What do you think?
Rate this book
Blood from the Sky
Krev nebe je prvním románem o holokaustu vydaným ve francouzštině. Příběh, jejž vypravěč v poválečné pařížské kavárně extrahuje z nesourodých zápisků jistého Borise (jímž je autor sám), nás sevře mezi dva břehy – život a smrt, krásu rafinovaného literárního prožitku a hrůzu jen letmo popisované, avšak o to působivější skutečnosti. Borisova obřízka, Hospodinovo znamení života, se stává jeho zhoubou, a jako se mezi smrtí a životem neotevírá třetí prostor, je i tato kniha kondenzátem rozporu každé lidské bytosti a příběh by se mohl odehrát kdykoli, kdekoli a komukoli z nás. Jednotlivá slova by nemohla dostatečně vyjádřit žádnou z popisovaných zkušeností, ale mistrně namíchaná směs narativních úseků, básní a obrazotvorných pasáží umožňuje čtenáři, aby porozuměl tísni neoddělitelné od lidského údělu.
Paperback
First published October 6, 1961
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
May 1, 2011
A terrible, extraordinary, baffling and fantastic journey across Holocaust Country, comparable to nothing I have ever read. Indescribable horrors mingling with surrealistic poetry, a gripping imagery and a (literally ) murderous black humour. It may be viewed as the most bizarre and horrible picaresque novel one has ever read, but also as a profoundly bitter ontology: not a chronicle> of the Holocaust but its poetic treartment as a manifestation of the "condition humaine". The first 25-30 pages were totally disorienting, but afterwards I found it impossible to put down, no matter how much horror it described. Many of my friends who read it had a similar exprience.
May 27, 2018
"La sola vera frattura, la sola vera guerra tra due esseri non è quella che si fanno i loro interessi e nemmeno le loro pelli, ma piuttosto i loro sogni. Il sangue dei sogni, il loro pus sono un veleno malefico." (p. 177)
"Tra la paura della morte e il disgusto della vita, non si sarebbe mai aperto un «Terzo Spazio»?" (p. 242)
"Tra la paura della morte e il disgusto della vita, non si sarebbe mai aperto un «Terzo Spazio»?" (p. 242)
May 19, 2022
nightmarish and surrealistic holocaust novel that mostly avoids direct mentions of the machinery of extermination instead favouring the eerie atmosphere of the marginal areas adjacent to it, like prisons, hospitals running low of supplies and time, ghettoes soon to be cleared, etc. i did think the slightly more grounded third section in the prison was a bit weaker than the earlier parts but the writing is very strong throughout.
"Literature: anti-dignity exalted to a system, to a single code of behavior. The art, occasionally remunerative, of rummaging in vomit. And yet, it would appear, navigare necesse est: One HAS to write. So as to trick loneliness, so as to trick other people. But above all: loyal to my destiny, however disloyal my destiny may be to me, I feel bound to emphasize my similarity to an insect; now, haven’t you noticed that man never so much resembles an insect as when he engages in the activity of writing . . . ? Dissecting the world into tiny bits, covering paper with tiny scribbles that aspire to be unique: that is the posture in which the brotherhood of man and insect—hideous, if the truth be told—manifests itself in the purest form, with the utmost obscenity. And man’s posture, and the movements of his brain at the time of writing— are they not those of an insect to end all insects, fleshy and podgy, soft and space-planning, rationalistic and swayed by the ideals which emerge from that great foundry: PHYSIOLOGY?"
"An average-sized town in the Ukraine.
July 12, 194-.
A boat. A floating island made of crystal. Such, then, is this past solidified for all time, like men turned to stone at the sight of the Gorgons. We shall die, and so, with the blood from our brains, will our memories; they will be soaked up by the sand that the high seas lap against. But the boat, full of frightened faces, of faces lit up by hope, of dead faces, and also of bodies of every age and every degree of beauty, the boat will go silently on and cleave breathless eternity, rusty eternity.
And never again will the island, with its lights, descend to these depths which go by the name of Earth."
"May it not be that the Universe itself (along with that bitch, Eternity) is the refuse from something which manifestly doesn’t exist? And God perches on it like a giant cockroach lulled to sleep by the sun. What can God’s dreams be like?"
"Literature: anti-dignity exalted to a system, to a single code of behavior. The art, occasionally remunerative, of rummaging in vomit. And yet, it would appear, navigare necesse est: One HAS to write. So as to trick loneliness, so as to trick other people. But above all: loyal to my destiny, however disloyal my destiny may be to me, I feel bound to emphasize my similarity to an insect; now, haven’t you noticed that man never so much resembles an insect as when he engages in the activity of writing . . . ? Dissecting the world into tiny bits, covering paper with tiny scribbles that aspire to be unique: that is the posture in which the brotherhood of man and insect—hideous, if the truth be told—manifests itself in the purest form, with the utmost obscenity. And man’s posture, and the movements of his brain at the time of writing— are they not those of an insect to end all insects, fleshy and podgy, soft and space-planning, rationalistic and swayed by the ideals which emerge from that great foundry: PHYSIOLOGY?"
"An average-sized town in the Ukraine.
July 12, 194-.
A boat. A floating island made of crystal. Such, then, is this past solidified for all time, like men turned to stone at the sight of the Gorgons. We shall die, and so, with the blood from our brains, will our memories; they will be soaked up by the sand that the high seas lap against. But the boat, full of frightened faces, of faces lit up by hope, of dead faces, and also of bodies of every age and every degree of beauty, the boat will go silently on and cleave breathless eternity, rusty eternity.
And never again will the island, with its lights, descend to these depths which go by the name of Earth."
"May it not be that the Universe itself (along with that bitch, Eternity) is the refuse from something which manifestly doesn’t exist? And God perches on it like a giant cockroach lulled to sleep by the sun. What can God’s dreams be like?"
November 21, 2022
Immense roman. Jamais rien lu de tel, et je dois être passée à côté de tant d'aspects du récit, tant c'est riche et dense.
January 26, 2025
Llegiu aquest llibre, és molt especial i diria que encara molt desconegut aquí.
November 13, 2025
Total masterpiece.
June 10, 2021
♣️2 de tréboles ♣️
Nota: esta reseña se hizo sobre la versión de "La sangre del cielo" de Adriana Romero-Nieto, editada por Vainilla Planifonia, UNAM, México.
Europa. Ocupada por " los no circuncidados" es el telón de fondo para la comedia que nos trae el señor Rawicz.
La narración nos lleva de la mano de "Boris" o "Yuri", un judío perseguido a través de la Europa ocupada, quien a toda costa debe mantener un perfil.bajo y asistir mudo a las cosas más terribles que se hicieron con el pretexto de limpiar al continente de la "peste" .
Con grandes dosis de humor negro, el autor aborda temas como la religión, la filosofía, la etnia, las costumbres, el lenguaje...en una palabra la realidad misma: la pone de cabeza, la destripa, la voltea....esto logra develar -de una manera muy sutil- el absurdo intrínseco que conlleva, y lo simple que es vivir (o morir) de acuerdo a concepciones netamente humans, que no pertenecen sino a nuestro minúsculo campo de entendimiento universal.
Es un libro muy interesante, complicado y a veces un tanto escabroso. Sumándole una traducción con algunos agujeros, tenemos un platillo para paladares entrenados que podrán saborear la dulzura en terriblemente amargo.
Y ya está.
Nota: esta reseña se hizo sobre la versión de "La sangre del cielo" de Adriana Romero-Nieto, editada por Vainilla Planifonia, UNAM, México.
Europa. Ocupada por " los no circuncidados" es el telón de fondo para la comedia que nos trae el señor Rawicz.
La narración nos lleva de la mano de "Boris" o "Yuri", un judío perseguido a través de la Europa ocupada, quien a toda costa debe mantener un perfil.bajo y asistir mudo a las cosas más terribles que se hicieron con el pretexto de limpiar al continente de la "peste" .
Con grandes dosis de humor negro, el autor aborda temas como la religión, la filosofía, la etnia, las costumbres, el lenguaje...en una palabra la realidad misma: la pone de cabeza, la destripa, la voltea....esto logra develar -de una manera muy sutil- el absurdo intrínseco que conlleva, y lo simple que es vivir (o morir) de acuerdo a concepciones netamente humans, que no pertenecen sino a nuestro minúsculo campo de entendimiento universal.
Es un libro muy interesante, complicado y a veces un tanto escabroso. Sumándole una traducción con algunos agujeros, tenemos un platillo para paladares entrenados que podrán saborear la dulzura en terriblemente amargo.
Y ya está.
Read
July 30, 2022Chilling and unforgettable fictionalized account of the author's surreal survival as a Polish Jew during the 1940s. The backstory: the author was himself fictionalized in a Danilo Kis story, which I read without knowing that the character was Rawicz. Goes on the shelf along with Primo Levi, Segher's The Seventh Cross, and Svetlana Alexeivich.
Want to Read
August 15, 2025A surreal, black-comic Holocaust novel by a survivor who writes like Schulz filtered through Céline. Language is baroque and fragmented, sexuality is transgressive, and trauma is refracted through grotesque fantasy. This is the Jewish literary equivalent of Bataille’s extremity, but historically anchored.
October 25, 2018
Skvělá freska, která nemá být s čím srovnána. Stojí sama za sebe. Myslím, že si v ní budu ještě ráda znovu listovat.
December 8, 2015
Interesante. Un poco denso, y a momentos es difícil seguir la historia de manera fluida. El tema, como toda historia de judíos en la guerra es pesado. Tiene sus momentos buenos, pero en general no me encantó.
June 5, 2017
Můj mozek se uvařil v nejlyričtější, nejpodivnější, nejsyrovější a nejomamnější holokaustovský odysee všech dob. Víc raději psát nebudu, protože každá recenze této knihy musí být, zákonitě k tomu co Rawicz vytvořil, tupá.
Want to Read
May 5, 2013Mais, je ne trouve pas une copie en français ou meme en anglais.
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews