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Terrasse à Rome
Il y a un âge où on ne rencontre plus la vie mais le temps. On cesse de voir la vie vivre. On voit le temps qui est en train de dévorer la vie toute crue. Alors le cœur se serre. On se tient à des morceaux de bois pour voir encore un peu le spectacle qui saigne d'un bout à l'autre du monde et pour ne pas y tomber.
168 pages, Broché
First published February 3, 2000
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About the author
Pascal Quignard
158 books304 followersRomancier, poète et essayiste, Pascal Quignard est né en 1948. Après des études de philosophie, il entre aux Éditions Gallimard où il occupe les fonctions successives de lecteur, membre du comité de lecture et secrétaire général pour le développement éditorial. Il enseigne ensuite à l’Université de Vincennes et à l’École Pratique des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Il a fondé le festival d’opéra et de théâtre baroque de Versailles, qu’il dirige de 1990 à 1994. Par la suite, il démissionne de toutes ses fonctions pour se consacrer à son travail d’écrivain. L’essentiel de son oeuvre est disponible aux Éditions Gallimard, en collection blanche et en Folio.
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Pascal Quignard is a French writer born in Verneuil-sur-Avre, Eure. In 2002 his novel Les Ombres errantes won the Prix Goncourt, France's top literary prize. Terrasse à Rome (Terrasse in Rome), received the French Academy prize in 2000, and Carus was awarded the "Prix des Critiques" in 1980.
One of Quignard's most famous works is the eighty-four "Little Treatises", first published in 1991 by Maeght. His most popular book is probably Tous les matins du monde (All the Mornings in the World), about 17th-century viola de gamba player Marin Marais and his teacher, Sainte-Colombe, which was adapted for the screen in 1991, by director Alain Corneau. Quignard wrote the screenplay of the film, in collaboration with Corneau. Tous les matins du monde, starring Jean-Pierre Marielle, Gérard Depardieu and son Guillaume Depardieu, was a tremendous success in France and sold 2 million tickets in the first year, and was subsequently distributed in 31 countries. The soundtrack was certified platinum (500,000 copies) and made musician Jordi Savall an international star.
The film was released in 1992 in the US.
Quignard has also translated works from the Latin (Albucius, Porcius Latro), Chinese (Kong-souen Long), and Greek (Lycophron) languages.
===
Pascal Quignard is a French writer born in Verneuil-sur-Avre, Eure. In 2002 his novel Les Ombres errantes won the Prix Goncourt, France's top literary prize. Terrasse à Rome (Terrasse in Rome), received the French Academy prize in 2000, and Carus was awarded the "Prix des Critiques" in 1980.
One of Quignard's most famous works is the eighty-four "Little Treatises", first published in 1991 by Maeght. His most popular book is probably Tous les matins du monde (All the Mornings in the World), about 17th-century viola de gamba player Marin Marais and his teacher, Sainte-Colombe, which was adapted for the screen in 1991, by director Alain Corneau. Quignard wrote the screenplay of the film, in collaboration with Corneau. Tous les matins du monde, starring Jean-Pierre Marielle, Gérard Depardieu and son Guillaume Depardieu, was a tremendous success in France and sold 2 million tickets in the first year, and was subsequently distributed in 31 countries. The soundtrack was certified platinum (500,000 copies) and made musician Jordi Savall an international star.
The film was released in 1992 in the US.
Quignard has also translated works from the Latin (Albucius, Porcius Latro), Chinese (Kong-souen Long), and Greek (Lycophron) languages.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 73 reviews
July 6, 2018
There is more in this book than meets the eye. There is the stillness of portraits, that stare eternally. There is the quiet mistery of landscapes, and their profound vastness in small paintings. There is the cruelty of love and the crudeness of life. There is the enigma of genius and the miasma of envy.
My mother used to have a pair of Peruvian folkloric paintings depicting usual scenes of normal life in Peruvian villages. I found myself reminiscing about these while reading this book. I haven't seen those paintings in many years, and yet, Quignard's tale managed to delve deep in my memory and pull out that long forgotten experience.
My mother used to have a pair of Peruvian folkloric paintings depicting usual scenes of normal life in Peruvian villages. I found myself reminiscing about these while reading this book. I haven't seen those paintings in many years, and yet, Quignard's tale managed to delve deep in my memory and pull out that long forgotten experience.
January 31, 2023
Se llama Pascal Quignard y es uno de los mejores escritores europeos vivos. En breve reseñita para apuntar un par de cosas a propósito de este libro y su autor.
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Este título se llevó el Premio de Novela de la Academia Francesa y no es de extrañar. No es un premio que se entregue a la ligera. No es el Premio Planeta. Se trata de una muestra del gran momento de forma de un escritor muy dotado. Su erudición alcanza tales cotas, tal es su dominio del latín y el griego, numerosas y extensas sus lecturas, que puede bucear en textos de siglos pasados como si fuesen en novelas comerciales de hoy en día y encontrar toda esa constelación de personajes oscuros y recónditos, irrastreables, verdaderamente anónimos si conocimiento del lector no alcanza cotas de profundidad equivalentes a las de Quignard.
O la verdad es que puede que juegue con esa ambigüedad, ¿en verdad existió ese tal Meaume el Grabador o no es más que un fruto de su imaginación? A la hora de la lectura, tal certeza es irrelevante, dado que Quignard consigue dotarle de vida y nos explica una vida dedicada al arte y en la que cierto amor marcó su vida de forma definitiva.
La novela se ambienta en el siglo XVII, Quignard escribe una novela histórica, aunque muy alejada del modelo comercial que se encuentra en la mesa de novedades. En verdad le sirve como vehículo para explorar los fundamentos de la conciencia europea, de los objetos culturales que produce y de las pasiones que condicionan la mente. En el caso de Meaume, estando en Brujas, dónde aprendió el arte de los grabados, se enamoró de una dama llamada Nanni, con la que mantuvo una tórrida historia, sembrada de furibundos encuentros sexuales, que dio lugar a un dramático desenlace: el prometido de Nanni se enteró de un encuentro de ambos en una casa de comidas, los interrumpió y arrojó el aguafuerte contra los amantes, dañando la mano de ella y el rostro de él. Este capítulo marcó el resto de la vida de Meaume pues esta desfiguración provocó el rechazo de Nanni, dejándole así también una herida interior que marcaría su arte, un fantasma que lo acompañaría de forma más o menos notoria hasta el final de su vida, dotando a su arte una inclinación hacia la voluptuosidad y la lujuria, o, en todo caso, la vida material, pues también aparecían en sus grabados todo aquello que la pintura no encontraba virtuoso: costureras, labradores y demás figuras del mundo profano, costumbrista antes que los costumbristas.
Quignard no sólo habla con detalle del arte del grabado, también acerca de la época, de modo que sus personajes se desplazan con naturalidad por el paisaje. Como Abraham Bosse, apodado Oesterer (que quiere decir austríaco), amigo homosexual de Meaume, que al llegar a Francia sin una pertenencia, es acusado de vagabundo y perseguido por las tropas, que lo capturan y lo llevan hacia Toulouse, aunque antes se zafa de sus captores durante una travesía nocturna por un lago y huye a Roma, dónde Meaume se ha instalado y puesto al servicio del maestro Claude Gellée, que también se convertirá en su amigo. Quignard nos cuenta que los foráneos en esa época eran tratados como bestias salvajes, que en Francia habían devastado una procesión de egipcios. Comprendemos así el valor de la trivializada libertad de movimientos, también los problemas médicos de Meaume nos hace reflexionar acerca de los avances sanitarios de nuestra época.
La prosa de Quignard, al igual que en las otras dos obras que leí anteriormente, es sumamente económica, casi ascética aunque no mimimalista, busca la precisión de la palabra justa, una intención que la acerca a los terrenos de la poesía, sin embargo no hablamos de una escritura delicada y melosa, si bien no faltan las observaciones de arte y estética, luego también refleja de forma descarnada las pasiones y narra con algunos capítulos escabrosos. Como el joven patricio que al no mostrar interés por el matrimonio, un médico le receta dibujos obscenos (obrados por Melaume) en compañía de dos prostitutas florentinas, capítulo que lo trauma y cuando se menciona la posibilidad de repetirlo, se suicida.
O también el origen de una oreja que Melaume tenía entre sus pertenencias. En no sé que competición un tipo estaba escuchando detrás de la puerta y entonces Marie, la amiga y amante de Melaume, tomó un clavo y clavó la oreja en la puerta, de forma que tuvo que escoger entre arrancarse la oreja o seguir ahí. Nadie le ayuda por temor a la cólera de los alfareros, aquellos a los que estaba escuchando tras la puerta. Mientras no se decide lo envuelve una muchedumbre, que le quita los pantalones y le rasga la camisa. El tipo acaba pidiendo un pañuelo para cubrirse la cara y tapar la vergüenza que el produce su postura y el hecho de haber hecho sus necesidades en público. Es tremendo. Qué tiempos tan atroces, qué detalles tan terribles ignoran aquellos que ensalzan la magnificencia de épocas pasadas. Al final, claro, el hombre no tiene otra que arrancarse la oreja. Y es así como Melaume obtuvo ese siniestro objeto.
Así, en resumen, en esas 135 páginas Quignard logra condensar con su cuidada y vaporosa prosa todo tipo de pasiones, nos habla de una época y del encuentro que la vida y el arte tienen en una época poco convencional. Quignard nos habla de esas sombras errantes en los pies de página de los libros de historia y de arte y los dota de cierta vitalidad y vivacidad, logra convencernos de su realidad. Decir que es uno de los grandes nombres de la literatura europea no me parece para nada una exageración.
========
Este título se llevó el Premio de Novela de la Academia Francesa y no es de extrañar. No es un premio que se entregue a la ligera. No es el Premio Planeta. Se trata de una muestra del gran momento de forma de un escritor muy dotado. Su erudición alcanza tales cotas, tal es su dominio del latín y el griego, numerosas y extensas sus lecturas, que puede bucear en textos de siglos pasados como si fuesen en novelas comerciales de hoy en día y encontrar toda esa constelación de personajes oscuros y recónditos, irrastreables, verdaderamente anónimos si conocimiento del lector no alcanza cotas de profundidad equivalentes a las de Quignard.
O la verdad es que puede que juegue con esa ambigüedad, ¿en verdad existió ese tal Meaume el Grabador o no es más que un fruto de su imaginación? A la hora de la lectura, tal certeza es irrelevante, dado que Quignard consigue dotarle de vida y nos explica una vida dedicada al arte y en la que cierto amor marcó su vida de forma definitiva.
La novela se ambienta en el siglo XVII, Quignard escribe una novela histórica, aunque muy alejada del modelo comercial que se encuentra en la mesa de novedades. En verdad le sirve como vehículo para explorar los fundamentos de la conciencia europea, de los objetos culturales que produce y de las pasiones que condicionan la mente. En el caso de Meaume, estando en Brujas, dónde aprendió el arte de los grabados, se enamoró de una dama llamada Nanni, con la que mantuvo una tórrida historia, sembrada de furibundos encuentros sexuales, que dio lugar a un dramático desenlace: el prometido de Nanni se enteró de un encuentro de ambos en una casa de comidas, los interrumpió y arrojó el aguafuerte contra los amantes, dañando la mano de ella y el rostro de él. Este capítulo marcó el resto de la vida de Meaume pues esta desfiguración provocó el rechazo de Nanni, dejándole así también una herida interior que marcaría su arte, un fantasma que lo acompañaría de forma más o menos notoria hasta el final de su vida, dotando a su arte una inclinación hacia la voluptuosidad y la lujuria, o, en todo caso, la vida material, pues también aparecían en sus grabados todo aquello que la pintura no encontraba virtuoso: costureras, labradores y demás figuras del mundo profano, costumbrista antes que los costumbristas.
Quignard no sólo habla con detalle del arte del grabado, también acerca de la época, de modo que sus personajes se desplazan con naturalidad por el paisaje. Como Abraham Bosse, apodado Oesterer (que quiere decir austríaco), amigo homosexual de Meaume, que al llegar a Francia sin una pertenencia, es acusado de vagabundo y perseguido por las tropas, que lo capturan y lo llevan hacia Toulouse, aunque antes se zafa de sus captores durante una travesía nocturna por un lago y huye a Roma, dónde Meaume se ha instalado y puesto al servicio del maestro Claude Gellée, que también se convertirá en su amigo. Quignard nos cuenta que los foráneos en esa época eran tratados como bestias salvajes, que en Francia habían devastado una procesión de egipcios. Comprendemos así el valor de la trivializada libertad de movimientos, también los problemas médicos de Meaume nos hace reflexionar acerca de los avances sanitarios de nuestra época.
La prosa de Quignard, al igual que en las otras dos obras que leí anteriormente, es sumamente económica, casi ascética aunque no mimimalista, busca la precisión de la palabra justa, una intención que la acerca a los terrenos de la poesía, sin embargo no hablamos de una escritura delicada y melosa, si bien no faltan las observaciones de arte y estética, luego también refleja de forma descarnada las pasiones y narra con algunos capítulos escabrosos. Como el joven patricio que al no mostrar interés por el matrimonio, un médico le receta dibujos obscenos (obrados por Melaume) en compañía de dos prostitutas florentinas, capítulo que lo trauma y cuando se menciona la posibilidad de repetirlo, se suicida.
O también el origen de una oreja que Melaume tenía entre sus pertenencias. En no sé que competición un tipo estaba escuchando detrás de la puerta y entonces Marie, la amiga y amante de Melaume, tomó un clavo y clavó la oreja en la puerta, de forma que tuvo que escoger entre arrancarse la oreja o seguir ahí. Nadie le ayuda por temor a la cólera de los alfareros, aquellos a los que estaba escuchando tras la puerta. Mientras no se decide lo envuelve una muchedumbre, que le quita los pantalones y le rasga la camisa. El tipo acaba pidiendo un pañuelo para cubrirse la cara y tapar la vergüenza que el produce su postura y el hecho de haber hecho sus necesidades en público. Es tremendo. Qué tiempos tan atroces, qué detalles tan terribles ignoran aquellos que ensalzan la magnificencia de épocas pasadas. Al final, claro, el hombre no tiene otra que arrancarse la oreja. Y es así como Melaume obtuvo ese siniestro objeto.
Así, en resumen, en esas 135 páginas Quignard logra condensar con su cuidada y vaporosa prosa todo tipo de pasiones, nos habla de una época y del encuentro que la vida y el arte tienen en una época poco convencional. Quignard nos habla de esas sombras errantes en los pies de página de los libros de historia y de arte y los dota de cierta vitalidad y vivacidad, logra convencernos de su realidad. Decir que es uno de los grandes nombres de la literatura europea no me parece para nada una exageración.
November 20, 2020
Deuxième roman que je lis de cet auteur et j’avoue être de nouveau surpris. Un style bien unique! La beauté de l’écriture rivalise avec des histoires de vies troubles et une étrangeté toujours surprenante. J’aime beaucoup et je continuerai certainement à explorer son œuvre!
August 27, 2020
3,5 estrellas
Un hombre de edad, con los ojos cerrados, la barba blanca, las manos entre las piernas, en una terraza, en Roma, en el crepúsculo, en la tercera hora del día, bajo los últimos rayos dorados del sol, contento de estar libre y contento de vivir entre entre el vino y el sueño.
Un hombre de edad, con los ojos cerrados, la barba blanca, las manos entre las piernas, en una terraza, en Roma, en el crepúsculo, en la tercera hora del día, bajo los últimos rayos dorados del sol, contento de estar libre y contento de vivir entre entre el vino y el sueño.
September 11, 2024
Quignard es uno de mis escritores predilectos y creo que de lo más interesante, genuino y talentoso de la contemporaneidad.
A veces orfebre de bellas obras precisas y sucintas (como "Terraza en Roma", "Las nieves de antaño", "Todas las mañanas del mundo", "Las solidaridades misteriosas", etc.) o fabricante de una sublime maquinaria pesada como su colosal "Último reino" (12 volúmenes), donde expone la mayoría de sus inquietudes, pensamiento y estilo hasta alcanzar su cenit literario.
Comparto aquí uno de los pasajes que más adoro de esta obra:
𝘈𝘭𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘭 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳, 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘳ü𝘯𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘯. 𝘚𝘰𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘕𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪 𝘝𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘑𝘢𝘬𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘻: «𝘌𝘭 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘭 𝘦𝘴𝘱í𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘶. 𝘈 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘪ó𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘦 𝘢 𝘶𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘭 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰 𝘤𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘴. 𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘰 𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘰. 𝘚𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘤𝘪ó𝘯 𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘦ñ𝘰𝘴, 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘪 𝘭𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘪 𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳é𝘴. 𝘈𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘦ñ𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘰, 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘮á𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘰, 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘦ñ𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘻 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘰𝘺 𝘶𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘯. 𝘏𝘢𝘨𝘰 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘩𝘦. 𝘔𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘣í𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘢 𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘰 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘺𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘥, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘤𝘶𝘺𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪ó𝘯 𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘫𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘶 𝘶𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘰 𝘢 𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢 𝘮á𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢. 𝘕𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘮á𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘳».
A veces orfebre de bellas obras precisas y sucintas (como "Terraza en Roma", "Las nieves de antaño", "Todas las mañanas del mundo", "Las solidaridades misteriosas", etc.) o fabricante de una sublime maquinaria pesada como su colosal "Último reino" (12 volúmenes), donde expone la mayoría de sus inquietudes, pensamiento y estilo hasta alcanzar su cenit literario.
Comparto aquí uno de los pasajes que más adoro de esta obra:
𝘈𝘭𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘭 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳, 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘳ü𝘯𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘯. 𝘚𝘰𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘕𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪 𝘝𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘑𝘢𝘬𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘻: «𝘌𝘭 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘭 𝘦𝘴𝘱í𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘶. 𝘈 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘪ó𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘦 𝘢 𝘶𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘭 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰 𝘤𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘴. 𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘰 𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘰. 𝘚𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘤𝘪ó𝘯 𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘦ñ𝘰𝘴, 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘪 𝘭𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘪 𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳é𝘴. 𝘈𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘦ñ𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘰, 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘮á𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘰, 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘦ñ𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘻 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘰𝘺 𝘶𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘯. 𝘏𝘢𝘨𝘰 𝘪𝘮á𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘩𝘦. 𝘔𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘣í𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘢 𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘰 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘺𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘥, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘤𝘶𝘺𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪ó𝘯 𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘫𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘶 𝘶𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘰 𝘢 𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢 𝘮á𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢. 𝘕𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘮á𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘳».
November 7, 2023
Terraza en Roma nos lleva a conocer la historia de Meaume, un grabador parisino nacido en 1617 que, mientras es aprendiz en Brujas, logra tener un amorío con Nanni, la hija de un conocido orfebre, una joven por desgracia ya prometida a Vanlacre, mayordomo de su padre. Aquel amorío desata la furia del burlado novio, ya que en una noche en la que Nanni y Meaume funden su cuerpo en las urgencias amorosas, Meaume recibe la venganza de Vanlacre en forma de aguafuerte en pleno rostro, por lo que queda marcado por la deformidad.
Mas lejos de experimentar una satisfacción en la venganza, Vanlacre empieza a experimentar además unas fuertes ansias homicidas, sobre todo porque Nanni sigue amando a un Meaume afeado por la deformidad, por lo que este debe huir de Brujas rumbo a Amberes, a Mayence, a los Alpes, que cruza con rumbo sur, hasta llegar al Golfo de Salerno, donde se oculta durante un par de años en una aldea en un acantilado. Finalmente decide instalarse en Roma, en una terraza donde da rienda suelta a su oficio de grabador de estampas lúbricas, míticas, viles, humildes o religiosas.
Su arte va ganando fama y años más tarde su destino se completa al conocer a un hermoso joven que le produce una fea herida en la garganta gracias a un malentendido, mientras va a la búsqueda de su verdadero padre, un famoso grabador que firma sus obras con el nombre de Meaumus sculpsit, y de quien lleva una obra en la que retrata a su madre y que muestra un maravilloso parecido consigo mismo, por lo que considera el grabado una prueba irrefutable de su paternidad.
Luego de varios libros leídos de Quignard, se puede entrever una constante en su estilo: textos breves, de capítulos a su vez sumamente breves, carentes casi por entero de florituras, y pese a lo anterior, llenos por momentos de profundidades insondables. Además, resulta notable que en esta bella historia hay un recurrente uso de la écfrasis como herramienta para ilustrar episodios de la vida del propio Meaume a través de la descripción de algunos de sus grabados, lo cual dota de una capa adicional al plano de los significados.
Mas lejos de experimentar una satisfacción en la venganza, Vanlacre empieza a experimentar además unas fuertes ansias homicidas, sobre todo porque Nanni sigue amando a un Meaume afeado por la deformidad, por lo que este debe huir de Brujas rumbo a Amberes, a Mayence, a los Alpes, que cruza con rumbo sur, hasta llegar al Golfo de Salerno, donde se oculta durante un par de años en una aldea en un acantilado. Finalmente decide instalarse en Roma, en una terraza donde da rienda suelta a su oficio de grabador de estampas lúbricas, míticas, viles, humildes o religiosas.
Su arte va ganando fama y años más tarde su destino se completa al conocer a un hermoso joven que le produce una fea herida en la garganta gracias a un malentendido, mientras va a la búsqueda de su verdadero padre, un famoso grabador que firma sus obras con el nombre de Meaumus sculpsit, y de quien lleva una obra en la que retrata a su madre y que muestra un maravilloso parecido consigo mismo, por lo que considera el grabado una prueba irrefutable de su paternidad.
Luego de varios libros leídos de Quignard, se puede entrever una constante en su estilo: textos breves, de capítulos a su vez sumamente breves, carentes casi por entero de florituras, y pese a lo anterior, llenos por momentos de profundidades insondables. Además, resulta notable que en esta bella historia hay un recurrente uso de la écfrasis como herramienta para ilustrar episodios de la vida del propio Meaume a través de la descripción de algunos de sus grabados, lo cual dota de una capa adicional al plano de los significados.
December 9, 2023
niveau approprié de drama pour moi mais chelou à lire. on dirait un livre qu’on lirait avec sudan :/
November 29, 2017
No soy buena opinando sobre libros donde el protagonista esté enamorado de alguien que nunca l amo, siempre me cuestiono como es que existe gente con tan poco amor a sí mismo que pueda vivir enamorado de alguien que no lo valoro?, le doy 2 estrellas por la redacción puntual del escritor, pero definitivo no es mi tipo de trama, de libro ni de un rato.
November 26, 2017
The novella is a roughly chronological account of the life of Meaume, a fictional seventeenth century engraver who was disfigured in his youth after his lover’s fiancé threw acid in his face (still a poignantly relevant theme). The narrative proceeds in short chapters, sometimes factual, oftentimes philosophical.
I can only speak of the English translation: I found it quick to read, easy, despite the complexity of life that it often addresses. The sentences can be short-short, hammering out the meaning, and can be long and obscure, while lending themselves to quaint and personal interpretations. In places, the language is beautiful despite (or due to) its brutal simplicity.
The portrait of Meaume is convincing; his philosophy and life are exposed at great length, even though the book has little more than a hundred pages, of which many are half-blank. As such, Quiqnard teaches a lesson on finding depth in brevity.
Aside from time jumping about from chapter to chapter, the tense jumps too, occasionally, between present and past in consecutive sentences within the same paragraph. It's not as jarring as one might think; indeed, I am not sure what to make of it: once I established it as an occurrence, I accepted it and moved on. How much I gained or lost by this switch is unclear.
Had Meaume been Nature, he would have made only lightning, or the moon, or the foaming waves of the ocean in a tempest, crashing on the black rocks of the shore. Or nakedness revealed by chance under silk.
I can only speak of the English translation: I found it quick to read, easy, despite the complexity of life that it often addresses. The sentences can be short-short, hammering out the meaning, and can be long and obscure, while lending themselves to quaint and personal interpretations. In places, the language is beautiful despite (or due to) its brutal simplicity.
We should consider engravers translators who transfer the beauties of one rich and magnificent language into another which is indeed lesser but which has more violence. This violence imposes immediate silence on whomever it confronts.
The portrait of Meaume is convincing; his philosophy and life are exposed at great length, even though the book has little more than a hundred pages, of which many are half-blank. As such, Quiqnard teaches a lesson on finding depth in brevity.
Aside from time jumping about from chapter to chapter, the tense jumps too, occasionally, between present and past in consecutive sentences within the same paragraph. It's not as jarring as one might think; indeed, I am not sure what to make of it: once I established it as an occurrence, I accepted it and moved on. How much I gained or lost by this switch is unclear.
He belonged to the school of artists who, in the most refined manner, depicted things which most people considered the most common: tramps ploughmen, beach combers, people selling clams, cockles, crabs, striped bass, young women taking off their shoes, young women hardly dressed reading letters or dreaming of love, maids ironing sheets, all the ripe fruits which, as they begin to mold, announce the coming autumn, the leftovers of a meal, drunkards carrying on, clouds of tobacco smoke, card players, a cat lapping from a tin bowl, the blind man and his companion, lovers embracing in various postures, unaware they are seen, mothers suckling their babies, philosophers meditating, men who had been hung, candles, shadows of things, people urinating, others defecting, the old the profiles of the dead, cattle ruminating or sleeping.
November 1, 2024
Pompous and disjoint to the point we are not sure what he's talking about. I finish because it was not long.
update: Actually, i didn't
update: Actually, i didn't
December 4, 2014
Charles Ré and I have just finished the English translation this beautiful and haunting book published by Gallimard in 2000. It received the prestigious Prize of the Académie Française for that year and has since been published in 19 languages. It has never before appeared in English and is a neglected masterpiece. M. Quignard won the Goncourt Prize in 2002.
In fragments and brief episodes, this complex book evokes the harsh passions, violent fate and luminous inner life of a fictional seventeenth century engraver. When a jealous lover throws acid on Geoffroy Meaume's face, he is monstrously disfigured. Despite the brilliance of his work, his life is ever after confined to the shadows as he moves back and forth across Europe A shadow himself, he nonetheless fascinates many famous people of the age. In Rome, he becomes a friend of Claude Lorrain, but lives by making strange and haunting engravings. His erotic prints create a scandal, and he again becomes a wanderer, dying finally in the Antwerp studio of the painter Gerard Van Honthorst.
In fragments and brief episodes, this complex book evokes the harsh passions, violent fate and luminous inner life of a fictional seventeenth century engraver. When a jealous lover throws acid on Geoffroy Meaume's face, he is monstrously disfigured. Despite the brilliance of his work, his life is ever after confined to the shadows as he moves back and forth across Europe A shadow himself, he nonetheless fascinates many famous people of the age. In Rome, he becomes a friend of Claude Lorrain, but lives by making strange and haunting engravings. His erotic prints create a scandal, and he again becomes a wanderer, dying finally in the Antwerp studio of the painter Gerard Van Honthorst.
June 19, 2016
Příjemná kniha, která se rozjede jako Rychle a zběsile 8, jenže pak někde v polovině vyskočil Vin Diesel z auta a knížka už dojela na autopilota. Přiznávám se, že poslední dobou se nad přirovnáními zrovna moc nezamýšlím.
Vzhledem k tomu, že se dobrá polovina zabývá popisem rytin, který vymyšlený rytec vyryl, docela mě přešel zájem se do knihy nějak hlouběji ponořit. To je jako kdybych popisoval, jaký lečo uvařil můj praděda, který nikdy neexistoval. Zbytek knihy se věnuje jeho smutnému životu, který poznamenala nešťastná láska, což jsem si naopak užil, protože si stále sám moc dobře vybavuji, jak jsem Tereze Tiché v sedmé třídě nebyl schopný říct, že ji miluji a díky tomu se nakonec rozhodla pro Tomáše Hejlka, který si s ní vzal hypotéku, třikrát ji vokotil a teď spolu jezdí v neděli na návštěvu k rodičům. A co mám já? Jen playstation, alkohol a nádherný penis :-(
Vzhledem k tomu, že se dobrá polovina zabývá popisem rytin, který vymyšlený rytec vyryl, docela mě přešel zájem se do knihy nějak hlouběji ponořit. To je jako kdybych popisoval, jaký lečo uvařil můj praděda, který nikdy neexistoval. Zbytek knihy se věnuje jeho smutnému životu, který poznamenala nešťastná láska, což jsem si naopak užil, protože si stále sám moc dobře vybavuji, jak jsem Tereze Tiché v sedmé třídě nebyl schopný říct, že ji miluji a díky tomu se nakonec rozhodla pro Tomáše Hejlka, který si s ní vzal hypotéku, třikrát ji vokotil a teď spolu jezdí v neděli na návštěvu k rodičům. A co mám já? Jen playstation, alkohol a nádherný penis :-(
July 25, 2016
Life lust and death wish combine in this magnificent little etching of a story. NightWood has many of the same textures. Truly a haunting book, admirably translated with love and patience by my old friend Douglas Penick and his associate, Charles Ré.
October 21, 2016
A pleasant, spare style, a good situation (an engraver with a great life story), more or less enjoyable except for some lamentable literary existentialism and the kind of obsession with sex that is, implausibly, still considered risque or lever by so many authors and reviewers.
September 4, 2022
Pas grand chose a dire. je l'ai lu. J'avais hâte de le terminer.
January 18, 2025
Pascal Quignard’s A Terrace in Rome tells the tragic story of Geoffroy Meaume, a seventeenth-century engraver who, as a young man, is disfigured by acid in an act of violent passion, sealing his fate as a tortured artist consigned to the shadows of existence. In his world, love is both torment and muse, and creation becomes an anguished, almost desperate attempt to capture the irretrievable.
Meaume is a man forever caught between what is and what could have been. The acid that ravaged his face serves as a cruel metaphor for a life scorched by rejection and unfulfilled desire. His art becomes a refuge where he etches his longing into copper plates, transforming grief into stark, unyielding forms.
Quignard and his translators beautifully depict the psyche of a man whose life is forever defined by sudden violence. “Men without hope live hanging in space like figures painted in a mural,” Quignard writes. Meaume, too, hangs there, a figure eternally haunted by unrequited love and rejection.
Quignard roots the story in the raw physicality of Meaume’s existence: his hands working the copper plates, his face a mask of “boiled leather,” and his soul brimming with anger and melancholy. There is a fierce vitality in the darkness of A Terrace in Rome, a sense that in the stark interplay of black and white lies the whole of human experience: love, lust, sorrow, and the torment of memory.
“One ceases to see life as living,” Meaume reflects in old age. “One sees time in the act of devouring life raw.” This is a tale in which the ruins speak, and silence is as vivid as any image. Quignard’s exquisite novella is not just a portrait of an artist but a meditation on how we create meaning out of the void, carving beauty from absence, light from darkness.
4.5/5
Meaume is a man forever caught between what is and what could have been. The acid that ravaged his face serves as a cruel metaphor for a life scorched by rejection and unfulfilled desire. His art becomes a refuge where he etches his longing into copper plates, transforming grief into stark, unyielding forms.
Quignard and his translators beautifully depict the psyche of a man whose life is forever defined by sudden violence. “Men without hope live hanging in space like figures painted in a mural,” Quignard writes. Meaume, too, hangs there, a figure eternally haunted by unrequited love and rejection.
Quignard roots the story in the raw physicality of Meaume’s existence: his hands working the copper plates, his face a mask of “boiled leather,” and his soul brimming with anger and melancholy. There is a fierce vitality in the darkness of A Terrace in Rome, a sense that in the stark interplay of black and white lies the whole of human experience: love, lust, sorrow, and the torment of memory.
“One ceases to see life as living,” Meaume reflects in old age. “One sees time in the act of devouring life raw.” This is a tale in which the ruins speak, and silence is as vivid as any image. Quignard’s exquisite novella is not just a portrait of an artist but a meditation on how we create meaning out of the void, carving beauty from absence, light from darkness.
4.5/5
October 18, 2023
“…At times one must pull back the bedclothes to show the bodies making love. Sometimes, one must show the bridges and hamlets, the towers and the belvederes, the boats and carts, people in their dwellings with their domestic animals. Sometimes the mist is enough or the mountain. Sometimes a tree bending under gusts of wind is enough. Sometimes even the night is enough, rather than the dream which makes real for the soul that which it lacks or that which it has lost." [30]
Near the vaulted sacristy, the bell has fallen. The bell is also of another time. This is the fourth engraving. The great bronze bell has sunk partly into the pavement of red stone. Only a trail of dust remains from the rope at its side.
That is pure sorrow, that sound which was only dust on the crimson marble. A blast of wind that would have stripped the ground of this holy site could not have made the bronze bell ring; it would have dispersed and effaced all vestige of the rope. It would not have been able to testify to the abandonment it provoked then, nor to the bell's lost lament. [33]
Two last dreams of Meaume.
He was approaching the window. The windowpanes were separated by strips of lead covered with gray moss. In the distance, there was the bay. It was raining.
Only four boats were moored there, at the wooden pier on the edge of the estuary. One had a completely blue hull. A blue made intense by the somber water.
Such is the first dream. It is in color.
The last dream, black. The dreamer looked at the façade, deep in shadow, of the Palais du Louvre, the Tower of Nesles, the bridge, the black water. Everything sleeps.
He eats a waffle. [105]
March 29, 2024
Part narrative, part spontaneous mediation, part study of mezzotints and engravings.
Reading a Terrace in Rome is like being seized by nostalgia, every waking thought consumed by an assault of what ifs, with existence becoming dependent on the presence of potential.
I wonder how much of ourselves we let erode, gradually waste away, and settle in the pits of our stomachs. Not expressing ourselves the way we wish to, pursuing something that we don't actually want. I suppose I don't realize the urgency of today until I call my mother and hear the fatigue in her voice. Then, I remember how her head now comes to my chin, and my grandmother's to my chest. I wonder if I'll ever forget the sound of their smiles. I can be desperate to rush through a day, but desperation keeps them clinging to today.
Reading a Terrace in Rome is like being seized by nostalgia, every waking thought consumed by an assault of what ifs, with existence becoming dependent on the presence of potential.
I wonder how much of ourselves we let erode, gradually waste away, and settle in the pits of our stomachs. Not expressing ourselves the way we wish to, pursuing something that we don't actually want. I suppose I don't realize the urgency of today until I call my mother and hear the fatigue in her voice. Then, I remember how her head now comes to my chin, and my grandmother's to my chest. I wonder if I'll ever forget the sound of their smiles. I can be desperate to rush through a day, but desperation keeps them clinging to today.
June 27, 2022
très bien écrit je trouve que les phrases courtes et décousues sont intéressantes mais trop de s*xe c’est dommage
Read
July 2, 2024“L’amour consiste en des images qui obsèdent l’esprit. S’ajoute à ces visions irrésistibles une conversation inépuisable qui s’adresse à un seul être auquel tout ce qu’on vit est dédié”
December 18, 2023
Ništa vrijedno spomena... Baš dosadno za 90 stranica.
January 21, 2020
This is a strangely compelling little book. It's about disfigurement, love, lust, pornography and the finer points of mezzotint and etching. It's a slim collection of fragments describing a leathery life, which eventually chokes to death far from its origin.
There's also a lot of dicks described within.
Written by Prix Goncourt-winner Quignard, A Terrace in Rome is a biographical sketch. That the person it's covering – 17th century engraver Geoffroy Meaume – doesn't actually exist is of little concern. The figure is inserted into a breathing world that's at so full of concrete details (period-specific details of artistic technique, salons held by particular viola-de-gamba players, attempts to limit itinerant travellers by burning their transport) that his fictional status is neither here nor there.
As in most portraiture, the effect's the thing. What of the person is conveyed?
In the case of Meaume, we're presented with a picture of love. Love for the common, for that which polite company would not [publicly] look twice upon: shitting peasants, shafts of sunlight on the lower classes, and representations of unbridled fucking.
But love – well, lust? – isn't just Meaume's inspiration. It's the weight around his neck, as his leathery visage is the result of an acid attack from the jealous beau of a moneyed daughter. (Rightly jealous, as the artist's carnal ministrations are detailed quite precisely: if you've ever wondered how cracking a boner survives translation from French to English, this is the book for you.)
Ahem, where was I? Right, so the book presents fragments of reminiscence of love, past and current, as experienced by a man on the outside of society due to the interests of his work, the appearance of his face and his need to avoid death from angry spouses. Moving from place to place – including the beautiful terrace of the title – the itinerant life is described in the form of an endless, piecemeal quest. Work is sought, bonds are sought, but Meaume finds it almost impossible to hold on to anything except for his talent.
This is the first Quignard I've read, but it won't be the last. The author – also a translator – is something of a polymath, and there's a quiet assurance in his writing; the knowledge that he can convey the finer points of technique without boring the reader, and the knowledge that his eye for the sublime in landscape and the ridiculous in humanity is keen.
A Terrace in Rome was a strange, sexual delight, and a curious book I would recommend to anyone with an interest in slightly strange literature. You'll learn more about the printing process (and loss) in this slight tome than you'd imagine from its cover.
There's also a lot of dicks described within.
Written by Prix Goncourt-winner Quignard, A Terrace in Rome is a biographical sketch. That the person it's covering – 17th century engraver Geoffroy Meaume – doesn't actually exist is of little concern. The figure is inserted into a breathing world that's at so full of concrete details (period-specific details of artistic technique, salons held by particular viola-de-gamba players, attempts to limit itinerant travellers by burning their transport) that his fictional status is neither here nor there.
As in most portraiture, the effect's the thing. What of the person is conveyed?
In the case of Meaume, we're presented with a picture of love. Love for the common, for that which polite company would not [publicly] look twice upon: shitting peasants, shafts of sunlight on the lower classes, and representations of unbridled fucking.
But love – well, lust? – isn't just Meaume's inspiration. It's the weight around his neck, as his leathery visage is the result of an acid attack from the jealous beau of a moneyed daughter. (Rightly jealous, as the artist's carnal ministrations are detailed quite precisely: if you've ever wondered how cracking a boner survives translation from French to English, this is the book for you.)
Ahem, where was I? Right, so the book presents fragments of reminiscence of love, past and current, as experienced by a man on the outside of society due to the interests of his work, the appearance of his face and his need to avoid death from angry spouses. Moving from place to place – including the beautiful terrace of the title – the itinerant life is described in the form of an endless, piecemeal quest. Work is sought, bonds are sought, but Meaume finds it almost impossible to hold on to anything except for his talent.
This is the first Quignard I've read, but it won't be the last. The author – also a translator – is something of a polymath, and there's a quiet assurance in his writing; the knowledge that he can convey the finer points of technique without boring the reader, and the knowledge that his eye for the sublime in landscape and the ridiculous in humanity is keen.
A Terrace in Rome was a strange, sexual delight, and a curious book I would recommend to anyone with an interest in slightly strange literature. You'll learn more about the printing process (and loss) in this slight tome than you'd imagine from its cover.
April 11, 2017
To read any work by Pascal Quignard whether fiction or non-fiction, is to experience philosophical and literary reflections on sex, love, shadows, art and death. A Terrace in Rome, his novella which won the Grand Prix du Roman de l’Académie Française prize in 2000, explores all of his most favored themes and images via the fictional story of Geoffroy Meaume, a 17th century engraving artist whose illicit love for a woman causes him horrible disfiguration, pain and suffering. The year is 1639 when twenty-one-year-old Meaume, serving an apprenticeship as an engraver, first lays his eyes on Nanni, the eighteen year-old blond beauty who is betrothed by her father to another man. For a while Meaume is happily absorbed in this secret affair and playing in umbra voluptatis (in the shadow of desire.)
Meaume and Nanni’s love affair comes to an abrupt and tragic end, but through his art, his memories and his dreams he is always seeking that same feeling of desire he felt for her as a twenty-one-year-old apprentice. Meaume says in his own words: “I have never found joy again with any woman other than her. It is not joy I miss, it is her. And so have I, all my life, etched the same body moving in the intensity of passion of which I never stopped dreaming.” Each of the forty-seven chapters in the book are succinct– most are only a page or two—as Quignard is a master at composing a tightly woven narrative which lends the feeling that every word, every character, every image has been carefully placed on the page and is of the utmost importance. For those who are new to Quignard’s philosophical and roving style of writing, A Terrace in Rome is a perfect first, short piece to begin an exploration of his writings. For those of us who are familiar with his other books, especially his non-fiction—The Roving Shadows, The Abysses, The Sexual Night, Sex and Terror—we find some familiar themes personified in the character of Meaume and his life of shadows, desire, sex and art.
Read my full review of A Terrace in Rome in 3:AM Magazine.
Meaume and Nanni’s love affair comes to an abrupt and tragic end, but through his art, his memories and his dreams he is always seeking that same feeling of desire he felt for her as a twenty-one-year-old apprentice. Meaume says in his own words: “I have never found joy again with any woman other than her. It is not joy I miss, it is her. And so have I, all my life, etched the same body moving in the intensity of passion of which I never stopped dreaming.” Each of the forty-seven chapters in the book are succinct– most are only a page or two—as Quignard is a master at composing a tightly woven narrative which lends the feeling that every word, every character, every image has been carefully placed on the page and is of the utmost importance. For those who are new to Quignard’s philosophical and roving style of writing, A Terrace in Rome is a perfect first, short piece to begin an exploration of his writings. For those of us who are familiar with his other books, especially his non-fiction—The Roving Shadows, The Abysses, The Sexual Night, Sex and Terror—we find some familiar themes personified in the character of Meaume and his life of shadows, desire, sex and art.
Read my full review of A Terrace in Rome in 3:AM Magazine.
May 18, 2018
A poetically terse story of a 17th-century engraver whose face is badly disfigured when a jealous fiancé throws acid in his face. Now ugly and rejected by the woman his loved, the engraver, Geoffroy Meaume, travels Europe plying his trade, never able to settle in any one place for long (presumably because of his disfigurement, not for a lack a talent, with which he's richly endowed). The story is as simple and poignant as the engravings described to us.
June 10, 2016
Můj literární objev roku.
Krásný, úsporný text, zdánlivě černobílý jako rytina, ale s tolika odstíny.
Jemný milostný a erotický příběh, zachycení hlubokého lidského smutku a zoufalství.
Řím a sever Španělska.
Nádhera.
Krásný, úsporný text, zdánlivě černobílý jako rytina, ale s tolika odstíny.
Jemný milostný a erotický příběh, zachycení hlubokého lidského smutku a zoufalství.
Řím a sever Španělska.
Nádhera.
January 3, 2021
"Há uma idade em que já não se encontra a vida mas o tempo. Deixa-se de ver a vida a viver. Vê-se o tempo que devora a vida inteiramente crua. Então, o coração fica apertado." (p.106)
"Há uma noite irresistível no fundo do homem." (p.106)
"Há uma noite irresistível no fundo do homem." (p.106)
September 30, 2021
Balec, genre art contemporain bouffi de premier degré, mais en livre. Ah ça parle de cul aussi.
August 6, 2024
4.1/5*
"Les hommes désespérés vivent dans des angles. Tous les hommes amoureux vivent dans des angles. tous les lecteurs des livres vivent dans des angles. Les hommes désespérés vivent accrochés dans l'espace à la manière des figures qui sont peintes sur les murs, ne respirant pas, sans parler, n'écoutant personne."
Todos os homens vivem em ângulos, e Meaume le Graveur vive num ângulo recôndito, obscuro, críptico que só o canto enigmático que produz serve de paliativo ou de chave para compreender todo um universo de espectros, aparições, sonhos e sentimentos que o artista carrega. Homem engenhoso que pela vida foi deformado, literal e figurativamente, e pelo passado é continuamente assombrado até ao dia em que este retorna e o soçobra por fim, como um apressado e inesperado punhal que se enterra num pescoço.
" L’amour consiste en des images qui obsèdent l’esprit. S’ajoute à ces visions irrésistibles une conversation inépuisable qui s’adresse à un seul être auquel tout ce qu’on vit est dédié. Cet être peut être vivant ou mort. Son signalement est donné dans les rêves car dans les rêves ni la volonté ni l’intérêt ne règnent. Or, les rêves, se sont des images. Même, d’une façon plus précise, les rêves sont à la fois les pères et les maîtres des images. Je suis un homme que les images attaquent. Je fais des images qui sortent de la nuit. J’étais voué à un amour ancien dont la chair ne s’est pas évanouie dans la réalité mais dont la vision n’a plus été possible parce que l’usage en a été accordé à un plus bel échantillon. Il n’y a pas lieu d’épiloguer davantage. "
"Meaume dit : « Il y a une nuit irrésistible au fond de l’homme. Chaque soir les femmes et les hommes s’endorment. Ils sombrent en elle comme si les ténèbres étaient un souvenir. C’est un souvenir. Les hommes croient parfois qu’ils s’approchent des femmes ; ils regardent l’expression de leur visage ; ils tendent leurs bras vers leurs épaules ; ils retournent vers leur corps chaque soir et ils se couchent contre leurs flancs ; ils ne s’endorment pas davantage ; Ils ne sont que les jouets de la nuit, menés en laisse par le scène invisible qui les a engendrés et qui porte son ombre partout et sur tout."
Alojado num terraço em Roma, no monte Aventino, Meaume é um gravador, ou , cuja obra bizarra e singular representa a alma dolente de um homem que tenta encontrar a beleza nos interstícios, nos ângulos mais obscuros e depravados, do ser e da vida. O autor consegue retratar momentos e vivências de Meaume através de uma linguagem simples e rudimentar, criando capítulos breves descrevendo imagens escabrosas, embebidas de múltiplas significações.
"Il y a un âge où on ne rencontre plus la vie mais le temps. On cesse de voir la vie vivre. On voit le temps qui est en train de dévorer la vie toute crue. Alors le cœur serre. On se tient à des morceau de bois pour voir encore un peu le spectacle qui saigne d'un bout à l'autre du monde et pour ne pas y tomber."
De novo, e correndo o risco de soar fastidioso ao repetir-me, este é um dos livros que é necessário à vida. Pascal Quignard exibe em "Terrase à Rome" uma sageza e conhecimento infindáveis, sintetizando em meras palavras um sentimento, uma postura diante a vida, que muitos procuraram alcançar através de longas verborreias e variados esforços.
" En vieillissant, il devient de plus en plus difficile de s’arracher à la splendeur du paysage qu’on traverse. La peau usée par le vent et par l’age, distendue par la fatigue et les joies, les différents poils, larmes, gouttes, ongles et cheveux qui sont tombés par terre comme des feuilles ou des brindilles mortes, laissent passer l’âme qui s’égare de plus en plus souvent à l’extérieur du volume de la peau. Le dernier envol n’est à la vérité qu’un éparpillement. Plus je vieillis, plus je me sens bien partout. Je ne réside plus beaucoup dans mon corps. Je crains de mourir quelque jour. Je sens ma peau beaucoup trop fine et plus poreuse. Je me dis à moi-même : un jour le paysage me traversera."
"Les hommes désespérés vivent dans des angles. Tous les hommes amoureux vivent dans des angles. tous les lecteurs des livres vivent dans des angles. Les hommes désespérés vivent accrochés dans l'espace à la manière des figures qui sont peintes sur les murs, ne respirant pas, sans parler, n'écoutant personne."
Todos os homens vivem em ângulos, e Meaume le Graveur vive num ângulo recôndito, obscuro, críptico que só o canto enigmático que produz serve de paliativo ou de chave para compreender todo um universo de espectros, aparições, sonhos e sentimentos que o artista carrega. Homem engenhoso que pela vida foi deformado, literal e figurativamente, e pelo passado é continuamente assombrado até ao dia em que este retorna e o soçobra por fim, como um apressado e inesperado punhal que se enterra num pescoço.
" L’amour consiste en des images qui obsèdent l’esprit. S’ajoute à ces visions irrésistibles une conversation inépuisable qui s’adresse à un seul être auquel tout ce qu’on vit est dédié. Cet être peut être vivant ou mort. Son signalement est donné dans les rêves car dans les rêves ni la volonté ni l’intérêt ne règnent. Or, les rêves, se sont des images. Même, d’une façon plus précise, les rêves sont à la fois les pères et les maîtres des images. Je suis un homme que les images attaquent. Je fais des images qui sortent de la nuit. J’étais voué à un amour ancien dont la chair ne s’est pas évanouie dans la réalité mais dont la vision n’a plus été possible parce que l’usage en a été accordé à un plus bel échantillon. Il n’y a pas lieu d’épiloguer davantage. "
"Meaume dit : « Il y a une nuit irrésistible au fond de l’homme. Chaque soir les femmes et les hommes s’endorment. Ils sombrent en elle comme si les ténèbres étaient un souvenir. C’est un souvenir. Les hommes croient parfois qu’ils s’approchent des femmes ; ils regardent l’expression de leur visage ; ils tendent leurs bras vers leurs épaules ; ils retournent vers leur corps chaque soir et ils se couchent contre leurs flancs ; ils ne s’endorment pas davantage ; Ils ne sont que les jouets de la nuit, menés en laisse par le scène invisible qui les a engendrés et qui porte son ombre partout et sur tout."
Alojado num terraço em Roma, no monte Aventino, Meaume é um gravador, ou , cuja obra bizarra e singular representa a alma dolente de um homem que tenta encontrar a beleza nos interstícios, nos ângulos mais obscuros e depravados, do ser e da vida. O autor consegue retratar momentos e vivências de Meaume através de uma linguagem simples e rudimentar, criando capítulos breves descrevendo imagens escabrosas, embebidas de múltiplas significações.
"Il y a un âge où on ne rencontre plus la vie mais le temps. On cesse de voir la vie vivre. On voit le temps qui est en train de dévorer la vie toute crue. Alors le cœur serre. On se tient à des morceau de bois pour voir encore un peu le spectacle qui saigne d'un bout à l'autre du monde et pour ne pas y tomber."
De novo, e correndo o risco de soar fastidioso ao repetir-me, este é um dos livros que é necessário à vida. Pascal Quignard exibe em "Terrase à Rome" uma sageza e conhecimento infindáveis, sintetizando em meras palavras um sentimento, uma postura diante a vida, que muitos procuraram alcançar através de longas verborreias e variados esforços.
" En vieillissant, il devient de plus en plus difficile de s’arracher à la splendeur du paysage qu’on traverse. La peau usée par le vent et par l’age, distendue par la fatigue et les joies, les différents poils, larmes, gouttes, ongles et cheveux qui sont tombés par terre comme des feuilles ou des brindilles mortes, laissent passer l’âme qui s’égare de plus en plus souvent à l’extérieur du volume de la peau. Le dernier envol n’est à la vérité qu’un éparpillement. Plus je vieillis, plus je me sens bien partout. Je ne réside plus beaucoup dans mon corps. Je crains de mourir quelque jour. Je sens ma peau beaucoup trop fine et plus poreuse. Je me dis à moi-même : un jour le paysage me traversera."
December 14, 2021
Kratki roman o neobičnom životu grafičara Geoffroya Meaumea, rođenog 1617, u Parizu, umrlog 1667. u nizozemskom Utrechtu.
U dobi od 22 godine u Bruggeu susreće i zaljubljuje se u Nanni Veet Jakobsz kojoj je 18 i čija udaja je već, po ondašnjim običajima, ugovorena. Postaju ljubavnici i Meaume proživljava najsretnije dane svog života. S Nanni doživljava ljubav koja nikad u njemu neće umrijeti, ludu strast, seks, opčinjenost. I naravno, bivaju otkriveni. Tada ga njen zaručnik zalijeva dušičnom kiselinom po licu i zauvijek unakažava njegov fizički izgled. On se gadi Nanni koja se udaje za zaručnika, ali (!) trudna je s njim. Meamue razmišlja: Očajni ljudi žive u kutu. Svi zaljubljeni ljudi žive u kutu. Svi čitatelji knjiga žive u kutu, Očajnici žive uhvaćeni u prostoru kao likovi naslikani na zidovima. Ne dišu, ne govore, nikoga ne slušaju.
Meaumea kao ličnost savršeno opisuju riječi: Da je Meaume bio priroda, stvorio bi samo munje ili mjesec, ili zapjenjene valove olujnog oceana koji udaraju u crne obalne stijene, Ili golotu slučajno otkrivenu pod tkaninom. Životinjsku kost. Krhotinu kremena kakav se nađe u zemlji.
Jer, bio je osebujan, poseban karakter. Čovjek ispred svog vremena (zato je većina njegovih grafika uništena), sklon realnosti, a duše prepune lirskog: “Kolosej u podnožju Opija nije toliko lijep kako je lijepa oluja.” “Svatko prinosi svoju cjepanicu na lomaču koja obasjava svijet.”
Utiskivao je i slikao u bakru ono što u njegovo vrijeme drugi umjetnici nisu činili: prosjake, rakove, mlade žene dok se izuvaju, ostatke hrane, mačku koja liže svoju zdjelicu, ljude dok mokre, profile mrtvaca... i mogla bih nabrajati unedogled.
U selu Le Perreux susreće sljedeću ljubavnicu Marie Aidelle. Dugi niz godina je imao i prijatelja Abrahama. Jedan događaj:
Abraham još na pragu vrata koja gledaju na kameno stubište, reče: “Jednog dana više nisi htio živjeti. Ja sam te spasio.” Odmah sam mu odgovorio da me vrijeđa.
Navesti razlog znači opustošiti ljubav. Dati smisao onome što volimo znači lagati.
U nekom trenu, u okolici Rima, zamalo biva zaklan od strane sina, koji dođe u Rim u potrazi za vlastitim ocem, no Meaume, iako ga prepozna na prvu, ne odade tajnu. Reče mu da ne pozna nikakvog Meaumea. Skoro zaklan, ranjen u vrat, to ostavlja trajne posljedice na Meaumea, i kada je umro, umro je jer više nije mogao jesti, u kući umjetnika Van Honthorsta u Utrechtu. Catharina Van Honthorst dala je urezati latinskim slovima na nadgrobnu ploču: “Umro je zreo za nebo, ali ne za smrt. Njegovo će ime vječno živjeti. Stabit in aeternum nomen.”
Razmišljao je: Dođu godine u kojima ne nailazimo više na život nego na vrijeme. Ne vidimo više da život živi. Vidimo kako vrijeme proždire život. Srce nam se steže. Hvatamo se za trupce da bismo vidjeli još malo predstave koja krvari s kraja na kraj svijeta a da u nju ne upadnemo. Za života proputovao je Brugges, Antwerpen, Mainz, Pariz, London, Rim... noseći u sebi vječno sjećanje i žudnju za Nanni kojoj nikad nije oprostio izdaju.
Roman je nagrađen Velikom nagradom Francuske akademije.
Pascal Quignard (1948.) jedan je od najplodnijih francuskih suvremenih pisaca, dijametralnaa suprotnost M. Houellebecqu. 2002. osvojio je i najprestižniju Goncourtovu nagradu.
U dobi od 22 godine u Bruggeu susreće i zaljubljuje se u Nanni Veet Jakobsz kojoj je 18 i čija udaja je već, po ondašnjim običajima, ugovorena. Postaju ljubavnici i Meaume proživljava najsretnije dane svog života. S Nanni doživljava ljubav koja nikad u njemu neće umrijeti, ludu strast, seks, opčinjenost. I naravno, bivaju otkriveni. Tada ga njen zaručnik zalijeva dušičnom kiselinom po licu i zauvijek unakažava njegov fizički izgled. On se gadi Nanni koja se udaje za zaručnika, ali (!) trudna je s njim. Meamue razmišlja: Očajni ljudi žive u kutu. Svi zaljubljeni ljudi žive u kutu. Svi čitatelji knjiga žive u kutu, Očajnici žive uhvaćeni u prostoru kao likovi naslikani na zidovima. Ne dišu, ne govore, nikoga ne slušaju.
Meaumea kao ličnost savršeno opisuju riječi: Da je Meaume bio priroda, stvorio bi samo munje ili mjesec, ili zapjenjene valove olujnog oceana koji udaraju u crne obalne stijene, Ili golotu slučajno otkrivenu pod tkaninom. Životinjsku kost. Krhotinu kremena kakav se nađe u zemlji.
Jer, bio je osebujan, poseban karakter. Čovjek ispred svog vremena (zato je većina njegovih grafika uništena), sklon realnosti, a duše prepune lirskog: “Kolosej u podnožju Opija nije toliko lijep kako je lijepa oluja.” “Svatko prinosi svoju cjepanicu na lomaču koja obasjava svijet.”
Utiskivao je i slikao u bakru ono što u njegovo vrijeme drugi umjetnici nisu činili: prosjake, rakove, mlade žene dok se izuvaju, ostatke hrane, mačku koja liže svoju zdjelicu, ljude dok mokre, profile mrtvaca... i mogla bih nabrajati unedogled.
U selu Le Perreux susreće sljedeću ljubavnicu Marie Aidelle. Dugi niz godina je imao i prijatelja Abrahama. Jedan događaj:
Abraham još na pragu vrata koja gledaju na kameno stubište, reče: “Jednog dana više nisi htio živjeti. Ja sam te spasio.” Odmah sam mu odgovorio da me vrijeđa.
Navesti razlog znači opustošiti ljubav. Dati smisao onome što volimo znači lagati.
U nekom trenu, u okolici Rima, zamalo biva zaklan od strane sina, koji dođe u Rim u potrazi za vlastitim ocem, no Meaume, iako ga prepozna na prvu, ne odade tajnu. Reče mu da ne pozna nikakvog Meaumea. Skoro zaklan, ranjen u vrat, to ostavlja trajne posljedice na Meaumea, i kada je umro, umro je jer više nije mogao jesti, u kući umjetnika Van Honthorsta u Utrechtu. Catharina Van Honthorst dala je urezati latinskim slovima na nadgrobnu ploču: “Umro je zreo za nebo, ali ne za smrt. Njegovo će ime vječno živjeti. Stabit in aeternum nomen.”
Razmišljao je: Dođu godine u kojima ne nailazimo više na život nego na vrijeme. Ne vidimo više da život živi. Vidimo kako vrijeme proždire život. Srce nam se steže. Hvatamo se za trupce da bismo vidjeli još malo predstave koja krvari s kraja na kraj svijeta a da u nju ne upadnemo. Za života proputovao je Brugges, Antwerpen, Mainz, Pariz, London, Rim... noseći u sebi vječno sjećanje i žudnju za Nanni kojoj nikad nije oprostio izdaju.
Roman je nagrađen Velikom nagradom Francuske akademije.
Pascal Quignard (1948.) jedan je od najplodnijih francuskih suvremenih pisaca, dijametralnaa suprotnost M. Houellebecqu. 2002. osvojio je i najprestižniju Goncourtovu nagradu.
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