Die klare Linie des Schmerzes

Kurzbeschreibung

Während des Zweiten Weltkriegs werden die Zwillingsbrüder von ihrer Mutter aus der großen Stadt zu ihrer Großmutter aufs Dorf evakuiert. Wie die beiden Kinder spüren und sehen, daß die Zeiten hart sind, machen sie sbungen zur Abhärtung: Sie essen tagelang nichts, frieren mit Absicht in der Kälte, arbeiten hart, und sie schlagen sich, um gegen Schmerz immun zu werden. Aber sie lernen auch selbst lesen und schreiben und sogar die Sprachen der jeweiligen Besatzer. Sie scheinen berechnend zu sein und wollen doch nur eines: überleben. Die zwei Brüder halten bedingungslos zueinander, was sie nahezu unverwundbar macht. Alles, was sie als wahr erachten, tragen sie in ‘Das große Heft’ ein. Gegen die Stärke der beiden Kinder, aber auch gegen ihre Erbarmungslosigkeit, müssen die Erwachsenen erst einmal ankommen. (Quelle: Amazon)

Über den Autor

Agota Kristof, geboren 1935 in Csikvánd in Ungarn, verließ ihre Heimat während der Revolution 1956 und gelangte über Umwege nach Neuchâtel in die französischsprachige Schweiz, wo sie bis heute lebt. Als Arbeiterin in einer Uhrenfabrik tätig, erlernte sie die ihr bis dahin fremde Sprache und schrieb auf französisch ihre erfolgreichen Bücher, die in mehr als zwanzig Sprachen übersetzt wurden, am berühmtesten »Das große Heft«. Sie wurde unter anderem 2001 mit dem angesehenen Gottfried-Keller-Preis und 2006 für »Die Analphabetin« mit dem Preis der SWR-Bestenliste ausgezeichnet. Zuletzt erschien von ihr auf Deutsch »Irgendwo«. (Quelle: Amazon)

Die Autorin wurde mir empfohlen mit ihrem Werk: ” Gestern” dieses Buch hat mich gleich von Anfang an gefesselt, sprachlich ist es einfach gehalten bzw.  geschrieben. Trotzdem ist der Inhalt keine leichte Kost. Dann beschloss ich für mich mehr von dieser Autorin zu lesen. Ich besorgte mir: “Der Beweis” Auch von diesem Buch war ich sehr angetan und ich besorgte mir “Das große Heft” und genau da fängt mein Malheur an. Nach dem Auslesen fiehl mir endlich mal auf, dass ich aus der Trilogie zuerst den zweiten Band und dann erst den ersten Band gelesen habe.

Kann ja mal vorkommen …   Jetzt freue ich mich auf den Dritten Band: “Die dritte Lüge”

]]> http://reflexionespersonales.wordpress.com/2009/11/12/1313/ Thu, 12 Nov 2009 13:59:40 +0000 reflexionespersonales http://reflexionespersonales.wordpress.com/2009/11/12/1313/

Que llevo tiempo sin escribir, y no sé por qué. A lo mejor hay cierta pereza, o no sé qué. La verdad es que en más de una ocasión me he dicho: “siéntate a escribir”, pero no me hago caso y encuentro otra cosa que hacer, me pongo a la labor y la hago, aunque la verdad en alguna ocasión, más de una, me he pasado el rato “empamplinando” el tiempo, pero eso también forma parte de la cosas que hay que hacer.

La verdad es que hay cosas, temas que me interesan, que me mueven a la reflexión, pero no me pongo en situación y no escribo; como ejemplo de tema para reflexión fue el avance del Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas [CIS] del barómetro de octubre, en el que los encuestados colocan entre las principales preocupaciones la corrupción, que desplaza, incluso al terrorismo, aunque bien podría ser que la ciudadanía considere a la corrupción política como otra forma de terrorismo. La madurez de la ciudadanía da pruebas, una vez más, de tener las cosas bastante claras, porque se atenta directamente contra el fundamento del Estado de Derecho, que tiene en la confianza uno de los elementos esenciales. Se abusa de la lentitud de la justicia, se aprovechan los “artificios contables” y demás triquiñuelas para violentar esa confianza otorgada por la ciudadanía. Quienes la quiebran y se aprovechan causan un daño sustancial, importante, y así lo recogen las preocupaciones de los ciudadanos.

El secuestro del “alakrana” en las costas somalíes me ha servido para reflexionar sobre lo que está pasando en esa zona, y por un momento me coloco en lugar de “los de allí”, sabiendo que nadie tiene derecho a privar de libertad a un semejante como han hecho los secuestradores. Digo lo de ponerme en lugar de “los de allí” para poder entender el expolio que están sufriendo las aguas de ese país, un estado fallido más, que no las sabe administrar, y cuando lo ha hecho es la corrupción lo que caracteriza a esa administración. Un estado como fallido como Somalia es presa fácil de quienes aprovechan la falta de control de sus aguas para convertir las mismas en un vertedero o si hay oportunidad para saquear los bancos pesqueros. Repito que no es excusa pero casi forma parte de los riesgos que se corren en el lugar.

La explotación, o el uso sin control de sus aguas jurisdiccionales de Somalia se suma a un nuevo colonialismo en gran parte de África. Algunos países, entre ellos China, aprovechan su poder económico para “alquilar” por periodos largos de tiempos grandes extensiones en el Continente para así asegurarse determinadas materias primas, entre ellas los cereales. La corrupción local y que los intereses de explotación son ajenos a la mayoría de la población local, el resultado será, seguramente, mayor exclusión para una parte importante de la población. En definitiva contribuir el desequilibrio actual.

De libros, también, sigo leyendo, pero no escribo sobre lo leído, y eso es algo que me ayuda, así que de forma abreviada les digo que acabo con la última entrega de la tetralogía de Philip Kerr: “Berlín Noir”. En Unos por otros, título de la última entrega, Kerr nos sitúa en 1949 y nos retrata la Europa del ese momento. El fin de la guerra deja numerosas heridas abiertas, muchos asesinos que buscan la manera de eludir la justicia que les reclama. Como en las obras anteriores de la tetralogía, el resultado es una obra atrayente y muy didáctica, recomendable porque a través de los ojos de nuestro ex policía, nuestro ex agente de las SS percibimos la Alemania, la sociedad alemana que vio nacer y crecer al nazismo. Muy recomendable.

Siguiendo con libros, tengo mucho interés en una autora húngara Agota Kristof, de quien me han recomendado una obra Claus y Lucas, El Aleph Editores, que es en realidad una recopilación de tres de sus novelas. Espero este fin de semana dar cuenta de parte de ellas, no mucho porque estoy de curso y eso detrae tiempo a la lectura.

También podrá hablar de cine, he visto poco, porque hay poco “visible”. Me quedo con la segunda entrega de Millenium y el ciclo de cine documental de la Filmoteca canaria, proyectado hace poco en los cines Renoir.

Bueno aquí acaba, por ahora, mi abandono. Tengo que disciplinarme en esta y en otras cosas, pero tampoco mucho.

En un context on el lector no és capaç de distingir la realitat de la ficció, la novel·la recull la història de Claus i Lucas, dos bessons que són separats durant la infantesa a causa d’una tragèdia familiar. En el context de la Segona Guerra Mundial i la postguerra, l’obra és lleugera però plena de dolor.

Els bessons Claus i Lucas es veuen obligats a viure amb la seva àvia, una dona rancuniosa que els maltracta sense mostrar-los cap tipus d’afecte. Davant aquesta situació, els protagonistes es torturen voluntàriament per fer-se insensibles al dolor, tant físic com psíquic. La complicitat que s’estableix entre ells és enorme, i ho comparteixen tot fins al punt que sembla que siguin una mateixa persona. La mort de l’àvia més endavant comporta un canvi cabdal en les seves vides, i res tornarà a ser el mateix des d’aquest instant.

En aquest punt, tot es torna confús: què ens hem de creure, de les explicacions del narrador? Què és cert i què forma part de la seva imaginació?

Malgrat que la història va resolent alguns dubtes, l’autora deixa penjada la qüestió més important: van existir, realment, dos bessons, o un és el producte de la imaginació de l’altre?

Everytime I am confronted with articles or questionnaires about favourite books and writers, I decide to make my own list and give up after a few minutes. It’s not that I don’t have enough to fill a list, I have too many favourites and I fear that I have forgotten some of the ones I particularly loved. I want to do justice to that list. In author interviews, this is one of the most frequently asked questions and I can almost visualise their quavering when they have to announce to the world their favourite books and authors. They always start or end by saying that this is by no means absolute and it could change tomorrow. That is how I feel too. But there are a number of titles I will always love because of their impact on my thinking at a particular point in my life, and I thought it would be a good exercise to give it a try. Put it down on paper, so to speak.

I generally read a lot of mysteries, historical mysteries, science fiction and fantasy and general/literary fiction and of course, some classics, once in a while. When I was a student I went through a French phase where everything had to originate from the Latin Quarter: Sartre, Beauvouir and Camus. I grew up with the refrain ‘Mama est mort’ as Albert Camus’ L’Etranger (The Stranger or The Outsider in English) is my father’s all time favourite book, a remnant of his student days at the Sorbonne in the late ’60s.

I will be putting up lists divided by genre in the coming weeks but will start with the most general. It’s not a reflection of which is the most important genre for me. I’m open to and have favourites in all. I tend to mix my reading and have several books on the go, but sometimes I find that I need to concentrate on one book just to see it through and do it some justice.

So, let’s start with the following:

General/literary fiction

Donna Tartt (A Secret History)
David Mitchell (Cloud Atlas)
Tahmima Anam (A Golden Age)
Ann Patchett (Bel Canto, Patron Saint of Liars)
Michelle de Kretser (The Hamilton Case)
Sarah Waters (The Night Watch, The Little Stranger)
Romesh Gunasekara (The Match)
Shyam Selvadurai (Funny Boy, Cinnamon Gardens)
Douglas Coupland (Generation X)
Haruki Murakami (Norwegian Wood, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle)
Kaori Ekuni (Twinkle Twinkle, Calmi Cuori Appassionata – Red (in Japanese only))
Agota Kristof (The Notebook; The Proof; The Third Lie – Three Novels)
Michael Ondaatje (Running in the Family, The English Patient, Anil’s Ghost)

You will notice that I have quite a few Sri Lankan writers in the mix: Michelle de Kretser, Romesh Gunasekara and Shyam Selvadurai. Everytime I go back to Sri Lanka, I always feel a need to read about the country, to immerse myself in the culture and history of the place. And I also stock up on a lot of books there that aren’t available abroad. Perera Hussein Publishing House publishes Sri Lankan authors writing in English and their blog can be found here.

My favourite book of all time is Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. I first read it as I was revising for my first year undergrad exams. Even though my mind was busy trying to grasp the intricacies of maths and physics, Tartt’s novel gripped me from the start and I spent every moment I could away from my studies burrowed in her book. I haven’t read it in a while so I might give it a go when the mood takes me. Her second book The Little Friend was much anticipated but didn’t have as big an impact and took me a while to get into. There is something about her writing that invokes a feeling within me that I cannot find anywhere else. I finished it still believing she is a great writer even though I didn’t love it as much as The Secret History, and I can’t wait for her next book.

Ed. El Aleph

448 págs.

Lo que digo yo:

Novela (bueno, son tres unidas…) rara donde las haya. No sé si me dejé llevar por la idea de que dos tiernos gemelitos solo pueden ser protagonistas de una tierna historia donde sólo pasan cosas tiernas y la ternura… ¿me explico, no? Cuestión que BlackBetty se puso a leer, con entusiasmo y ganas, la novela de Kristof. A muy pocas páginas de empezar me di cuenta de que no iba de conejos rosas y que si esperaba algo bonito y sereno, la llevaba clara.

Confieso que aún tras reconocer el tono, diferente al que esperaba, me costó bastante adecuarme. Cada palabra malsonante, o más bien cada situación dura y cruda me dio en el hígado con fuerza. Es un libro raro… cuenta las cosas más terribles con cierta inocencia, pero nada como El Niño con el Pijama a Rayas, sino con un ensañamiento absoluto. Me explico: el trasfondo es la guerra, como tantas novelas, pero en esta en particular lo fundamental son los niños, que a su vez no parecen ser inocentes en absoluto, como si la crueldad –traducida en actos de niños –pudiera contagiarse.

De las cosas que me sorprendió más gratamente (y espero que sea de la autora y no del traductor) es el uso del lenguaje… como si fuera una extensión del tema, la autora se dedica a poner la palabra precisa, la menos adornada, la más directa. Eso siempre se agradece, porque pareciera que hubo un interés especial en el cómo contar la historia, y no nada más en el qué se cuenta.

En todo caso… es durilla, pero está bien. Odias y compadeces a Claus, A Lukas, a ninguno, a Cara de Liebre, a la abuela… Te haces un lío con la historia de sus vidas. Intentas armar un solo esquema a partir de los tres libros que la forman. Tratas de inventarte una historia paralela, al menos en mi caso, donde haya conejos rosas y ternura. Y cuando no lo consigues, aceptas que la autora te ganó y te dejó absolutamente agotada. Y eso, la verdad, cuesta mucho sentirlo.

Lo que dice la contraportada:

Este volumen recoge las tres novelas de gran éxito internacional que han confirmado la reputasción de Agota Kristof como uno de los exponentes más provocadores de la narrativa europea. Con la simplicidad sórdida de un cuento de hadas, esta trilogía nos explica la historia de dos hermanos gemelos, Claus y Lucas, condicionados por un vínculo agonizante, que se convierte también en una alegoría de las fuerzas que han separado a Europa desde la Segunda Guerra Mundial.

'THE PSYCHOTIC' BY KEITH FARQUHAR (1996)

In an earlier post (THE WALL) I mentioned that I had attended a Q & A with Dennis Cooper at the South London Gallery.  During said Q & A, Mr Cooper mentioned in passing a novel called “The Third Lie” by Agota Kristof.  This seemed like a pretty good recommendation, so I found a copy of the book.  It turns out “The Third Lie” is in fact the third novel in a trilogy, following the “The Notebook” and “The Proof” in the series.  Conveniently Grove Press publish this in a single edition.

I’d been spending a lot of time recently, in a literary sense, in California, rereading all the mighty Raymond Chandler “Marlowe” novels and dipping into the work of John Fante for the first time.  Kristof’s novel sent me straight back to Europe.  Though to be fair the novels never fully establish their setting. It would seem that the novels are set in Hungary, the Author’s country of original before she was forced to flee the country to Switzerland during the Revolution of 1956. Describing the narrative of this book is a misleading exercise but put simply it is the story of the lives of  of  twin brothers Lucas and Claus.  ”The Notebook” begins with their Second World War evacuation, by their Mother from their native city, to their estranged, eccentric Grandmother.  ”The Notebook” presents a tableau of rural poverty and cruelty as the boys both accustom themselves to the abuse of their Grandmother and what will be become a lifetime of isolation.  This is done in two main forms, firstly through and almost endless list of concentration and deprivation exercises (including exercises in ‘Fasting’ and ‘Cruelty’) and secondly through ‘The Notebook’, which is constantly adjusted to compliment their findings.  The notebook is hidden and most only contain that which is found to be ‘true’.

The book is written in an objective tone which leaves one with the impression that what is actually being described in this rural family tale, is an exploration of the nature of Evil.  Norman Mailer attempted this with his final book “The Castle in the Forest” (2007) his Hitler family saga, but couldn’t resist revealing the narrator was an Angel rather quickly.  Nothing quite so mythological happens here, though we have various configurations of Patricide and Matricide later on.  The book finishes with the separation of the boys as one crosses the land-mined frontier, aided by the boys Father whose death reveals the location of the mines, whilst the other twin remains alone in their deceased Grandmothers house.

The book is narrated by the boys as “We”.

‘The Proof’ continues the story of Lucas, the twin who remains, into adulthood.  Lucas’ separation from his twin, left only with the skeletons of his mother and his baby sister for company, has dire consequences on his Psyche. A revolution and counter-revolution come and go and Lucas befriends and adopts a young woman and her son; the product of an incestuous relationship with her father.  He continues work on ‘The Notebook’, which as time passes becomes instead “The Proof” that his Brother actually existed. We begin to discover that many of the historical facts about the Boy’s life, that anchor the first book of the sequence may not actually be true.  The book finishes with the suicide of Lucas’ adoptive son, the disappearance of Lucas and the appearance of Claus.  Claus becomes the beneficiary of the Notebook. Claus is unable to find his brother and is to be deported back across the Frontier.  The Notebook is produced as proof of the existence of his Brother, and his true Nationality but it is revealed that the work has in fact been written in the hand of Claus, himself  over the period of six months, which is in fact the duration of his stay in his old home town.

The book is narrated in the Third Person.

The final installment  ”The Third Lie”, is narrated in the first person, ostensibly by Claus. Believing himself to be seriously ill, he waits in his prison cell for his extradition.  He describes his young life in a rehabilitation centre, which is now an orphanage, where he is recovering from a mysterious spinal injury.  His parents and brother never come to visit him  and when the building is struck by a bomb, with know one to claim him he is sent to stay with an abusive peasant woman whom he learns to call ‘Grandmother’. She eventually dies and Claus crosses the frontier by blackmailing a man who is killed by a land mine.  The authorities can find no evidence of his claim that he originally had family in the country and his extradition continues.  He is sent to the embassy in the capital.  We learn that when he crossed the border as a child he gave his brothers name.  His name is Lucas

With the help of a friendly diplomat he learns that his brother, Claus is a famous poet, who is alive and living with his Mother in the capital.  he makes contact.  The second part of the book is narrated by Claus, who eventually agrees to meet his brother but hides his existence from his Mother. He denies he has a brother, despite Lucas’ recollections.  Lucas leaves never to return.  Claus describes the disintegration of his family, his mothers shooting of his father, and the consequent ricochet that hit his brother.  He is left to be raised by a woman, who unbeknownst to him, was his Father’s mistress and with his half-sister.  Years later he discovers the truth and returns to his Mother, who mistakes him for his brother.  The last contact that he ever has with his brother is a note asking that he be buried in the cemetery plot near to  his parents.

This is a gross over simplification of the novel’s plot line.

"UP AGAINST THE WHITE WALL" BY ANTHONY GREEN (2008)

These books are one of the most powerful expressions that I have come across of the fragmented self. Not necessarily in the story they tell but in the effect that they had upon me as reader; exposing my willingness for a certain kind of overarching narrative, into which memory can be adjusted to fit within.  Characters with the same name, major and minor, reappear throughout as completely different individuals whose memories contradict our understanding of the sequence. The narrative continually unfolds and even the completion of the cycle does not offer closure.  For instance there is the implication that the reason for Claus/Lucas’ fragmentation is the trauma of the gunshot wound accidentally inflicted by his mother as she shoots her husband, when he reveals his infidelity. However given that many such suggestions are made throughout the cycle the occurrence of this suggestion, near to the end of the last book, does not give it particular credence.  There are many endings, throughout, which seem plausible, or better still they convince us of their plausibility.  This could simply be a story of the pain of separation from one’s family in desperate times yet it could equally be some traumatic fantasy spewed out by a diseased mind.  It is strange for such a narrative book to almost destroy any sense of narrative.  The work forms a loop.  The form of the book itself of beginnings and ends is exposed.

Two other books spring to mind in relation to this firstly, and appropriately as it was his suggestion that brought me to the book, Dennis Coopers’ ‘Period’.  The final book in his George Miles cycle.  A book that is literally a mirror, within the cycle which itself circular, that spins the reader in every which way. (Strangely the other book I read on Cooper’s suggestion the “The Show that Smells” by Derek McCormack, is set  in a hall of mirrors. )

The other book, and the clue was in the post ‘Night-Time Visitor‘, was Whitley Strieber’s recollection of  alien abduction “Communion”.  A book that described the pain of False Memory Syndrome and that as a cultural phenomenon was used both to debunk and popularise its very existence.  My feeling about ‘Communion’ is that it doesn’t really matter whether the events that are described happened or not.  For me either possibility is equally disturbing, that of being abducted by aliens or constructing a fantasy of being abducted by aliens and actually really believing it.   (I choose for these purposes to ignore the possibility that the book was merely written for the purposes of relaunching the career of a writer who’s popularity had passed. Though, that may be the case.)

What I think is remarkable about Kristof’s book is that despite all the deftness of the authors mind, her touch is light. One does not realise one is being led.  There is one tiny exception when the author makes clear reference to the Lucas/Claus anagram but other than that the intellect of the author is hidden, completely convincingly within these three novels and the many possible worlds that she creates. This is definitely a recommendation.

Ágota Kristóf is an Hungarian writer, who lives in Switzerland and writes in French.

Kristof was born on October 30, 1935. At the age of 21 she had to leave her country when the Hungarian anti-communist revolution was suppressed by the Soviet military. She, her husband (who used to be her history teacher at school) and their 4 month-old daughter escaped to Neuchâtel in Switzerland. After 5 years of loneliness and exile, she quit her work in a factory and left her husband. She started studying French and began to write novels in that language.

In 1986 Kristof’s first novel, The Notebook, appeared. It was the beginning of a moving trilogy. The sequel titled The Proof came 2 years later. The third part was published in 1991 under the title The Third Lie. The most important themes of this trilogy are war and destruction, love and loneliness, desire and loss, truth and fiction. In 1995 she published the short novel, Yesterday.

The video game Mother 3 was influenced by The Notebook’s major themes. Main characters Lucas and Claus are named after the book’s narrators.

—pulled from wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agota_Kristof; see also http://www.europeanliteraryimmigration.com/agota_kristof.html.

There’s something Nabokovian about Kristof’s background: a native of Hungary, she lives in Switzerland  and writes in French. Yesterday examines the fractured history of the “New Europe” and shows how political faultlines crack their way into the pysches of history’s victims.  

 

Yesterday everything was more beautiful

the music in the trees

the wind in my hair

and in your outstretched hands

the sun

Escape

Yesterday, a familiar wind was blowing. A wind I had come across before.

Spring had come early. I was walking in the wind with a brisk, determined step, as every morning. Yet I wanted to go back to my bed and lie there, motionless, without thoughts, without desires, lie there until the moment when I felt the presence of that thing which is not voice, taste or smell, simply a very vague memory, something from beyond the borders of memory.

Slowly, the door opened and in a moment of terror my dangling hands felt the soft, silky fur of the tiger.

‘Music,’ it said. ‘Play something! On the violin or the piano. Preferably the piano. Play!’

‘I don’t know how,’ I said. ‘I’ve never played the piano in my whole life, I don’t have a piano, I’ve never had one.’

‘In your whole life? Nonsense! Go to the window and play!’

Outside my window there was a forest. I saw the birds gathering on the branches to listen to me playing. I saw the birds. Their little heads tilted and their staring eyes looking right through me.

My music grew louder and louder. It became unbearable.

A dead bird fell from a branch.

The music stopped.

I turned round.

The tiger sat in the middle of the room, smiling.

‘That’s enough for today,’ it said. ‘You should practise more often.’

‘Yes, I promise I will practise. But I’m expecting visitors, you see, if you don’t mind. They, these people, might find it strange, you being here, in my house.’

‘Of course,’ it said with a yawn.

It wentout with a supple stride and I doublelocked the door behind it.

‘See you again,’ it called out as it left.

Line was waiting for me at the factory entrance, leaning against the wall. She looked so pale and sad that I decided to stop and talk to her. However, I walked past her, not even turning my head in her direction.

A short while later, after I had started up my machine, she stood next to me.

‘You know, it’s strange. I’ve never seen you laugh. I’ve known you for years. In all the years I’ve known you, I haven’t seen you laugh once.’

I looked at her and burst out laughing.

‘I’d rather you didn’t do that,’ she said.

At that moment I felt a stab of anxiety and I leaned over to the window to see whether the wind was still there. The movement of the trees reassured me.

When I turned round, Line had gone. Then I spoke to her:

‘Line, I love you. I really love you, Line, but I don’t have time to think about that, there are so many things I have to think about, this wind, for example, I have to go out now and walk in the wind. Not with you, Line, don’t be angry. Walking in the wind is something you have to do alone, because there is a tiger and a piano whose music kills birds, and only the wind can banish the fear, it’s a well-known fact, I’ve been aware of it for a long time.’

The machines rang out the Angelus all around me.

I walked along the corridor. The door was open.

This door was always open and I had never tried to leave by this door.

Why?

The wind swept the streets. These empty streets seemed strange to me. I had never seen them on a weekday morning.

Later, I sat down on a stone bench and cried.

In the afternoon, the sun came out. There were small clouds scurrying across the sky and it was very mild.

I went into a café, I was hungry. The waiter placed a plate of sandwiches in front of me.

I said to myself:

‘Now you must go back to the factory. You must go hack, you have no reason for being off work. Yes, now I will go back.’

I started crying again and I noticed that I had eaten all the sandwiches.

I took the bus to save time. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. I could put in another two and a half hours’ work.

The sky clouded over.

When the bus went past the factory, the conductor looked at me. Further on, he tapped me on the shoulder.

‘End of the line, sir.’

The place where I got off was a sort of park. Trees, a few houses. It was already dark when I went into the forest.

Now the rain was getting heavy, it was mixed with snow. The wind was lashing my face. But it was him, the same wind.

I walked, faster and faster, towards a summit.

I closed my eyes. I couldn’t see anything in any case. With each step I bumped into a tree. ‘Water!’

Way above me, someone had called out.

It was ridiculous, there was water everywhere.

I, too, was thirsty. I threw my head back, spread my arms and let myself fall. I shoved my face into the cold mud and I didn’t move.

That’s how I died.

Soon my body mingled with the earth.

Of course, I didn’t die. A walker found me lying in the mud, in the middle of the forest. He called an ambulance, I was taken to hospital. I wasn’t even frozen, just soaked through. I had slept one night in the forest and that’s all.

No, I wasn’t dead, I merely had a bout of pneumonia that was nearly fatal. I had to stay in hospital for six weeks. Once my lung condition had been cured, I was transferred to the psychiatric wing, because I had tried to kill myself.

I was happy to stay in hospital, because I didn’t want to go back to the factory. I was fine here, I was looked after, I could sleep. At mealtimes I had a choice of several different menus. I could even smoke iii the small sitting room. I could also smoke when I wits talking with the doctor.

‘You can’t write your own death.’

The psychiatrist said this to me, and I agreed with him, because, when you are dead, you can’t write. hut in myself I think that I can write anything, even of it is impossible and even if it is not true.

Usually, I am happy to write in my head. It’s easier. In your head there are no difficulties to get in the way. But, as soon as you write anything down, the thoughts change, become distorted, and everything turns out false. Because of words.

The trouble is, I don’t write what I ought to write, I write just anything, things that no one can understand and that I don’t understand myself. In the evening, when I copy out what I have written in my head all day long, I wonder why I wrote all that. For whom and for what reason?

The psychiatrist asks me:

‘Who is Line?’

‘I made Line up. She doesn’t exist.’ ‘The tiger, the piano, the birds?’

‘Nightmares, that’s all.’

‘Did you try to kill yourself because of your nightmares?’

‘If I had really tried to kill myself, I would already be dead. I only wanted to rest. I couldn’t go on living like that, the factory and everything else, Line’s absence, the absence of hope. Getting up at five in the morning, walking, running down the street to catch the bus, the forty-minute journey, arriving at the fourth village, going inside the factory. Rushing to pull on the grey overall, getting through the crush to clock in, running to your machine, starting it up, drilling the hole as quickly as possible, drilling, drilling, always the same hole in the same part, ten thousand times a day, if possible, our salaries depend on our workrate, our lives.’

The doctor says:

‘That’s the working man’s life. Be thankful you have a job. Lots of people are unemployed. As for Line … There’s a pretty young blonde girl who comes to see you every day. Why couldn’t her name be Line?’

‘Because she is Yolande and she will never be called Line. She isn’t Line, she is Yolande. It’s a stupid name, isn’t it? And she is just as stupid as her name. Her dyed blonde hair gathered up on top of her head, lier nails painted pink, as long as claws, her ten-centimetre-high stilettos. Yolande is small, very small, so she wears shoes with ten-centimetre heels and has a ridiculous hairstyle.’

The doctor laughs:

‘So why do you go on seeing her?’

‘Because I don’t have anyone else. And because I don’t want to change. I once changed a lot and I am tired of it. Anyway, what difference does it make, one Yolande or another? I go to her place once a week. She cooks and I bring the wine. We’re not in love.’

The doctor says:

‘Perhaps not as far as you’re concerned. But do you know what her feelings are?’

‘I don’t want to know. I’m not interested in her feelings. I’ll go on seeing her until Line arrives.’

‘You still believe she will?’

‘Definitely. I know she exists somewhere. I’ve always known that I came into this world only to meet her. And her, too. She came into this world only to meet me. She is called Line, she is my wife, my love, my life. I have never seen her.’

I met Yolande when I was buying some socks. Black ones, grey ones, white tennis socks. I don’t play tennis.

The first time I saw Yolande, I thought she was very beautiful. Graceful. She tilted her head as she handed over the socks, she smiled, she was almost dancing.

I paid for the socks, I asked her: ‘Can I see you some time?’

She gave a silly laugh, but I didn’t care about her silliness. I only cared about her body.

‘Wait for me in the café over the road. I get off at five.’

I bought a bottle of wine, then I waited in the café over the road with my socks in a plastic bag.

Yolande arrived. We had a coffee, then we went to her place.

She’s a good cook.

Yolande might seem prettier to someone who hasn’t seen her first thing in the morning.

Then she is nothing but a little crumpled thing, her hair hangs down, her make-up is a mess, she has large rings of kohl around her eyes.

I watch her as she goes into the shower, her legs are thin, she has hardly any buttocks or breasts.

She is in the bathroom for at least an hour. When she comes out she is the fresh and pretty Yolande again, well groomed, well made-up, perched on her ten-centimetre heels. Smiling. Laughing in her stupid way.

Usually, I go back home late on Saturday evening, but sometimes I stay over until Sunday morning. On those occasions, I also have breakfast with her.

She goes to get some croissants at the baker’s, which is open on Sundays, twenty minutes’ walk from her place. She makes some coffee.

We eat. Then I go home.

What does Yolande do on Sunday after I leave? I don’t know. I’ve never asked her.

The Lie

Of all my lies, the funniest one was when I told you how much I wanted to see my country again.

Your eyelids fluttered, you were moved, and you cleared your throat as you sought the words to comfort me and show me you understood. You didn’t dare laugh all evening. It was worth telling you the story just for that.

When I got home, I switched on the lamps in all the rooms and I stood in front of the mirror. I looked at myself until my image became blurred and unrecognisable.

For hours I walked around my bedroom. My books lay lifeless on the table and the shelves, my bed was cold, too neat, I had no thoughts of going to bed.

Dawn approached and the windows of the houses opposite were all dark.

I checked several times that the door was closed, then I tried to think about you to help me sleep but you were nothing but a grey, fleeting image like my other memories.

Like the dark mountains I crossed one winter night, like the bedroom in the dilapidated farm where I woke up one morning, like the modern factory where I have worked for ten years, like an overfamiliar landscape you no longer want to look at.

Soon there was nothing left to think about, only the things I didn’t want to think about. I would have liked to cry a little but I couldn’t, for I didn’t have any reason to do so.

The doctor asks me:

“Why did you choose the name “Line” for the woman you are waiting for?’

I say:

‘Because my mother was called Line and I loved her very much. I was ten when she died.’

He says:

‘Tell me about your childhood.’

I was waiting for that one. My childhood! Everyone is interested in my childhood.

I dealt with his stupid questions quite well. I had my childhood worked out ready for every occasion, my lie was in good working order. I have already employed it several times. I have told it to Yolande, to my small handful of friends and acquaintances, and I will tell the same story to Line.

I am a war orphan. My parents were killed in the air-raids. I am the only survivor from my family. I have, no brothers or sisters.

I was brought up in an orphanage, like so many other children at that time. At the age of twelve, I ran away from the orphanage, I crossed the frontier.

That’s all.

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes, that’s all.’

I am certainly not going to tell him about my real childhood!

I was born in a nameless village in an insignificant country.

My mother, Esther, begged in the village, she also slept with men, peasants who gave her flour, grain, milk. She also stole fruit and vegetables from fields arid gardens, sometimes even a chicken or duckling from a farmyard.

When the peasants slaughtered a pig they would keep the offcuts for my mother, the tripe and stuff like that, whatever the villagers didn’t want to eat.

For us, everything was good.

My mother was the thief, beggar and whore of the village.

I sat outside the house, I played with the clay, I moulded it, I made huge phalluses, breasts, buttocks. I also sculpted my mother’s body in the red clay and made holes in it with my tiny fingers: the mouth, the nose, the eyes, the ears, the sex, the anus, the navel.

My mother was full of holes, like our house, my clothes, my shoes. I stuffed the holes in my shoes with mud.

I lived in the yard.

When I felt hungry, or tired, or cold, I went into the house, I found something to eat, grilled potatoes, cooked grain, milk curds, sometimes some bread, and I lay down on the mattress next to the stove.

Most of the time the bedroom door was open to allow the heat from the kitchen to spread through. I saw and heard everything that went on.

My mother came into the kitchen to wash her behind in a bucket, wiped herself with an old rag, went back to sleep. She hardly ever talked to me and she never kissed me.

The most surprising thing was that I was an only child. I still wonder how my mother managed to get rid of her other pregnancies and why she ‘kept’ me. Perhaps I was her first ‘accident’. There are only seventeen years between us. Perhaps she then learned what she had to do to avoid being burdened with kids and to survive.

I remember that she would sometimes stay in bed for several days at a time and all her old rags would he saturated with blood.

Of course, I wasn’t bothered by any of this. I can even say that I had a happy childhood, since I didn’t know that childhood could be any different.

I never went to the village. We lived next to the cemetery, in the last street in the village, in the last house. I was happy playing in the yard, in the mud. Sometimes the sky was clear, but I loved the wind, the rain, the clouds. The rain stuck my hair to my forehead, to my neck, in my eyes. The wind dried my hair, stroked my face. The monsters hiding in the clouds told me about far-away lands.

It was harder in winter. I also loved the snowflakes, hut I didn’t stay outside long. I didn’t have clothes which were warm enough and I got cold very quickly, particularly my feet.

Sometimes a man came out of the bedroom into the kitchen. He gazed at me for a long time, he stroked my hair, he kissed me on the forehead, he pressed my hands against his cheeks.

I didn’t like that, I was afraid of him, I trembled. But I wasn’t brave enough to push him away.

He came often. And he wasn’t a peasant.

I wasn’t afraid of the peasants, I detested them, I despised them, they disgusted me.

I met this man, the one who stroked my hair, at school. There was only one school in the village. The teacher gave lessons to the pupils in every year, right up to the sixth.

On my first day at school, my mother washed me, dressed me, cut my hair. She also got dressed up the best she could. She accompanied me to school. She was only twenty-three, she was beautiful, the most beautiful woman in the village, and I was ashamed of her.

She said to me:

‘Don’t be afraid. The teacher is nice. You know him already.’

I went into the classroom, I sat in the front row. Right in front of the teacher’s desk. I waited. Next to me sat a very beautiful little girl, pale and thin, with tresses on both sides of her face. She looked at me and said:

‘You’re wearing my brother’s jacket. And his shoes. What’s your name? My name is Caroline.’

The teacher came in and I recognised him.

Caroline said:

‘That’s my father. And back there with the bigger children is my elder brother. Back home there’s my little brother, who is only three. My father is called Sandor and he’s in charge here. What is your father’s name? What does he do? He is a peasant, I reckon. Everyone round here is a peasant, except my father.’

I said:

‘I don’t have a father. He is dead.’

‘Oh! That’s a shame. I wouldn’t like my father to be dead. But there’s the war and lots of people will die. Particularly men.’

I said:

‘I didn’t know there was a war. But maybe you’re lying.’

‘I’m not lying. They talk about the war every day on the radio.’

‘I haven’t got a radio. In fact, I don’t even know what a radio is.’

‘You really are stupid! What are you called?’

‘Tobias. Tobias Horvath.’

She laughed:

‘Tobias is a funny name. I have a grandfather who is called Tobias, but he is old. Why didn’t they give you a normal name?’

‘I don’t know. As far as I’m concerned, Tobias is a normal name. Caroline isn’t a particularly nice name either.’

‘You’re right. I don’t like my name. Call me Line, like everyone else.’

The teacher said:

‘Stop talking, children.’

Line whispered:

‘Which class are you in?’

‘The first.’

‘Me too.’

The teacher handed out the list of reading books and notebooks we had to buy.

The children went home. I stayed behind on my own. The teacher asked me:

‘Is there something wrong, Tobias?’

‘Yes. My mother can’t read and we don’t have any money.’

‘I know. Don’t worry. You will have everything you need tomorrow morning. You get yourself home. I will come and see you this evening.’

He came. He shut himself up in the bedroom with my mother. He was the only one who bothered to close the door when he had sex with my mother.

I went to bed in the kitchen, as usual.

The next day at school I found everything I needed at my desk. Books, notebooks, pencils, pens, a rubber, paper.

That day, the teacher said that Line and I couldn’t stay sitting together, because we chatted too much. He sat Line in the middle of the room, surrounded by girls, and she chatted even more than before. I sat on my own in front of the teacher’s desk.

During playtime, the ‘big ones’ tried to annoy me. They shouted:

‘Tobias, son of a whore, son of Esther!’

The teacher intervened, all big and strong:

‘Leave the little one alone. If you lay a hand on him, you’ll have me to deal with.’

They all backed off and lowered their heads.

At playtimes only Line came to me. She gave me half of her jam sandwich or biscuit. She would say:

‘My parents told me I should be nice to you, because you are poor, because you don’t have a father.’

I would have liked to refuse the sandwich or the biscuit. But I was hungry. At home I never had such nice things to eat.

I continued to go to school. I quickly learned to read and do sums.

The teacher still came to our house. He lent me books. Sometimes he brought me clothes his eldest son had grown out of, or shoes. I didn’t want them, because I knew that Line would recognise them, but my mother made me wear them.

‘You haven’t got anything else to wear. Would you rather go to school naked?’

I didn’t want to go to school naked, I didn’t want to go to school at all. But school was compulsory. The police would have come round if I hadn’t gone. That’s what my mother said. They could lock her up too, if she didn’t send me to school.

So I went. I went to school for six years.

Line would say to me:

‘My father is very nice to you. We could keep my older brother’s coats for the little one, but he gives them to you because you don’t have a father. My mother goes along with this because she too is very nice, she thinks that she should help the poor.’

The village was full of very nice people. Peasants and peasants’ sons came to the house all the time to bring us something to eat.

By the age of twelve, I had finished compulsory education and had received excellent marks. Sandor said to my mother:

‘Tobias should continue his studies. He is of above-average intelligence.’

My mother replied:

‘You know that I don’t have any moneyto pay school fees.’

Sandor said:

‘I could find him a free place. My eldest son has one. They are given bed and board. There’s nothing to pay. I can give him pocket money. He could be a lawyer or a doctor when he grows up.’

My mother said:

‘If Tobias goes away, I’ll be on my own. I thought that once he grew up he would bring money into the house. By working with the peasants.’

Sandor said:

‘I don’t want my son to become a peasant. Even worse, a farm hand, a beggar like you.’

My mother said:

‘When I kept this child I was thinking of my old age. And you want to take him away from me now that I am starting to grow old.’

‘I thought you kept the child because you loved me and you loved him.’

‘Yes, I loved you, and I still love you. But I need Tobias. I can’t live without him. Now it’s him that I love.’

Sandor said:

‘If you really love him, go away. He’ll never turn out well with a mother like you. You’ll be nothing but a burden, an embarrassment to him, all his life.

Go to the city. I’ll pay for your ticket. You are still young. You can still pass off as a woman in her twenties. You could earn ten times what you get from these lousy peasants. I’ll take care of Tobias.

My mother said:

‘It’s because of you that I stayed here, and because of Tobias. I wanted him to be near his father.’

‘Are you really sure that he is my son?’

‘You know very well he is. I was a virgin. I was only sixteen. You ought to remember that.’

‘I know that the whole village has had you over the years.’

She said:

‘That’s true. But what would I have lived from without that?’

‘I’ve helped you.’

‘Yes, old coats, old shoes. I had to eat too.’

‘I did what I could. I’m only a village schoolteacher and I have three children of my own.’

My mother asked:

‘Don’t you love me any more?’

The man replied:

‘I’ve never loved you. You bewitched me with your face, your eyes, your mouth, your body. You possessed me. But I do love Tobias. He belongs to me. I will take care of him. But you have to go away. It’s over between us. I love my wife and children. Even the one who was born of you I love. I can’t stand you any more. You are just a youthful indiscretion, the biggest mistake I have ever made in my life.’

As usual, I was on my own in the kitchen. From the bedroom came the usual noises, which I hated. In spite of everything, they were still making love.

I listened to them. I shivered on my mattress, under my blanket, and the whole kitchen shivered with me. I tried to warm my arms, my legs, my stomach with my hands, but to no avail. I was racked by a sob which couldn’t escape from my body. On my mattress, under my blanket, I had suddenly realised that Sandor was my father and that he wanted to get rid of my mother and me.

My teeth chattered.

I was cold.

I felt hate rising within me against that man who claimed to be my father and who was now asking me to abandon my mother at the same time as he was abandoning her himself.

A void opened up inside me. I had had enough, I didn’t want anything any more. Not to study, nor to work with the peasants who came every day to have sex with my mother.

I had only one desire: to leave, to walk, to die, whatever. I wanted to get away, never come back, disappear, melt away into the forest, the clouds, no longer have memories, forget, forget.

I took the largest knife from the drawer, a meat knife. I went into the bedroom. They were asleep. Him lying on her. They were illuminated by the moon. It was a full moon. A huge moon.

I plunged the dagger into the man’s back, I pressed down on it with all my weight so that it would go well in and also go through my mother’s body.

After that, I left.

I walked through the fields of maize and wheat, I walked through a forest. I went towards the setting sun, I knew there were other countries in the west, countries different from ours.

I went through villages begging and stealing fruit and vegetables from fields. I hid myself in goods trains, I travelled with lorry drivers.

Without realising it, I arrived in another country, in a large city. I continued to steal and beg the necessities of life. I slept on the streets.

One day, the police arrested me. They put me in a ‘children’s home’ for boys. There were delinquents, orphans and homeless boys like me.

I didn’t call myself Tobias Horvath any more. I had made myself a new name with the names of my father and mother. I was now called Sandor Lester and I was treated as a war orphan.

They asked me lots of questions, they made investigations in several countries to find any surviving family, but no one claimed Sandor Lester.

At the home we were clean, well fed and well educated. The principal was a beautiful, elegant, very stern woman. She wanted us to turn into well brought-up men.

When I was sixteen,I could leave and take up a trade. If I had gone for an apprenticeship I could have stayed at the home, but I’d had enough of the principal, the restrictions of the timetable, having to share a bedroom with several other people.

I wanted to earn enough money to be completely free as quickly as possible.

I became a factory worker.

Yesterday, at the hospital, I was told that I could go home and go back to work. So I went home, I threw the pills they had given me — pink, white, blue — down the toilet.

Luckily it was Friday, I had another two days before I had to go back to work. I used them to do my shopping, to restock my fridge.

On Saturday evening I visited Yolande. Then, when I got home, I drank several bottles of beer and I wrote.

No escriguis més, Agota, fes el favor. Llegir-te és comprovar que escriure per a tu és summament dolorós, i ja has patit prou.

Els teus bessons Claus i Lucas m’han tret del llit avui a les cinc de la matinada. M’he despertat perquè els meus han decidit moure’s frenèticament a aquelles hores i com que ahir em vaig adormir llegint-te, els primers bessons en qui he pensat (després dels meus) ha estat en els teus, i automàticament he necessitat saber com continuava la història. He llegit gairebé a les fosques, clandestinament, com si estigués a les golfes de casa l’àvia dels teus bessons rellegint la Bíblia i fent redaccions per al gran quadern.

Després, m’he dutxat i de camí cap al despatx, encara massa aviat, he decidit aturar-me en un cafè i reprendre la lectura una estona més. A aquelles hores als cafès només hi ha borratxos i pencaires matiners, i a tots els ha sobtat la meva parsimònia i la meva avidesa lectora: se m’ha refredat el cafè. Ara estic amb en Lucas, la Yasmine i en Mathias, a punt de celebrar el Nadal. La idea d’un nadal dins d’un llibre teu, Agota, m’aterra.

No voldria arribar mai a escriure com tu: per arribar-hi em caldria patir com tu, i en cada lletra teva hi ha tones de dolor, de ràbia que dubto que arribi a sentir mai. Tampoc no voldria que els meus bessons (o bessones) s’assemblessin en res als teus Claus i Lucas, vull que siguin nens quan els toqui ser nens, joves en la joventut i adults en la maduresa, que res ni ningú no els faci créixer de cop i a cops.

Vaig comprar Claus i Lucas que encara no sabia que seria mare, i l’he començat a llegir just quan sento els moviments dels bessons al ventre, la vida ens regala coincidències: llegir-te ara és gratificant i dolorós alhora. Gratificant perquè el teu estil contingut, nu, fred, em permet llegir entre línies i perdre’m suposant el que no dius. Dolorós perquè hi ha capítols, fragments, que llegeixo a cuita-corrents i voldria oblidar-los tan bon punt passo la pàgina.

No escriguis més, Agota. Mira la tele, surt a comprar, llegeix Kertész i rellegeix Bernhard, viu altres vides i no repassis més la teva, deixa-la als teus llibres, de testimoni excepcional d’una experiència vital desesperançada que hauria de ser de lectura obligatòria perquè no hi torni a haver mai ningú que escrigui com tu, Agota Kristof, mal que li pesi a la literatura (que dius que no t’interessa, i amb això ja ho acabes de dir tot).

«No és possible.
No sortim mai l’un sense l’altre.
Sempre anem junts a tot arreu.»
AGOTA KRISTOF, Claus i Lucas

8 h. Es desperta que ja estem desperts. Aviat es començarà a moure i ens bressolarà involuntàriament: i ens endinsarem en el son dolç de cada dia. Li sentim la veu i ens ve la primera glopada de calma. També sentim l’altra veu, la més greu, que ens diu bon dia. Voltem, movem braços i cames, obrim i tanquem la boca. Es mou i ens diverteix aquest sacseig, ens deixem gronxar. Beu llet i ja se’ns fa la boca aigua. Sentim els miols gelosos de cada matí, i de fons l’aigua del «dutxa’t tu primer». Després el so de l’aigua és més proper i sentim algunes carícies a través de la paret. Seguim gronxant-nos, amunt i avall, d’aquí cap allà, amb un ritme lent i constant. Els seus batecs són tranquils i ens endormisquen. Ara sentim més veus, llunyanes i desconegudes, i molts altres sorolls que no identifiquem.

9 h. S’asseu i prenem posicions. Ara toca una bona estona de tranquil·litat. Aviat sentim el tecleig que ens hipnotitzarà fins deixar-nos estabornits, surant sense control. Teclec, teclec. Ens adormim.

11 h. Esmorza i ens desperta. Obrim la boca afamats. Torna a parlar i és la glòria: la seva veu, l’aliment, la veu greu de fons, tot en ordre. Aviat tornarà a teclejar i reprendrem el son on l’havíem deixat. Però encara gaudim de les dues veus una mica més, i del batec assossegat. I després teclec, teclec i sant tornem-hi.

14 h. Es torna a moure i ens bressola. Mig adormits, ens abandonem al seu moviment i anem d’una banda a l’altra. Sentim més veus de fons, sorolls desconeguts. A través de la paret es filtra una escalforeta apegalosa. Es mou més a poc a poc, sentim que esbufega i que el batec s’accelera una mica. Decidim moure’ns per ajudar-la i ella ens toca amb les mans, a través de la paret, i no sabem com s’ho fa però ens calma i seguim endormiscats.

14.30 h. Dina. Més felicitat. Obrim la boca en somnis, giravoltem, sacsegem les mans i els peus, potser somriem. Les dues veus que coneixem parlen i no podem sentir-nos millor. Tot encaixa, no hem de fer res, només gaudir-ne, deixar-nos portar, confiar. Confiem.

15 h. Quan s’estira, nosaltres ens afanyem a fer-li senyals agraïts a través de la paret. Ens rep, ens entén, ens toca i ens adorm. I ella també s’adorm. Ritme lent de batecs, respiració somnífera i de fons un altre cop aquells miols gelosos que ens inquieten. Ella es gira, sentim els miols molt a prop, es tornen rum-rums i estem segurs que és ella qui ho provoca. No pot ser d’una altra manera. Aquell rum-rum ens retorna el son i surem sense control un altre cop.

15.45 h. S’aixeca i sentim que els cossos se’ns posen sols en posició vertical, no fem res per evitar-ho, ens deixem dur. Tornen les veus desconegudes, els sorolls i l’escalforeta. I poc després el tecleig que ens garanteix una bona estona més de son.

19 h. S’ha acabat el teclec, teclec per avui. Ella ens bressola un altre cop. Beu suc de fruites i obrim la boca. Sabem que ara ve una bona estona de bressoleig constant, de veus que ens sonen una mica, algunes, de batec rítmic, de moviment compassat. També algun esbufec i les mans que ens toquen a través de la paret. Seurà una estona i nosaltres aprofitarem per giravoltar.

20 h. Falta poc perquè arribi el nostre moment preferit. Ara toca soroll d’aigua, carícies i massatges. I després s’estira i sentim un so melòdic de fons que ella i la veu greu imiten, és un so que cada dia ens és més familiar i això fa que ens agradi i ens aquieti. Ens despertem, assaborim el moment amb tots els sentits, ens movem sense ordre ni concert, xoquem, ens posem de cap per avall, ens esverem. Ens esverem perquè sabem que quan convingui les seves mans i la seva veu ens calmaran. Perdem el control perquè sabem que ella ens el retornarà. Tard o d’hora riurà, se sacsejarà i ens farà pessigolles. Tot tremolarà i no tindrem por, perquè la por no la coneixem, ella l’esborra dels nostres cervells acabats de fer amb cada gest, batec o so que fa.

21 h. Torna a menjar i nosaltres també. Continuem desperts i ben atents. La seva veu i la veu greu parlen, escoltem sense entendre res i alhora entenent-ho tot, tot el que ens cal entendre: que tot és a lloc, que tot va bé, que no hem de patir per res, que confiem, que cap dels dos no ens fallarà. Voltem, estirem braços i cames, remenem el cap, tornem a xocar, obrim la boca, la tanquem, movem els dits, fem tot el que sabem fer, tips de felicitat líquida.

23 h. Ara s’estirarà i s’estarà quieta molta estona, i estem més desperts que mai. Respira profundament, sentim que està cansada, però no podem evitar enviar-li més senyals en forma de moviments, petites sotragades, empentetes. I ella, mig en somnis, encara té esma per acostar les mans a la paret i ens saluda, ens parla i torna a aconseguir asserenar-nos. A poc a poc ens posem cadascun a lloc i la deixem dormir, i ens adormim esperant que l’endemà sigui clavat, idèntic al dia d’avui.

* * *

El 16 de juny del 2010 el viurem ja a l’altra banda de la paret, i enyorarem la felicitat líquida, que ara assaborim sense ni sospitar que la perdrem, la resta dels nostres dies. Aquest és l’únic Bloomsday que haurem viscut dins del ventre de la mare, que ha teclejat això per nosaltres i ens ha permès gaudir d’un teclec, teclec extra, avui.

Barcelona, 16 de juny de 2009

Enllaços relacionats amb el Bloomsday:

El motiu d’aquest Bloomsday
Mapa de tots els blogs que han participat en la iniciativa Bloomsday

Obscur relat d’una autora hongaresa, A Hungria hi ha vida més enllà del mestre Marai.

Ahir

De n’Agota Kristof

Traducció del Jordi Rourera Perett

Barcelona 2009. Editorial Empúries. Col. Narrativa 344

131 pags. 14.95.– €

“Ahir” es va escriure fa uns quants anys per una dona, (si, Agota és nom de dona) d’un país de l’’Europa de l’est, Hongria. Exiliada per l’estat soviètic, va acabar vivint a Suïssa; primer treballant d’obrera, a una fàbrica de rellotges i ja anys després va poder guanyar-se les garrofes escrivint sobretot obres de teatre, primer en la seva llengua natal i desprès en francès, la seva llengua d’adopció. Jo soc un proletari aprenent d’escriptor, lletraferit, perdó llibròfag, que intenta escriure cosetes en la seva llengua, res a veure amb l’Agota. Ací està la màgia de la literatura, la connexió que un grapat de lletres degudament ordenades poden establir entre un parell d’individus tremendament distants.

Hongria

La senyora Agota escriu una novel·la on el protagonista, Sandor Lester, de petit assassina els pares, o almenys això es pensa i fuig desesperat. Ja de gran i a l’exili, té un treball alienant, obscur i despersonalitzat, està enamorat d’un impossible i aplica aquella teoria tan nostrada de: “qui dia passa, any empeny”, per acabar tenint una vida normal i corrent amb dona, no la impossible, fills… Un servidor encara no ha matat el seu progenitor, freudianament és clar, però l’agradaria fer-ho aviat, fuig cada dia sense sortir de casa seva, és especialista en treballs alienants, obscurs i despersonalitzats, li sembla impossible que algú s’enamori d’ell i el dia passa any empeny és la seva frase de capçalera. Con acabaré al final?Jo no ho sé, Déu ni l’Agota tampoc.

La força d’una obra d’art: música o pintura o cinema o literatura, que és el nostre fort, no rau en les seves virtuts estètiques, no rau en les seves virtuts tècniques, no rau en la seva exquisidesa, no! De veritat, la seva força neix en nosaltres mateixos, en els lectors, i en el munt de connexions que podem arribar a construir entre l’obra i la nostra ànima.  Amb “Ahir” les meves connexions van créixer exponenciàlment full darrera full. Virtut meva no és. Els lletraferits, perdó llibròfags, llegim centenars i centenars de fulls l’any; molts d’aquests cauen com les fulles d’arbre a la tardor, d’altres els troben interessants, divertits, educatius… però només uns quants ens toquen la fibra sensible i fan que ens sentim plenament identificats amb l’obra, els personatges i el seu missatge. L’Agota Kistoff, almenys amb un servidor, ho ha aconseguit i m’ha tocat.

Vista des de fora, “Ahir” sembla una novel·la de tres reals. Ara que estan tan de moda els llibres mida totxana, “Ahir” té cent i escaig planes no gaire atapeïdes. L’autor, autora, podem dir que conegut, el que és diu conegut no ho és. D’Hongria, a banda d’en Koczis i en Czibor només conec al gran mestre Sandor Marai. O sigui que els pocs punts a favor seu per ser llegida no eren ni més ni menys que la col·lecció on estava inclosa. De fet si començo a furgar, no sabria dir ni perquè la vaig escollir. Malgrat tot he de dir que vaig fer una bona tria, que la novel·la s’ho val. “Ahir” retrata  espantosament bé l’alienació de l’individu davant de la maquinaria capitalista, de com només som una peça més d’un gran engranatge industrial i social pensat per produir i produir. Retrata magistralment també les poques esperances que avui en dia tenim d’assolir somnis, desitjos o metes de joventut. I que és molt possible que a pesar de la nostra lluita en contra els standards socials acabarem absorbits per ella.

Kubala, Czibor, Kokcis

Ho fa intercalant capítol a capítol i en primera persona la narració de la seva pròpia vida amb una mena de contes, o divagacions, o elucubracions o el protagonista ens explica els seus somnis, sentiments, estats d’ànims… No gaire optimista, és de creure que la vida de l’autora no ha estat un camí de roses, el llibre ens retrata la vida tal com és, tal com la vivim, encara que a vegades ens costi molt adonar-nos de la seva crueltat. Espero i desitjo que novel·les com “Ahir” despertin les nostres consciències i ens animin a fer de nosaltres mateixos, quelcom més que una màquina de fer peses, d’omplir albarans o de conduir furgonetes.

“          Avui reprenc la imbècil rutina, em llevo a les cinc de la matinada, em rento, m’afaito, preparo el cafè, surto, corro fins a la plaça Principale, pujo a l’autobús, tanco els ulls, i m’assalta tot l’horror de la meva vida.

../..

Em tapo la cara amb les mans com si dormís, però ho faig per amagar les llàgrimes. Ploro. No vull més la bata grisa, no vull fitxar més, no vull engegar la màquina. No vull treballar més.

Em poso la bata, fitxo, entro al taller.

Les maquines estan engegades. La meva també. Només m’hi he d’asseure al davant, agafar les peces, posar-les a la màquina, trepitjar el pedal.”

No sé a vosaltres, però a aquestes quatre ratlles em veig a mi mateix tants i tants matins…

“Il grande quaderno”, “La prova” e “La grande menzogna”.

Una trilogia dalla sconcertante crudeltà, un romanzo definito la favola nera del Novecento, la storia di una grande guerra e di due gemelli Lucas e Claus.

Agota Kristof, nata in Ungheria e costretta a trasferirsi in Svizzera durante la conquista sovietica, raccoglie in questo romanzo esperienze di morte e tecniche di sopravvivenza. Una favola nera che raccolta la storia di due gemelli lasciati dai genitori a vivere con la nonna, che ricorda estremamente le streghe delle favole, in una città senza nome (K.) in cui regna il terrore di una guerra innominata.

Il romanzo ungherese è suddiviso in tre parti separate, scritti in momenti diversi della vita della Kristof, ma che si diluiscono una nell’altra così come lo stile e i piani narrativi che si sdoppiano e si raddensano all’improvviso.

“Il grande quaderno” sono le pagine del diario di Lucas e Claus, sono la raccolta delle esperienze dei due bambini divise non per data, ma per tema. Con una scrittura lucida, scarna, soffocata vengono descritti gli esercizi di sopravvivenza che i due gemelli si impongono per  mantenere una lucidità omicida di fronte alle assurdità della guerra. Il quaderno crea un legame inscindibile tra i due fratellini che si completano l’un l’altro, che vivono semplicemente l’uno per l’altro. Si crea così in questa prima parte un mondo in cui esistono solo i due gemelli con sullo sfondo personaggi minori e una guerra, mai nominata, in cui regna una violenza descritta senza morale, in cui non esiste il bene o il male, ma semplicemente le sirene, il coprifuoco, l’allarme dei bombardamenti, le violenze sessuali e non, gli omicidi, le malattie, la morte e la fame.

Nella seconda parte “La prova” lo stile della favola lascia spazio ad una narrativa adulta con una prosa ampia e fluida, rappresenta il punto di passaggio fra la “favola” del primo capitolo e la “concretezza” del terzo capitolo.
La storia segue le vicende di uno solo dei fratelli, divisi alla fine della prima parte, Lucas costretto ad una normalizzazione necessaria per ricominciare; sono questi gli anni della fine della guerra, della distruzione e il desiderio di ricominciare. E’ il momento di allacciare nuovi rapporti umani che però sono dettati da disperazione e da un senso di rabbia, e non da reali sentimenti. Lucas per compensare la mancanza del fratello adotta un bambino menomato, che elimina ogni sua speranza di vita nel momento in cui si suicida.

“La grande menzogna” è la parte del ricongiungimento dei gemelli e il ritorno del diario; è onirismo che regna in questi capitoli, tutte le certezze raggiunte dalla lettura della prime due parti vengono messe in discussione, nulla è più certo. Lucas e Claus sono un’anima e due corpi che si confondono a partire dal nome; un senso di inganno ti assale, tutto è posto in dubbio; quello stesso dubbio che porterà alla follia di Lucas e al suo suicidio e la probabile emulazione da parte di suo fratello Claus.

“La trilogia della citta di K.” è un grido di dolore, la storia personale dell’autrice si confonde con la vita dei due gemelli forse mai esistiti, Claus e Lucas potrebbero essere semplicemente una sola anima sdoppiata per rendere più sopportabile una infanzia solitaria di dolore, un modo per sopportare una guerra che ha portato ad una degradazione morale e fisica.

La trilogia della città di K. di Agota Kristof

C’era una volta la Guerra, c’era una volta la Morte: è una favola antica ma dannatamente attuale.

Permeata da un’atmosfera kafkiana, La trilogia della città di K. di Agota Kristof, è una storia nera e maledetta, di quelle che graffiano fin sotto l’epidermide, che scavano un tunnel nello stomaco del lettore e si aggrappano alle paure nascoste ferendo il senso del pudore e toccando il lato più oscuro delle verità.

Due bambini, due fratelli gemelli, Lucas e Claus nel mezzo di una grande guerra, probabilmente la seconda, in un non specificato paese dell’Est. La scrittrice non ci dice quale sia il paese in questione, quale la città, o di quale guerra stia raccontando, eppure l’orrore agghiacciante della guerra cala come una pesante cortina fra il lettore e la pagina scritta a dimostrazione che, di qualsiasi guerra si tratti e di qualsiasi paese, il dolore, la violenza, la morte che le guerre portano con sé destano il medesimo ribrezzo.

Abbandonati dalla mamma a casa della nonna materna, i due fratellini, iniziano una nuova vita che determinerà per sempre la fine dell’ infanzia e dell’innocenza. Gli affetti familiari perdono da subito i connotati rassicuranti: la nonna è una strega, sporca e crudele, non prova amore per la figlia, maltratta i nipoti, li sfrutta, li fa lavorare, li insulta e li abbandona a loro stessi. Ho l’impressione di trovarmi di fronte ad una delle fiabe dei fratelli Grimm con quelle note ambientazioni tetre e descrizioni lapidarie che ti fanno sentire il freddo della pietra nuda e vedere solo il grigio e il nero delle cose perché i colori sono stati inghiottiti dal dolore; e proprio come nelle loro fiabe avverti come uno schiaffo la crudeltà umana e la mancanza di speranza perchè i fatti di sangue, efferati ed esecrabili, sono prosaicamente scritti senza edulcorazioni e con quello stile semplice e coinciso comprensibile anche dai bambini.

Due gli elementi dai connotati fortemente interessanti dal punto di vista narrativo: la costruzione dei personaggi (due fratelli gemelli) e un manoscritto, ossia il diario sul quale i bambini annotano giorno per giorno la loro vita. Il romanzo è suddiviso in tre parti distinte ma che si diluiscono una nell’altra così come lo stile e i piani narrativi che si sdoppiano e si raddensano all’improvviso.

L’inseguimento del manoscritto-diario pone narrazione su un duplice livello: la voce narrante si accavalla e si confonde con il manoscritto facendo prevale in alcuni momenti ora l’una ora l’altra. E in questa alternanza si spalleggiano diversi registri narrativi: diario, lettera, confessione, flusso di coscienza.

La prima parte “Il grande quaderno” è un pugno nello stomaco, un dolore acuto, il cui ricordo ti accompagna per molto tempo; potrebbe sostenere da sola l’intero romanzo tanto è rivelatrice ed esaustiva. Sono le pagine del diario di Lucas e Claus raccolte non per data, come in un classico diario, ma per tema. Due paginette scandiscono un’esperienza, un episodio; ogni episodio è un nodo alla gola, un gradino nella scala di una difficile educazione alla vita che mostra sempre e costantemente il rovescio della medaglia: la morte. Il quaderno crea un legame indissolubile fra i due fratelli che si completano l’un l’altro, che vivono uno per l’altro; parola dopo parola i due fratelli definiscono la loro esistenza istruendosi, lavorando, autodeterminandosi con le proprie forze in un mondo violento che non conoscono ma di cui sono parte. Sono due bambini speciali, a tratti “magici” che riescono a fare di sofferenza e stenti una virtù, perché l’imperativo categorico è sopravvivere alla guerra, alla nonna, alla povertà, alla fame.

Il lettore avverte una vertigine mentre legge le pagine del diario sugli esercizi di sopravvivenza che Luca e Claus si impongono di fare per resistere e continuare a vivere: esercizio di irrobustimento del corpo, esercizio di irrobustimento dello spirito, esercizio di accattonaggio, esercizio di sordità e cecità, esercizio di digiuno, esercizio di crudeltà.

La vita scorre tra le sirene del coprifuoco, l’allarme dei bombardamenti, le violenze sessuali, gli omicidi, le malattie e la morte che ha un volto talmente familiare da non fare più paura. Il sesso è sporco, è una ferita, è una devianza morbosa, è violenza, è atto di sopraffazione, è un gesto anch’esso bellicizzato. I bambini si sottopongono ad una crescente desensibilizzazione nei confronti dell’umanità; Lucas e Claus hanno una ratio lucida e aprioristica che è al disopra del bene e del male e di ogni morale: bisogna fare ciò che è necessario per sopravvivere e anche la crudeltà autoimposta è indispensabile per raggiungere tale scopo. L’autrice, come i suoi piccoli protagonisti, non indulge alla pietas: le pagine sono brevi istantanee narrative che illuminano per un momento il fatto cruento spegnendosi subito dopo. La scrittrice non si sofferma sulle ferite; il fattaccio violento è ritratto in due parole, come un fendente che in un attimo attraversa il corpo. Lo stile è scarno e soffocato, le parole non hanno alcuna valenza suggestiva, servono solo a registrare un avvenimento; a tratti però ritroviamo un copioso utilizzo degli aggettivi che, con una pioggia di virgole, colano sulla pagina come zampilli di sangue.

Questa prima e superlativa parte termina con la divisione dei due fratelli gemelli.

Nella seconda parte “La prova“ il lettore rimane accanto ad uno dei due fratelli, Lucas, sopravvissuto alla separazione con Claus che ha varcato la frontiera alla ricerca di una nuova vita lontano dalla guerra; questa seconda parte si caratterizza per la ricerca di una ricostruzione, di una normalizzazione necessaria per ricominciare; sono dinanzi a noi le macerie che la fine del conflitto porta con sé: gli uomini scomparsi, imprigionati, giustiziati, la povertà assoluta, la fame e le malattie che si propagano ma anche l’istinto vitale di rimettere insieme i pezzi, la ricerca dell’amore, il desiderio di una famiglia, di una casa e di una stabilità. Ma è tutto sbagliato: si cercano gli affetti ma si allacciano rapporti umani dettati dalla disperazione, dalla pietà, e da un senso di rabbia e sadismo. Lucas finirà col crescere e adottare un bambino menomato che alla fine si suiciderà rendendo vani i suoi tentativi di dare un senso alla propria vita e portandolo sull’orlo della follia.

Nella III parte “La grande menzogna” assistiamo in un certo qual modo al ricongiungimento dei gemelli, ma questo ritrovamento innesta un rimescolamento delle carte. Ricompare la forma diaristica miscelata ad un delirio in forma di scrittura. Il manoscritto-diario si confonde con la voce narrante, uno stesso episodio viene raccontato da più punti di vista e da diversi personaggi destabilizzando il lettore che perde le certezze di quanto assunto fino a quel momento. Un onirismo accentuato si confonde con la verità e ribalta i punti di vista in un’alternanza tra il vero e il falso che rovescia il gioco narrativo; il lettore si sente tradito e, lasciato da solo, non può fare altro che abbandonarsi al fluire delle nuove infiorescenze narrative senza cercare di rimettere in piedi la storia. Il ritrovamento e il riconoscimento dei due fratelli, in una realtà completamente stravolta dalla guerra, determina la tragica fine dei sentimenti; non vi è senza speranza ma solo disperazione e una lucida follia che culmina con il suicidio di Lucas e la probabile emulazione da parte di suo fratello Claus.

Il diario riporta solo menzogne? Lucas e Cluas sono realmente esistiti? Sono due fratelli? Sono la stessa persona? Questi gli interrogativi alla fine del romanzo. Se Lucas e Cluas fossero la stessa persona, ci troveremmo di fronte ad una lucida schizofrenia, ad una doppia personalità, una malattia mentale determinata e alimentata dalle conseguenze delle nefandezze della guerra.

Se la scrittrice ci avesse realmente parlato di due gemelli, la tragica fine sarebbe una nitida ed inevitabile conseguenza delle devianze e delle ferite mortali inferte allo spirito e al corpo dei due fratelli che pur amandosi non sono riusciti a ricostruire e a tutelare la propria sanità psicofisica dopo la guerra.

Lucas e Claus sono un’anima e due corpi che si confondono a partire dal nome, l’uno l’anagramma dell’altro; sono lo specchio di un doppio narrativo molto spesso presente nella narrativa del Novecento. Provando ad applicare un’analisi psicanalitica alla letteratura, si può appena accennare al fatto di come la figura del doppio sia legata spesso alla paura della morte; il doppio rappresenta la raffigurazione della scissione psicologica che dà luogo ad un altro io, il quale a sua volta corrisponde ad una proiezione del conflitto interiore e può scatenarsi da un senso di colpa. Il senso di colpa può avere diverse origini e Freud lo ha dimostrato: può essere dovuto alla distanza tra l’io ideale e quello reale, oppure può nutrirsi di un’intensa paura di morte e dare luogo a forti impulsi autopunitivi che possono portare anche al suicidio. Il romanzo di Agota Kristof autorizza e suggerisce molteplici interpretazioni proprio perchè il teatro sul quale muovono i personaggi è quello della decadenza morale degli uomini nell’assurdità e nell’atrocità della guerra. E può succedere in un mondo al contrario, nell’assurdo del conflitto bellico e dell’odio da cui è generato e che a sua volta alimenta, che siano proprio i bambini, le prime vittime della guerra, a diventare quasi degli automi perfetti in grado di essere bastevoli a se stessi e portare avanti una famiglia.

Un grido di dolore, potrebbe essere questo il sottotitolo del romanzo, un dolore come quello che probabilmente ha provato la stesa scrittrice, ungherese di nascita, costretta a rifugiarsi in Svizzera durante l’invasione sovietica.

Vorrei lasciarvi con le parole del romanzo che rappresentano un secco j’accuse femminista alla società degli uomini, maschilista e guerrafondaia, che utilizza la guerra come strumento di sopraffazione:

- Tu chiudi il becco! Le donne non sanno niente della guerra.

La donna dice:

- Non sanno niente? Coglione! Abbiamo tutto il lavoro, tutte le preoccupazioni: i bambini da sfamare, i feriti da curare. Voi, una volta finita la guerra siete tutti degli eroi. Morti: eroi. Sopravvissuti: eroi. Mutilati: eroi. E’ per questo che avete inventato la guerra, voi uomini. E’ la vostra guerra. L’avete voluta voi, fatela allora, eroi dei miei stivali!

Scrivere è vivere ma leggere a volte è un po’ come morire dentro.

Jessica Carrieri

Articolo pubblicato su www.artoong.net il 25 febbraio 2009:

http://www.artoong.net/2009/02/25/della-guerra-e-della-morte-la-trilogia-della-citta-di-k-di-agota-kristof/538/scienze-umane

Caffè Savoia, Piazzetta  Savoia,

Spazio Odissea, Viale Trieste 84, Cagliari

Prosegue la rassegna organizzata dall’associazione “Karalettura “Letture a luci spente“, sottotitolata “dal libro al film – conversazioni letterarie e incontri al cinema“.

La manifestazione presenta celebri romanzi e la visione dei film tratti dalle loro storie e pone l’attenzione sul fortissimo legame tra la lettura e il cinema.

Programmazione Febbraio:

Venerdì 20 Febbraio Piazzetta Savoia

Conversazioni letterarie:

Ieri di Agota Kristof

La scrittura di Agota Kristof è essenziale e penetrante nel raccontare, in prima persona, le angosce di Tobias.

Tobias Horvath è un emigrato che vive in una cittadina dell’Europa centrale. Solitario e silenzioso, fa l’operaio in una fabbrica di orologi. La sua vita è profondamente segnata da un triste passato: un’infanzia tormentata e l’ombra di un delitto che lo costringono a rifugiarsi in un paese straniero dove conduce una vita vuota, addolcita solo dalla scrittura e dall’attesa del grande amore: Line, la donna dei suoi sogni.

Il breve romanzo “Ieri” ha ispirato il film di Silvio Soldini, “Brucio nel vento”.

Martedì 24 Febbraio  Spazio Odissea

Incontri al Cinema:

Brucio nel vento di Silvio Soldini (2002) – Durata: 118′

Silvio Soldini assieme a Doriana Leondeff adatta per lo schermo il romanzo di Agota Kristof  “Hier”, Ieri, restando sostanzialmente fedele nella struttura della storia cambiando però il finale.

Straordinaria, in particolare, è la sua bravura nella descrizione dei tempi quotidiani del lavoro, con la sveglia alle cinque, l’autobus e  i ritmi della fabbrica.
La storia d’amore scompagina un po’ la precisione del racconto, anche se non mancano sequenze belle;

Regia: Silvio Soldini.
Sceneggiatura: Doriana Leondeff e Silvio Soldini
Musica: Giovanni Venosta.
Fotografia: Luca Bigazzi.
Scenografia: Paola Bizzarri
Montaggio: Carlotta Cristiani.
Costumi: Silvia Nebiolo

Personaggi e interpreti:

Tobias: Ivan Franêk
Line: Barbara Lukêsova
Janek: Ctirad Gotz
Yolande: Caroline Baehr
Eve: Cécile Pallas
Pavel: Petr Forman

Orario: 19.00

Biglietteria:

Ingresso libero e gratuito sino ad esaurimento posti disponibili

Agota Kristof a primit luni seara Premiul austriac pentru literatura europeana pe 2008. Premiul, in valoare de 25.000 de euro, recompenseaza “unul dintre cei mai mari scriitori contemporani”, si a mai fost primit, printre altii, de Vaclav Havel, Eugene Ionesco, Italo Calvino, Simone de Beauvoir, Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Christa Wolf, Stanislaw Lem, Umberto Eco si Julian Barnes.

Autoare cu putine carti la activ (patru romane, doua colectii de nuvele, un volum autobiografic si cinci piese de teatru), Agota Kristof are acum 73 de ani si traieste de la 21 de ani in Elvetia. De origine maghiara, ea a scris doar in limba franceza. Primul sau roman, Marele caiet, a fost desemnat “Cartea europeana” a anului 1987.

In Romania a aparut in 2006 editia omnibus a primelor sale trei romane (Marele Caiet, Dovada si A treia minciuna), la editura Trei: Trilogia gemenilor.

Am citit acum multi ani, cand locuiam la Bucuresti, primul roman din trilogie, Marele caiet, de la Institutul Francez. Tin minte ca mi-a placut mult, desi e una dintre cele mai sinistre carti despre copilarie peste care am dat. Insa ar trebui sa il recitesc (respectiv sa le citesc pe urmatoarele doua) ca sa pot face o recenzie.

Ma bucur in schimb pentru premiul pe care l-a primit acum Agota Kristof. De multi ani era unul din numele vehiculate pentru Nobel (dar mai are, in definitiv, un deceniu pana cand ajunge la varsta lui Doris Lessing) si merita, dupa parerea mea, sa fie alaturata lui Eco sau Calvino.

Ce au spus altii despre Trilogia gemenilor:

Claudiu Constantinescu in Dilema Veche
Adrian Schiop in Romania Libera
raulnecesar
Pagina de proza

Non piacerebbe forse ad Agota Kristof sapere che per due volte, leggendo i suoi libri, ho pianto. E non ho pianto davanti agli esercizi di irrobustimento del fisico, dello spirito o della crudeltà che fanno i due gemelli ne Il grande quaderno (La trilogia della città di K., Einaudi, 1998): folli esercizi di abitudine al dolore e alle percosse, per imparare a sopportarle senza piangere, folli tentativi di abitudine agli insulti, all’esercizio della crudeltà sugli altri esseri viventi. I due fratelli, dotati di un’intelligenza preoccupante, irragionevole persino, fanno paura, ma non mi fanno piangere.
Ho pianto per cose apparentemente meno forti, io. Per il racconto, ne L’analfabeta (Casagrande, 2005), di come si diventa scrittori in una lingua «nemica» e in una terra straniera, di come l’ostinazione e la necessità di scrivere si oppongano alla mancanza di fiducia, di come l’urgenza di scrivere decida per te. Di come arrivi, e si imponga senza scampo. E ho pianto quando, sempre nello stesso racconto autobiografico, ho ritrovato la poesia che apre, in epigrafe, il romanzo Ieri (Einaudi, 1997):

Ieri tutto era più bello
la musica tra gli alberi
il vento nei miei capelli
e nelle tue mani tese
il sole.

Era una delle poesie che «si formavano», prendevano vita – sorta di allucinazioni – nelle notti disperate del collegio, quando Agota adolescente si addormentava tra le lacrime ricordando «il filo d’argento dell’infanzia» spezzato, e sentiva le frasi girarle attorno, bisbigliare, a poco a poco prendere ritmo. Voci notturne, «come gridi, ma silenziosi», avrebbe detto Duras.
Agota Kristof forse non accetterebbe le mie lacrime, lei che negli anni difficili del collegio ha pianto tutte le notti, pensando alla sua casa perduta, alla sua libertà sottratta, alla sua famiglia lontana. Che ha pianto così tanto che poi non lo ha fatto mai più. Ma è stato proprio allora, dentro il collegio, che per lenire il dolore l’organismo ha trovato una sola medicina: la scrittura.
Leggendo L’analfabeta sembrerebbe possibile pensare alla scrittura come a una forma di consolazione: della perdita, dell’assenza, della solitudine e del senso di estraneità, della lontananza e della clandestinità, dello sconforto.
Sì, ci si potrebbe credere. Alla scrittura come cura contro l’avanzare della follia.
E invece, chiunque abbia letto i meravigliosi romanzi e racconti di Agota Kristof, crudeli e duri, impietosi e spietati, sa che non è vero, che non è così.
Il quaderno dei due gemelli non è che un resoconto quodiano di ciò che essi vivono, ma non li consola affatto: «le parole che definiscono i sentimenti sono molto vaghe», affermano, «meglio evitare il loro impiego e attenersi […] alla descrizione fedele dei fatti».
È paradossale che proprio chi scrive esprima questa diffidenza nei confronti della scrittura: in Ieri Tobias, l’operaio da dieci anni rifugiato in un Paese straniero, dice: «una volta scritti, i pensieri si trasformano, si deformano, e tutto diventa falso. A causa delle parole».
La scrittura è a un tempo inevitabile e minacciosa, è difesa immunitaria autoprodotta dall’organismo, e cancro che dilania l’organismo stesso.
Più che una medicina, la scrittura è un vaccino. Per salvarti dal virus, te ne inietta altro, per salvarti dalla follia deve renderti folle.
Tobias è folle, o almeno così pensano nell’ala psichiatrica dell’ospedale in cui lo ricoverano, dopo averlo trovato steso per terra con la faccia nel fango. Credono che volesse uccidersi, ed è per questo che gli prescrivono scatole di pillole rosa, bianche, azzurre. Ma lui sostiene che voleva solo riposare. O partire, o morire: in fin dei conti, sarebbe stato uguale. Tobias butta le medicine nel cesso e, bevendo birra, invece, scrive.
Dovunque si trovi Tobias scrive. Che avvenga nella sua testa o sulla carta, che lo faccia nella sua lingua natale o in quella straniera (la lingua «nemica»), è ossessionato dalla scrittura, come dall’amore per Line, sua sorella. È la stessa folle illusione, la stessa urgenza imprescindibile, lo stesso sconsiderato desiderio.
Tobias beve e scrive. Come Lucas e Victor nella Trilogia. Bisogna bere per scrivere. E fumare. La scrittura si nutre della desolazione, dell’alienazione, dell’ossessione, la scrittura si nutre del vizio, della debolezza, si nutre della disperazione della vita e non sa cancellarla, si nutre della follia e non sa nemmeno raccontarla: la travisa, la trasfigura. Scrivere può diventare insopportabile. Duras ha detto: fino a gridare.
Fino a quando la paura è tale che si deve smettere.
E se il paragone tra Duras e Kristof potrebbe sembrare scorretto, intendo anche a Kristof stessa, in realtà il «blocco di sordità», i «crimini senza sintassi» che fanno aumentare la paura del libro – del libro che si scrive – di cui parla Duras, sono come le frasi che girano nella testa di Tobias, quando dice: «penso che la scrittura mi distruggerà». Non ci si può sottrarre alla contraddizione lacerante per cui «scrivere è la cosa più importante» e nello stesso tempo è impossibile non esserne sopraffatti.
«Ogni essere umano è nato per scrivere un libro, e per nient’altro», dice Victor. Eppure si può persino arrivare a decidere di smettere. Come fa Tobias, alla fine di Ieri, come fece per molto tempo Duras. E come fa Agota Kristof, oggi, troppo stanca, dice, e malata, per tollerare il vaccino della scrittura. O della follia.

L’intervista

Pensavo che Agota Kristof sarebbe stata laconica al telefono, mentre componevo il numero della sua casa a Neuchâtel, la città in cui abita da quasi cinquant’anni, da quando cioè è scappata dall’Ungheria in Svizzera. E invece, di questa telefonata fatta di sabato mattina e durata mezz’ora, ricordo la sua gentilezza, la sua voce apparentemente senza intonazione, il suo francese indulgente: abbastanza lento e semplice perché mi fosse comprensibile, secco e asciutto come quello dei suoi libri. Mi ha dato risposte lineari, brevi. Poche manciate di parole che arrivano al nocciolo duro e lucido delle cose. È proprio questa capacità di sintesi disarmante, questa capacità di fendere con le parole, di dire con poche frasi cose spaventose, la forza incredibile della sua scrittura.
Agota ha anche riso, ha risposto alle domande dell’intervista e a domande che dell’intervista non facevano parte, mi ha ascoltata e mi ha persino – lei – ringraziata.

Mi piacerebbe indagare con lei il rapporto tra follia e scrittura.
È difficile.

Sì, è vero. Ma vorrei provarci, a partire dai suoi libri Ieri e La trilogia della città di K.
Va bene.

Line dice a Tobias, il protagonista di Ieri: «Credo che tu sia pazzo […]. Mi hai portato solo sfortuna. Hai distrutto la mia vita». Tobias è davvero pazzo?
Non completamente. È molto egoista, pensa soltanto a se stesso. Vuole ottenere una cosa, e la vuole ottenere persino con la forza.

Ed è Line che vuole ottenere?
Sì, è Line, sua sorella. Il suo unico pensiero.

E infatti, anche se Tobias dice di non aver alcun desiderio, di essere vuoto, in realtà un desiderio ce l’ha: desidera fortemente Line. All’inizio, Line sembra essere un’illusione, ma a un certo punto lei arriva, esiste veramente ed è sua sorella. Loro due si amano. Tobias è convinto di poter vivere questo amore impossibile e folle, e scrive per lei poesie nella sua lingua materna… Qual è il rapporto tra amore e scrittura?
L’amore è qualcosa che capita a tutti, che riguarda tutti, mentre la scrittura no. Tobias vuole anche diventare uno scrittore, perché pensa che in questo modo sarà più degno di Line.

Quando Line lo abbandona, lui non scrive più. La scrittura è legata quindi all’illusione di Line, dell’amore folle per Line?
Sì, assolutamente. Quando l’amore finisce, Tobias perde anche l’illusione della scrittura.

Tobias è un operaio, uno straniero, è solo ed è povero. Questo tipo di condizione che lui vive spesso porta le persone a impazzire, e persino a uccidersi. Molti rifugiati della comunità di Tobias si uccidono.
Sì, è vero.

Quindi, se questa condizione è una condizione della follia, e nello stesso tempo è anche una condizione della scrittura, dal momento che Tobias dice: «è diventando assolutamente niente che si può diventare scrittori», allora la follia è anche una condizione della scrittura?
Sì, la follia è un po’ la condizione della scrittura. Ma non per forza. Tobias, lui, scrive solo a causa della sua follia. C’è un tipo di follia che porta alla scrittura, oppure è la scrittura che porta fino alla follia.

Questo è proprio il punto a cui volevo arrivare. Tobias dice: la scrittura mi distruggerà. Si può dire che la scrittura non salvi dalla follia, ma che invece renda ancora più folli?
La scrittura, sì, rende ancora più folli. Scrivere è faticoso, è difficile, bisogna vivere nelle illusioni, vivere lontani dalla realtà. Non c’è posto per il quotidiano, quando si scrive, c’è posto solo per la scrittura.

Anche Victor, nella Trilogia, sembra diventare folle. Vuole scrivere un libro ma non ci riesce, perché nella sua vita non accade nulla. Alla fine uccide sua sorella e, dato che finalmente qualcosa è successo, riesce a scrivere.
Sì, è proprio così.

Qual è il rapporto tra vita e scrittura?
Normalmente, per me, è un rapporto molto forte, ma, a parte il mio libro L’analfabeta, gli altri miei romanzi non sono autobiografici, ma raccontano le cose che ho vissuto mascherandole. Raccontano il modo in cui io ho le vissute, nella mia testa.

Alla fine di Ieri Tobias dice: non scrivo più. È anche Agota Kristof che lo dice?
Sì.

Perché?
Perché è doloroso scrivere, è stancante. Rende folli. E io ormai sono troppo vecchia e malata.

Questo pezzo è apparso su “Drome magazine” n. 4, agosto 2005, il cui tema monografico era la follia.

voy leyendo asombrado claus y lucas, de agota kristof; son tres partes. anteayer acabé el gran cuaderno; esta tarde empiezo la prueba, con diálogos como éste (donde se describe el trámite para hacer el carnet de identidad al protagonista):
- y ¿qué deseas que ponga aquí: en “observaciones de las autoridades”?
- “idiota”, si puede ser. sufrí un trauma, no soy normal del todo.
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