden vertelt het verhaal van Frits van Egters, die in de donkere decemberdagen van vlak na de Tweede Wereldoorlog zich een houding probeert te geven tegenover zijn ouders en vrienden. Over alles ligt een grijze waas van melancholie, en met zijn eigenzinnige gevoel voor humor probeert hij door het pantser van de verveling te breken. In het ontroerende slothoofdstuk komt hij tot het louterende inzicht dat hij door te kijken en te observeren de zinloosheid heeft 'Het is gezien, het is niet onopgemerkt gebleven.'
241 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1947
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10123 people want to read
About the author
Gerard Reve
100 books219 followersGerard Reve was een Nederlands schrijver en dichter. Samen met Harry Mulisch en W.F. Hermans wordt hij gerekend tot De Grote Drie: de drie belangrijkste Nederlandse schrijvers van na de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Tot zijn bekendste werken behoren De avonden (roman uit 1947) en Werther Nieland (novelle uit 1949). Tot 1973 schreef Reve onder zijn oorspronkelijke naam Gerard Kornelis van het Reve, maar vereenvoudigde deze later tot Gerard Reve. Hij debuteerde in 1946 in het tijdschrift Criterium met de novelle De ondergang van de familie Boslowits, een jaar later verscheen de klassieker De avonden. Reve zou uiteindelijk een enorm oeuvre voortbrengen, waaronder een groot aantal ‘brievenboeken’. In 1969 ontving Reve de P.C. Hooftprijs en in 2001 werd zijn werk bekroond met de Prijs der Nederlandse Letteren. Zijn werk wordt tot op heden nog altijd veel gelezen en besproken.
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December 31, 2022
ik hoop dat Frits kaal wordt
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February 10, 2017
‘The potatoes are very good,’ her mother said making prolonged eye contact with me. I looked down at my plate. The potatoes were fine, but very good seemed like an exaggeration. This thought lay wriggling on my tongue, but I managed to swallow it and instead make an unconvincing noise of agreement. ‘It’s warm in here, isn’t it?’ her father said to no one in particular. ‘It is,’ I felt compelled to reply, and immediately regretted it. Her mother pursed her lips. Should I have said that the temperature was just right? ‘But it’s nice,’ I continued after a long pause, ‘it’s just right, in fact.’ Unnerved by the silence that followed this statement I put more potato in my mouth and tried to arrange my face to give the impression that I really did think that what I was eating was very, very good indeed.
Once the last mouthful had disappeared down my throat I placed my knife and fork on my plate to indicate that I had finished. My girlfriend, whose family this was, tapped my knee affectionately. ‘Do you want some more?’ her mother said. What a question! How does one answer it correctly? ‘Do you want me to have some more?’ I imagined myself asking her. ‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m full,’ I said. And I ought to have left it at that, but I couldn’t help myself; I had to justify my answer, to explain why I did not want another helping of this wonderful food, these divine potatoes; but most of all I needed to do something to put an end to the interminable, dreary small talk. ‘I used to have an eating disorder,’ I said. ‘It was quite bad. My mother threatened to have me put in hospital. I’m ok now, but I’m still not a big eater.’
The Evenings by Gerard Kornelis van het Reve was originally published in Holland in 1947, but it wasn’t until last year, the interminable and dreary year of 2016, that an English translation became available. The novel follows Frits van Egters, a twenty-three year old Amsterdammer, through the last days of 1946, days that are, in large part, spent in dismal interaction with his parents and various acquaintances. Indeed, there is no other novel that I know of that features such relentlessly uncomfortable, strained and tedious conversations. There are any number of passages that one could pick out from the text as illustration, but one that has stuck in my mind is the discussion about the pickled herring, the stale pickled herring, that Frits' mother is intent on serving to her family, but which they are none too keen on.
The relationship between Frits and his parents is, at least for him, one of irritation, at best, and, at worst, outright loathing. Throughout The Evenings one has not only access to the young man's words but his thoughts also, with the two often running concurrently. So while he may engage in polite[ish] small talk, we know that what he is thinking is invariably something negative. He fixates upon his father's warts, for example, and wonders why he doesn't get them removed. When he does give voice to his displeasure he does so in a jocular, passive-aggressive fashion, such that it is not clear whether he is being serious or not. 'The way you smoke is both incredibly clumsy and ridiculous,' he says to his mother, while advising himself: 'make it sound like I am joking.'
It would be easy to characterise Frits as a bully, and there is certainly a sadistic side to him, as evidenced by his desire to consistently highlight other people's physical and character defects, even though he does so, as noted, in a way that means they do not often take offence. He comments upon their weak hearts; their baldness, or inevitable baldness; their heavy drinking; their unappealing children, whom, he points out, probably won't live very long. Most mercilessly, he ridicules Maurits for his missing eye, which, he tells him, makes him unattractive to women. In this instance, more than any of the others, it appears as though it is Frits' intention to provoke his friend into doing something drastic, into perhaps harming himself or someone else; and I think this gives an indication as to what is underlying his cruel behaviour.
If one lives a humdrum existence, one that promises no excitement or stimulation, if your conversations are banal, and your environment is drab and wearisome, then it makes sense that one would look to enliven it all somehow, to create for yourself some of the excitement that is lacking. While it may not be a healthy way of dealing with his dissatisfaction, or boredom, one gets the impression that Frits' provoking of Maurits is a little like poking a big, powerful dog or bungee jumping; which is to say that it is thrill seeking by virtue of dicing with danger. Likewise, when he declares that the death of a child makes him happy, he is of course trying to shock, to create a stir, to cause an outrage, because this too would be exciting, would be something different from what he experiences day-to-day, or would at least put an end to the unbearable chatter he was listening to previously.
Moreover, it is clear that Frits has mortality on his mind. The novel begins, for instance, with him dreaming about a funeral and the decomposition, the 'thin, yellow mush', that is the fate of us all. Indeed, this partly explains his obsession with baldness, which is most often a sign of ageing, is, you might say, a kind of decomposition or certainly malfunction of the body. The young man also frequently examines himself, at one stage checking his genitals with a shaving mirror and finding it all 'very distasteful.' What this focus on death and the human body suggests is that Frits is aware that he is wasting his life, that precious days are slipping away from him as he potters around doing next to nothing, besides irritating others and being irritated himself. In this way, it isn't only his parents, his circumstances, etc, that are oppressing him, but time also.
Much of what I have written so far will, I imagine, give the impression that The Evenings is a dour reading experience. Certainly it is slow-paced and bleak; and it is repetitious too, with almost all of Frits' conversations and activities being essentially the same. What is remarkable about it, however, is that it is also very funny. In fact, the comedy is a consequence of the repetition and the bleakness. For example, the second or third time Frits highlights the impending baldness of one of his friends one might legitimately furrow one's brow, yet you come to look forward to it, to gleefully anticipate it, the next time he runs into one of them. Likewise, when he meets someone new and one knows that he will find something, some ailment or flaw or deformity, to comment upon. Frits is a cunt, yes, but he is an amusing one, a sympathetic one even, or at least the kind of cunt that I can identify with myself.
Once the last mouthful had disappeared down my throat I placed my knife and fork on my plate to indicate that I had finished. My girlfriend, whose family this was, tapped my knee affectionately. ‘Do you want some more?’ her mother said. What a question! How does one answer it correctly? ‘Do you want me to have some more?’ I imagined myself asking her. ‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m full,’ I said. And I ought to have left it at that, but I couldn’t help myself; I had to justify my answer, to explain why I did not want another helping of this wonderful food, these divine potatoes; but most of all I needed to do something to put an end to the interminable, dreary small talk. ‘I used to have an eating disorder,’ I said. ‘It was quite bad. My mother threatened to have me put in hospital. I’m ok now, but I’m still not a big eater.’
The Evenings by Gerard Kornelis van het Reve was originally published in Holland in 1947, but it wasn’t until last year, the interminable and dreary year of 2016, that an English translation became available. The novel follows Frits van Egters, a twenty-three year old Amsterdammer, through the last days of 1946, days that are, in large part, spent in dismal interaction with his parents and various acquaintances. Indeed, there is no other novel that I know of that features such relentlessly uncomfortable, strained and tedious conversations. There are any number of passages that one could pick out from the text as illustration, but one that has stuck in my mind is the discussion about the pickled herring, the stale pickled herring, that Frits' mother is intent on serving to her family, but which they are none too keen on.
The relationship between Frits and his parents is, at least for him, one of irritation, at best, and, at worst, outright loathing. Throughout The Evenings one has not only access to the young man's words but his thoughts also, with the two often running concurrently. So while he may engage in polite[ish] small talk, we know that what he is thinking is invariably something negative. He fixates upon his father's warts, for example, and wonders why he doesn't get them removed. When he does give voice to his displeasure he does so in a jocular, passive-aggressive fashion, such that it is not clear whether he is being serious or not. 'The way you smoke is both incredibly clumsy and ridiculous,' he says to his mother, while advising himself: 'make it sound like I am joking.'
It would be easy to characterise Frits as a bully, and there is certainly a sadistic side to him, as evidenced by his desire to consistently highlight other people's physical and character defects, even though he does so, as noted, in a way that means they do not often take offence. He comments upon their weak hearts; their baldness, or inevitable baldness; their heavy drinking; their unappealing children, whom, he points out, probably won't live very long. Most mercilessly, he ridicules Maurits for his missing eye, which, he tells him, makes him unattractive to women. In this instance, more than any of the others, it appears as though it is Frits' intention to provoke his friend into doing something drastic, into perhaps harming himself or someone else; and I think this gives an indication as to what is underlying his cruel behaviour.
If one lives a humdrum existence, one that promises no excitement or stimulation, if your conversations are banal, and your environment is drab and wearisome, then it makes sense that one would look to enliven it all somehow, to create for yourself some of the excitement that is lacking. While it may not be a healthy way of dealing with his dissatisfaction, or boredom, one gets the impression that Frits' provoking of Maurits is a little like poking a big, powerful dog or bungee jumping; which is to say that it is thrill seeking by virtue of dicing with danger. Likewise, when he declares that the death of a child makes him happy, he is of course trying to shock, to create a stir, to cause an outrage, because this too would be exciting, would be something different from what he experiences day-to-day, or would at least put an end to the unbearable chatter he was listening to previously.
Moreover, it is clear that Frits has mortality on his mind. The novel begins, for instance, with him dreaming about a funeral and the decomposition, the 'thin, yellow mush', that is the fate of us all. Indeed, this partly explains his obsession with baldness, which is most often a sign of ageing, is, you might say, a kind of decomposition or certainly malfunction of the body. The young man also frequently examines himself, at one stage checking his genitals with a shaving mirror and finding it all 'very distasteful.' What this focus on death and the human body suggests is that Frits is aware that he is wasting his life, that precious days are slipping away from him as he potters around doing next to nothing, besides irritating others and being irritated himself. In this way, it isn't only his parents, his circumstances, etc, that are oppressing him, but time also.
Much of what I have written so far will, I imagine, give the impression that The Evenings is a dour reading experience. Certainly it is slow-paced and bleak; and it is repetitious too, with almost all of Frits' conversations and activities being essentially the same. What is remarkable about it, however, is that it is also very funny. In fact, the comedy is a consequence of the repetition and the bleakness. For example, the second or third time Frits highlights the impending baldness of one of his friends one might legitimately furrow one's brow, yet you come to look forward to it, to gleefully anticipate it, the next time he runs into one of them. Likewise, when he meets someone new and one knows that he will find something, some ailment or flaw or deformity, to comment upon. Frits is a cunt, yes, but he is an amusing one, a sympathetic one even, or at least the kind of cunt that I can identify with myself.
March 27, 2017
None of those other blurbs and reviews about boredom and comedy prepared me for the horrible creeping dread that underlies all of this. This moves and fails to move in all kinds of amusing rhythms and digressions, but the humor is, at heart, very dark. And there's a weight to the malaise that more recent literatures of ennui are less able to invoke. It's 1947, Europe is restored to reason. It's 1947, and no one will ever really recover. Brilliant and imperceptibly devastating.
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September 21, 2021De eerste keer dat ik De avonden las, snapte ik niet waarom dit als zo'n goed boek wordt beschouwd. Het was langdradig, zo Hollands dat je er gewelddadige jeuk van krijgt, en ik vond Frits van Egters maar een misselijk mannetje, met zijn onsmakelijke grapjes en zijn gewoonte om elke jonge man in zijn omgeving te wijzen op vermeende kalendheid.
Maar ja, ik lees het nu zo'n tien jaar later, aangespoord door een aflevering van de geweldige podcast BoekenFM. En, net als bij de meeste van mijn adolescente opvattingen (godzijdank), denk ik er nu anders over. Frits is nog steeds wel een beetje een misselijk mannetje, maar wel een voor wie ik nu compassie voel (of kan voelen). Ik was vergeten dat hij elke nacht heftige, angstige dromen heeft, die worden verdoofd door de monotonie van zijn naoorlogse leven. Ik was ook vergeten dat hij heel vervelend kan zijn, maar dan meestal uit onbeholpenheid in plaats van kwade zin. En als ik het nu lees, is zijn obsessie met andermans kalendheid geen (of niet alleen) valsheid meer, maar een logische uitwas van zijn beklemmende angst voor verval en ouderdom. Frits is een onvolmaakt persoon, maar een die ik nu beter begrijp dan tien jaar geleden. En dan is ineens het hele boek - ook de saaiheid, de leegheid - niet alleen draaglijk, maar een (her)leeservaring die ik niet had willen missen.
Maar ja, ik lees het nu zo'n tien jaar later, aangespoord door een aflevering van de geweldige podcast BoekenFM. En, net als bij de meeste van mijn adolescente opvattingen (godzijdank), denk ik er nu anders over. Frits is nog steeds wel een beetje een misselijk mannetje, maar wel een voor wie ik nu compassie voel (of kan voelen). Ik was vergeten dat hij elke nacht heftige, angstige dromen heeft, die worden verdoofd door de monotonie van zijn naoorlogse leven. Ik was ook vergeten dat hij heel vervelend kan zijn, maar dan meestal uit onbeholpenheid in plaats van kwade zin. En als ik het nu lees, is zijn obsessie met andermans kalendheid geen (of niet alleen) valsheid meer, maar een logische uitwas van zijn beklemmende angst voor verval en ouderdom. Frits is een onvolmaakt persoon, maar een die ik nu beter begrijp dan tien jaar geleden. En dan is ineens het hele boek - ook de saaiheid, de leegheid - niet alleen draaglijk, maar een (her)leeservaring die ik niet had willen missen.
November 9, 2016
(Nearly 3.5) This Dutch novel from 1947 appears in English translation for the first time. Twenty-three-year-old Frits van Egters lives with his parents, works at an office job, and spends his evenings wandering the streets of Amsterdam and visiting friends and relatives. His ennui comes through clearly in these 10 chapters set at the end of December 1946. Anyone who has been stuck in a dead-end job, living with their parents in their mid-twenties, will sympathize with Frits’s situation. I particularly enjoyed his dream sequences, like the one where he’s trapped in a department store and can’t find a toilet so has to urinate in vases. But in general I found the novel’s format repetitive and the ideas rather prosaic. Luckily, the final chapter, set on New Year’s Eve, ends strongly. This is an unusual book, but if the synopsis appeals to you or you just fancy trying a cult classic from another country’s literature, you will find it an atmospheric wintry read.
See my full review at The Bookbag.
See my full review at The Bookbag.
December 18, 2024
Ik heb De avonden nu voor de tweede maal gelezen. Het verhaal speelt in de laatste week van het jaar 1946 en eindigt op nieuwjaarsdag 1947. De hoofdpersoon is de 23-jarige Frits van Egters die nog thuis bij zijn ouders in Amsterdam woont. Het boek gaat over de wederwaardigheden die hij meemaakt, ontmoetingen met vrienden, zijn ouders, zijn vader die slechthorend is, zijn moeder die soms onhandig is. Ze denkt wijn te kopen maar het is bessen-appelsap, die als vruchtenwijn wordt verkocht. Ik herinner me dat mijn eigen oma mij ook dergelijke ‘wijn’ voorschotelde, een zoetig kleverig drankje.
Frits, het alter ego van de jonge Gerard worstelt met zijn ouders, met wisselende gevoelens tussen liefde en haat en hij worstelt ook met zichzelf. Hilarisch is de beschrijving van een avond waarin hij met enkele vrienden dronken wordt en midden in de nacht door zijn ouders opgevangen wordt. Het einde van het boek is ook indrukwekkend. Frits is dan in de huiskamer met zijn ouders en wil iets aan zijn vader bekennen. Het komt er niet uit, op het beslissende moment vindt hij de juiste woorden niet. Het blijft in het midden waar die bekentenis over zou kunnen gaan, misschien over zijn homoseksualiteit, dat hij ‘uit de kast’ zou willen komen. Overigens trouwde van het Reve in 1948 met de dichteres Hanny Michaelis.
Het boek speelt kort na de tweede Wereldoorlog. Die oorlog is nog voelbaar in de schaarste die mensen meemaken. Er was nog geen televisie, mensen luisterden naar de radio. De ouders van Frits/ Gerard waren wellicht in de ogen van de hoofdpersoon kleinburgerlijke mensen, maar echt bekrompen waren ze niet. Ze lazen veel, vader Van het Reve schreef ook boeken. Ouders en zoon tutoyeerden elkaar, wat in die tijd zeker niet algemeen gebruikelijk was. Het boek speelt in een tijd dat ik er nog niet was en eigenlijk toch ook wel. Mijn moeder was zwanger van mij in die decembermaand nu 78 jaar geleden. Een wintervertelling die de tijd trotseert, over angst en eenzaamheid, maar ook vol humor en met verve geschreven. Het boek eindigt positief, vol vreugde over het leven. Het is gezien, het is niet onopgemerkt gebleven, zo luidt de slotzin.
Frits, het alter ego van de jonge Gerard worstelt met zijn ouders, met wisselende gevoelens tussen liefde en haat en hij worstelt ook met zichzelf. Hilarisch is de beschrijving van een avond waarin hij met enkele vrienden dronken wordt en midden in de nacht door zijn ouders opgevangen wordt. Het einde van het boek is ook indrukwekkend. Frits is dan in de huiskamer met zijn ouders en wil iets aan zijn vader bekennen. Het komt er niet uit, op het beslissende moment vindt hij de juiste woorden niet. Het blijft in het midden waar die bekentenis over zou kunnen gaan, misschien over zijn homoseksualiteit, dat hij ‘uit de kast’ zou willen komen. Overigens trouwde van het Reve in 1948 met de dichteres Hanny Michaelis.
Het boek speelt kort na de tweede Wereldoorlog. Die oorlog is nog voelbaar in de schaarste die mensen meemaken. Er was nog geen televisie, mensen luisterden naar de radio. De ouders van Frits/ Gerard waren wellicht in de ogen van de hoofdpersoon kleinburgerlijke mensen, maar echt bekrompen waren ze niet. Ze lazen veel, vader Van het Reve schreef ook boeken. Ouders en zoon tutoyeerden elkaar, wat in die tijd zeker niet algemeen gebruikelijk was. Het boek speelt in een tijd dat ik er nog niet was en eigenlijk toch ook wel. Mijn moeder was zwanger van mij in die decembermaand nu 78 jaar geleden. Een wintervertelling die de tijd trotseert, over angst en eenzaamheid, maar ook vol humor en met verve geschreven. Het boek eindigt positief, vol vreugde over het leven. Het is gezien, het is niet onopgemerkt gebleven, zo luidt de slotzin.
February 17, 2017
Frits looked at the clock. "All is lost," he thought, "everything is ruined. It's ten minutes past three. But the evening can still make up for a great deal.
Gerard Reve's 1947 debut novel "De Avonden" is a classic of Dutch, indeed European, literature, for example ranked as the best Dutch novel since 1900 by the Society of Dutch literature.
70 years later it has finally appeared in English, translated by Sam Garrett, also translator of the wonderful Tirza. See this LA Review of Books interview for his general approach to translation.
Apparently De Avonden was regarded for many years as untranslatable, and perhaps still is. Even the mighty Lydia Davis tried but gave up - see The Atlantic.
It isn't possible for me, as a non Dutch native speaker, to comment on what may have been lost in translation. To be provocative: I'm not sure I even care. I can only comment on what has been rendered, as The Evenings, into English and judged by that standard, against books originally written in English not just other translated literature, it is excellent.
Set over the last ten evenings of December 1946, the protagonist Frits van Egters is 23, living at home with his parents, while working in a humdrum job: I work in an office. I take cards out of a file. Once I have taken them out, I put them back in again. That is it.
The prose style has a satisfying period feel, although I understand the Dutch original was written in language closer to their equivalent of the King James bible.
What can't translate so precisely for the modern day reader is the state of both Dutch literature and society at the time the book was set, published and originally read - but that equally applies for the modern day Dutch reader.
Set in 1946, and was written in 1947, when Reve himself was the same age as Frits. This is just two years on from the 1944-5 Hongerwinter that led to 20,000 people starving in the occupied parts of the Netherlands. While an air of austerity pervades ("everything is still so hard to get"), the events of the Hongerwinter are mostly implicit with only one explicit mention: a typical Frits dark anecdote as to how various people his parents helped feed subsequently met untimely ends, but which concludes reflectively: When it was over," Frits went on, "we still had dozens of pounds of wheat, kilos of beans and peas. But it is the fear. That is worst of it all."
This is far from a plot driven novel. We learn absolutely nothing of Frits's office job, other than the cynical line above, and instead we see his evenings after work. He spends them procrastinating ("Today would be an excellent opportunity to arrange things in here. He thought. Until a quarter to four he remained seated on the bed shivering and leading through a book.), listening to the radio, eating mundane meals (bread and dripping a key staple), looking at his watch, despairing at his parents ("I'm only waiting for them to hang themselves or beat each other to death. Or set the house on fire."), going out to seek out acquaintances just to get away from the house ("One may need to leave without having to go anywhere. Those are the cases in which one must go away from somewhere.") and then indulging in pointless conversations for the sake of having something to say.
Male pattern baldness is a particular obsession: he examines his own hair for any signs and gleefully points them out in others. In Chapter (and evening) 2, at his brother's and apropos of nothing, he returns to his favourite theme:
"The only reason this comes up is because I never know what to say around here," he thought. "I will go on. There's no stopping it now."
[...]
"But speaking of baldness," Frits went on, "it is a nasty business. One sees it quite often. It seems to be all the rage." Ina poured them tea. "Do we still have time for that?" Joop asked. They lapsed into silence. "There are countless anecdotes for baldness," Frits went on, "but few are effective. There are however, many known methods for disguising the vacuity." "My, my," Ina said, "aren't we in a talkative mood this evening?"
This habit of rather inappropriate comments is characteristic and he delights in blackly humourous anecdotes, e.g. commenting on reports of children maimed by live ammunition: Those reports like: child killed by exploding grenade. Glorious. Deferred suffering from the war.
Visiting a friend Joosje, on the occasion of her son's first birthday, he tries but fails to stop the child crying and, then:
"It is, in truth, a terrible little monster," Frits said "The nerves have developed all wrong. It probably doesn't have long to live." "Don't say such ridiculous things," said Joosje. "The head is bound to become distended as well," Frits went on. "It is growing all crooked, like a plant to the light, mark my words." "Oh, he's just talking to hear himself speak." said Joosje's mother.
Not that the parents are any better: going out for a night drinking with Frits, leaving their year-old child unattended (when asked what would happen if there was a fire, they respond that that would count as force majeure, and hopefully the smoke would likely get him before the flames).
Another pre-occupation is other's education and professions, which he typically ridicules, although this hints at one of his own deep-set insecurities. He tells one : "But don't forget," he said. "I left school in fourth grade. Not because I was stupid though." The reason was that having failed progressively more subjects, to that he had to re-take his end-of-year exams, he then characteristically procrastinated, didn't study at all ("Nothing, absolutely nothing") and ultimately didn't even turn up for the re-sit.
We get only the occasional glance like this into his psyche via his waking activities, but each chapter also ends with an account of his dreams, mostly deeply troubled and which would provide rich territory for a Freudian.
And the story ends, just after midnight at New Year, on a uncharacteristically poignant note as he whispers to a (much abused) soft-toy: Everything is finished. He whispered. It has passed. The year is no more. Rabbit, I am alive, and I breathe, and I move, so I live. Is that clear? Whatever ordeals are yet to come, I am alive.
Frits at one point says: "Every man has his story," he said, "but It is seldom an important one." Frits's personal story may be unimportant but this is an important novel and its English publication to be welcomed.
Strongly recommended andi will be surprised and certainly disappointed if this does not feature prominently in the Man Booker International running. [footnote - ineligible as author deceased]
Gerard Reve's 1947 debut novel "De Avonden" is a classic of Dutch, indeed European, literature, for example ranked as the best Dutch novel since 1900 by the Society of Dutch literature.
70 years later it has finally appeared in English, translated by Sam Garrett, also translator of the wonderful Tirza. See this LA Review of Books interview for his general approach to translation.
Apparently De Avonden was regarded for many years as untranslatable, and perhaps still is. Even the mighty Lydia Davis tried but gave up - see The Atlantic.
It isn't possible for me, as a non Dutch native speaker, to comment on what may have been lost in translation. To be provocative: I'm not sure I even care. I can only comment on what has been rendered, as The Evenings, into English and judged by that standard, against books originally written in English not just other translated literature, it is excellent.
Set over the last ten evenings of December 1946, the protagonist Frits van Egters is 23, living at home with his parents, while working in a humdrum job: I work in an office. I take cards out of a file. Once I have taken them out, I put them back in again. That is it.
The prose style has a satisfying period feel, although I understand the Dutch original was written in language closer to their equivalent of the King James bible.
What can't translate so precisely for the modern day reader is the state of both Dutch literature and society at the time the book was set, published and originally read - but that equally applies for the modern day Dutch reader.
Set in 1946, and was written in 1947, when Reve himself was the same age as Frits. This is just two years on from the 1944-5 Hongerwinter that led to 20,000 people starving in the occupied parts of the Netherlands. While an air of austerity pervades ("everything is still so hard to get"), the events of the Hongerwinter are mostly implicit with only one explicit mention: a typical Frits dark anecdote as to how various people his parents helped feed subsequently met untimely ends, but which concludes reflectively: When it was over," Frits went on, "we still had dozens of pounds of wheat, kilos of beans and peas. But it is the fear. That is worst of it all."
This is far from a plot driven novel. We learn absolutely nothing of Frits's office job, other than the cynical line above, and instead we see his evenings after work. He spends them procrastinating ("Today would be an excellent opportunity to arrange things in here. He thought. Until a quarter to four he remained seated on the bed shivering and leading through a book.), listening to the radio, eating mundane meals (bread and dripping a key staple), looking at his watch, despairing at his parents ("I'm only waiting for them to hang themselves or beat each other to death. Or set the house on fire."), going out to seek out acquaintances just to get away from the house ("One may need to leave without having to go anywhere. Those are the cases in which one must go away from somewhere.") and then indulging in pointless conversations for the sake of having something to say.
Male pattern baldness is a particular obsession: he examines his own hair for any signs and gleefully points them out in others. In Chapter (and evening) 2, at his brother's and apropos of nothing, he returns to his favourite theme:
"The only reason this comes up is because I never know what to say around here," he thought. "I will go on. There's no stopping it now."
[...]
"But speaking of baldness," Frits went on, "it is a nasty business. One sees it quite often. It seems to be all the rage." Ina poured them tea. "Do we still have time for that?" Joop asked. They lapsed into silence. "There are countless anecdotes for baldness," Frits went on, "but few are effective. There are however, many known methods for disguising the vacuity." "My, my," Ina said, "aren't we in a talkative mood this evening?"
This habit of rather inappropriate comments is characteristic and he delights in blackly humourous anecdotes, e.g. commenting on reports of children maimed by live ammunition: Those reports like: child killed by exploding grenade. Glorious. Deferred suffering from the war.
Visiting a friend Joosje, on the occasion of her son's first birthday, he tries but fails to stop the child crying and, then:
"It is, in truth, a terrible little monster," Frits said "The nerves have developed all wrong. It probably doesn't have long to live." "Don't say such ridiculous things," said Joosje. "The head is bound to become distended as well," Frits went on. "It is growing all crooked, like a plant to the light, mark my words." "Oh, he's just talking to hear himself speak." said Joosje's mother.
Not that the parents are any better: going out for a night drinking with Frits, leaving their year-old child unattended (when asked what would happen if there was a fire, they respond that that would count as force majeure, and hopefully the smoke would likely get him before the flames).
Another pre-occupation is other's education and professions, which he typically ridicules, although this hints at one of his own deep-set insecurities. He tells one : "But don't forget," he said. "I left school in fourth grade. Not because I was stupid though." The reason was that having failed progressively more subjects, to that he had to re-take his end-of-year exams, he then characteristically procrastinated, didn't study at all ("Nothing, absolutely nothing") and ultimately didn't even turn up for the re-sit.
We get only the occasional glance like this into his psyche via his waking activities, but each chapter also ends with an account of his dreams, mostly deeply troubled and which would provide rich territory for a Freudian.
And the story ends, just after midnight at New Year, on a uncharacteristically poignant note as he whispers to a (much abused) soft-toy: Everything is finished. He whispered. It has passed. The year is no more. Rabbit, I am alive, and I breathe, and I move, so I live. Is that clear? Whatever ordeals are yet to come, I am alive.
Frits at one point says: "Every man has his story," he said, "but It is seldom an important one." Frits's personal story may be unimportant but this is an important novel and its English publication to be welcomed.
Strongly recommended and
November 15, 2018
Di una donna, di un uomo e di un cane (*)
Questo libro è disturbante, deprimente, claustrofobico, ammorbante. Nel vuoto abissale di valori e nella profonda solitudine del protagonista c’è qualcosa che agghiaccia, provoca disagio e forse anche irritazione, qualcosa che mi ha costretto spesso a interrompere la lettura, senza sapere bene perché.
Potrebbe anche trattarsi del pregio principale del romanzo, visto che è evidente che lo scopo dell’autore fosse proprio quello di ottenere tali effetti. Tra l’altro, il suddetto autore si merita tutta la mia stima quando, come leggo nella postfazione, in risposta alle accuse di nichilismo afferma: «È ancora ampiamente diffusa l’idea che uno scrittore debba offrire una “prospettiva”. Non sono d’accordo. Per offrire una prospettiva bisogna in primo luogo vederne una, e poi: è questo il mio specifico compito?»
Io credo di no, che non sia questo lo specifico compito di uno scrittore.
E tuttavia, e per la prima volta faccio questa riflessione di fronte a uno dei tanti libri deprimenti che mi capita di leggere: nichilismo e cinismo insieme, miscelati con tale cupezza, sono troppo anche per me. Ho bisogno d’amore, per Dio, perché se no sto male! (*) Ma questo potrebbe essere un mio personalissimo limite.
La cosa peggiore invece è che il libro a un certo punto (molto presto, devo dire) diventa piuttosto noioso e ripetitivo. Io credo che si sarebbe potuto benissimo tagliare di due terzi abbondanti e ne avrebbe solo guadagnato.
(E soprattutto, come sono pedanti quelli che ti raccontano sempre cosa hanno sognato!)
Tre stelle infreddolite.
(*) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xE74L...
Questo libro è disturbante, deprimente, claustrofobico, ammorbante. Nel vuoto abissale di valori e nella profonda solitudine del protagonista c’è qualcosa che agghiaccia, provoca disagio e forse anche irritazione, qualcosa che mi ha costretto spesso a interrompere la lettura, senza sapere bene perché.
Potrebbe anche trattarsi del pregio principale del romanzo, visto che è evidente che lo scopo dell’autore fosse proprio quello di ottenere tali effetti. Tra l’altro, il suddetto autore si merita tutta la mia stima quando, come leggo nella postfazione, in risposta alle accuse di nichilismo afferma: «È ancora ampiamente diffusa l’idea che uno scrittore debba offrire una “prospettiva”. Non sono d’accordo. Per offrire una prospettiva bisogna in primo luogo vederne una, e poi: è questo il mio specifico compito?»
Io credo di no, che non sia questo lo specifico compito di uno scrittore.
E tuttavia, e per la prima volta faccio questa riflessione di fronte a uno dei tanti libri deprimenti che mi capita di leggere: nichilismo e cinismo insieme, miscelati con tale cupezza, sono troppo anche per me. Ho bisogno d’amore, per Dio, perché se no sto male! (*) Ma questo potrebbe essere un mio personalissimo limite.
La cosa peggiore invece è che il libro a un certo punto (molto presto, devo dire) diventa piuttosto noioso e ripetitivo. Io credo che si sarebbe potuto benissimo tagliare di due terzi abbondanti e ne avrebbe solo guadagnato.
(E soprattutto, come sono pedanti quelli che ti raccontano sempre cosa hanno sognato!)
Tre stelle infreddolite.
(*) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xE74L...
December 18, 2022
Perfect.
October 23, 2016
What was I thinking? Aimlessness and ennui belie nothing but aimlessness and ennui. This book starts off, goes on and finishes in precisely one way...soporifically. Or maybe several ways...unexcitingly, pointlessly, uninterestingly. Nothing happens. Nothing. A 23 year old man lives with his parents, sleeps, dreams, eats, works and has conversations which come across as exchanges of particularly unexciting, pointless and uninteresting anecdotes. I'm all about reading internationally, but if this is really the best Dutch novel of all time, it just makes me sad for the state of Dutch literature. This can't be it, this must be some sort of a trend, in fact Reve is one of the three writers of a particular realism literary renewal movement, according to Wikipedia. Well...yikes. No, no thank you. It isn't just that he writes about nothing, it's that he writes about nothing in a way you wouldn't want to read it. A great book can take mundane and turn into something, there is a way to take plain ingredients and bake something spectacular, this one is just a mess in a bowl. Presumably it's meant to convey the zeitgeist of the postwar Europe, but it barely managed that. Instead Reve chose to go with the exhaustive minute details of nothingness. That's a stylistic choice and, frankly, F that. Books should be interesting and exciting and enlightening, books should have more to offer. There isn't even a beauty of language here to fall back on. Irredeemable utter waste of time. This should have remained untranslated into English. Only suitable for sleeping aid. Thanks Netgalley.
February 25, 2017
This is really not a me book. My initial impression as I started reading this is that it reminded me heavily of Kafka's Metamorphosis. Unfortunately for me, this did not change as the story went on. There's that minutiae and sense of futility and psychotic breaks that just drag. I know others love this, but not me.
Fritz lives with his mother and father. She harps and complains and he longs for peace and calm. He is obsessed with baldness and death, and his powerlessness. He goes through the day detailing his every action, which if you want to know how people lived is great, but for entertainment value is as about exciting as watching paint dry.
Clearly a classic, and beloved by many, I really believe if you are a fan of Metamorphosis that you'll enjoy this book, too.
Fritz lives with his mother and father. She harps and complains and he longs for peace and calm. He is obsessed with baldness and death, and his powerlessness. He goes through the day detailing his every action, which if you want to know how people lived is great, but for entertainment value is as about exciting as watching paint dry.
Clearly a classic, and beloved by many, I really believe if you are a fan of Metamorphosis that you'll enjoy this book, too.
January 20, 2025
“‘These are the days given to us under the sun,’ he said aloud in the darkness. Twenty minutes later he fell asleep.”
The same year that Seinfeld made a splash as a sitcom about nothing (that is, in 1989), this book, also about nothing and first published in 1947, was apparently made into a movie. Unfortunately, while the first-person account of the ordinary days of a Dutch family held many promises a priori, the result fell flat for me. This novel wasn’t horrible, it was underwhelming.
The same year that Seinfeld made a splash as a sitcom about nothing (that is, in 1989), this book, also about nothing and first published in 1947, was apparently made into a movie. Unfortunately, while the first-person account of the ordinary days of a Dutch family held many promises a priori, the result fell flat for me. This novel wasn’t horrible, it was underwhelming.
September 3, 2013
'De avonden' van Gerard Reve is misschien mijn favoriete Nederlandstalige boek tot nu toe. Reve maakt van de nietsheid van alledag 'iets': een verhaal dat kwelt, bedrukt en het leven in zijn afgrijselijke naaktheid toont. Waar Mulisch moet grijpen naar intellectualistische foefjes en een eindeloze stoet van feitjes, en waar Hermans een vervreemdende setting ('nooit meer slapen') nodig heeft, bereikt Reve genialiteit zonder de huiskamer te hoeven verlaten. Het werkelijk geniale aan 'de Avonden' zijn namelijk de avonden uit de titel zelf. De eindeloze avonden met de ouders, die zonder dromen leven en de banaliteit van het bestaan omarmen. Frits van Egters, een jongen met genoeg verstand om zich te realiseren dat zijn leven mislukt is, maar met te weinig verstand om er wat van te maken, is de tragische hoofdpersoon in dit verhaal. Hij kijkt, als een spion in een donkere kamer, naar het leven dat zich voor zijn ogen voltrekt. Er zit geen plot in dit boek, geen ontwikkeling, en juist daardoor heeft het die benauwende werking. Het toont de horror van saaiheid en de wanhopige poging van de mens het bestaan betekenis te geven.
Het verhaal van Reve staat uiteraard voor meer dan wat we lezen. Het is niet alleen het verhaal van een jongen die niets meemaakt: het is het verhaal van het leven dat nergens toe leidt. Reve gebruikt slechts schaars symboliek en het meest krachtige symbool wordt misschien wel weggelaten. Wat wil Frits in de laatste scéne zeggen? Was er toch nog niets van wezenlijk belang in zijn leven, dat wij niet te weten krijgen? Lees voor een waardevolle interpretatie verder op deze site: http://home.hccnet.nl/goed.gesprek/Al....
Het verhaal van Reve staat uiteraard voor meer dan wat we lezen. Het is niet alleen het verhaal van een jongen die niets meemaakt: het is het verhaal van het leven dat nergens toe leidt. Reve gebruikt slechts schaars symboliek en het meest krachtige symbool wordt misschien wel weggelaten. Wat wil Frits in de laatste scéne zeggen? Was er toch nog niets van wezenlijk belang in zijn leven, dat wij niet te weten krijgen? Lees voor een waardevolle interpretatie verder op deze site: http://home.hccnet.nl/goed.gesprek/Al....
December 31, 2024
Beklemmend en wurgend saai in de beste zin van het woord. Grote aanrader.
July 15, 2018
Accade assai di rado che un libro mi attiri a sè in un modo così magnetico, costringendomi (fortunatamente) a superare il mio immotivato solito disinteresse nei confronti della letteratura nordica.
Le affinità fino ad allora solo supposte hanno trovato una conferma immediata sin dalle prime pagine dell’opera, consentendomi di rivedere nel protagonista Frits tratti che, talvolta, si rivelano anche nella mia persona.
Un ragazzo ossessionato dal tempo, dal suo scorrere e dalle tracce che esso lascia sugli uomini: malattia, calvizie e vecchiaia sono tematiche ricorrenti che, insieme alla descrizione millimetrica e finanche ripetitiva delle azioni compiute da Frits, contribuiscono alla creazione dell’atmosfera claustrofobica, asfissiante e opprimente che sembra circondare e permeare la vita del ragazzo.
Osservando continuamente l’orologio e contando morbosamente lo scorrere dei minuti, Frits edifica intorno a sé una prigione dalla quale crede di fuggire dormendo, uscendo di casa, passeggiando lungo i canali e facendo visita agli amici per scambiare qualche chiacchiera. Eppure la prigione lo segue anche in queste circostanze, portandolo ad avere incubi mostruosi, a operare ininterrotte riflessioni e a temere terribilmente i silenzi e le pause connaturati al dialogo.
Disagio, insofferenza, sporadici barlumi di accettazione e, da parte mia, la consapevolezza di aver letto un grande libro di cui serberò il ricordo.
Le affinità fino ad allora solo supposte hanno trovato una conferma immediata sin dalle prime pagine dell’opera, consentendomi di rivedere nel protagonista Frits tratti che, talvolta, si rivelano anche nella mia persona.
Un ragazzo ossessionato dal tempo, dal suo scorrere e dalle tracce che esso lascia sugli uomini: malattia, calvizie e vecchiaia sono tematiche ricorrenti che, insieme alla descrizione millimetrica e finanche ripetitiva delle azioni compiute da Frits, contribuiscono alla creazione dell’atmosfera claustrofobica, asfissiante e opprimente che sembra circondare e permeare la vita del ragazzo.
Osservando continuamente l’orologio e contando morbosamente lo scorrere dei minuti, Frits edifica intorno a sé una prigione dalla quale crede di fuggire dormendo, uscendo di casa, passeggiando lungo i canali e facendo visita agli amici per scambiare qualche chiacchiera. Eppure la prigione lo segue anche in queste circostanze, portandolo ad avere incubi mostruosi, a operare ininterrotte riflessioni e a temere terribilmente i silenzi e le pause connaturati al dialogo.
Disagio, insofferenza, sporadici barlumi di accettazione e, da parte mia, la consapevolezza di aver letto un grande libro di cui serberò il ricordo.
Read
December 6, 2018A Dutch novel! Don't see too many of those around. This from 1947 and counting as a sort of classic. A bit too '47 for my tastes, but certainly worth an afternoon of your reading pleasure. I suspect even a bit more humorous than what its reputation is likely to suggest.
_________
as Friend Nate D reminds :: 1947 Dutch masterpiece finally sees itself into English.
On its way in its very own English'ing by Sam Garrett.
http://www.complete-review.com/saloon...
TRANZ=late pleaZe!! Thank you!
And Lydia Davis likes it too ::
http://www.complete-review.com/saloon...
_________
as Friend Nate D reminds :: 1947 Dutch masterpiece finally sees itself into English.
http://www.complete-review.com/saloon...
And Lydia Davis likes it too ::
http://www.complete-review.com/saloon...
July 23, 2018
Videorecensione: https://youtu.be/tOJT0pNRY9g
June 22, 2022
Twenty-three-year-old school dropout Frits van Egters works in an office and lives with his parents in the close confines of a small apartment. The narrative takes place in Amsterdam over the last ten days of 1946. Frits frets over how to spend the evenings, for it is crucial that for their duration he escapes the presence of his parents, whose irritating personal habits he minutely categorizes to himself in an obsessive manner. Reve employs a limited third-person point-of-view in the novel, following Frits closely; we read what he says and, often in direct contrast to that, what he is thinking both before and after he says it. Frits reminded me in ways of Emmanuel Bove's anti-heroes, though perhaps sharper-witted and definitely more sarcastic. Frits worries endlessly about conversational topics to fill the empty spaces of social situations. His small talk leaves something to be desired, however, with his go-to subject being baldness, the imminent threat of which he frequently points out to his friends and his brother Joop. Frits is also troubled by unsettling dreams, the recounting of which often closes out the chapters.
This is a curious novel and Frits is a complicated, mercurial character who can be easy to like or loathe, depending on his mood. It's hard to imagine what it must have been like in Amsterdam so soon after the German occupation ended, and although Reve opts not to address the war head on, it sort of functions as the proverbial elephant in the room. Frits is clearly on edge, anxious, even paranoid, yet occasionally hopeful and still yearning to move forward. At one point, his friend loans him a book called The Small-Time Neurotic: A Handbook for Better Living, telling him he would definitely enjoy it.
Much of the dialogue between Frits and the other characters is rooted in banal topics like the weather or plans on how to spend the evenings. But there is also a lot of witty banter between Frits and his friends. These relationships and lively conversations are juxtaposed in stark contrast to the tense relationship Frits has with his parents, and the everyday chatter within the family. His parents are portrayed as rather superficial people, concerned merely with getting by in their meager daily existence. His father in particular appears as an almost protohuman figure. And yet there are a few mysterious allusions to occasional daylong trips he takes outside the apartment, and it is a source of underlying tension between him and Frits's mother. Clearly there is more to all of these characters, even Frits himself, but it remains just out of sight. And that elusiveness in the narrative is one of its main strengths, just as a pervasive sense of aimless longing is another one. Perhaps this droll exchange between Frits and his friend Jaap best sums up the status of all of their lives at that time and place:
This is a curious novel and Frits is a complicated, mercurial character who can be easy to like or loathe, depending on his mood. It's hard to imagine what it must have been like in Amsterdam so soon after the German occupation ended, and although Reve opts not to address the war head on, it sort of functions as the proverbial elephant in the room. Frits is clearly on edge, anxious, even paranoid, yet occasionally hopeful and still yearning to move forward. At one point, his friend loans him a book called The Small-Time Neurotic: A Handbook for Better Living, telling him he would definitely enjoy it.
Much of the dialogue between Frits and the other characters is rooted in banal topics like the weather or plans on how to spend the evenings. But there is also a lot of witty banter between Frits and his friends. These relationships and lively conversations are juxtaposed in stark contrast to the tense relationship Frits has with his parents, and the everyday chatter within the family. His parents are portrayed as rather superficial people, concerned merely with getting by in their meager daily existence. His father in particular appears as an almost protohuman figure. And yet there are a few mysterious allusions to occasional daylong trips he takes outside the apartment, and it is a source of underlying tension between him and Frits's mother. Clearly there is more to all of these characters, even Frits himself, but it remains just out of sight. And that elusiveness in the narrative is one of its main strengths, just as a pervasive sense of aimless longing is another one. Perhaps this droll exchange between Frits and his friend Jaap best sums up the status of all of their lives at that time and place:
'You do know, don't you,' Frits said when they walked on, 'that everything could be entirely different?' 'I haven't had the opportunity to make a study of that yet,' Jaap said.
September 21, 2024
Toen hij iemand door de gangdeur hoorde binnenkomen, herkende hij, na even luisteren, zijn vader aan de voetstappen en de ademhaling bij het ophalen van zijn overjas. ‘Hij heeft mij verwekt,’ dacht hij. ‘Laat ik hem welwillend beschouwen.’
The Evenings must have caused quite a shock upon its publication. In this 1947 novel – a classic of Dutch literature – Gerard Reve (1923-2006) pushes the boundaries of good taste and social norms in a society steeped in traditional values. He recounts the last ten days of 1946 through the eyes of Frits van Egters, a 23-year-old man living with his parents. Frits’ thoughts are characterised by a longing for something to happen, for an event that would make his existence – or at least his day – feel worthwhile. In reality, his days – especially the evenings – seem to pass by without any real significance. Frits works, remains more or less civil to his parents, and visits his friends on a whim, as was apparently customary at the time, yet a lack of purpose is evident.
I can understand why some readers might not be immediately impressed by the novel. However, once you grasp its essence – a snapshot of youth in the years directly following the Second World War – the story becomes all the more remarkable. With a rather dry style, Reve makes the zeitgeist tangible, in a time when television had yet to kill the radio star, and people ate potatoes with brown beans, gravy, and semolina dessert. While the war was over, youth cultures like the nozems did not yet emerge. It is striking that the author does not mention the war at all. Instead, he focuses on Frits’ inner life: his boredom, dreams, and frequent attempts to provoke others.
‘Kijk,’ zei zijn moeder. Ze stond voor het gasstel en wees achter zich op het aanrecht. ‘Bedoel je die fles?’ vroeg hij. Er stond een fles met een donkerrode vloeistof. Op de hals zat een oranje capsule. Hij trad naderbij. ‘Wat is dat?’ vroeg hij. ‘Ik heb een fles wijn gekocht voor vanavond,’ antwoordde ze, een aantal oliebollen uit de braadpan wippend. ‘Dat is prachtig,’ zei Frits. Hij nam de fles bij de hals op. Er zat een blauw etiket op met een gele rand. ‘Bessen-appel,’ las hij zacht. ‘Bessen-appel,’ zei hij bij zichzelf, ‘bessen-appel. Help ons, eeuwige, onze God. Zie onze nood. Uit de diepten roepen wij tot u. Verschrikkelijk.’
Reve’s use of language is a delight to read. It reminded me of J.J. Voskuil ( Plankton ), who wrote his diaries and novels decades later. No matter how stuffy his narrative may seem at times, Reve is far more subversive than his protagonist. I regret that his novels are not available online, making it more difficult for e-book enthusiasts abroad to access them.
‘Het is gezien,’ mompelde hij, ‘het is niet onopgemerkt gebleven.’
December 19, 2021
‘Er werd op een school een foto van de hele klas gemaakt, maar het arme jongetje mocht er niet op, die was te slecht gekleed. De juffrouw zegt: kijk Pietje, als die foto gemaakt is, dan zeggen ze later: dat is Wim, die is nu directeur van de bank; zijn vader was ook directeur. En dat is Klaasje, die is notaris. Zijn vader was ook notaris. En dat is Eduard, nu is hij dokter. En die daar is Joop, die is dominee. Dus Pietje, als de fotograaf komt, ga jij dan maar aan de kant staan. Begrijp je? Goed, dat doet hij ook en de foto wordt genomen. Een paar dagen later komt er een afdruk. Wie wil er foto’s bestellen? Vraagt de juffrouw. De meesten bestellen er een. Pietje ook. ‘Hij is eigenlijk oud en flauw,’ dacht hij. ‘De juffrouw is verbaasd,’ ging hij verder. ‘Die vraagt: Pietje, waarom wil jij een foto hebben, je staat er toch niet bij op? Dat weet ik wel, juffrouw, zegt hij. Waarom wil je er dan een hebben? Vraagt ze. Om te bewaren, zegt hij. Dan kan ik later, als ik groot ben, zeggen: dit is Wim, die is directeur geworden. En dit is Klaasje, die is notaris. En dat is Eduard, die is dokter. En dat is die juffrouw, die jong aan de tering is gestorven.’
November 8, 2017
Arguably the most pointless book I've ever read, and I absolutely loved it. Frits lives at home with his parents, who irritate him immeasurably, and obsseses about baldness, between fiddling with the radio, leafing idly through books and visiting his friends, which then causes him anxiety about maintaining conversations. Nothing of any note happens, but his life is laid so open, what's created is both hilarious and heroic. A genuine joy, and a searing look at the emptiness of life, as relevant today as it was when it was written seventy years ago. Majestic.
December 31, 2020
‘‘Tom te tom tom, tom te tom.’ zong Frits in zichzelf, ‘het gaat slecht, verder gaat het goed.’’
De obligate eindejaars-herlezing van De Avonden stelt nooit teleur. Daar waar auteurs vaak in hoog tempo beginnen en dan verder met hun verhaal, en vooral met het einde van hun verhaal, geen blijf lijken te weten, doet Reve net het omgekeerde. Gestaag werkt hij toe naar het hoogtepunt (of dieptepunt?): het laatste hoofdstuk, met de schrijnende oudejaarsavond. De ultieme treurnis vertalen in een eenvoudige fles sap is zo geniaal dat ze keer op keer naar de keel grijpt.
‘‘Kijk,’ zei zijn moeder. Ze stond voor het gasstel en wees achter zich op het aanrecht. ‘Bedoel je die fles?’ vroeg hij. Er stond een fles met donkerrode vloeistof. Op de hals zat een oranje capsule. Hij trad naderbij. ‘Wat is dat?’ vroeg hij. ‘Ik heb een fles wijn gekocht voor vanavond,’ antwoordde ze, een aantal oliebollen uit de braadpan wippend. ‘Dat is prachtig,’ zei Frits. Hij nam de fles bij de hals op. Er zat een blauw etiket op met een gele rand. ‘Bessen-appel,’ las hij zacht. ‘Bessen-appel,’ zei hij bij zichzelf, ‘bessen-appel. Help ons, eeuwige, onze God. Zie onze nood. Uit de diepten roepen wij tot u. Verschrikkelijk.’’
Maar ook aan deze beproeving komt een einde…
‘‘Alles is voorbij,’ fluisterde hij, ‘het is overgegaan. Het jaar is er niet meer. Konijn, ik ben levend. Ik adem, en ik beweeg, dus ik leef. Is dat duidelijk? Welke beproevingen ook komen, ik leef.’
Hij zoog zijn borst vol adem en stapte in bed. ‘Het is gezien,’ mompelde hij, ‘het is niet onopgemerkt gebleven.’
Hij strekte zich uit en viel in een diepe slaap.’
De obligate eindejaars-herlezing van De Avonden stelt nooit teleur. Daar waar auteurs vaak in hoog tempo beginnen en dan verder met hun verhaal, en vooral met het einde van hun verhaal, geen blijf lijken te weten, doet Reve net het omgekeerde. Gestaag werkt hij toe naar het hoogtepunt (of dieptepunt?): het laatste hoofdstuk, met de schrijnende oudejaarsavond. De ultieme treurnis vertalen in een eenvoudige fles sap is zo geniaal dat ze keer op keer naar de keel grijpt.
‘‘Kijk,’ zei zijn moeder. Ze stond voor het gasstel en wees achter zich op het aanrecht. ‘Bedoel je die fles?’ vroeg hij. Er stond een fles met donkerrode vloeistof. Op de hals zat een oranje capsule. Hij trad naderbij. ‘Wat is dat?’ vroeg hij. ‘Ik heb een fles wijn gekocht voor vanavond,’ antwoordde ze, een aantal oliebollen uit de braadpan wippend. ‘Dat is prachtig,’ zei Frits. Hij nam de fles bij de hals op. Er zat een blauw etiket op met een gele rand. ‘Bessen-appel,’ las hij zacht. ‘Bessen-appel,’ zei hij bij zichzelf, ‘bessen-appel. Help ons, eeuwige, onze God. Zie onze nood. Uit de diepten roepen wij tot u. Verschrikkelijk.’’
Maar ook aan deze beproeving komt een einde…
‘‘Alles is voorbij,’ fluisterde hij, ‘het is overgegaan. Het jaar is er niet meer. Konijn, ik ben levend. Ik adem, en ik beweeg, dus ik leef. Is dat duidelijk? Welke beproevingen ook komen, ik leef.’
Hij zoog zijn borst vol adem en stapte in bed. ‘Het is gezien,’ mompelde hij, ‘het is niet onopgemerkt gebleven.’
Hij strekte zich uit en viel in een diepe slaap.’
September 15, 2016
'Evenings' by Gerard Reve (translated by Sam Garrett)
3.5 stars/ 7 out of 10
I had not heard of the author before, despite reading a lot of fiction in translation, so I was interested to read a book by him.
The translation of the novel flows easily. The novel describes 10 evenings in the life of the narrator, Frits van Egters. It has an unusual opening that gripped my attention.The level of detail of the humdrum nature of home life built up an atmosphere of boredom very effectively.
I was impressed with how realistic some of the descriptions were, eg the incident where Frits is reminiscing with his brother about events from their childhood, and how their memories differ.
Reve, in this novel, is very good at describing the mundanities of life. As we are taken through the 10 evenings that are described in the book, we build up a more detailed picture of the narrator, his family and acquaintances, and life in Amsterdam at the time the book is set, December 1946.
Having read the novel, I understand why it has been listed in the 10 favourite Dutch novels of all time. I thought it was both effective and affective. My favourite chapter was the one describing the Gymnasium (school) reunion.
Thank you to Pushkin Press and to NetGalley for an ARC.
December 5, 2021
Op de middelbare school in een hoek gegooid — boring. Tot de conclusie gekomen dat Reve “niet voor mij is”, ondanks een fijne leeservaring met Werther Nieland. Toch altijd benieuwd gebleven naar De avonden. Waar ik het meest van opkijk, los van de verbluffende, nagenoeg perfecte vertelbeheersing die Reve op jonge leeftijd aan de dag legt, is dat ik erachter kom dat De avonden eigenlijk pure comedy is. Wat heet, na Dode zielen is het de beste comedy die ik ooit heb gelezen.
December 31, 2024
Tot volgend jaar Frits - hopelijk ben je dan weer wat ouder en wijzer!
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January 20, 2020Zijn alle mannen zoveel bezig met haaruitval?
December 18, 2024
wekte onredelijk veel irritatie bij me op, maar heeft me op momenten ook aan het lachen gemaakt. enfin.
February 21, 2025
Occasionally, I like to read books about the mundane, the banal, the everyday; books which explore the repetition and ennui of existence. If they're good, they will almost certainly become favourites. If they're not, they will infuriate me. In most cases, it's usually the latter because, in my opinion, books about this particular subject matter (the boredom of everyday life) are very difficult to pull off, and very often make the mistake of assuming that a book about boredom should also be boring itself. As such, this book goes nowhere, invites no development, offers no excitement. The author makes the mistake of thinking the book must be a mirror for the subject matter. If it's about life being repetitive then the book must be repetitive. If it's about the tedium of bureaucracy then the book must also demonstrate dry bureaucracy. If it's about nothing then the book must exemplify a certain nothingness.
It's an easy trap to fall into. Because, in truth, boredom can actually be very interesting if you explore it with a sense of purpose and creativity. Sadly, that doesn't happen here. Reves has a nice style of writing, or at least the English translation does, and I think it was this style that kept me going longer than I normally would before noticing... it just isn't very fun. The protagonist, Frits, is a slightly charmless individual with a penchant for mockery and pretension. He lives with his parents and they sit and eat potatoes, or they smoke a cigarette, or they listen to the radio. He visits friends, goes to dances, gets drunk, makes fun of his brother's balding hair, or he just takes walks in the cold winter streets by the frozen canal. There are ten chapters representing ten days over Christmas. Oh, and there's a lot of dream sequences too, almost every chapter (at the day's end) concluding with one. I'm tempted to believe that Reves included these because what could better represent boredom than having to listen to another man tell you about his dreams? It is the absolute embodiment of the tedious. But I'm not sure if that wasn't purely coincidental. Otherwise, not much happens (as you'd expect) and the book is nothing more than a brief investigation of a dull, normal life. That this takes place just after the war gives it a strange dimension. I mean, just how bored could people really be after such a dramatic conflict? Then again, maybe the immediate post war years were all the more dull precisely because everyone had just experienced something so visceral.
But the book just never grabbed me. It's like someone putting up wallpaper. You understand why it's being done, might even like the pattern they've chosen, but do you really want to watch them doing it? Not me. Again, the themes are interesting but this is a tricky thing to do successfully. I was reminded of Camera by Toussaint, the mundane more curiously presented in that book, perhaps because it was an almost ethereal, heightened version of reality, or, even more so, Skylark by Kosztolanyi, a book which this feels eerily similar to. In fact, these two books could be related, the same book but from different perspectives; in Skylark we get the parents' version of events, here, the adult child's. Ultimately, I think Skylark did a better job of exploring the mundane (and did so much earlier in 1924). To me, this was the less interesting version while Skylark focused on the bored parents, people who had truly known tedium, blandness, and disappointment.
Anyway, I struggled with this. It never remotely excited me. I had high hopes but was slightly let down. Its themes have been better dealt with elsewhere. The writing is pretty good, in fact I'm tempted to say it was actually quite contemporary, at least in the sense that it was easy to read with very standard prose. But otherwise, nope. It didn't succeed as a novel about nothing. It wasn't dynamic enough to be about nothing. Nothing is more interesting than this. Nothing is the most profound of all the human experiences. This was just dull.
It's an easy trap to fall into. Because, in truth, boredom can actually be very interesting if you explore it with a sense of purpose and creativity. Sadly, that doesn't happen here. Reves has a nice style of writing, or at least the English translation does, and I think it was this style that kept me going longer than I normally would before noticing... it just isn't very fun. The protagonist, Frits, is a slightly charmless individual with a penchant for mockery and pretension. He lives with his parents and they sit and eat potatoes, or they smoke a cigarette, or they listen to the radio. He visits friends, goes to dances, gets drunk, makes fun of his brother's balding hair, or he just takes walks in the cold winter streets by the frozen canal. There are ten chapters representing ten days over Christmas. Oh, and there's a lot of dream sequences too, almost every chapter (at the day's end) concluding with one. I'm tempted to believe that Reves included these because what could better represent boredom than having to listen to another man tell you about his dreams? It is the absolute embodiment of the tedious. But I'm not sure if that wasn't purely coincidental. Otherwise, not much happens (as you'd expect) and the book is nothing more than a brief investigation of a dull, normal life. That this takes place just after the war gives it a strange dimension. I mean, just how bored could people really be after such a dramatic conflict? Then again, maybe the immediate post war years were all the more dull precisely because everyone had just experienced something so visceral.
But the book just never grabbed me. It's like someone putting up wallpaper. You understand why it's being done, might even like the pattern they've chosen, but do you really want to watch them doing it? Not me. Again, the themes are interesting but this is a tricky thing to do successfully. I was reminded of Camera by Toussaint, the mundane more curiously presented in that book, perhaps because it was an almost ethereal, heightened version of reality, or, even more so, Skylark by Kosztolanyi, a book which this feels eerily similar to. In fact, these two books could be related, the same book but from different perspectives; in Skylark we get the parents' version of events, here, the adult child's. Ultimately, I think Skylark did a better job of exploring the mundane (and did so much earlier in 1924). To me, this was the less interesting version while Skylark focused on the bored parents, people who had truly known tedium, blandness, and disappointment.
Anyway, I struggled with this. It never remotely excited me. I had high hopes but was slightly let down. Its themes have been better dealt with elsewhere. The writing is pretty good, in fact I'm tempted to say it was actually quite contemporary, at least in the sense that it was easy to read with very standard prose. But otherwise, nope. It didn't succeed as a novel about nothing. It wasn't dynamic enough to be about nothing. Nothing is more interesting than this. Nothing is the most profound of all the human experiences. This was just dull.
January 6, 2026
Tom te tom tom, tom te tom.
February 13, 2023
I’m sorry, but I just don’t know what to tell you. Don’t read it. Just don’t. It’s not worth your time.
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