Antonis Karvelas
Είναι μεγάλο ευτύχημα για την παγκόσμια λογοτεχνία το γεγονός ότι ο συγγραφέας τούτου του βιβλίου κατάφερε να επιζήσει τα όσα περιγράφει. Και μεγάλη αποτυχία για την ανθρωπότητα που δίχως δυστυχία δεν μπορούμε να αναγνωρίσουμε το τι εστί ευτυχία. Ελπίδα μου είναι ότι βιβλία σαν αυτό θα λειτουργήσουν ως καθοδηγητές δείχνοντας, αν όχι τον σωστό δρόμο, τουλάχιστον τους χιλιάδες τρόπους που η κοινωνία μπορεί να καταρρεύσει και ο άνθρωπος να μεταμορφωθεί σε θηρίο.
Ο τίτλος αυτού του βιβλίου δεν είναι απλά ένας τίτλος, αλλά ένας στόχος. Ο συγγραφέας, όπως και οι χαρακτήρες του, αναζητά την γαλήνη. Όλοι έχουν υποφέρει, κάποιοι έχασαν τις περιουσίες τους, κάποιοι έχασαν αγαπημένα τους πρόσωπα, άλλοι έχασαν τον πνεύμα τους στα βάθη της Μικράς Ασίας. Όλοι όμως έχουν ελπίδα. Μόνο που κυνηγάνε έναν στόχο που θα μένει πάντα απόμακρος, γιατί, όπως συνηδειτοποιούν όλοι μαζί στο πραγματικά δυσβάσταχτο τέλος, δεν υπάρχει γαλήνη, η ζωή είναι μία κίνηση δίχως τέλος, με μόνη ανάπαυση τον θάνατο.
Στο τέλος της ζωής του ο Καζαντζάκης δημιουργεί το δικό του Ρέκβιεμ, μια βιογραφία όχι του εαυτού του αλλά των ιδεών του, της ψυχής του. Περιγράφει τα πράγματα που τον σμιλέψαν: την μητέρα του, τον πατέρα του, τον παππού του, την φωτιά, την θάλασσα, την Κρήτη, την Ελλάδα, τον έναστρο ουρανό, τον Χριστό, τον Βούδα, τον Νίτσε, τον Λένιν, τον Θάνατο, τον Ανήφορο. Ανοίγοντας το βιβλίο νιώθεις μια θύελλα να ορμάει να ξεφύγει απ'τις σελίδες, τις τελευταίες σκέψεις που θέλουν όλες μαζί να βρουν την ελευθερία τους, και σαν ξανακλείσει το βιβλίο, δεν γυρνάνε πίσω, αλλά ταξιδεύουν να βρουν σάρκα να φωλιάσουν. Ο συγγραφέας νιώθει πως έχει χρέος να δώσει αναφορά σε έναν άλλον Κρητικό, στον Ελ Γκρέκο, αλλά ταυτόχρονα δίνει αναφορά σε όλους μας, ελπίζοντας να έχει κάτι χρήσιμο να μας προσφέρει. Σε ευχαριστούμε Καζαντζάκη!
Weird from start to finish, both subtle political satire and imaginative escapade, Bulgakov's masterpiece is certainly something that will stay with the reader for a long time. I can't think of any other book that manages to combine modern-day Moscow (at least modern for the author) with Jerusalem in the time of Christ, or the pranks of the literal Devil and his gang with a deep narrative about an artist's struggle to express himself in a society where this is forbidden and a woman's eternal devotion to this same man and his work. I don't want to spoil anything, so I'll simply quote a phrase that I think perfectly summarizes this novel:
“Kindly consider the question: what would your good do if evil did not exist, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it?”
And of course the eternal:
“Manuscripts don't burn.”
Most good reviews for this novel tend to say that it manages to make you like and support the pedophile protagonist. And indeed, it is a most well made trap, from beginning to end, one which I really wanted to fall into for the sake of drama, but I really didn't. It becomes really sad in the end, and I do feel pity for him, and I times I did find Lolita(the girl, not the book) really annoying, but the best parts of the book, for me at least, are those in which our pedophile suffers in one way or another, mostly in the two opposites parts of the narrative. That's my big grudge, that the point seems for me to like a character but instead I really like watching him suffer. In general, pretty good but not the high-caliber classic many say it is.
My relationship with this book is a private one, it can't produce a worthwhile review, thus I will simply reference the following excerpt:
To discover the mode of life or of art whereby your spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
The writer is the Lighthouse. Far away in the distance, a bright light sweeping constantly from character to character.
A solid story that has become a classic through its many different re-imaginings, but unfortunately not because of the artful storytelling of the original. Told in the form of diary entries (even though all characters tend to talk with the chivalrous tone and length of Don Quixote), I could never stop thinking that there were many ways to write the damn thing with better form. First of all, it could have easily been half the size. It moves either tortuously slow or break-neck fast. Not to mention that the characters are stupid, something that I really can't stand. “Hmm, that girl looks really pale, just like that other girl that also looked pale and became a vampire. Perhaps I should check her neck for any marks? Nah, she's probably just tired...” You can't just write a book as a collection of diaries and never consider that people can realize things just by writing them down. In general, if anyone's interested, just read the plot summary somewhere and then go read Frankenstein, a much better book.
As I was going through the book, it suddenly dawned on me that I'm dealing with a writer of extreme intelligence, wit and understanding who at the same time is completely unapologetic for her craft. I've dealt with clever writers in the past, but never in so condensed a form. Her ever flowing stream of consciousness presents thoughts and feelings of various characters, never taking sides, never judging, never blaming. You would expect her to wholeheartedly support her protagonist and blame men for everything that has happened to her but instead she is objective, she presents Mrs. Dalloway's weaknesses and the choices she made willingly while at the same time presenting most beautifully and painfully Septimus's shell shock symptoms (in a time that many still considered men with these symptoms simply cowards). When I read the first sentence I just wanted to touch a bit of another famous writer but by the time I was reading the last sentence I was certain that I want to return in the future and follow Woolf's rivers of words in her other works.
Sometimes we fall in love with the hunt for our dream rather than the dream itself.
A clear sign of a really great book is when suggesting it resembles a drug deal. With other books you praise the character development, the plot, the use of language, the deeper meaning, but with something as intoxicating as the Perfume by Patrick Süskind, you're reduced to oh man, it's fu***** great, trust me, you have to try it, probably with a crazy look that would make your mother worry about the kind of things you do in your spare time.
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A fantastic little book, the kind that makes you feel glad to read literature. It's a tale of change, of healing, of growing and finding happiness in the most simple way. In our modern world of depression and anxiety, classics like this will never lose their importance.
The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco is probably the greatest work of historical fiction set in Medieval Europe, and if that sometimes makes it difficult, pedantic, overly symbolic and a dragging theological treatise, either learn to deal with it and even enjoy it, or else forever abandon this extremely interesting but deathly hostile period and place. As a history enthusiast, popular media always disappoint me with their grim image of the past, the Dark Ages being quite literally dark and dirty, the average peasant having shit smeared on his face. The truth is very different. Bright colors were universally loved, churches were still decorated with extremely detailed Orthodox style, not to mention that people outside great cities actually bathed because they thought diseases were transmitted through scent. It was a time of constant geopolitical changes, of actual progress in many fields, but also of great spiritual stagnation. The darkness was spreading in the hearts and minds of men and women, forever looking at the ground and interpreting everything through the lenses of Scripture, always awaiting an Apocalypse that would never come.
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