Read Heartsnatcher by Boris Vian StanleyChapman Raymond Queneau John Sturrock Online

heartsnatcher

Set in a bizarre and slightly sinister town where the elderly are auctioned off at an Old Folks Fair, the townspeople assail the priest in hopes of making it rain, and the official town scapegoat bears the shame of the citizens by fishing junk out of the river with his teeth. Heartsnatcher is Boris Vian's most playful and most serious work. The main character is ClementineSet in a bizarre and slightly sinister town where the elderly are auctioned off at an Old Folks Fair, the townspeople assail the priest in hopes of making it rain, and the official town scapegoat bears the shame of the citizens by fishing junk out of the river with his teeth. Heartsnatcher is Boris Vian's most playful and most serious work. The main character is Clementine, a mother who punishes her husband for causing her the excruciating pain of giving birth to three babies. As they age, she becomes increasingly obsessed with protecting them, going so far as to build an invisible wall around their property....

Title : Heartsnatcher
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 9781564782991
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 245 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

Heartsnatcher Reviews

  • Helen Ροζουλί Εωσφόρος Vernus Portitor Arcanus Ταμετούρο Αμούν Arnum
    2019-01-12 02:51

    #Κανε_Τρακα_Λιγο_Ηθος«Τί συνέβη; ρώτησε ό Μακαβριωάννης. Πέσατε από τηβάρκα;—"Εκανα τη δουλειά μου, είπε ό άνθρωπος. Μέσα σ' αυτά τα νερά πετάνε τα πεθαμένα πράγματα, για να τα ψαρέψω. Με τα δόντια. Πληρώνομαι γι αυτό.— Μα ένα δίχτυ θα έκανε εξίσου καλά αυτή τη δουλειά, είπεό Μακαβριωάννης."Ενιωθε ένα είδος ανησυχίας, μια εντύπωση σα να μίλαγε με κάποιον από άλλον πλανήτη. Αίσθηση αρκετά γνωστή, βέβαια, βέβαια.— Πρέπει να τα ψαρέψω με τα δόντια μου, είπε ό άνθρωπος.Τα πράγματα πού έχουν σαπίσει ή πού έχουν πεθάνει, γι αυτότα πετάνε. Συχνά, τα αφήνουν επίτηδες να σαπίζουν για να μπορέσουν να τα πετάξουν. Καί πρέπει να τα πιάσω με τα δόντια μου.Καί να σκάσουν ανάμεσα στα δόντια μου. Να μου μολύνουν τοπρόσωπο.— Σάς πληρώνουν ακριβά γι αυτό; ρώτησε ό Μακαβριωάννης.— Μου προμηθεύουν τη βάρκα, είπε ό άνθρωπος, καί μεπληρώνουν με ντροπή καί χρυσάφι.Στή λέξη «ντροπή», ό Μακαβριωάννης έκανε ένα βήμα προς τα πίσω καί θύμωσε με τον εαυτό του.—"Εχω ένα σπίτι, είπε ό άνθρωπος, πού άντελήφτηκε την κίνηση του Μακαβριωάννη καί χαμογέλασε. Μου δίνουν να τρώω• μου δίνουν χρυσάφι. Πολύ χρυσάφι. Άλλα δεν έχω δικαίωμα να το ξοδέψω. Κανείς δεν θέλει να μου πουλήσει τίποτα. "Εχω ένα σπίτι και πολύ χρυσάφι, άλλα πρέπει να χωνεύω την ντροπή ολόκληρου του χωρίου. Με πληρώνουν για να έχω τύψεις στη θέση τους. Για ό,τι κακό ή ανόσιο κάνουν. Για όλα τους τα βίτσια. Για τα εγκλήματα τους. Για το παζάρι των γέρων. Για το βασάνισμα των ζώων. Για τους μαθητευόμενους. Και για τις βρωμιές.Σταμάτησε για ένα λεπτό.—Άλλα, συνέχισε, όλα αυτά δεν θα σας ενδιαφέρουν. Δεν έχετε βέβαια σκοπό να μείνετε εδώ."Εγινε μια μεγάλη σιωπή.— Ναί, έχω, είπε τελικά ό Μακαβριωάννης. Θα μείνω εδώ.— Τότε, θα γίνετε σαν τους άλλους, είπε ό άνθρωπος. Θαζήσετε και σεις με ήσυχη τη συνείδηση, και θα ξεφορτώνετε πάνωμου το βάρος της ντροπής σας. Και θα μου δίνετε χρυσάφι. Δενθα μου πουλάτε όμως τίποτα για το χρυσάφι μου.— Πώς σας λένε; ρώτησε ό Μακαβριωάννης.—Ή Δόξα, είπε ό άνθρωπος. Με φωνάζουν ή Δόξα. Είναι το όνομα της βάρκας. Εγώ δεν έχω πια.— Θα σας ξαναδώ. . . είπε ό Μακαβριωάννης.— Θα είσαστε σαν κι αυτούς, είπε ό άνθρωπος. Δεν θα μουξαναμιλήσετε πια. Θα με πληρώνετε. Και θα μου πετάτε τιςβρωμιές σας. Και τη ντροπή σας». Θεωρώ πως μετά απο αυτό το απόσπασμα τα συμπεράσματα και οι σκέψεις σχετικά με το βιβλίο αυτό είναι προφανέστατα. Ένα κόκκινο απο αίμα ποτάμι διασχίζει κάποιο χωριό. Μέσα σε αυτό το ποτάμι οι κάτοικοι πετούν σκουπίδια, άχρηστα πράγματα, νεκρά σώματα, ανθρώπινα μέλη κακοποιημένα και φυσικά εκεί πνίγουν την ντροπή τους, ελευθερώνοντας τη συνείδηση τους απο τύψεις. Ο «αποδιοπομπαίος τράγος» είναι ένας άνθρωπος, ονομάζεται Δόξα και έχει καθήκον να συλλέγει με τα δόντια τα αποσυντιθέμενα πράγματα και να καταπίνει την ντροπή ολοκλήρου του χωριού. Η παράδοση λέει πως όποιος αισθανθεί μεγαλύτερη ντροπή παίρνει τη θέση του στο ποτάμι της ματωμένης δόξας. Σ’ αυτό το χωριό φθάνει κάποια μέρα ένας ψυχίατρος, ο Μακαβριωάννης. Γεννήθηκε ενήλικας και δεν έχει αναμνήσεις και συναισθήματα. Αναζητά μέσω της ψυχανάλυσης σε άλλους ανθρώπους μια μεταβίβαση ταυτότητας για να ολοκληρώσει την ύπαρξη του. Όταν γνωρίζει το χωριό και τους χωρικούς νιώθει απίστευτη ντροπή και απέχθεια μα σταδιακά προσπαθεί να εγκλιματιστεί. Στην κεντρική πλατεία του χωριού πλειστηριάζουν τους ηλικιωμένους και τους πουλάνε σαν σκλάβους σε κάποιους που θα τους βασανίζουν για διασκέδαση. Στην εκκλησία, ο παπάς δοξολογεί το χρήμα και την πολυτέλεια και αφορίζει τη φτώχεια και την ανέχεια. Ο Θεός είναι για τους λίγους, δεν ειναι χρηστικός, είναι ένα χρυσό μαξιλάρι, είναι δώρο γενεθλίων, απεχθάνεται τα καθημερινά και ευλογεί τα πλούτη και την ασυδοσία.Τα ζώα σταυρώνονται και τιμωρούνται για τη φύση τους. Τα παιδιά κακοποιούνται, εργάζονται ως βοηθοί τεχνιτών με αντάλλαγμα τιμωρίες και βασανιστήρια μέχρι θανάτου. Εγκλήματα, κακίες, βρομιά, σαπίλα, αρρώστιες, βασανιστήρια και βία σε κάθε μορφή ζωής. Ο συγγραφέας δημιουργεί αλληγορικά, σατιριτικά και απίστευτα θλιβερά ένα παράλληλο Σύμπαν σουρεαλιστικής φρίκης και παραλληλισμών σε βαθμό κακουργήματος. Το χειρότερο είναι πως ο πόνος, το δάκρυ και το γέλιο που εναλλάσσονται σε αυτή την κοινωνικό πολιτική ατζέντα δεν είναι μακριά απο την σημερινή πραγματικότητα. Ένας νέος κόσμος που σατιρίζει τον υπάρχοντα συμβολικά και επιτηδευμένα προκαλώντας λογοτεχνικά τον κοινό νου. Αξίες, ιδέες, θεσμοί, ιεροί δεσμοί, ήθη, συναισθήματα και μια ιδιότροπη παράλογη αλήθεια απ-ανθρωπιάς εκτοπίζουν τη σημασία...και καθιστούν αυτό το παράδοξο πεζογράφημα αξιόλογο σαν μια αντιμετώπιση της ανθρώπινης σκληρότητας, της ασυνέπειας και της περίεργης λογικής. Καλή ανάγνωση. Πολλούς ασπασμούς.

  • MJ Nicholls
    2018-12-29 01:53

    The final novel from Boris Vian—sort of a Queneau for Coltrane enthusiasts—is a bleak and harrowing tale of a mother who loves her children too much. Well, that’s the rub. There’s also the David Lynch village, unnamed, where unfeeling psychiatrist Timortis wanders into the Old Folks Fair, where OAPs are sold to the highest bidder. He meets the Glory Hallelujah—a man paid in gold to absolve the village’s shame by fishing corpses and fish heads from the local river with his teeth, leaving the residents free to murder apprentices, abuse the vicar and be beastly in general. Timortis moves into the house of Clementine and Angel, a feuding couple whose newly born triplets drive them apart, forcing Angel to ride out to sea on a handmade boat. While Tim gets intimate with the maid, Clementine grows paranoid that she doesn’t love her children enough. She becomes over-protective to a degree of madness, eventually sealing her children in cages and building a dome of nothingness over her home.So. Quite strange. By turns surreal, hilarious, bawdy and brutal, this is a touching and devastating book. It satirises the hysteria of parents eager to shield their kids from a brutal world, a world symbolised in this unnamed village, with Clementine’s conclusion even bleaker—it’s better to hide from the world and shut out the ugliness. The fatal irony comes from her vanity: her children being too precious to deserve their freedom. This is a unique and twisted gem. Boris Vian was a talent to rival Queneau, who supplies a fitting foreword. Recommended for fans of French classics and seriously weird tales.

  • Mariel
    2018-12-18 01:02

    Boris Vian apparently died while attending the premiere of the film version of I Spit on Your Grave. The story goes that the cause of death, rather the cause of the cause of death, which was a heart attack, was 'cause the film wasn't any good. I don't know about anyone else but if I had my expectations so lowered I might say to myself, "Well, it wasn't that bad." Maybe my not dying would raise the expectations of another goodreader and then they would die. "It won't kill me! I already left my brain at the door of every Tim Allen movie ever made. Why not this? At least I can be donated to science." It might be safer not to not watch any films at all, if that is your benchmark (science could be up to no good as well). What if they are so bad that dying isn't enough? Roald Dahl routinely spins in his grave whenever a sub-par filmic adaptations of his works is released (he loaded up his coffin with things like pool cues and pencils so that the noise would reach Los Angeles). There is no such thing as rest in peace when you're an author with crappy film versions to their name. (Ken Kesey got a head start but I'm sure he's out there haunting some studio executive as I write this, all the same. Early birds getting the worm is a myth. The executive will be inspired to do a remake. Should have stayed at home...)What can I say? I'm a rat bastard on the road to staying a rat bastard.The film version of Heartsnatcher. (A text synopsis of what could be a film version, if such things happened.)A jazz band jams. It sounds like a bunch of guys getting on stage and playing the same notes over and over again. (Vian was a jazz musician. So sue us! Also, it all sounds exactly the same so it would be cheap to get some guys together to eek out a soundtrack.) Timortis is played by the guy that you always mistake for Tom Cruises' cousin William Map-what is his face but isn't him. The camera is on the actor hired because he looks like someone you don't know well enough to place that it's not him. He's kneeling in the weak red sand doing some deep looking combination of Bill Paxton in Twister and Aragorn. It looks like flavored water that gets its colors because it is made with bugs. And if you knew it was made with bugs you would feel too sick to drink it. The pretty much pink sand is sifting through his fingers and he's about to ask why the dirt is this squished insides color when the camera isn't on him anymore. It's on a large figured gal. The kind who is still the sex pot in sketch comedy shows because there are only so many actresses on those shows. Her breasts are so large you feel smothered just looking at them. That's because the perverted camera operator is too close to them. He hasn't seen a woman in weeks because he was in prison for a five year stint (identity theft. He played an actor in a movie when he wasn't really that b-list actor from Law and Order).The large figured gal is screaming like she thinks she's Dawn French, or someone. I can't get away from her. The sand in Timortis' palm sifts into the awesome wind special effects. There's enough grains to scratch his chin as he strokes the hairs on his thoughtless chin. They stand to attention, still seeing nothing.Woman: Help! My maid is breastfeeding my children!Timortis takes the time to be aroused. Of course, the problem would be solved if one of them is lying on their back. The sand is all up in the cracks and other places. The problem wasn't solved by only one of them being on their backs. Woman: My bosom isn't enough anymore. What if my babies scratch their precious milk fed faces on this sand?Timortis is an analrapist so he nods and accepts the credit, as due his profession, from his lofty position of a raised arm behind her bum when the mother decides (the actress depicts this in pure soap eyebrow arching) that clasping them tighter with the effects of the new Wonderbra would be the ideal idea. Underwire is the new prison wire. Timortis isn't sure he prefers clasps in the front or the back but he is moving on to younger milk maids after today. Why keep milking the same old cow? The sand is blowing in the direction of a rock formation that resembles phallic and vaginal shaped backgrounds of music videos made by The Cure. This way are the girls...Oh, darn! Timortis never fucked Clementine. She wouldn't let another man near her after birthing three babies (who would want to, after that?). This film is unfaithful! I'll never get another nights sleep. What can I say? I'm a hack.I could have written a real goodreads review instead of being dumb online again. Too late. Well, did I really like this? It's a bit like watching a Disney film with a too obvious moral of the story, at the end of its day. I mean to say one that is told to you what it is. That kind of obvious (and yet we murderers miss what is explicitly told in our crappy film adaptations). The twins, Joel and Noel, and especially their leader triplet Alfa Romeo, made me feel for their plight and tightened spirit in the grip of their over bosomed mama. I liked the kids being kids of their own world. That fit into the playful way that Vian writes. I like Boris Vian's style of messed up cruelty and sticking your finger in the moving wheel impulse. I did that once as a kid. I probably knew it wouldn't be good and I still did it (twelve was too old to do that, probably). Then it's like you knew what would happen and it's "Oh, I knew that would happen" as a disappointed letdown rather than a dawning horror of inevitability. What else was supposed to happen? Can I just say it's dreamlike without sounding too obvious? The way you don't know if you're going to enter a room in a dream even if you are headed that way. Like satire that is satire of what you never needed pointed out. Oh wait, that is what it is. I like the moment of staring the spinning wheel. I never do learn my lesson, in that time. Now can the dream end less obviously? What can I say? I am chasing a bit of what I don't already know. That you can't be free in a cage... Well, yeah? (Maybe a bit of freedom before you shut the door so to feel the loss.) So that's what I want in a really great read. I did kinda like this. Love is more than past arms length, I guess.Clementine would argue that you shouldn't watch any films again if one could kill you. Would Boris Vian change his mind about risks if he knew how he would die? Heaven help you if you can't tell the difference between real love and this fake grabby kind, I think he wanted to say. Does Heartsnatcher have any? I didn't find it. So what was the risk?

  • Diana
    2018-12-30 20:03

    "Сърца за изтръгване" е много странна, абсурдна, трудна за възприемане, но силно въздействаща. Книга-сън, книга-бълнуване, книга-видение, която се случва в неопределено село и в неопределено време - 59-ти янрил, 73-ти феврюин, 107-ми апруст, 348-ми юлиември.Виан е нарисувал с думи много красиви, изящни, цветни и почти нереални късчета природата и ги е вместил между разтърсващо натуралистичните описания на мутиралите и изродени навици и възприятия на местните хора. Жакмор (млад на години, но роден възрастен и празен) попада в странното село, за да се напълни с емоции и усещания, психоанализирайки другите. В един момент усеща себе си като черен котарак. В това село, където животните пътуват на автостоп, бременните мразят мъжете за болките и мъките, които са им причинили и не ги допускат до себе си и до децата. Насилието се е пропило в душите - съгрешилите жребци ги разпъват на кръст, на даващите малко мляко крави им режат главите, старците ги продават на пазара, щипят ги и ги изнасилват за забавление, децата по навик ги пребиват до смърт, а дърветата ги убиват с нажежени шишове и те умират с писъци. Но съвестта на хората е чиста, защото не правят разлика между доброто и злото, не усещат срам. Това е забранена дума, продават го срещу злато на един човек, който вади със зъби от червената, мазна и гъста река остатъците от всичките им хвърлени там грехове и срамове и ги събира в лодка. Той дори вече няма свое име, наричат го както лодката - Ла Глоар. Първият, който се засрами повече от него, ще заеме мястото му.Децата растат за часове, мислят и говорят като възрастни. Когато си играят, от земята между цветните им камъчета излиза десетсантиметрово русо момиченце и танцува, а когато се изплюят върху семка, от нея веднага расте мъничко дърво с розови листа, сребристи клони и пеещи птички по тях. И децата се учат сами да летят - нагоре в облаците, с ятата.Страхът изражда майчината любов до лудост и обсебване и Клемантин затваря тризнаците в клетки, тъкмо когато са станали съвършени в полета си, за да ги предпази от всяко възможно зло. "Но птиците умират в клетка."

  • knig
    2018-12-31 03:49

    An absolutely wicked and delicious concoction of magic realism crenulated with a Daliesque purpose of the grotesque: a collage of taboo, Levitic-ean prototype, a coronet of (greek) mythological misdirection and a nexus of all encompassing neuroses are shaken, and stirred, into an ironic indictment of petty foibles.What, what? Well, hear ye. Timortis, a ‘psychoanalyzator’ is born (again) into an anonymous French village where he is witness to a parade of grotesque daily exhibits. Each one an exquisite infraction: mutilation of old people, extinguishing of children, crucifixion of animals, incarceration (Angel), blasphemy, the downfall of Icarus, and the jewel in the crown, Glory Hallelujah, who has to do this:[image error]In the name of redemption. Amen.If anything in this genesis of creation is grotesque, its ultimately US. Vian hones in on an unspoken undercurrent of spiritual sewage which underpins the high auspices of refined civilization. What is the value of say, the elder in today’s storyboard? Do we purport to revere where we secretly discount? Lip service to cover a most shameful disservice? HSBC here have done more in recent advertisement to recontextualise the core of modern soundbite than anyone else I can think of:[image error]Vian enrols the same juxtaposition. Grotesque? Says who? By whose law?With painstaking deliberation this virtuoso takes up all of our preconceived notions and turns them inside out into a neon scarlet letter which heralds as an Xray synopsis all of our best intentions. Surrealism? Par.

  • Teresa Proença
    2019-01-09 02:45

    Sou Boris Vian. Quero contar-vos a minha história da humanidade. Todos os horrores que os homens são capazes de cometer, por ódio ou por amor. Mas fazendo-vos rir, quando a vossa vontade é chorar de pena e gritar de medo. Alguns vão achar que todas as personagens e situações são surreais, mas se tirarem a venda dos olhos irão reconhecê-los e reconhecer-se...- O meu nome é Jacquemort. Estou vazio. Preciso absorver as vidas e os sentimentos dos outros para me tornar humano.- Chamo-me Culblanc. Cuido da casa, dos senhores e dos meninos. E durmo com o homem oco a quem dou apenas o meu corpo, nada lhe contando de quem sou. Sou uma serva de corpo mas o meu coração é livre.- Eu sou a Clémentine. Sou a mãe. Para que nascessem sofri muito e por isso não os amava. Depois cresceram e a cada dia os amo mais. Já não consigo dormir, descansar por um segundo pois o mundo tem tantos perigos. Tenho de os proteger de qualquer forma. Prendê-los junto a mim. São meus e faço tudo por eles. Amo-os demais.- Eu sou o Angel. Quando os gémeos nasceram não sobrou nada para mim. Durante o parto ela isolou-me e ameaçava matar-me se eu me aproximasse. Agora só tem amor para os filhos.- Somos o Noël, o Joël e o Citroen. Nascemos no mesmo dia. Estamos a conhecer o mundo que é mais do que este jardim onde ela nos prende. Mas estamos juntos e com a nossa imaginação podemos quebrar todas as grilhetas; criar asas e voar; tornar-nos minúsculos e escapar por qualquer espaço mínimo.- Chamam-me "A Glóira". Vivo nesta barca, condenado a pescar com os dentes todas os pecados que o povo atira para o rio, para se livrarem de culpas e de remorsos. Recolho toda a vergonha dos homens.- Somos os velhos. Já não servimos para nada. Leiloam-nos numa feira e quem nos compra diverte-se batendo-nos, rindo dos nossos corpos enrugados, flácidos.- Somos os meninos pobres. Os que não tiveram uma mãe que nos guardasse numa gaiola quentinha e nos acarinhasse. Temos de trabalhar até morrermos de esgotamento.- Somos os fiéis. Vamos à igreja para que o padre interceda por nós junto de Deus e recebermos graças. Precisamos de chuva para as colheitas e a quem a pedir senão a Deus? Mas o padre recusa as nossas preces e temos de o castigar.- Somos os animais crucificados porque não cumprimos o nosso dever.- Somos todos os homens e mulheres pecadores, egoístas, cruéis, infelizes, solitários, prisioneiros das suas paixões e desejos.Eu sou a Teresa Jacquemort Culblanc Clémentine Angel Noël Joël Citroen. Sou um pouco Glóira, um tanto velha, um bocado menina, por vezes um cavalo crucificado. Mas acima de tudo sou uma Arranca Corações, quando preencho o meu vazio devorando as mentes dos homens e das mulheres que vivem nas folhas de papel...

  • Nathanimal
    2018-12-27 21:02

    Why, oh why did I let you sit on my shelf so long, little Heartsnatcher?At first Vian seems like he's just goofing off. He's writing a novel as one tries on a costume and prances around in it. Behold my costume, don't I look fine in it? (Wink.) Aren't you fooled? (Nudge.) Let's see a novel has, what? Characters. No problem. Here's a new mother with a gun under her pillow. And here's a vicar who could've been in the Sex Pistols, if there were such a band as the Sex Pistols when I wrote this. And here's a Sisyphus kind-of-guy who's relegated to fishing trash out of the river with his teeth. And here's a boy . . . let's name him after a sports car and give him a talent, since good characters are often very talented . . . uh . . . flight, sure. And what else does a novel have? Imagery. Easy-peasy. Here's a crucified horse. Here's some eyes painted on a blind seamstress. And here's a bunch of plants and birds I just made up and a wall of nothing — not black, not white, just nothing. What a nice touch. And the characters will have to talk to each other, I guess, and they'll have to care about things, and the images will evoke, naturally, as a kind of side effect, so off to work I go. And pretty soon Vian has begun to not just wear his costume, but to inhabit it. The characters and the images begin to dance in and out of alchemic combination, then, lord did you see that? I think I just gave birth to a theme. Yup. There's my theme all slick and steaming, fresh from the womb. What to name it? Evil? Shame? Evil born of Shame? Shame born of Need? Evil born of Shame born of Need? My, that is baroque, but how novel-istic! Haven't I touched you deeply? Haven't I novel-ed you within an inch of your life? (Wink. Nudge.)

  • Alienor ✘ French Frowner ✘
    2018-12-21 01:47

  • Manny
    2019-01-04 21:38

    People sometimes say they love you, but then you discover that what they really mean is that they want something from you. Just about every woman I know has met the guy who says he loves her, but actually wants sex. I guess that's the example you think of first. But there are plenty more.I saw the movie of Coraline yesterday, and it reminded me of this book. Coraline has her real mother, who loves her, but is very bad at showing it. And then she also has her Other Mother, who wants... well, if you haven't yet seen the movie, I'd better not tell you what she wants, though I'm sure you've already guessed that it isn't what Coraline first believes. Needless to say, the reason why Coraline is so powerful is that most of us have a mother and an Other Mother, who unfortunately are the same person.L'Arrache-Coeur is rather similar. It's a surrealistic fantasy novel, in which a character like the Other Mother plays a large part. I didn't appreciate it as much as L'Ecume des Jours, which for me is Vian's masterpiece, but it's interesting and creepy. If you have problems with your Other Mother, you might like it. But I should warn you that it's not nearly as upbeat as Coraline, so be careful...

  • Jonathan
    2019-01-08 02:51

    So, there are enough reviews already out there dealing with plot and themes and all that jazz, so I will simply say I dug it, daddio. However, what I did not expect was the Wakean wordplay (which leaped out at me due to my current FW reading), and the quality of the translation which achieved that rare ability of seeming as though it was an original text. What do I mean? Well, howzabout this:"Sections of the Babylonian garden hung far over the cliff, and certain species of plants clung to the most perilous spots. Although it was possible to tend them there, the majority were left to grow wild in their natural state, like the amizaltzes whose violetindigo foliage is tender greygreen on the underside and patterned with coolly exuberant cartographical white veins more splendid than baroque tendrils; like the wild powaroses, with last year's marienbuds still clinging as umbrella-like skeletons of black straw to the straphanging yellowplush, occasionally bursting into monstrous nodes which thrust out dry tripartite flowers as unappetizing as meringues of blood; like the tufts of lustrous pearlgrey dreamrape; the long clusters of paletipped creamy ginger fenellacas, hanging to the lower branches of the monkeypuzzle trees; the ninastangas with more nests than leaves among their winglike clumps of jewelled astrakhan and tailfeathered collars of fossilised seagulls…"Or, even more perfectly Joycean:"Novembruary, the cold, spitgrey, drizzleridden, fogeared month. Novembruary rain can cause all sorts of damage in all sorts of places. It can furrow through the fields, flaunch the furrows into ravines, and carry off the enraptured ravens. Or it can suddenly freeze.”See, that kind of shizzle really floats my nizzle, ya get me? Throw in some sharp and funny commentary on the seriously fucked up nature of our society, and you have a winner winner chicken dinner.

  • Nate D
    2019-01-05 02:46

    Here's a somewhat bizarre and unexpected emergence from the early 50s -- not exactly surrealism, not the oulipo despite Queneau's forward, perhaps more of a presage of the kinds of wild and unclassifiable oddities that would emerge in greater force in the late 60s and 70s (which Vian didn't live to see, sadly). Someone else pointed to Vian's jazz background in their review (MJ? Jonathan? Knig? Either way, they've all written excellent reviews), and it makes sense: in the beginning theirs a sense of riffing, improvisation, of spontaneous creative formation out of nothing. First there's a cliff, gorgeously described. A trail, character. He's a doctor, NO, a psychiatrist, MAYBE a kind of (sympathetic?) vampire AND WAIT he was born as an adult only a matter of weeks ago, blank of history or sense of self. Much as the reader appears in each new book, fresh and receptive to the world they're entering. If so Dr. Timortis makes sense as a guide here, equally unfamiliar with this gradually coalescing world of Vian's absurd and grotesque, insightful or unsettling (or even horrifying). But anyway, that original improvisational uncertainty (or potential) rapidly takes on substance and direction, and we find ourselves in a harrowingly funny and biting story about childhood (like all good children those here are occultists) and the terrors of child-raising (as their mother works herself into paroxysms of parental paranoia, each risk one-upping itself in new and absurd improbabilities. It actually all ends up holding together exceedingly well, bound up in Vian's acrobatic language and his guiding, sublime sense of the menacing absurd.

  • Hadrian
    2018-12-30 02:54

    This is one of those books that's so sad that it becomes hilarious (or is it hilarious because it conceals a deep sadness?). The little village in Heartsnatcher is full of follies so absurd and exaggerated that they become real. I've known a few mothers like Clementine. Smother a thing with so much love that you suffocate it.

  • Кремена Михайлова
    2019-01-16 19:54

    Ето защо била толкова харесвана тази книга! Макар че има голям парадокс – съдържанието, прието буквално, изобщо не е за харесване… Няколко пъти се чудех защо ми напомня на Салман Рудши и се оказа, че не е само заради понятието „срам“, а и заради безкомпромисното достигане на границите на търпимостта до (и извън) предела. Не зная доколко понятието „сюрреализъм“ е уместно за литературата, досега в изобразителното изкуство съм го възприемала като експериментиране, едва ли не забавление на творците; сега открих истинските му възможности и най-банално казано – СМисъл. И ето започват моите „СМ“ – това наистина се оказа „см“ книга за мен – СМазваща, СМайваща, СМразяваща, СМърдяща. Хилих се озъбено, но не мога да кажа и СМешна…Такава концентрация на гадория (алегория на човешката гадория) на едно място… Кой може да им помогне на тези хора, как? Ако едно селце е хипербола на цялата човешка смрад, да си правим ли изводи за целия свят… Очаквах краят на книгата да даде отговор, но какъвто и да е той - погубеното възстановява ли се? Леко отдъхване имаше само при досега с природата, при „разговорите“ с животни. Имаше време на по-голяма поносимост, но когато Анжел започна да се топи и юли стана юнли, август – апруст и т.н., всичко стана още по-мътно, ако можеше да не се стига до 16-ти марюни… Обаче намеси ли се такава мощ като Майката, не са изненадващи сериозните последствия. Дадена й е привилегията да дава живот, силата да дарява свобода, но и да отнема пòлета на своите създания… Напоследък преоткривам всяка дума от текстовете на Pink Floyd и сега нямаше как да не направя аналогия с „Mother“ от The Wall.„Mother's gonna make all your nightmares come true.Mother's gonna put all her fears into you.Mother's gonna keep you right here under her wing.She wont let you fly, but she might let you sing.“Може в книгата да има и друг „вид“ шамари, но този по отношение на майчинството за мен беше най-силен. Как Роджър Уотърс и Борис Виан са казали едно и също нещо по различен (силен) начин!Преводът не можеше да не ми направи впечатление – уловени са всички нюанси на налудничавостта. Почти нищо не може да се цитира, защото като в някои други книги на абсурда откъснатото от контекста губи основната си сила. Тук положението със звездите пак е малко особено – защо не и 5 – може би защото при толкова гнилоч не може да ми дойде отвътре високата оценка. Но последните изречения често са решаващи за мен – тук също си казах „Добре, че имаше глътка въздух накрая“ с недвусмисленото„Вятърът минаваше свободно между пръчките й.“

  • Galina
    2019-01-05 01:59

    Да напиша каквото и да е за този роман на Виан, значи да редя клише до клишето.Има книги, които е добре да прочетеш, да мислиш за тях и да мълчиш.Тази е от тях.И толкова.

  • Christopher
    2018-12-30 00:04

    "We find that things that don't interest us very much are beautiful above all others because they allow us to see what we want to see in place of them. Perhaps I shouldn't put it in the first person plural." (212)This book has the dubious honor of joining the elite "completed-during-childbirth-hospital-stay" shelf started two years ago when my eldest was born. It will be forever nestled safely in my mind between The Brothers Karamazov and the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. I know, I've revealed too much, but, in my defense, there is down time, and I had already gnawed through eighty percent of Bros. K before arrival. This shelf casts an arbitrary shadow, yet, though the latest addition seems the least prominent, it is perhaps the most prescient: the recent weather is certainly redolent of “Julember.” Or some such.Now, about the book:  I enjoyed the read while it was happening, but in the end, it felt overlong by half. And it's not that it drags; it is a propulsive read. It's just that you read the brief summary of the book, and then you read the book and it's just a longer version of the summary. I would venture to say that in the right hands it could have been a short-story.  The good:  -The creepy-weird-absurdist atmosphere. Felt like Kafka edited by a teen-aged/mad-Camus, or vice-versa.  -The wordplay.The merely ok:-The double-edged critique of religion: On the one hand there's ritualistic superficial repentance for moral repugnance simultaneously offering solace and a safe-haven for similar future transgressions [Glory Hallelujah, the only person in the area who can feel shame, fishes a variety of appalling detritus out of a nearby stream with his teeth in return for gold that he cannot spend]. On the other, there's the insanity of extremist dogma [the vicar's outrageous sermons and pugilistic galas]. Not terribly subtle.- The antipodes of the mother [from a postpartum denial, to an extremist over-protectionism]. Manic, if not a bit ham-handed.The final analysis: Perhaps Vian's genius has completely left me in the dust and the ambivalence I feel about this novel is born of my own philistinian density. Or maybe the sphinxwings just aren't that interesting. "'Perhaps other people don't see the sphinxwings as I see them,' said Timortis to himself. 'And perhaps I don't see them either. Or not altogether in the way I say I do. But, at any rate, one thing is sure. And that is even if one doesn't see the sphinxwings, one has to pretend to see them. Anyway, they are so clear and obvious that it would be ridiculous to miss them.'" (211)

  • Tosh
    2019-01-13 00:53

    "Heartsnatcher" was Boris Vian's last novel and it has a sadness attached to it. Here Vian goes after the "family unit" with great hysterical results. And again it's his genius to match the moods into a crazy narrative. Vian is like a great bartender, who knows how to mix if not the perfect drink, then at the very least a cocktail that you will never forget.

  • Ana Carvalheira
    2019-01-15 01:40

    Este é um daqueles romances que, quando chegamos ao fim, não sabemos se havemos de avaliá-lo com uma ou cinco estrelas. E isto decorre muito por força de elementos perturbadoramente surrealistas introduzidos numa narrativa profundamente complexa mas, simultaneamente, carregada de encanto e magia. As personagens são fascinantemente surpreendentes … Jacquemort, psiquiatra que se muda para uma aldeia fictícia podendo no entanto ser situada, pensamos, algures perto de uma das orlas marítimas francesas, onde pretende fazer uma psicanálise integral; o casal Angel e Clémentine, a quem Jacquemort assistirá ao parto dos seus trigémeos; Culblanc a ama amante, o padre da aldeia e o sacristão que esconjuram as suas respetivas crenças numa luta de boxe, Glóiria, o tripulante de uma embarcação que tem como função destruir as vergonhas da população, em troca de um pagamento em ouro, um carpinteiro que se desfaz do corpo inane do seu aprendiz no rio, um ferrador que crucifica um cavalo por não ter cumprido com as suas funções de garanhão, animais que falam, que sentem que sofrem. Uma galeria de figuras muito sui generis, concebidas e estruturadas nas suas funções pela criatividade propositadamente caótica de Vian.Mas será indiscutivelmente Clémentine quem protagonizará a maior parte da ação. Numa ansiedade constante induzida pelos perigos incontroláveis da natureza e da própria vida, que estariam sempre a ameaçar a sanidade física e mental das suas crias, assume uma atitude hiperbolicamente protetora. Tendo a ideia de manter os filhos numa dependência total de si própria, Clémentine, prevê todos os obstáculos que lhes possam ser apresentados e para todos tem uma solução. Mas o que a mãe não sabe é que os filhos vivem numa liberdade fantasiosa e mágica pois só assim poderiam suportar tanta pressão.Trata-se de uma narrativa curiosa com um final surpreendente!

  • Жор
    2019-01-16 02:50

    Виан е сред много малкото писатели (и първият такъв от дълго време насам), чиято библиография искам да прочета, да събера и да ѝ отделя специално място в библиотеката си. И не ми се пише за него. Чете ми се!

  • Кремена Михайлова
    2018-12-21 22:01

    Ето защо била толкова харесвана тази книга! Макар че има голям парадокс – съдържанието, прието буквално, изобщо не е за харесване… Няколко пъти се чудех защо ми напомня на Салман Рудши и се оказа, че не е само заради понятието „срам“, а и заради безкомпромисното достигане на границите на търпимостта до (и извън) предела. Не зная доколко понятието „сюрреализъм“ е уместно за литературата, досега в изобразителното изкуство съм го възприемала като експериментиране, едва ли не забавление на творците; сега открих истинските му възможности и най-банално казано – СМисъл. И ето започват моите „СМ“ – това наистина се оказа „см“ книга за мен – СМазваща, СМайваща, СМразяваща, СМърдяща. Хилих се озъбено, затова с предпазливост добавям и СМешна…Такава концентрация на гадория (алегория на човешката гадория) на едно място… Кой може да им помогне на тези хора, как? Ако едно селце е хипербола на цялата човешка смрад, да си правим ли изводи за целия свят… Очаквах краят на книгата да даде отговор, но какъвто и да е той - погубеното възстановява ли се? Леко отдъхване имаше само при досега с природата, при „разговорите“ с животни. Имаше време на по-голяма поносимост, но когато Анжел започна да се топи и юли стана юнли, август – апруст и т.н., всичко стана още по-мътно. Ако можеше да не се стига до 16-ти марюни… Обаче намеси ли се такава мощ като Майката, не са изненадващи сериозните последствия. Дадена й е привилегията да дарява живот, силата да предоставя свобода, но и да отнема пòлета на своите създания… Напоследък преоткривам всяка дума от текстовете на Pink Floyd и сега нямаше как да не направя аналогия с „Mother“ от The Wall.„Mother's gonna make all your nightmares come true.Mother's gonna put all her fears into you.Mother's gonna keep you right here under her wing.She wont let you fly, but she might let you sing.“Може в книгата да има и друг „вид“ шамари, но този по отношение на майчинството за мен беше най-силен. Как Роджър Уотърс и Борис Виан са казали едно и също нещо по различен (силен) начин!"Аз съм добра майка. Мисля за всичко, което може да им се случи. Предвиждам всяка възможна злополука. А да не говоря за опасностите, които ще ги грозят, когато пораснат. Или когато излязат от градината. Не. Тези опасности си ги запазвам за после. Казах вече. Че за тях ще мисля после. Имам време. Имам време. Засега има толкова катастрофи, които трябва да предположа, толкова катастрофи. Обичам ги, защото мисля за най-лошото, което може да им се случи. За да го предвидя, за да го предвидя. Не за удоволствие мисля за кървави страхотии. Те сами ми се налагат. Това доказва, че държа на децата. Отговорна съм за тях. Те зависят от мене. Те са мои деца."Преводът не можеше да не ми направи впечатление – уловени са всички нюанси на налудничавостта. Почти нищо не може да се цитира, защото като в някои други книги на абсурда откъснатото от контекста губи основната си сила. Тук положението със звездите пак е малко особено – защо не и 5 – може би защото при толкова гнилоч не може да ми дойде отвътре високата оценка. Но последните изречения често са решаващи за мен – тук също си казах „Добре, че имаше глътка въздух накрая“ с недвусмисленото„Вятърът минаваше свободно между пръчките й.“

  • Lavinia
    2019-01-02 19:55

    This book is horrible! Between the horse crucifixion, nailing horseshoes to small children, selling old people to the market, exploiting kids to do horrible jobs until their death, everything is full of a terrible sadness. And the Jesus-like boat-man that takes over all the sins and shameful acts of the villagers is just too much to swallow! The over-protective mother that ends up by locking her children in cages, after cutting them all degrees of freedom. The book can be read in so many ways that an analysis after a first read is just meant to be futile and irrelevant. The only thing that can really be said is ... "wow, this book just left me filled with such a terrible sadness!"

  • Raquel
    2018-12-19 22:45

    'O Arranca-Corações' é uma obra negra, verdadeiramente crítica e intensa se a soubermos olhar desta perspectiva subjectiva e interior, mais do que atendendo à sua forma e lendo as suas palavras à superfície. É preciso entrar no universo absurdo de Boris Vian e encontrar, nesta aldeia onde tudo é caótico, um sentido para esta busca pelo amor que nunca se concretiza senão afastando-o ainda mais das suas vidas. Um livro sobre a fragilidade humana, perturbante e sempre actual, que ainda que possa não nos dizer muito acaba por permanecer, pelo menos em parte, na nossa memória literária.http://leiturasmarginais.blogspot.pt/...

  • S.
    2019-01-09 21:49

    This is the madcap story of Clementine, the very overprotective mother of Joel, Noel and Alfa Romeo, three boys whose simultaneous birth cause her such anguishing pain that their father is exiled. The story is both hilarious and horrifying, and is told from the point of view of Timortis, a psychoanalyst who just happens to be passing Clementine’s home on the day of the boys’ birth and jumps in to deliver them. Clementine becomes increasingly obsessed with keeping the boys safe, and pages are devoted to her spinning thoughts on all the dangers that could befall them. In the meantime, Timortis discovers the town – the market selling off old people at auction, the crucifixion of a horse, the abusive apprentice system, and Glory Hallelujah, a man assigned to absorb all the townspeople’s shame. Not to mention the vicar, who yells -“God is not a utilitarian. God is a birthday present. A free gift. A luncheon voucher. An ingot of platinum. A priceless picture. A French pastry. God is something extra. And he is neither for nor against. God is eleven thousand buckshee trading stamps!”before finally giving in and making it rain. The boys themselves are also an entertaining and resourceful crew. One can’t believe they actually succumb to the imprisonment their mother plots out for them. They are a number of other odd and funny characters, and the dialogue is a pleasure. If you like a surreal story told in a unique style, I recommend it. Although the plot and details are great, above all Heartsnatcher is for readers who enjoy inventive prose.

  • Amy
    2019-01-08 21:02

    bizarre.I think it's better not to try and explain this novel at all...all I'll say is that it seems to be dealing with the concept of guilt, but mostly what one will remember is the Old Folks' Fair (auction of old people for buyers' personal abuse), Glory Hallelujah who takes upon himself all of the shame of the villagers in exchange for gold that he is not permitted to spend, blue slugs that make you fly, and psychoanalysis equalling doggy-style sex.very funny. very weird. Even Vian's life is funny...I laughed reading the "About the Author" in the back of the book..let me share:"In 1959, Vian was involved in a project to adapt the novel [I Spit on Your Graves] into a movie, until a series of artistic differences led to his removal from the project. Tragically, Boris Vian attended the movie's premiere, where he reportedly stood up during the opening scenes and yelled, 'These guys are supposed to be American? My ass!" just before dying of a heart attack."

  • Beka Sukhitashvili
    2018-12-17 21:47

    წიგნი, რომელიც უამრავნაირად შეიძლება წაიკითხო. ერთადერთი ცხადი გრძნობა რომელიც დაგეუფლება, სასოწარმკვეთი მწუხარებაა.სოფელი, სადაც ადამიანები მოხუცების ბაზრობაზე დადიან და ყიდიან მათ; მღვდელი ანბიონიდან ქადაგებს, სმენით კი ვერაფერს იგებენ; ულაყს, რომელსაც ჯვარს აცვამენ; დაძონძილ მენავეს კი წითელი ნაკადულიდან ლეში ამოაქვს კბილებით... ბავშვები მალე ფრენას შეწყვეტენ და გალიაში ჩაიკეტებიან.ეს ყველაფერი ვიანის "გაფსიქოანალიზების" შედეგად მოხდება თქვენს არაცნობიერში. რაღაცას გაიგებთ, რაღაცას ვერა. თუმცკი წიგნის ბოლოს, ამოისინთქებთ, რომ სახლში ხართ და გარეთ მზე ანათებს.წარმოუდგენლად რთული სათარგმნი იქნებოდა. ორიგინალი გაცილებით გულსაგლეჯად იმოქმედებს, მთლიანად ვიანის შემოქმედება ასეთია ალბათ.

  • Xandra
    2019-01-06 01:51

    The deliciously bizarre world of hitchhiking animals, crucified horses, and psychoanalyzed cats. To say nothing of the kids.

  • Stephen
    2018-12-21 23:01

    In "Heartsnatcher," Boris Vian put the Western world on the couch for an examination and decided the best solution was to hide from it. Like many writers, Vian had no particular claim to the title of social psychoanalyst other than the frequent contemplation of his navel, which he found time to do in between stints as an actor, jazz trumpeter, engineer and mechanic. This French scribe, of little import beyond his native nation's borders, was part of a post-World War II Parisian ebullience springing from the magical city's Latin Quarter. A practitioner of le swing in a band that included two of his brothers, Vian played host to such jazz luminaries as Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, and Charlie Parker. He was part of a hedonistic crosscurrent in the Saint German-des-Pres world upon which politically committed intellectuals like Jean Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, and Andre Malraux had put their own stamp. The two groups clashed frequently. The serious crowd probably had a more lasting impact, and the hedonistic crowd more fun, which is pretty much how things work. In his introduction to the Dalkey Archive Press edition of "Heartsnatcher," John Sturrock writes that Vian's 1950 play "L'Equarissage pour Tous," a spoof of the Normandy invasion in World War II, was vilified as 'shameful spittle' by Elsa Triolet, wife of Louis Aragon, the French poet, journalist, and French Communist Party member. Jean Cocteau, already disliked by the communists, came to Vian's defense and compared the play's spirit to that of his own "Les Maries de la Tour Eiffel." Anyway, the novel appears to be part of mid-century Western lit's larger effort to break with traditional storytelling modes. In her introductory essay to Jack Kerouac's "On the Road: The Original Scroll," Penny Vlagopoulos noted, that, "Like the European avant-garde artists of the preceding decades, Kerouac sought to collapse the distance between life and art." Although a contemporary of Kerouac's, Vian's novel would suggest he was up to the same tricks with a focus on the interior life, rather than topographically focused screeds of the Beat poet. "Heartsnatcher" is refreshing in that the plot takes turns not normally associated with the paces of traditional storytelling, even if that means the payoff comes with less clarity and satisfaction. In fact, it is a little hard to tell what is truly going on in "Heartsnatcher," which hails from a great French tradition that obligates you to work the brain instead of serving up its pearls on a freshly shucked oyster. The story, such as it is, opens up with the main character, the psychiatrist Timortis, delivering triplets to a rather complex lady named Clementine, who has barred her husband Angel from the momentous event and, eventually, from her life. "She preferred," Vian tells us, "to suffer and scream alone because she hated her swollen belly and wanted nobody to see her in that condition." In a conversation with Angel, we learn Timortis comes from the outside with a plan to psychoanalyze the members of Clementine's household on a cliff above the sea and fill his own "empty vessel," in a firm nod to the Mr. Freud, with the subconscious detritus of residents from the nearby, unnamed village. Timortis tells Angel he wants to learn the villager's "most terrible, heart-rending secrets, his hidden ambitions and desires; the things he does not even admit to himself; "everything; everything - and then everything that lies beyond that everything." The village turns out to be the great scummy id of humanity itself; complete with an "Old Folks Fair" that peddles Golden-agers as cheap labor, requiring men to display what Cervantes called, "the meats" as part of the bidding process, while treating broken crones no better than burros. Shocked, Timortis questions the "Knacketeer" running this travesty about the woeful lack of scruples and gets a punch in the mouth for his troubles. Later, he witnesses the brutes of the burg literally crucify a stallion for its sin of copulating with a mare. The narrative is peppered throughout with the deaths of a wan little-boy apprentices driven until they drop. A "scarlet stream" filled with indescribable mucks and mires runs near Clementine's house and through the village. Along the waterway works a man in a barge named "Glory Hallelujah," who retrieves dead and decrepit things from the bottoms with his teeth, as required by an agreement with the villagers who pay him in gold, but forbid him to spend it. "They pay me to feel their remorse for them," explains Glory Halleluhah. There is a local Vicar whom holds his flock in the highest disdain and will not petition God that their fields be watered with rain until threatened with violence. His religion is different than the one his followers practice. "Come on Sunday," he tells Timortis, "and you'll see...You'll see how I attack their materialism with an even more materialistic materialism. I'll rub the noses of the brutes in their own messes. Their apathy will find itself striking against an even greater apathy...and a worrying anxiety will grow from this collision which will land them back to religion...the religion of luxury." Such luxury includes bread and circuses pitting the vicar and his curate in brutal fistfights convened for a little local excitement. Up at the house on the hill Clementine stores a rancid piece of meat in a drawer and eats a piece everyday as way of drawing the dangers of the world away from her triplets and toward her. Isolated, sexually deprived yet inflamed, she works her mind into feverish fits, inventorying the many dangers from which she must protect the little boys. Her task grows even more difficult when they learn how to fly so that the compound is progressively walled in, pruned of all tree coverage, and ultimately outfitted with cushy cages of ready pleasure into which the little scamps are locked for their own safety. And there's your story: One understood by those who opt for the ivory tower or have set out in youth to make the word a better place. It does not tell us everything about Vian. As a matter of fact it is a later work from a short life and considered an attempt by him to generate "serious" literature. Yet while his flights and fancy and non sequitir grotesqueries may try a reader's ability to maintain suspension of disbelief, the prose often graze the body poetic - a statement which obligates the scribe to go dig out an example... ....Here we go, right from the second paragraph of the book, "Timortis sauntered along, looking at the deep bloodred centers of the calamines throbbing in the flat sunshine. At each beat a cloud of pollen rose and, soon afterwards, settled on the dreamily trembling leaves. The bees had all disappeared on holiday." His greatest success came with, "I'll Spit on Your Graves," an American noir detective send-up, which he wrote in two weeks, under a pseudonym, for handsome royalties and a prosecution for perversion. Ah success! "Boris Vian has been caught in the cogs of the machinery of the laws constructed by his fellow men and has appeared before their practitioners because he wrote 'I'll Go Spit On Your Graves' under the name of Vernon Sullivan although even that's far from being the whole story" Which is part of a poem about Vian and his brush with the law by Raymond Queneau. The future Socialist President of France, Francois Mitterand, served as his attorney, and after a lot of unnecessary grief, Vian got a slap on the wrist. The book literally killed him. In a theater, watching a film adaptation he disapproved of, Vian stood up to publicly air his gripes and keeled over dead. Sort of. For writers reach beyond their own times; often successfully. Writes Sturrock: "He became the hero of youth following his death in 1959. And of course when May 1968 arrived, with its benign if hopeless insistence that imagination take power in France, Vian did better still, he was the very prophet the gallantly fantasizing students needed."

  • Nicoleta
    2019-01-01 23:40

    Mama care mănâncă alimentele putrezite pentru a lăsa ce e mai bun copiilor, care pentru a-I proteja pe copii îi închide în cuști să nu se rănească, deși ei, ca niște copii năzdrăvani, puteau zbura. Lispa de înțelegere și disprețul pentru bătrâni(pe care îi vând la târg) si copii(pe care îi bat, îi pun la munca). Spălarea rușinii cu ajutorul unui individ ales să pescuiască cu dinții toată mizeria din apa în care se varsă gunoiul. Religia ca spectacol (preotul organizează meciuri de box în care el reprezintă divinitatea, iar țârcovnicul diavolul).

  • dv
    2019-01-11 19:53

    Terrificante - amarissima proprio perché ironica - descrizione di una maternità / paternità indesiderate e, in generale, di un senso di spaesamento.

  • Arax Miltiadous
    2019-01-08 22:56

    Χίλια μπράβο στην μεταφράστρια , 34 χρόνια μετά και η δουλειά της ΕΙΝΑΙ αναντικατάστατη μα και απαράμιλλη άποψης περιγραφών και λεξιλογίου... Δύσκολο βιβλίο πολύ.. Σουρεαλιστικό όνειρο? εφιάλτης? Είσαι εκεί πάντως με τον Μακαβριωάννη και ζεις τα έσχατα και τον παραλογισμό σαν άλλος Γιοζεφ Κ. από την Δίκη του Κάφκα. Αμφιβάλλω αν θα ξαναγραφτεί ανάλογο βιβλίο ξανά και αν κάποιος το διαβάσει και έχει βρει κάτι ανάλογο που μου διαφεύγει παρακαλώ... ας με διαφωτίσει.Ξεπερνά ΟΛΑ τα όρια, ακόμη και τα δικά του σαν συγγραφέας και νομίζω πως είναι τελικά αυτό... ουμανιστής. Με την παραδοσιακή, καλλιτεχνική άποψη του!

  • Т Ц
    2018-12-30 03:41

    Много силна книга. Много повече ми хареса от Пяната на дните. Много по-разбираема, с много по-ясна символика. Лесно се чете и човек може да намери много скрити смисли. Противоположностите в историята контрастират по много интересен начин. Насилието в селото, насилието в къщата. Децата в селото, децата в къщата. Не разбрах ролята на религията много добре и на фона на основната история ми се струваше някак не на място, ако това изобщо може да се каже за такава книга. Макар, че частите й, героите й и събитията, колкото и странни и изкривени да са понякога се запазва някаква мярка за възможното, която автора не преминава. За сега любимата ми книга на Борис Виан.