Mùi Hương Xuân Sắc

by Gérard de Nerval, Bùi Giáng (Translator)

… Lòng tràn đầy những ý tưởng buồn bã do cuộc trở về muộn màng những nơi chốn thân yêu, tôi cảm thấy cần gặp lại Sylvie, khuôn mặt sống động duy nhất và còn tươi trẻ đó, để thắt dây liên lạc của tôi với xứ sở này. Tôi lên đường về lại xóm Loisy.

Vào khoảng đứng trưa. Mọi người ngủ yên, mỏi mệt vì buổi hội. Tôi có ý muốn khuây khỏa nỗi lòng bằng một cuộc đi dạo viếng Ermenonville, cách một dặm đường rừng. Trời huy hoàng mùa hạ. Tôi hài lòng trong bầu không khí ấm áp và mát mẻ trên con đuờng giống như lối đi trong một hoa viên. Những cây sồi to lớn xum xuê sắc lục một màu, chen lẫn những thân cây phong trắng bạch, cành lá đong đưa rún rẩy. Chim chóc im lìm, chỉ nghe tiếng chim gõ kiến đang đưa mỏ đập vào thân cây để đào hang làm tổ…

Genres: Fiction, Classics, France, French Literature, 19th Century, Novels, Roman

93 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1853

About the author

Gérard de Nerval was the nom-de-plume of the French poet, essayist and translator Gérard Labrunie, one of the most essentially Romantic French poets.

Gérard de Nerval, nom de plume de Gérard Labrunie, écrivain et poète français. Figure majeure du romantisme français, il est essentiellement connu pour ses poèmes et ses nouvelles.

Reviews

[Dream.M · Rating 3 out of 5]

هلنا! گل محبوبه شب
"گلی که هنگام غروب می شکفد"
دیشب از شدت تب پیش از غروب خوابیدم و آمدنت را ندیدم
اما از عطر شیرینی در اتاقم پیچیده بود دانستم تا صبح کنار بالینم نشسته بودی.
......
زنی رو می‌شناختم که دختر هفت ساله ش رو توی اتفاق خیلی دلخراشی از دست داده بود. پیدا کردن و دیدن جسد کودکش آنچنان تاثیر بدی روی اون زن گذاشته بود که اصلا نمیتونست بخوابه چون وقتی چشم‌هاش رو می‌بست آخرین تصویر از جسد دخترش جلوش ظاهر میشد و اون تلاش می‌کرد تا دخترش رو با چهره ای غیر از اون تصویر به یاد بیاره.
یکبار این زن برام تعریف کرد که مدتی بعد وقتی توی اتوبوس نشسته بوده، دختر بچه ای رو روی چند صندلی جلوتر میبینه که از پشت سر کاملا شبیه دختر خودش بوده. اون میگفت : یک آن دلم ریخت، فکر کردم دارم یلدا رو میبینم، اما میدونستم اون نمیتونه یلدا باشه چون دختر من مرده. میخواستم اسمشو صدا کنم و بزرگترین آرزوم این بود که بعدش برگرده و نگاهم کنه. اما ترسیدم، ترسیدم که نکنه این فقط یک خیال باشه و با صدا کردن اسمش یکهو دختر ناپدید بشه. پس فقط همونجا نشستم، به تصویر دخترم که اونجا زنده شده بود زل زدم و اشک ریختم و بعد وقتی اون دختر بچه پیاده شد دیدم آروم شدم و دیگه از بستن چشمام نمی ترسم.
......
سیلوی، یک داستان شاید عاشقانه، از مردی کاملا دیوانه که مدت کوتاهی بعد از نوشتن ش با حلق آویز کردن خودکشی کرد. اون قبل خودکشی این یادداشت رو برای عمش گذاشت: «امروز غروب منتظر من نباش، زیرا شب سیاه و سفید خواهد بود (کنایه از بیخوابی)».
دونروال، نویسنده این داستان بلند، کسیه که بر نویسنده های بزرگی مثل پروست و آندره برتون تاثیر گذاشت و مورد تحسین گوته و دوما بود. اما حیف نوابغ عمر کوتاهی دارن.

[David · Rating 4 out of 5]

"I went to bed but found no rest; and as I lay there between sleeping and waking, memories of my childhood thronged about me. In this state, where the mind still resists the fantastic combinations of dreams, the important happenings of a long period of one’s life often crowd themselves into a few moments."

Gérard de Nerval's Sylvie seems to me a woefully overlook French nouvelle. It was first published in 1853, meaning that it is far out of copyright - and so anyone intrigued by this review, I recommend to read the English translation here. The story was a favorite of Marcel Proust, and the parallel themes of memory, time, love and jealousy are poignant in Sylvie, though in much smaller doses than in Proust's epic. A review this now, in the midst of "2013 - the Year in Reading Proust" in the hope that someone will discover this opalescent curio of literature, and that it will add even a small light to their experience of Proust.

Nerval's Sylvie is a brief tale of love lost, lost given-up, love forgone, but ultimately, unrequited love - and significantly self-delusion. Our lover turned narrator is a man with ideals, not moral ideals - no, he is a bit of a rake, though a passionate and romantic one, but rather aesthetic ideals, particularly as they pertain to love and romance. His memories are honeyed with these ideals, and are presented to use under the honeyed patina of nostalgia. If "distance makes the heart grow fonder," then distance in time captures the heart completely, the loves of his past are vouchsafed and solipsized so deep in the narrator's heart and memory that they are diminished to tiny gold phantoms of his self-styled illusions. His blending of dream, reality, and memory is something of which he warns us often: "As I set down these words I cannot help wondering whether the events they describe actually took place or whether I have dreamed them." And isn't memory something like a dream? Something like rêverie? In memory, in a moment, we are transported somewhere else in time, in place; sights, smells, emotions, and sensations return to us slightly altered - we are dually aware in memory, we have two "selves" - the minor self, the actor of our memory, and the major self, our current self who is the critic watching intently from behind the proscenium. So at one and the same time, it is reality, as it was or appeared to be at the time to our minor self, and dream or reality as a performance (as it seems in retrospect) to our major self. This is a central obfuscation of the nouvelle's narration - dream, delusion, or reality? The remembrance of things as they were, or the appearance of things then as they appear now?

The drama of the story is the narrator's return to Loisy, where his childhood visions were borne. He is newly rich by an inheritance, and has been pursuing with ardor a pretty young Parisian actress named Aurelia. However, when sleep is withheld from him by a "half-dreamed memory," he resolves to return to the sanctuary of his childhood loves, Syvlie (and also Adrienne, a young girl he loved but who was sent to a convent). We find in Sylvie the class-founded ideal of the "peasant girl," and idyllic kind of romantic ideal which is completely divorced from the reality of the person. When the narrator returns to her, he finds her engaged and also, more painful to him, that she has risen in class. Sylvie makes gloves for a living, and as a result has risen in social status beyond the precipice of peasanthood, into something like the working class (the sandwich filling between petit bourgeoisie and serfdom). He is heartbroken to find her so much changed (though for herself, she has changed for the better) - any change to his ossified ideal image of the past is a blemish to the immutable perfection of the past. When he asks her to sing a peasant song from their shared memory, she responds that "one doesn't sing that song anymore." he is heartbroken, and when asked why so, he responds "Because I love those old melodies and because you will forget how to sing them." This is the height of the narrator's disillusionment, she refuses to sing the little melody and thus shatters the memorialized ideal of his rural love. There is a tangible sense of regret, not for loving her, but for returning to her. As Flaubert warns in Madame Bovary: "Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers." He sets off in his return to Paris, gilding on his fingers and a smudged idol, fallen from its erstwhile tabernacle.

The true beauty of this work, is not simply the confusion of memory, not simply the treatment of loves and ideals, but the blending of the two into a sort of self-delusion for the narrator. While Sylvie remains unattainable, and so far changed, undesired as her present self, and Aurelia remains coyly distant, Adrienne approaches apotheosis as the ideal which the narrator feels unites his loves, surpasses his loves. His love turned nun remains the unattainable ideal of his youth and increasingly his present, as other ideals fall by the way. The narrator even insists on Aurelia's likeness to Adrienne, and brings Sylvie to the Parisian theatre in order to confirm this likeness (does he doubt his own eyes? Does he fear they delude him?). He brings Aurelia to the place where he had previously fallen in love with Adrienne, but is dismayed that she is not struck by her surroundings as he is:

These places, full of precious memories for me, awakened only a mild interest in Aurelia, and even when I took her to the green lawn in front of the château near Orry, where I had first seen Adrienne, she was unmoved. So I told her how my love had been awakened by that slender figure bathed in mist and moonlight, and how, since then, that love had lived only in my dreams, now to be realized in her. She was gravely attentive, and when I had finished speaking she said, ‘You don’t love me at all! You’re only waiting for me to tell you that the actress and the nun are the same person. All you want is a drama, and the climax evades you. I’ve lost my faith in you completely!’

Aurelia pinpoints the internal conflict of the narrator, and I turn to Proust for his explanation of the phenomenon, which far surpasses my own ability:

Forgetting that beauty and happiness are only ever incarnated in an individual person, we replace them in our minds by a conventional pattern, a sort of average of all the different faces we have ever admired, ... and thus carry about with us abstract images, which are lifeless and uninspiring...

The narrator has imbued all of his love's value on the three women of his past and present, and as their ideals begin to show signs of fatigue, their individual values, their individual perfections and beauties, rather than diminishing in number, they are grafted upon the loves which the narrator feels remain to him: simply Aurelia. And we can see this double-grafting of Sylvie and Adrienne in his description of her on the day of the preciously mentioned confrontation: "Dressed in her riding-habit, and with her hair streaming out in the wind, Aurelia rode through the wood like a queen of bygone days, to the great bewilderment of the peasantry." The remaining "queen of bygone days" is Adrienne, as she rides through the sacred ground of the narrator's and Adrienne's tryst, and the reference to peasantry is an allusion to his idealized love for Sylvie. None of his loves can ever come to fruition because he does not love any of them wholly, but loves small aspects of them, even small illusions or romantic stereotypes of them, and never gets at them completely, never digs deep into himself to discover what he loves, he loves only on the surface. But in the end it is inconsequential whether he remembers these women exactly, whether he conflates them, or makes them up, because they are not real and he does not really love any of them, but rather loves a phantasmic ideal which glows blindingly behind them: making them mere shadows, silhouettes on the edifice of his passionate desires.

[Jesús De la Jara · Rating 5 out of 5]

"¡Amor, ay, por las formas vafas, por los tintes azules y rosados, por los fantasmas metafísicos! Vista de cerca, la mujer real sublevaba nuestra ingenuidad. Tenía que aparecer a nuestros ojos como una diosa o una reina, y desde luego, por nuestra parte, no pretender jamás acercarse a ella."

Me quedé muy sorprendido por esta obra de Nerval que aunque es desordenada, como el mismo autor lo admite, y cuenta algunos eventos comunes (me hizo recordar la "Graziella" de Lamartine), tiene elementos tan genuinos y especiales que a la postre vendrían a ser reivindicados por el movimiento surrealista.
Cuenta la historia de amor o enamoramiento no muy bien descrito ni asumido del autor en su juventud. En la vida real el autor pasó momentos de su juventud educado por su tío en la campiña de Valois, territorio donde abundaban campesinos y la vida era más tranquila que en la capital París que posteriormente él habitó. De sus recuerdos sin duda nació este relato como comento, poco ordenado, asimétrico en gran parte (siempre a veces es una lástima cuando los relatos son cortos) pero impregnado de muchos estilos y recursos a la vez. Por momentos parece una poesía (género que el autor dominó muy bien), por momentos parecía que uno mismo perdía la noción del tiempo y del espacio en el cual transcurría la historia por sus descripciones no sólo románticas sino de algún modo oníricas, que hacían parecer todo como un ensueño (también experimentado por el propio autor), al hablarnos de lo que significaba para él las mujeres que conoció, las fiestas campesinas, las canciones románticas, el paseo en los bosques y un largo etcétera. Eso es lo que más me gustó y sorprendió, tal vez leyendo más obras del autor cambie la puntuación pero por lo menos al ser éste el primer texto en prosa que leo he quedado sorprendido por la gran versatilidad y variedad de recursos y relatos. Por otros momentos Nerval toma el relato simple, con diálogos y descripciones del momento propio que pasan los protagonistas y así es un relato asimétrico pero que encanta. Tengo que resaltar, pues fue de mi gusto, las continuas referencias a Rousseau, su "Nueva Eloísa" (que he tenido el placer de leerla in extenso) como gran maestro del alma y muchas otras reflexiones eruditas que hacen la obra más productiva.
El argumento en sí de la historia no me maravilló mas bien tanto.

[Théo d'Or]

Identity is not static but is continually reconstructed through engagement with the past, be it through people we've known , ( de Nerval ) - or places we've been. ( Modiano ). Both authors seem to suggest that we are, in a sense, colections of memories, and it is through these memories that we seek to understand ourselves and our place in the world. The women from de Nerval's " Sylvie " are the places from Modiano's " In the Café of the Lost Youth ". The past, whether personified by individuals or locations, acts as a mirror reflecting the fragmented selves of the characters, suggesting that our identities are as much a construct of what we remember as they are of our present reality. Women - as the anchors of identity, or places - are catalytic elements into the nature of memory and how it defines who we are - or who we think we are.
In my opinion, de Nerval adds a layer of romantic mysticism to the exploration of identity and memory, while Modiano offers a modernist reflection on the same themes. The differentiation between people and places in reconstructing identity lies in their function as emotional vs physical anchors of memory. A place, much like a face, can hold a multitude of stories and emotions, a park bench might remind someone of a first kiss - a moment of hope and new beginnings, while an old, abandoned house might evoke feelings of loss and melancholy, but when it comes to people, it is perhaps a search, the search for what can complete you, can fill the void created by what you refused to believe was vital, in an ephemeral error of self-knowledge.

[Uroš Đurković · Rating 4 out of 5]

Tekstualna čarolija o neuhvatljivosti. Čudesna novela o 'jutru života', gde mi ništa nije jasno, a sve mi je blisko. Detinjstvo, ljubav, nostalgija, zavičaj, priroda (i prirodnost), Ruso, pozorište, 'starinske pesme', sećanje, cveće, a opet, nipošto još jedna tanušna pastoralna prič(ic)a. Vremenska organizacija pripovedanja je neočekivano složena i zadivljujuće zbunjujuća.

Omiljeno delo Umberta Eka (o čemu je ostavio i odličan esej 'Valoa u izmaglici', gde delo opisuje kao 'san u snu', a spominje ga i u 'Šest šetnji kroz narativnu šumu'), nakon kojeg čitanje Prusta postaje još intenzivnije: Nerval je već bio na istoj teritoriji po kojoj je Prust najpoznatiji.

[David · Rating 4 out of 5]

O romantic love! Or rather, oh love of the romantic period. Think of Rousseau, who said “the spectacle of nature consoles all.” Love is nature. Nature is love.

Our unnamed narrator reflects about the three women he loved in his life. Noble Adrienne who left for a convent but died too early; the beautiful actress Aurélia, who loved all those suitors, or was it the chase itself; and plain and simple Sylvie, a glove maker who lives up to her name - one from the forest.

The old adage is “City and Country do not easily blend.” Take heed.

Our narrator is from the city. After too much song and dance, decides to get away and visit his old friend Sylvie. He is first introduced to Sylvie’s aunt who ponders his intentions, and then questioned by Padre Dodo, who asks bluntly, “are you here to debauch our girls?” Our poor narrator seems to be in trouble.

Of course, religion is a mainstay with the rural people but at odds with the narrator, who utters, “Comedy is the same as religion: you look for the drama, and voilà, the climax eludes you.” After this, Sylvie is wary of the city-boy.

Chasing after an actress, who is frequently on the move playing in other cities, has its challenges. He just can’t seem to connect, can he? Our narrator desponds over these two loves, claiming, “one is the sublime ideal; the other, sweet reality.”

Ah love. How elusive. How about a simple song that Sylvie sings?

Anges, descendez promptement.
Au fond du purgatoire.
(Angels descend promptly, to the depth of purgatory!)

Love in the romantic period is a challenge, especially here.

A special thanks to Nelson who recently reviewed this gem and pointed me in this direction. Nelson noted this book was a favourite of Marcel Proust, Julian Gracq and Umberto Eco. A short book that I was most unaware of until now.

[Kiana · Rating 3 out of 5]

آن شور و برانگيختگى عجيب كه من ديرى در خود آزموده بودم ، آن روياها ، آن اشک‌ها ، آن نااميدی‌ها و آن مهر...، پس اينهمه عشق نبود؟ اما پس عشق كجاست چيست؟

[Nelson Zagalo · Rating 4 out of 5]

Esta novela foi adorada por Proust, Eco e Gracq. A razão prende-se com a prosa poética, mas acima de tudo com o mundo-história criado por Nerval que a partir de avanços e recuos cria uma nébula de incerteza, tornando o ambiente irreal, mundo sonhado, inconstante, indefinível, mas atraente e envolvente. Como que somos seduzidos pelo texto a entrar num mundo de ilusão, no qual acabamos a perder-nos.

Eco cita este texto como um daqueles que devemos reler, reler e reler, porque só assim chegaremos a aproximar-nos daquilo que o autor tem para nos dizer. Como li apenas uma vez, terei de cá voltar, para tentar encontrar o que conseguiram Eco e Proust ver e interpretar.

Li o livro entre o original e a tradução em português do Brasil por Luís de Lima que está muito boa, capaz de manter a poesia e fluxo do original. A versão francesa vem acompanhada de uma imensidade de notas e algumas imagens a servir de ilustração ao texto, que se gostei me pareceu estranho, porque transformam o texto original.

[Oziel Bispo · Rating 4 out of 5]

O narrador- personagem  vivendo em uma ilusão que beira à loucura , não consegue se decidir entres essas beldades : Aurélie, Sylvie e  Adrienne. Mas será que ele na verdade prefere este estado ilusório ou é apenas um escape para uma realidade intangível? Teremos que ler o livro para saber. O que percebemos , é que a  mente do narrador está toda confusa; Aurelie para ele é apenas uma manifestação presente de seu amor que sentira no passado por Adrienne, e Sylvie é apenas uma encarnação de Adrienne a quem também amou.

Nessa confusão de tempos, de  pedaços de memórias ,o livro segue . Pede-se que se preste bem atenção, pois às vezes não dá para saber se uma cena está realmente acontecendo no presente ou é um fragmento do passado.

O narrador é incansável.  Além de inúmeras festas que ela frequenta,Seu trajeto é desde Paris onde vai ver a apresentação de Aurelie em um teatro, depois retorna a Valois , pequeno povoado no interior da França , para se encontrar com sua amiga de infância Sylvie, depois parte para um convento onde imagina poder encontrar a deusa Adrienne, depois retorna para Sylvie, e assim sucessivamente. E assim vai se perdendo o nosso narrador nessas diferentes versões do amor...

O livroivro tem uma narrativa maravilhosa ,tudo isso tendo como fundo as maravilhosas paisagens rurais da França. O livro foi venerado por Proust,Eco,. Não preciso dizer mais nada.

Alguns meses depois da publicação do livro , Gérard de Nerval, se suicida, em 1855.

[Lily · Rating 1 out of 5]

Hated it. I am NOT a romantic, I guess. Or sorry, a Romantic. Romantique. This class (Rebellion Against Romanticism) was such a labor for me. God bless the professor, but I just couldn't find it in me to get excited about melodramatic, borderline-suicidal male protagonists who loved nature and women and suffering. Sylvie was all about the difference between this innocent naive country girl and this actress, both of whom totally capture the narrator's heart. He really goes off the deep end, and the whole time dream and reality are supposed to be blurred. Not into it.

[Louise · Rating 2 out of 5]

Une lecture vite lue, encore plus vite oubliée : c'était médiocre, même la plume est quelconque. C'est la rêverie d'un guss qui hésite entre deux femmes qui veulent même pas de lui, mangeant de la soupe à l'oignon au "parfum patriarcal" (j'avoue qu'elle m'a fait rire celle là) et théorisant sur l'amour sublimé ou réaliste, passant à côté de la vie, la vraie. À la rigueur si vous habitez autour d'Ermenonville et Senlis, les évocations bucoliques des paysages et de la vie campagnarde pourraient vous intéresser... sinon c'est vraiment passable.

[Anthony Gunderson · Rating 4 out of 5]

Poor Gerard. Epigone of Goethe? Perhaps. Heir to Rousseau. This Gallic writer ( Nerval, not me) seems to mention Camille Paglia's least favorite philosopher. But I digress.
The novel is ostensibly a tale of unrequited love. For a provincial girl, an actress, and a nun. The nameless narrator is in love with all three. But is he? I think he's in love with the idea of love. What a lovely idea. The novella progresses in a nonlinear format from a theatre in Paris to the Alps. What will capture the reader's emotions is the evocative language Nerval employs. One cannot read this without thinking of the beauty of the prose. Overall, the prose is akin to the poetry of Rimbaud and the plot is still enthralling. Some will call it literary fiction, some will say it's one of the last works Nerval wrote before he committed suicide and left us with questions as to why. One of the most poetic books I've ever read.

[Jose Moa · Rating 4 out of 5]

This short novel is for me a little forgotten jewel of the romantic literature,has a exquisite,elegant,cult and with many references to the classic world prose.

It is a simbol in the form of the memories of a man of the fruitless search of the idealistic sublimated romantic love represented by three differet women.

[SilveryTongue · Rating 4 out of 5]

Umberto Eco, «uno de los libros más bellos jamás escritos.» «La lectura de Sylvie me dejó trastornado. Más tarde supe que a Proust le había sucedido lo mismo.» Umberto Eco

[Ale Rivero · Rating 3 out of 5]

El autor no sé si se escucha mucho, pero es un escritor francés clásico, contemporáneo de Alejandro Dumas y Victor Hugo, entre otros. Y por lo que leí en la biografía final que hay en mi copia digital, tuvo su auge y algunas obras importantes como "Viaje a Oriente" y "Aurelia".
Respecto a este texto en particular, está calificado como 'nouvelle', o sea, una novela corta, al parecer actúa un poco como precuela de otras de sus obras.
Se centra más que nada en el relato de algunos amores frustrados del narrador protagonista y recuerdos de la Francia de su infancia en pequeños pueblos campesinos.
Muestra un poco de romanticismo y también es muy realista en sus descripciones; en definitiva, probablemente si Umberto Eco no lo mencionaba en su libro "Sobre literatura" no creo que me hubiera enterado de la existencia de "Sylvie".

[mohammad · Rating 5 out of 5]

عشق،ای دریغا از آن! از پیکره‌هایی مبهم و مه آلوده، رنگهایی گلفام و کبود،شبحهایی فراسویی و آنسری! اگر از نزدیک می‌نگریستیم، زن راستین و واقعی ما را، به سبب ساده دلیمان، بر می‌شوراند؛ می‌بایست که زن، چونان شهربانو یا ایزدبانو پدیدار می‌شد، تا دل از ما برباید؛ و به ویژه می‌بایست به او نزدیک نمی شدیم.
#سیلوی
#ژرار دو نروال
#میر جلال الدین کزازی

[ناني ماكفي · Rating 4 out of 5]

تركتني مشوشة تماما .. أرتاح قليلا وأنزل ريفيو
قيل عن جيرار دي نيرفال إن هوسه بالنساء قاده للجنون !
لكن ليس هذا ما وجدته في recit الذي كتبه لصديقه ألكسندر دوما تحت عنوان سيلفي sylvie
سيلفي هي رفيقة و حبيبة طفولته وسنوات مراهقته. تعرف عليها حين قضى طفولته في الريف عند قريبه .. و بقي يكن لها مشاعر حتى حين كبرا ولكنها تزوجت أخاه بالرضاعة . كانت واقعية تعلم أنها فلاحة فقيرة وهو باريسي صاحب أملاك ..
ذات إحتفال إنبهر بصديقتها التي بدت له وكأنها تمثال جميل خارج من الماضي السحيق بجمالها الساحر .. بدت أدريانا فاتنة وسحرته فألبسها تاجا من أوراق الغار.
ومن هناك إنقطعت علاقته بسيلفي التي وجدها تبكي أما أدريانا فلا أمل له معها . لأن أبويها قد نذراها راهبة لدير وكانت تلك آخر مرة وأول مرة يلتقيها
كبر ودرس بباريس وصنع لنفسه إسما في الأوساط الأدبية والفنية ككاتب مسرحيات وروايات
عشق وهام بممثلة كان كل ليلة يحضر ليشاهد مسرحيتها دون أن تنتبه له. لميتقدم يوما لها .. كانت تذكره بمن عشقها ذات يوم أدريانا .. وهكذا وذات مرة بعد أن رفضته سيلفي و علم أن أدريانا ماتت في الدير حاول التقرب إلى الممثلة
ظنت أنه يحبها حقا.حتى حدثها عن حبيبته وافتتانه بها فأجابته أن الكوميدية لا تشبه أبدا الراهبة وصدمته بقولها أنه لا يحبها بل يجدها طيفا لأخرى وانفصلت عنه.
خلال ذكرياته من طفولته لشبابه على عدة فترات زمنية ماكان يذكر فيها أنه انتقل زمنيا.. بل فقط يتحدث عن الأماكن كان يحدث صديقه ألكسندر دوما عن شوقه للماضي البعيد وكيف كله ضاع ..
هل حقا قتله هوسه بالنساء?


لو رجعنا قليلا لحياته سنجد أنه يتيم الام من عمر سنتين .. تربى في ريف بعيد .. وثم إنتقل لباريس ليدرس بها . ومن النقيض لنقيض وهو ما جعله يحن لريف لأجوائه لغموضه .لأيام زمان
انتحر نيرفال وما كتبه من نص سيلفي ليس إلا قبلفترة وجيزة من دخوله المشفى ثم بعدها شنق نفسه
أقول أنه كان حساسا جدا لكله وعقله لم يستوعب التيه الذي كان فيه
كيتيم أم كان دائم البحث عن من يحبها ونسج لنفسه صورة مثالية للجمال بقي يبحث عنها وأسقطها على عدة وجوه في واقعه
تخلل السرد الكثيييير من الموروث الشعبي الباهر من قصائد شفوية أقول عنها أنها أكثر من رائعة
واستنكر أنها لم تدون أو تنشر كتبا ولم يتم الحفاظ عليها فقط لأن من قالها عامة الشعب ولم يتعلمواالكتابة أو أهمية الحفاظ على موروثهم
أو لأنها لا تتبع التركيبة الشعرية المتعارف عليها .. ومرر بعض ما يتذكره منها
وهذه النقطة هوسه بكل ماهو ماض جميل وبحثه عنه وضياع ذلك على أرض واقعه نحو فرنسا صناعية وليس فلاحية جعله يفقد توازنه أكثر
فهل ما قاده للجنون هوسه بالنساء?أم يتمه و حساسيته المفرطة و عيشه على ماض قد مضى ولن يعود ?!

[Micha · Rating 1 out of 5]

Umberto Eco went on and on about this in Six Walks in the Fictional Woods and elsewhere I'm sure, so I thought I ought to read it. It sounded exceptional, elusive, playing with time and memory, with elements of Romanticism and lost beauty and all the other things that you can name to gain my immediate attention. As ever, I don't know if the problem is in the translation, though I looked at two side-by-side in the library before making my impulsive choice, but part of the problem was that I just could not care less about the narrator or these idealised women he loves and loses. The problem is that even now, catching little biographical anecdotes or praise from other esteemed writers I feel that the problem must be with me somehow, that I did not appreciate it properly because I read it at the wrong time or in the wrong way or in the wrong translation, but I just could! not! care!

[Imane · Rating 1 out of 5]

Cela résume ce que je pense de ce livre horrible !

[Brent · Rating 4 out of 5]

I immediately reread large sections of this story when I finished it just to try to understand how Nerval achieved the effects that have made this story famous. The temporal ambiguity, the merging of themes and characters, the eerie crisscrossing of biography and fantasy...reading this book was like floating through Nerval's memory. And it was a weird, wonderful experience.

[Carlos · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dice Juan Malpartida: “Traductor, poeta, narrador, cuentista, libretista, Gérard de Nerval fue un escritor raro para su tiempo. Su obra más profunda e inquietante fue escrita en los últimos años de su vida como un testimonio de su particular descenso a los infiernos. Amigo y colaborador de Gautier, de Alejandro Dumas, de Victor Hugo, Nerval fue admirado por ellos, pero la rareza de su propósito literario y la rara calidad de su prosa y de su poesía sólo podían ser comprendidas a partir de Baudelaire, Rimbaud y, ya en el siglo XX, de André Breton, sin olvidar la admiración que le profesaron Apollinaire y Proust. Pocos como él pueden ser llamados en Francia románticos”. Una descripción así merecería toda nuestra atención; pero si nos concentramos en una obra en particular, “Sylvie”, de la que Umberto Eco afirmó que es “Uno de los libros más bellos jamás escritos”, y que el propio Proust denominó como “una de las obras maestras de la literatura francesa”… uf, ¿qué más se puede pedir?
La historia se centra en un hombre enamorado de tres mujeres: Sylvie, una pueblerina; Adrianne, una hermosa joven que será enclaustrada en un convento, y una actriz; todas provocarán en él sendos irremediables amores.
Escrita en 1853, un par de años antes de su suicidio, esta breve novela es considerada la obra maestra de Nerval. Una pieza que reflexiona sobre las pasiones humanas, la relación de la memoria con el proceso de escritura y los azares que el sino nos depara. Inolvidable.

[Stephen Rowland · Rating 1 out of 5]

Flowery, uninteresting, without substance -- and that's very disappointing, because I had high hopes for Nerval. But nearly everything in life is disappointing to varying degrees.

[Czarny Pies · Rating 5 out of 5]

J'ai lu "Sylvie" parce je lisais "On Literature" d'Umberto Eco où il se trouve un essai là-dessus qu'Eco prétend est incompréhensible pour ceux qui n'avait pas au préalable lu la nouvelle de Gérard de Nerval. Ça a été un drôle de manière de découvrir un chef d'œuvre de la littérature française.
Dans le moment je n'ai pas d'idées à moi sur Sylvie. Je dois répéter alors celles d'Eco qui insiste que "Sylvie" est l'écrit d'un auteur sain d'esprit au sommet de ses moyens et que c'est une erreur de le considérer comme étant l'œuvre d'un fou qui se dirigeait vers son suicide. "Sylvie" raconte l'histoire d'un jeune homme qui semble d'être le doppelganger de Nerval. Ce protagoniste est amoureux de trois ou possiblement seulement deux femmes. Il va perdre les toutes les trois (ou peut-être toutes les deux) parce qu'ils préfèrent les illusions qu'il fait d'elles que les vrais femmes. -
"Sylvie" est profondément onirique. En plus de la confusion au sujet du nombres de femmes, il est impossible de reconstituer la vraie chronologie des événements et les moments où les fantômes se présentent. D'après Eco, on trouve chez "Sylvie" la rêve d'une rêve. Parce que je suis toujours dans les brumes de cette nouvelle, je n'ai pas de choix que d'être d'accord avec Eco.

[Pianobikes · Rating 4 out of 5]

“¡Amar a una religiosa bajo la apariencia de una actriz!… ¿Y si fuera la misma? ¡Hay para volverse loco!” ~ Sylvie de Gérard de Nerval.

Traducción: Luis María Todó.

Sylvie cuenta la historia de un joven enamorado desde su juventud de una muchacha a la que confunde con una actriz de teatro. La joven entró en su día en un convento y él sigue prendado de aquella belleza que cree reconocer en esa actriz.

Sin embargo, nuestro protagonista, que al mismo tiempo es el narrador de la historia en primera persona, habla de Sylvie, su mejor amiga desde niño y a quien une un lazo que no llega a definir. Con el paso de los años, ve en Sylvie una belleza particular y reconoce que a su lado todo sería más sencillo pero sigue soñando con su amor adolescente.

Novela corta leída en #clasicosflash que me ha gustado bastante, aunque he de reconocer que al principio el estilo narrativo puede resultar un poco cargado pero una vez que le pillas el punto, se lee como si nada.

Otra historia que nos ha dado para diseccionar al protagonista en nuestra mesa de #clasicosflash donde al más pintado le hacemos un traje a medida.

[ninon · Rating 5 out of 5]

mamaaaa j ai enfin termine mon memoire et ziak sylvie dans la seine

[Simona · Rating 3 out of 5]

Due testi in uno potrebbe essere descritto così questo breve romanzo di Gerard de Nerval. Da un lato, il racconto di Sylvie e dall' altro la rilettura di Eco che lo ha anche tradotto per Einaudi.
La rilettura di Eco impreziosisce ancora di più Sylvie permettendo al lettore di comprendere significati che possono sfuggire.
Sylvie è come una di queste chimere che "ammaliano e sconvolgono all'alba della vita", inafferrabile che ti trasporta tra sogno e realtà, dove non si sa quando inizia uno e termina l'altro. È l'atmosfera del sogno, delle cose effimere, ma non per questo meno tangibili e vere.

[Marisol Boyle Gomez · Rating 2 out of 5]

horrific. just sick and tired of men talking about their long lost loves that they never fucked. enough now

[Francesca · Rating 4 out of 5]

Che dire ora, che non sia la storia di tanti altri?
[…] Tali sono le chimere che ammaliano e sconvolgono all'alba della vita […] Le illusioni cadono l'una dopo l'altra, come scorze di un frutto, e il frutto è l'esperienza. Il suo sapore è amaro e tuttavia essa ha qualcosa di aspro che tonifica. […]

La storia è più o meno tutta qui, racchiusa in queste poche righe.
'Ecco dov'era la felicità... eppure.'
Già, capita. Mentre tu non scegli, gli altri lo fanno, eccome se lo fanno!, e definiscono la tua stessa vita. Amori che potrebbero essere il simbolo di tutti gli amori possibili di ogni individuo su questa terra.
L'eccezionalità del racconto non è la vicenda, ma il modo in cui viene narrata. Una lingua, a mio gusto, squisita, che carezza la pelle come un petalo di rosa, scivolandoti 'addosso' dolcemente. Lo consiglio fortemente a chi ama le cose scritte bene: una poesia in prosa suggestiva.
Ovviamente questa è solo la mia percezione dell'opera. Ne sono rimasta incantata e, per quasi tutta la lettura, mi sono trovata a pensare: 'Come avrei voluto scriverlo io!'

[Akeyla Pratt · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was a very good example of a French nouvelle... in equal parts romantic and tragic. My only criticism is that it was sometimes hard to tell when Nerval was writing a memory and when he was actually writing the events taking place in the timeline of the story. It wasn't always immediately clear to me when he would drift off into a story taken from one of the narrator's memories.

Apart from that, though, it was a lovely and fairly quick read.

[Francesco D'Isa · Rating 4 out of 5]

People from different worlds want to reconnect: the protagonist falls in love with a dream, is loved by an idea and he will be abandoned by both. The best non-suicide note ever written.

Plot: He loves Adrienne, Sylvie loves him, but soon no one will love him.