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Island of the Doomed
In the summer of 1946, while secluded in August Strindberg’s small cabin in the Stockholm archipelago, Stig Dagerman wrote Island of the Doomed . This novel was unlike any other yet seen in Sweden and would establish him as the country’s brightest literary star. To this day it is a singular work of fiction—a haunting tale that oscillates around seven castaways as they await their inevitable death on a desert island populated by blind gulls and hordes of iguanas. At the center of the island is a poisonous lagoon, where a strange fish swims in circles and devours anything in its path. As we are taken into the lives of each castaway, it becomes clear that Dagerman’s true subject is the nature of horror itself. Island of the Doomed is a chilling profile of terror and guilt and a stunning exploration—written under the shadow of the Nuremberg Trials—of the anxieties of a generation in the postwar nuclear age.
352 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1946
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About the author
Stig Dagerman
82 books239 followersStig Dagerman was one of the most prominent Swedish authors during the 1940s. In the course of five years, 1945-49, he enjoyed phenomenal success with four novels, a collection of short stories, a book about postwar Germany, five plays, hundreds of poems and satirical verses, several essays of note and a large amount of journalism. Then, with apparent suddenness, he fell silent. In the fall of 1954, Sweden was stunned to learn that Stig Dagerman, the epitome of his generation of writers, had been found dead in his car: he had closed the doors of the garage and run the engine.
Dagerman's works deal with universal problems of morality and conscience, of sexuality and social philosophy, of love, compassion and justice. He plunges into the painful realities of human existence, dissecting feelings of fear, guilt and loneliness. Despite the somber content, he also displays a wry sense of humor that occasionally turns his writing into burlesque or satire.
Dagerman's works deal with universal problems of morality and conscience, of sexuality and social philosophy, of love, compassion and justice. He plunges into the painful realities of human existence, dissecting feelings of fear, guilt and loneliness. Despite the somber content, he also displays a wry sense of humor that occasionally turns his writing into burlesque or satire.
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November 8, 2023
Island of the Doomed is like “The Scream” painted by Edvard Munch.
Chaos without and chaos within… Terror inside and terror outside…
There are seven persons on the desert island dying of starvation and thirst after the shipwreck…
Or is it a single person locked in a ward of the lunatic asylum whose sick consciousness is split into seven fragments?
The void inside and the void outside…
Nightmare without and nightmare within and there’s nowhere to hide except in madness.
Chaos without and chaos within… Terror inside and terror outside…
Was he alone in noticing that the nights no longer wafted down from some roof up above, or that daylight no longer surged in like white gas filling the black balloon? No, the shifts were violent and unexpected: candles lit to produce an apparently reliable flame, and then suddenly snuffed out – but the hand doing the snuffing was never glimpsed. Was he alone on this hurtling planet, this sand-strewn marble plunging down into the cosmic well? Transparent strata of air green at the edges, mauve streaks, deep-red flames flashing past and driving wedges like elephant tusks into one’s own trembling being, which itself was constantly changing colour, chameleon-like, in the constant flux. Blue bands broken brutally asunder by exploding formations of violently yellow swallows’ wings. Fathomless darkness, the same air, but the colour itself must have a consistency enabling it to check the speed of descent. The fall through the night was no less terrifying, but now the pace was slower. Swarms of sparks rose slowly in the form of stars encircling the island and were visible far below in a grey, milky layer where white rivulets trickled in as if from some hidden giant udder.
There are seven persons on the desert island dying of starvation and thirst after the shipwreck…
Or is it a single person locked in a ward of the lunatic asylum whose sick consciousness is split into seven fragments?
The void inside and the void outside…
…it’s like a bottomless well, and you lean further and further out in the hope of seeing water, of seeing something tangible instead of just this terrifying emptiness, and in the end you lean so far out, you fall, and then you fall and fall and fall for the whole of your life without experiencing anything but this endless falling and you die while you’re still falling and although you haven’t come to any sign of a bottom you’re annihilated while you’re still falling and gobbled up by the darkness after your pitiful failed effort at filling it with meaning, the meaning that comes from looking for a bottom.
Nightmare without and nightmare within and there’s nowhere to hide except in madness.
September 3, 2022
This may be the most relentlessly depressing novel I've ever experienced. I'll go ahead and throw in all forms of art, as I can't think of another movie, TV series, painting, piece of music, play, etc. where I actually felt: "this could be bad for my mental health." There's nothing about the story I would call entertaining or enjoyable, and yet it would be unfair to penalize its rating because of what it isn't. My happiness-level stayed at 1 out of 5, but Island of the Doomed is about suffering -- physical and emotional, even spiritual. Complete and total despair, in the existential sense where your life and life in general is utterly without meaning or hope, is how I would describe the overall tone. It's not just about these things--it IS these things, and it will infect the reader. I was tempted to shelve it under horror, as it absolutely is horrific, but that might mislead others into thinking it might make for a good wintertime fright with their cocoa. Just a harmless diversion about seven castaways on a spooky deserted island, getting taken out one by one by something hopefully very nasty. That's what horror fiction is, an escape from the real horrors of the world, a comfort even, providing some thrills that are fun because the reader knows they're safe.
Swedish fiction-writer, poet, and essayist Stig Dagerman had no interest in making sure the reader found the slightest glimmer of fun or comfort here, and after finishing this I'm not sure he ever got to experience those feelings very much at all, sadly. That may seem like quite a reach on my part considering it's only a work of fiction I'm reading into. "A joyless book does not mean a joyless author," some might say. I agree, but I don't think it would be possible to create and live with something so full of grief and torment unless those feelings were coming from a place that he knew quite intimately. Dagerman's eventual suicide at the age of 31 seems to support this, unfortunately.
The fact that he was around 22 or 23 while writing this is mind-boggling. It's hard for me to imagine someone just remaining alive and relatively sane while forced to bear such intense feelings of hopelessness and despair, but he's able to not only translate it onto the page, but do so using imagery and metaphors of an experienced poet. That melding of beauty and surreal nightmare is fascinating, yet this remains quite the trying read, at times even brutal, so it should be absorbed in small doses. Unless of course you don't mind feeling entirely helpless and alone in a cold, uncaring universe with five men and two women for company on an island that wants you dead. All you can hope for is just one real human connection before the end.
TLDR: Heartwarming.
Swedish fiction-writer, poet, and essayist Stig Dagerman had no interest in making sure the reader found the slightest glimmer of fun or comfort here, and after finishing this I'm not sure he ever got to experience those feelings very much at all, sadly. That may seem like quite a reach on my part considering it's only a work of fiction I'm reading into. "A joyless book does not mean a joyless author," some might say. I agree, but I don't think it would be possible to create and live with something so full of grief and torment unless those feelings were coming from a place that he knew quite intimately. Dagerman's eventual suicide at the age of 31 seems to support this, unfortunately.
The fact that he was around 22 or 23 while writing this is mind-boggling. It's hard for me to imagine someone just remaining alive and relatively sane while forced to bear such intense feelings of hopelessness and despair, but he's able to not only translate it onto the page, but do so using imagery and metaphors of an experienced poet. That melding of beauty and surreal nightmare is fascinating, yet this remains quite the trying read, at times even brutal, so it should be absorbed in small doses. Unless of course you don't mind feeling entirely helpless and alone in a cold, uncaring universe with five men and two women for company on an island that wants you dead. All you can hope for is just one real human connection before the end.
TLDR: Heartwarming.
March 8, 2021
What do you know about the boundless solitude of the world, it’s greater than anyone dares to imagine, apart from a few ecstatic moments when there’s nothing you can do about them, but even so, you can feel it in every nerve-end.
*
Was he alone on this hurtling planet, this sand-strewn marble plunging down into the cosmic well?
*
People don’t expect you to do anything in this big farce of a life, and if they do, then disappoint them.
*
The green silk of dawn was now snipped away at the edges by the scissors of new light, slits appeared, and pieces of grey mist were set ablaze as light came plunging down; a bloodshot gigantic eye blinked momentarily, then the whole sea burst into flames and bobbed against the eastern horizon like a fisherman’s float in the early morning.
*
The sun was like a newly painted red croquet ball, resting for a moment almost motionless on the black line, and the silent clouds of birds, splashed from below by the red glitter of morning on the sea, hovered over the world like white palm leaves.
*
Her gaze sank down, and he could see how the ice in her eyes slowly engulfed the island that was her pupil, an icy wind seemed to blow over her features which suddenly stiffened like rifts in a tundra. Then she slowly rose up from the sand, wrapped up like a mummy in the thick cotton, and just then a shriek rang out from the interior of the island, quite loud and shrill, but extremely short – was it from some lonely human, or some animal?
*
the experience of boundless beauty, the sea a well of light and blueness, the horizon a hair-fine thread stretched like elastic by the billowing waves, the yellow, pearl-like balloon of the sky, everything combined to make each individual a solitary and removed for the moment any desire to find out more about them. He lay on the after deck in the shadow of a lifeboat, listening to people talking, an infectious laugh, or the cook prattling with his parrot: but none of this affected him, he was possessed once more by blissful tranquillity.
*
Now the sun was sinking so very, painfully slowly, as if for the last time; a red spring seemed to gush forth from under the sea, and the gigantic grey clouds, spurting upwards as if from a kettle behind a spiky headland crowned by gigantic fingers, climbed vertically upwards like factory chimneys, gradually turning brick-red, into a sky where pink shadows were still darting around, uncertain of what to do next.
*
we’ve all learnt to conceal our wounds, from ourselves and from everybody else, to show nothing of our pain, to keep ourselves under control until something gives way and we’re bowled over with devilish speed.
*
[...] stars seemed to be hanging from the swaying panicles and smoke was blowing in regular puffs over the grass and the rocks, but the faint splashing of someone wading along the beach perforated the silence. Everything was so late, and so excessively late, the thought that it hadn’t always been like this rose like the red star above his head, just as high and remote, and then this wound spreading over his body like a carpet, covering everything, extending into him, covering everything, and if wounds could talk this one would have screamed out in despair:
*
and I was staring up at the stars, I was pretending the bottom of the bed was the sky you see, and nothing hurt any more, and nothing felt nice either, but down inside me was a scream that was still hidden like an unknown fish under the mud at the bottom of a little lake, but then: look how it’s working away, digging with its nose, slowly forcing its way up through the green light at the bottom, then it swishes its tail and shoots up to the surface, and eeeeh . . .
*
You’re alone now as well, but in a worse way than you were before; space isn’t singing out of solitude, space isn’t singing at all: it’s raining or snowing or it’s windy - but so what? You’re alone in a dirty way, in a miserly way, an unaesthetic way - and when there isn’t any way out in any case (if ceasing to feel alone is in fact a way out), don’t be surprised that you long to be back in that huge space with its devilish but sublime music, its heartless but hygienic solitude, its absolute freedom from any kind of life, that’s true, but at the same time an absolute freedom from any necessity to seek company, to open doors where no doors exist, to smile when you feel like crying, to caress when you feel like scratching, to look for friends when you have learnt that the world is full of enemies.
*
Of course, no doubt there’s nothing here which is meaningful in itself, or we’d never be able to forgive life; but everything we do and everything we have done is surely meaningful for ourselves, for our own feelings of fear, for our own feelings of guilt. Hence action, ridiculous, meaningless, paradoxical action, is so full of meaning, so weighed down with responsibility even for the many of us who are longing for fellowship but wandering around as isolated as heavenly bodies in space which is growing more barren for every pulse-beat that passes.
*
So everything important and shocking in one’s life is just a re-run of one’s nightmares, everything that happens has happened so many times before; how often has one been forced to suffer the same, familiar pain?
*
But everything has to happen, there are courses of events one just can’t interfere with because they’re so devilishly logical, so inaccessible to one’s efforts, that it suddenly seems meaningless for anybody to exist at all with free will, human reason and all the attributes people go on about so much.
*
He thinks he’s accepted everything, but in fact he’s accepted nothing at all, all he’s done is find some new prop in some new experience, it’s like a mountain spring and he plunges the straw of his fear into it and sucks and sucks till he chokes and bursts internally - and everything is as pointless as it was always destined to be.
*
In a flash, his world had collapsed round about him, he lay there buried beneath a house of cards, a heap of illusions, and didn’t dare to move in case the whole world came tumbling down.
*
Was he alone on this hurtling planet, this sand-strewn marble plunging down into the cosmic well?
*
People don’t expect you to do anything in this big farce of a life, and if they do, then disappoint them.
*
The green silk of dawn was now snipped away at the edges by the scissors of new light, slits appeared, and pieces of grey mist were set ablaze as light came plunging down; a bloodshot gigantic eye blinked momentarily, then the whole sea burst into flames and bobbed against the eastern horizon like a fisherman’s float in the early morning.
*
The sun was like a newly painted red croquet ball, resting for a moment almost motionless on the black line, and the silent clouds of birds, splashed from below by the red glitter of morning on the sea, hovered over the world like white palm leaves.
*
Her gaze sank down, and he could see how the ice in her eyes slowly engulfed the island that was her pupil, an icy wind seemed to blow over her features which suddenly stiffened like rifts in a tundra. Then she slowly rose up from the sand, wrapped up like a mummy in the thick cotton, and just then a shriek rang out from the interior of the island, quite loud and shrill, but extremely short – was it from some lonely human, or some animal?
*
the experience of boundless beauty, the sea a well of light and blueness, the horizon a hair-fine thread stretched like elastic by the billowing waves, the yellow, pearl-like balloon of the sky, everything combined to make each individual a solitary and removed for the moment any desire to find out more about them. He lay on the after deck in the shadow of a lifeboat, listening to people talking, an infectious laugh, or the cook prattling with his parrot: but none of this affected him, he was possessed once more by blissful tranquillity.
*
Now the sun was sinking so very, painfully slowly, as if for the last time; a red spring seemed to gush forth from under the sea, and the gigantic grey clouds, spurting upwards as if from a kettle behind a spiky headland crowned by gigantic fingers, climbed vertically upwards like factory chimneys, gradually turning brick-red, into a sky where pink shadows were still darting around, uncertain of what to do next.
*
we’ve all learnt to conceal our wounds, from ourselves and from everybody else, to show nothing of our pain, to keep ourselves under control until something gives way and we’re bowled over with devilish speed.
*
[...] stars seemed to be hanging from the swaying panicles and smoke was blowing in regular puffs over the grass and the rocks, but the faint splashing of someone wading along the beach perforated the silence. Everything was so late, and so excessively late, the thought that it hadn’t always been like this rose like the red star above his head, just as high and remote, and then this wound spreading over his body like a carpet, covering everything, extending into him, covering everything, and if wounds could talk this one would have screamed out in despair:
*
and I was staring up at the stars, I was pretending the bottom of the bed was the sky you see, and nothing hurt any more, and nothing felt nice either, but down inside me was a scream that was still hidden like an unknown fish under the mud at the bottom of a little lake, but then: look how it’s working away, digging with its nose, slowly forcing its way up through the green light at the bottom, then it swishes its tail and shoots up to the surface, and eeeeh . . .
*
You’re alone now as well, but in a worse way than you were before; space isn’t singing out of solitude, space isn’t singing at all: it’s raining or snowing or it’s windy - but so what? You’re alone in a dirty way, in a miserly way, an unaesthetic way - and when there isn’t any way out in any case (if ceasing to feel alone is in fact a way out), don’t be surprised that you long to be back in that huge space with its devilish but sublime music, its heartless but hygienic solitude, its absolute freedom from any kind of life, that’s true, but at the same time an absolute freedom from any necessity to seek company, to open doors where no doors exist, to smile when you feel like crying, to caress when you feel like scratching, to look for friends when you have learnt that the world is full of enemies.
*
Of course, no doubt there’s nothing here which is meaningful in itself, or we’d never be able to forgive life; but everything we do and everything we have done is surely meaningful for ourselves, for our own feelings of fear, for our own feelings of guilt. Hence action, ridiculous, meaningless, paradoxical action, is so full of meaning, so weighed down with responsibility even for the many of us who are longing for fellowship but wandering around as isolated as heavenly bodies in space which is growing more barren for every pulse-beat that passes.
*
So everything important and shocking in one’s life is just a re-run of one’s nightmares, everything that happens has happened so many times before; how often has one been forced to suffer the same, familiar pain?
*
But everything has to happen, there are courses of events one just can’t interfere with because they’re so devilishly logical, so inaccessible to one’s efforts, that it suddenly seems meaningless for anybody to exist at all with free will, human reason and all the attributes people go on about so much.
*
He thinks he’s accepted everything, but in fact he’s accepted nothing at all, all he’s done is find some new prop in some new experience, it’s like a mountain spring and he plunges the straw of his fear into it and sucks and sucks till he chokes and bursts internally - and everything is as pointless as it was always destined to be.
*
In a flash, his world had collapsed round about him, he lay there buried beneath a house of cards, a heap of illusions, and didn’t dare to move in case the whole world came tumbling down.
January 15, 2024
Pues supongo que esta es la última parada de mi recorrido literario de 2023. Se trata de una novela de esas densas y crípticas, buscadamente densas y crípticas, escritas con unas frases que parecen tres veces más largas de lo necesario quién sabe por qué capricho de su autor y en la que reconozco que sólo parcialmente creo haber captado de qué trata el libro.
Es una novela dónde una serie de personajes han naufragado en una isla desierta indefinida. Está el capitán, un antiguo boxeador, un desertor, una dama inglesa y otros tantos. En la primera parte del libro se cuenta en flashbacks las historias de estos personajes, aunque no lo aborda de una forma directa y más o menos naturalista, entiendo que el autor pretende hacerlo desde una óptica interior, con una prosa poética que busca adentrarse en capas de negrura del interior de cada personaje y esbozar esa colección de creaciones como mentes torturadas. No se nos presenta a buenas personas, eso está claro, porque se dibuja un mundo pesimista, lleno de desesperanza y dónde su estática narración, sumamente morosa, no da lugar a páginas dignas de ser leídas y mucho menos recordadas.
En la segunda parte, tras las presentaciones, en la que vienen a cruzar los destinos de estos personajes, pero como todo está explicado sin referencias exteriores o percepción del espacio, pues muchas veces resulta un simple revoltijo de todavía más prosa redicha. Si en la mayor parte de la lectura tienes la sensación que se trata de una novela de Jack London pero escrita con prosa al estilo Faulkner, cuando ya hacia el final comienza a convocar a animales para surtir esa parte de elementos simbólicos (el león como símbolo de la fortaleza y el lagarto como símbolo de la maldad), entonces eso ya convierte en 'El libro de la selva' escrito bajo los efectos de la ketamina. Una maraña bien caótica.
En otros tiempos más locos habría soltado alguna broma cínica y de mal gusto relacionando lo empachoso que me resultó el libro y el posterior suicidio de su autor, años después de su publicación, pero en verdad quiero ser comprensivo y compasivo, me limitaré a decir que Stig Dagerman, que escribió el libro cuando tenía 23 años, quizás quedó demasiado embebido por literaturas muy sesudas como el existencialismo, quien sabe si alguna pieza de los surrealistas o sus predecesores como Lautremont, en todo caso, si bien tenía muy clara qué idea de literatura perseguía, no tenía igual de claro como definir sus ambiciones en forma de libro.
2023 también será por lo tanto el año en el que rematé mis lecturas con una novela muy empachosa escrita por un joven sueco muy pretencioso. Eso sí, al que se le ocurrió la genial idea de vender a Stig Dagerman como el Rimbaud del norte no estaría mal pincharle las ruedas del coche o vaciar la vejiga frente a la puerta de su casa.
Es una novela dónde una serie de personajes han naufragado en una isla desierta indefinida. Está el capitán, un antiguo boxeador, un desertor, una dama inglesa y otros tantos. En la primera parte del libro se cuenta en flashbacks las historias de estos personajes, aunque no lo aborda de una forma directa y más o menos naturalista, entiendo que el autor pretende hacerlo desde una óptica interior, con una prosa poética que busca adentrarse en capas de negrura del interior de cada personaje y esbozar esa colección de creaciones como mentes torturadas. No se nos presenta a buenas personas, eso está claro, porque se dibuja un mundo pesimista, lleno de desesperanza y dónde su estática narración, sumamente morosa, no da lugar a páginas dignas de ser leídas y mucho menos recordadas.
En la segunda parte, tras las presentaciones, en la que vienen a cruzar los destinos de estos personajes, pero como todo está explicado sin referencias exteriores o percepción del espacio, pues muchas veces resulta un simple revoltijo de todavía más prosa redicha. Si en la mayor parte de la lectura tienes la sensación que se trata de una novela de Jack London pero escrita con prosa al estilo Faulkner, cuando ya hacia el final comienza a convocar a animales para surtir esa parte de elementos simbólicos (el león como símbolo de la fortaleza y el lagarto como símbolo de la maldad), entonces eso ya convierte en 'El libro de la selva' escrito bajo los efectos de la ketamina. Una maraña bien caótica.
En otros tiempos más locos habría soltado alguna broma cínica y de mal gusto relacionando lo empachoso que me resultó el libro y el posterior suicidio de su autor, años después de su publicación, pero en verdad quiero ser comprensivo y compasivo, me limitaré a decir que Stig Dagerman, que escribió el libro cuando tenía 23 años, quizás quedó demasiado embebido por literaturas muy sesudas como el existencialismo, quien sabe si alguna pieza de los surrealistas o sus predecesores como Lautremont, en todo caso, si bien tenía muy clara qué idea de literatura perseguía, no tenía igual de claro como definir sus ambiciones en forma de libro.
2023 también será por lo tanto el año en el que rematé mis lecturas con una novela muy empachosa escrita por un joven sueco muy pretencioso. Eso sí, al que se le ocurrió la genial idea de vender a Stig Dagerman como el Rimbaud del norte no estaría mal pincharle las ruedas del coche o vaciar la vejiga frente a la puerta de su casa.
March 29, 2023
“The great flash of twilight that was hurled through the world singed away the little island where six human beings were being tortured together, by their hunger, their thirst, their sorrow, their paralysis. Nights came and went, days came and went, but hunger, thirst, sorrow and paralysis came back refreshed every morning.”
Seven people wash up onto the shore of a deserted jungle island. There’s no chance of rescue. There’s barely any potable water left. And there are flesh-eating iguanas that crawl out of the interior jungle at night and nibble on the castaways as they sleep. The only certainty standing between them and their inevitable annihilation is a severe bout of madness.
Dagerman’s Island of the Doomed is absolutely hypnotic in its prose. It’s feverish, maddening, terrifying, and horrific. Reading Island of the Doomed is like experiencing a 338-page panic attack. Nightmares seep into reality as our characters are increasingly plagued by agoraphobia, anguish, anxiety, and mania. They want to cry out, to scream, but they’re drowning and can’t even catch their breath long enough to muster a scream. Besides, even if they did manage to scream, who would hear them? Max Klinger’s “Going Under” (pic 3), which adorns the UK edition, really illustrates this theme.
This is an existential novel par excellence. I highly recommend putting aside your Camus and your Satre, and picking up Dagerman. Stig Dagerman has gone from an author I’ve never heard of to one of my favorites after just a handful of books. And I can’t wait to read more by him soon.
“The world’s clock has stopped and God is busy with a lit de parade on some other planet far, far away.”
Check out my full video review for more: https://youtu.be/TmD1Yi9sF6c
Seven people wash up onto the shore of a deserted jungle island. There’s no chance of rescue. There’s barely any potable water left. And there are flesh-eating iguanas that crawl out of the interior jungle at night and nibble on the castaways as they sleep. The only certainty standing between them and their inevitable annihilation is a severe bout of madness.
Dagerman’s Island of the Doomed is absolutely hypnotic in its prose. It’s feverish, maddening, terrifying, and horrific. Reading Island of the Doomed is like experiencing a 338-page panic attack. Nightmares seep into reality as our characters are increasingly plagued by agoraphobia, anguish, anxiety, and mania. They want to cry out, to scream, but they’re drowning and can’t even catch their breath long enough to muster a scream. Besides, even if they did manage to scream, who would hear them? Max Klinger’s “Going Under” (pic 3), which adorns the UK edition, really illustrates this theme.
This is an existential novel par excellence. I highly recommend putting aside your Camus and your Satre, and picking up Dagerman. Stig Dagerman has gone from an author I’ve never heard of to one of my favorites after just a handful of books. And I can’t wait to read more by him soon.
“The world’s clock has stopped and God is busy with a lit de parade on some other planet far, far away.”
Check out my full video review for more: https://youtu.be/TmD1Yi9sF6c
January 13, 2015
It's with a heavy heart I only give my boy Stig 3 stacks. After German Autumn I considered myself a fan for life, and still do, but ACHTUNG to any newcombers... if you haven't read any Dagerman before, DO NOT START HERE.
The intro here was pertinent. JMG Arci-- I mean le Clezio's comparison of this book to Maldoror was an eye opening insight. It's true... this is the Swedish Lautremont at full swing, meaning that another tortured youth has spread his guts onto the pages of what somehow has been called a novel. It's really prose poetry, and some of it, like the entire first section, is brilliant. The obsessive mind of a morbidly depressed person though... surprisingly it gets tiresome. I think, someone who can go on and on like this, must in some way enjoy feeling so sick, must just love detailing the horror and crippling awkwardness that marks the life of a young man with absolutely zero faith in existence. But Stig felt no comfort in the pages he accrued. I know this. He didn't even feel any better when, still in his early twenties, he became a titan of Swedish letters. In fact, the early success made it worse! Stig, amigo, what plagued you? Why did you kill yourself?
I'll read whatever Dagerman I can get a hold of regardless of this reading experience. The man cranked out something like 4 books and 4 plays all before he turned 30. I must reiterate though, for those new to Dagerman, or with little or no exposure to literature of the black speech, to try and tackle this book would surely render you as doomed as any of the people on the eponymous island.
The intro here was pertinent. JMG Arci-- I mean le Clezio's comparison of this book to Maldoror was an eye opening insight. It's true... this is the Swedish Lautremont at full swing, meaning that another tortured youth has spread his guts onto the pages of what somehow has been called a novel. It's really prose poetry, and some of it, like the entire first section, is brilliant. The obsessive mind of a morbidly depressed person though... surprisingly it gets tiresome. I think, someone who can go on and on like this, must in some way enjoy feeling so sick, must just love detailing the horror and crippling awkwardness that marks the life of a young man with absolutely zero faith in existence. But Stig felt no comfort in the pages he accrued. I know this. He didn't even feel any better when, still in his early twenties, he became a titan of Swedish letters. In fact, the early success made it worse! Stig, amigo, what plagued you? Why did you kill yourself?
I'll read whatever Dagerman I can get a hold of regardless of this reading experience. The man cranked out something like 4 books and 4 plays all before he turned 30. I must reiterate though, for those new to Dagerman, or with little or no exposure to literature of the black speech, to try and tackle this book would surely render you as doomed as any of the people on the eponymous island.
January 3, 2017
Es uno de los libros más extraños que me ha tocado leer hasta ahora. Eso sí, exige mucho de la atención del lector y en la sucesión vertiginosa de imágenes narrativas hay elementos poéticos bastante interesantes. Sin embargo, intuyo algunos problemas de traducción y edición que lamentablemente entorpecen la lectura, y deja un sabor de boca enrarecido, pero no en el buen sentido de la apreciación de una gran obra literaria, sino de un mal manejo en el proceso de edición.
Con todo ello, si bien no es el tipo de narrativa que me interesa leer, la prosa de Dagerman fue reveladora y disfrute bastante el análisis de la misma.
Con todo ello, si bien no es el tipo de narrativa que me interesa leer, la prosa de Dagerman fue reveladora y disfrute bastante el análisis de la misma.
April 9, 2024
Ne veltui sakoma: “Skaitykite senas knygas”. Absoliučiai man nežinomas švedų rašytojas, nugyvenęs viso labo 31 metelius, bo sirguliavo šizofrenija ir nusprendė suvesti sąskaitas su gyvenimu užsidarydamas savo automobilyje, suprantama, prieš tai nepamiršęs įsimesti į saloną šlango galo, pajungti prie auto dujų išmetimo vamzdžio. Skaičiau vertimą į rusų kalbą. Tobula. Seniai taip bekaifavau nuo kalbos grožio. Kaip jums štai toks palyginimas “…kaip paukščio giesmės, sklindančios virš prapjautos (вскрытой) venos, aromatas”? Septyni asmenys išgyvena laivo katastrofą ir pakliūna į negyvenamą salą. Na, ne tai, kad visai į negyvenama. Akli paukščiai, gaujos driežų, kuriuos, esant tam tikrai nuotaikai, galima lupti akmeniu per pilvą ir mistiška spygliuota žuvis, besikuičianti įlankos dugne. Bet ne apie tai knyga. Labai geras šios knygos palyginimas yra su Edvardo Muncho “Šauksmu”. Kažkaip taip. Vienatvė, baimė ir kaltės jausmas. Štai ingredientai, kuriais persunkta knyga. Realybė persipynusi su košmariškais sapnais ir kartais nebesupranti kokiame, skaitytojau, esi duotuoju momentu pasaulyje…
May 19, 2019
Tyvärr förstod jag inte boken
March 23, 2023
Num livro com pessimismo suficiente para fazer inveja a Schopenhauer, Stig Dagerman atira-se a uma exploração da desesperança da sociedade contemporânea, vítima de um individualismo levado aos seus pontos mais extremos. O ponto de partida é um naufrágio, que atira um punhado de sobreviventes para uma ilha deserta. O bouquet de personagens é variado. Há Lucas, o filho de grandes fortunas sujeito pela vida ao infortúnio, a braços com uma culpa que não sabe gerir, desesperadamente em busca de um sentido que não encontra para o mundo. Há o pugilista paralítico, que sente a sua vida como se de uma roda de hamster se tratasse, condenado eternamente a correr num ciclo: primeiro um ciclo de fama, de uma adoração que o despersonaliza; depois, um de uma caridade hipócrita que em nada lhe diz respeito. Há Tim Solider, único membro sobrevivente da tripulação do navio, que nem com este inesperado naufrágio se consegue libertar da situação de submissão aos outros a que se havia forçado a si mesmo. E há vários outros, demasiados para que aqui se mencionem, todos fechados em si mesmo, carpindo amarguras muito suas, enquanto um desespero insidioso se vai progressivamente apoderando deles.
Todos, sem exceção, presos num individualismo que é um dos pecados capitais da civilização ocidental, uma civilização que se idealizou um self-made man, sempre em auto-construção, numa sempiterna competição tão externamente construtiva como internamente isoladora, e que os deixa a todos a sentirem-se diminutos, apartados dos outros e de si mesmos, a braços com um desespero do tamanho da sua própria solidão. E quando a esta solidão se une o desespero de quem se vê abandonado numa ilha deserta, sem água ou comida, um final com contornos catastróficos começa a desenhar-se.
Apesar de não poder em boa consciência recomendar esta tradução, parece-me ser inteiramente justo recomendar Stig Dagerman, que neste livro se cobre de todos os modos do seu desespero para escrever um romance lírico, altamente metafórico, tão impressionante quanto intrigante e, sobretudo, honesto. Com esta visão pessimista do mundo e da natureza humana, dificilmente posso dizer estar de acordo, é certo; mas esta crueza e esta honestidade, esta ausência de hesitação em se expor ao mundo, dando-se em carne viva (ainda que cobrindo os ossos de personagens muito distintas), não poderão nunca deixar de impressionar.
Todos, sem exceção, presos num individualismo que é um dos pecados capitais da civilização ocidental, uma civilização que se idealizou um self-made man, sempre em auto-construção, numa sempiterna competição tão externamente construtiva como internamente isoladora, e que os deixa a todos a sentirem-se diminutos, apartados dos outros e de si mesmos, a braços com um desespero do tamanho da sua própria solidão. E quando a esta solidão se une o desespero de quem se vê abandonado numa ilha deserta, sem água ou comida, um final com contornos catastróficos começa a desenhar-se.
Apesar de não poder em boa consciência recomendar esta tradução, parece-me ser inteiramente justo recomendar Stig Dagerman, que neste livro se cobre de todos os modos do seu desespero para escrever um romance lírico, altamente metafórico, tão impressionante quanto intrigante e, sobretudo, honesto. Com esta visão pessimista do mundo e da natureza humana, dificilmente posso dizer estar de acordo, é certo; mas esta crueza e esta honestidade, esta ausência de hesitação em se expor ao mundo, dando-se em carne viva (ainda que cobrindo os ossos de personagens muito distintas), não poderão nunca deixar de impressionar.
April 26, 2015
Dagerman - like the father's whip in chapter one - lashes one vivid explosion after the other of living, nightmarish images of the fear - the unrelenting fear - of human existence. Stranded on a symbolic island, the castaways thrive on the illusion of rescue; as the clouds in the sky transform into majestic ships, only to dissolve in front of their eyes in that exact same moment, they tell themselves futile lies, awaiting the unavoidable end.
As the chain reactions of Dagerman's prose reaches its final, climactic explosion, the camaraderie - forced upon them by nature and the inescapable end - crumbles; the crushing reality of the loneliness of existence tumbles down upon them. As the surrounding nature - with it's vast, dark oceans, poisonous trees, and the omen of the constantly stalking birds and lizards - closes in, the nightmare turns out to be reality. All that is left, as you close your eyes and accept the unrelenting darkness, is fear and loneliness. Rescued, at last.
As the chain reactions of Dagerman's prose reaches its final, climactic explosion, the camaraderie - forced upon them by nature and the inescapable end - crumbles; the crushing reality of the loneliness of existence tumbles down upon them. As the surrounding nature - with it's vast, dark oceans, poisonous trees, and the omen of the constantly stalking birds and lizards - closes in, the nightmare turns out to be reality. All that is left, as you close your eyes and accept the unrelenting darkness, is fear and loneliness. Rescued, at last.
March 22, 2018
"Nessun innocente ha lo sguardo tanto innocente come il colpevole." (p. 172)
"Quale era l'utilità del tutto, a che servivano sacrifici e buone azioni se poi i risultati erano risibili? E allora gli fu chiara la illimitata immoralità dell'esistenza. Vivere era correre in uno di quei labirinti che si vedono in certe giostre raffinate: una perla ci attrae risplendendo su una pietra al centro del labirinto e noi, convinti dell'assoluta onestà del labirinto, vi corriamo durante gli anni giovanili, percorriamo i primi giri con la piena certezza di arrivare presto. E passiamo tutta la nostra vita correndo, sempre convinti che il mondo è benevolo verso lo zelante corridore, quando poi è troppo tardi ci accorgiamo che solo apparentemente ci dirigiamo verso il centro del labirinto perché quello che lo ha costruito ha tracciato diverse corsie delle quali solo una conduce verso la perla, è dunque il caso cieco e non la lucida giustizia a incatenare il destino del corridore, e quando è troppo tardi per tornare, se pure mai, veniamo a sapere che ciò a cui abbiamo dedicato tutte le nostre forze aveva valore solo come performance né portava a qualche risultato concreto. Data la situazione non dovrebbe dunque né stupire né turbare se i più lucidi uscendo dalla propria corsia saltano alcuni giri per raggiungere il centro attraverso una scorciatoia. Si dice che è immorale, che è criminale mentre si dovrebbe capire che la immoralità di un singolo individuo non può mai competere con la ben oliata criminalità dell'ordine del mondo. Da una parte rapide vampate di disperazione dalle forme meno equilibrate, dall'altra una immoralità cosciente e fredda, perfettamente cromata e tersa nel suo gelo e nel suo nitore." (pp. 236, 237)
"Il compito fondamentale dell'uomo: dire alcune mezze verità sulla totale menzogna del mondo." (p. 247)
"Quale era l'utilità del tutto, a che servivano sacrifici e buone azioni se poi i risultati erano risibili? E allora gli fu chiara la illimitata immoralità dell'esistenza. Vivere era correre in uno di quei labirinti che si vedono in certe giostre raffinate: una perla ci attrae risplendendo su una pietra al centro del labirinto e noi, convinti dell'assoluta onestà del labirinto, vi corriamo durante gli anni giovanili, percorriamo i primi giri con la piena certezza di arrivare presto. E passiamo tutta la nostra vita correndo, sempre convinti che il mondo è benevolo verso lo zelante corridore, quando poi è troppo tardi ci accorgiamo che solo apparentemente ci dirigiamo verso il centro del labirinto perché quello che lo ha costruito ha tracciato diverse corsie delle quali solo una conduce verso la perla, è dunque il caso cieco e non la lucida giustizia a incatenare il destino del corridore, e quando è troppo tardi per tornare, se pure mai, veniamo a sapere che ciò a cui abbiamo dedicato tutte le nostre forze aveva valore solo come performance né portava a qualche risultato concreto. Data la situazione non dovrebbe dunque né stupire né turbare se i più lucidi uscendo dalla propria corsia saltano alcuni giri per raggiungere il centro attraverso una scorciatoia. Si dice che è immorale, che è criminale mentre si dovrebbe capire che la immoralità di un singolo individuo non può mai competere con la ben oliata criminalità dell'ordine del mondo. Da una parte rapide vampate di disperazione dalle forme meno equilibrate, dall'altra una immoralità cosciente e fredda, perfettamente cromata e tersa nel suo gelo e nel suo nitore." (pp. 236, 237)
"Il compito fondamentale dell'uomo: dire alcune mezze verità sulla totale menzogna del mondo." (p. 247)
July 21, 2024
Роман побудований на рефлексіях героїв, де безлюдний острів і кораблекрушіння є лише другорядним фоном.
Майстерність психологічного хоррору зашкалює, дивні істоти, які насиляють острів, додають тривожності
і не скажу, що книга прям тошнотворна,
але у процесі читання я відчувала себе креветкою, якій витягують кишківник зубочисткою 😅
По вайбу нагадує недавно виданий комікс «Милий морок» і для олдів «Happy tree friends»🤭😂
Книга доволі важка і не приємна, читати тільки прихильникам подібної літератури
Майстерність психологічного хоррору зашкалює, дивні істоти, які насиляють острів, додають тривожності
і не скажу, що книга прям тошнотворна,
але у процесі читання я відчувала себе креветкою, якій витягують кишківник зубочисткою 😅
По вайбу нагадує недавно виданий комікс «Милий морок» і для олдів «Happy tree friends»🤭😂
Книга доволі важка і не приємна, читати тільки прихильникам подібної літератури
October 7, 2023
«the open eyes which fearlessly scrutinize their dangerous position must be the stars of our ego, our only compass, the compass which decides which direction we take, because if there is no compass, there can be no direction.”
November 10, 2021
В страшном сне невозможно сделать правильный выбор. Нельзя сбежать. Привычный мир искажается, все прошлое кажется чередой бессмысленных несчастий и даже попытка сделать доброе дело выходит боком.
Остров Дагермана можно было бы назвать галереей очень красочно расписанных ночных кошмаров, вот только потерпевшие не спят.
Когда они умудряются выбраться из болота воспоминаний, видят, что есть лишь остров, беспощадный океан, слепые птицы и вездесущие ящерицы, а о цивилизации напоминают лишь обломки корабля. Это путешествие-фантасмагория через вереницы страхов, чувства вины, стыда, одиночества.
«Остров обреченных» был написан в 1946 году, прямо по следам мировой войны. Это заметно, хоть о войне в романе не сказано ни слова. Катастрофа мира оттеняе��ся катастрофой личности. Корабль-20 разбился. Тем, кто выжил осталось лишь смотреть на обломки. Итог неутешительный, но другого и быть не могло.
А посреди кромешной тьмы - слабая вспышка света. Лука Эгмон находит какое-то подобие надежды:
«Если мы приручим наш ум, то в нас наконец проснется совесть, являющаяся не более чем идеализированным описанием нашего страха, ибо страх непрерывно напоминает нам о правильном направлении, и если мы будем подавлять наш страх, то потеряем способность держаться направления и совершим цепочку глупейших взрывов то тут, то там, нанесем наибольший вред и добьемся наименьшего результата».
Посреди одиночества мира надеяться на пробуждение совести нелепо.
Но на Острове так или иначе оказывается каждый. А так кто знает, может лишь самые нелепые надежды могут помочь оттуда выбраться.
Остров Дагермана можно было бы назвать галереей очень красочно расписанных ночных кошмаров, вот только потерпевшие не спят.
Когда они умудряются выбраться из болота воспоминаний, видят, что есть лишь остров, беспощадный океан, слепые птицы и вездесущие ящерицы, а о цивилизации напоминают лишь обломки корабля. Это путешествие-фантасмагория через вереницы страхов, чувства вины, стыда, одиночества.
«Остров обреченных» был написан в 1946 году, прямо по следам мировой войны. Это заметно, хоть о войне в романе не сказано ни слова. Катастрофа мира оттеняе��ся катастрофой личности. Корабль-20 разбился. Тем, кто выжил осталось лишь смотреть на обломки. Итог неутешительный, но другого и быть не могло.
А посреди кромешной тьмы - слабая вспышка света. Лука Эгмон находит какое-то подобие надежды:
«Если мы приручим наш ум, то в нас наконец проснется совесть, являющаяся не более чем идеализированным описанием нашего страха, ибо страх непрерывно напоминает нам о правильном направлении, и если мы будем подавлять наш страх, то потеряем способность держаться направления и совершим цепочку глупейших взрывов то тут, то там, нанесем наибольший вред и добьемся наименьшего результата».
Посреди одиночества мира надеяться на пробуждение совести нелепо.
Но на Острове так или иначе оказывается каждый. А так кто знает, может лишь самые нелепые надежды могут помочь оттуда выбраться.
June 29, 2017
La isla de los condenados es uno de esos libros que resultan dificiles de catalogar por que estan construidos en base al viaje interior de los protagonistas y las circunstancias terminan siendo meros pretextos parabólicos, ya que son consecuencia del mundo y consecuencia de las acciones del protagonista.
Escrito con una prosa más bien delirante que evoca a Lautremont en esos largos pasajes de sin sentidos que aparecen a la primera lectura para que después en la evocación de los mismos se descifren significados sumamente íntimos para el lector, estamos frente a una obra . Dagerman nos introduce a un grupo de individuos que a causa de un accidente terminan en una isla, cada uno de ellos va a encontrar en este lugar y en los pequeños accidentes que les rodean, espejos negros donde su espíritu y vicios salen a deambular y presentarse más vivos que nunca en medio de la nada.
A veces un grano de arena evoca un infierno y un infierno un grano de arena. La memoria es una trampa mortal en este lugar, la isla de nosotros mismos.
Escrito con una prosa más bien delirante que evoca a Lautremont en esos largos pasajes de sin sentidos que aparecen a la primera lectura para que después en la evocación de los mismos se descifren significados sumamente íntimos para el lector, estamos frente a una obra . Dagerman nos introduce a un grupo de individuos que a causa de un accidente terminan en una isla, cada uno de ellos va a encontrar en este lugar y en los pequeños accidentes que les rodean, espejos negros donde su espíritu y vicios salen a deambular y presentarse más vivos que nunca en medio de la nada.
A veces un grano de arena evoca un infierno y un infierno un grano de arena. La memoria es una trampa mortal en este lugar, la isla de nosotros mismos.
July 28, 2023
Хранил верность собственным горестям, украшая их гирляндами, начищая до блеска; строил баррикады из мыслей в надежде, что однажды выйдет за них сражаться, будучи анархистом на фоне второй мировой; Дагерман умер в 31, завещав смотреть открытыми глазами в себя. Не отворачивайся.
September 22, 2020
4.5
Un livre hors normes, au style incomparable.
Il faut accepter de s'y perdre pour se laisser porter par des récits crus et parfois cruels, métaphoriques ou encore franchement lucides.
Marquant.
Un livre hors normes, au style incomparable.
Il faut accepter de s'y perdre pour se laisser porter par des récits crus et parfois cruels, métaphoriques ou encore franchement lucides.
Marquant.
May 31, 2024
Jag trodde jag förlorat förmågan att läsa på svenska när jag började läsa den här boken. Han använde verkligen varenda metafor han hade i kroppen, och allt detta för att beskriva jävligthet. Bitvis bra, men det blev lite mycket.
December 31, 2012
If it wasn’t for the vocabulary and the genius quotes now and then this book would be a complete failure. I wanted to read this in such a long time (years!), I was always searching for this and it was always out of stock. A friend of mine recommended this to me and I thought it would be amazing. It had everything to be amazing! I mean, the description of all the characters at first and then explaining their life together.
I really liked the idea of all this mixed feelings and different perspectives of the same event etc, but yes, it was boring. It was not captivating enough even thought I really tried. I didn’t even like the characters, they were stupid meaningless people and I had a hard time to picture those people actually living in a real world. And all that psychedelic shit with the lizards and that her son was born a lizard (?) I swear to god if there is any type of metaphor with that crap you surely cannot reach it. And then those stupid blind birds (whaaaattt??) oh lord.
I really liked the idea of all this mixed feelings and different perspectives of the same event etc, but yes, it was boring. It was not captivating enough even thought I really tried. I didn’t even like the characters, they were stupid meaningless people and I had a hard time to picture those people actually living in a real world. And all that psychedelic shit with the lizards and that her son was born a lizard (?) I swear to god if there is any type of metaphor with that crap you surely cannot reach it. And then those stupid blind birds (whaaaattt??) oh lord.
June 27, 2015
Ce roman est terrible. Comme dans toute son oeuvre, Stig Dagerman traite la nature humaine, la culpabilité, la peur, l'angoisse et l'absurdité du monde. Mais cette fois (c'est son deuxième roman) il le fait d'une manière incroyablement cruelle. Les métaphores s'enchaînent, récits de rêves, retour vers le passé de chacun des naufragés et de leurs névroses, et coupent littéralement le souffle par leur horrible réalisme.
Pour ceux qui voudraient commencer à lire les romans de Stig Dagerman, je conseillerais de garder celui-là pour la fin comme je l'ai fait involontairement. Franchement j'ose employer la formule : "âme sensible s'abstenir".
Sinon bien sûr, la performance littéraire est remarquable, Stig Dagerman est certainement l'un des plus grands écrivains de l'absurde et de l'impossibilité de communiquer.
Pour ceux qui voudraient commencer à lire les romans de Stig Dagerman, je conseillerais de garder celui-là pour la fin comme je l'ai fait involontairement. Franchement j'ose employer la formule : "âme sensible s'abstenir".
Sinon bien sûr, la performance littéraire est remarquable, Stig Dagerman est certainement l'un des plus grands écrivains de l'absurde et de l'impossibilité de communiquer.
September 3, 2018
I bought this on the recommandation of a Swedish bookseller whose tastes seemed very similar to mine. I must say that the cover was very misleading: the glossy material of the cover & the design, what with the diagonal, oversized, slightly faded title, evoked a pulpy thriller to my imagination. I was, evidently, not yet acquainted with Dagerman. The novel consists of the tale of seven castaways on the titled island, each struggling with their impending demise but also with their demons. It is utterly nightmarish, almost surrealist at times. Although i cannot compare it with the original, Thompson's translation amazed me by its elegance and precision. The prose, with breathless, urgent, endless sentences, feels feverish and adds to the ghastly ambiance of the novel.
September 12, 2022
Muy lento y con un estilo narrativo que no me acaba de convencer. El narrador y protagonista regresa de la capital para enterrar a su padre, única razón por la que vuelve a relacionarse cara a cara con sus hermanos y demás gente de vida agrícola. Desde las primeras páginas se palpa cierta animadversión entre ambos estilos de vida. El trasfondo de los personajes, todo lo que representan, es lo único que ha despertado mínimamente mi interés. Pero no me importa nada de lo que pasa. Parece que la historia no acaba de arrancar. Es un relato breve y aún así me he planteado abandonar su lectura.
November 16, 2014
To all those who believe they have sucessfully dealt with fear of death: please read on. I think you''ll find that you really have not.
August 18, 2021
читать всем
и — никому..
книга-лабиринт
заходит один (одна) —
выходит иной (иная)
или не выходит вовсе
и — никому..
книга-лабиринт
заходит один (одна) —
выходит иной (иная)
или не выходит вовсе
February 20, 2021
Unfortunately not my cup of tea at all. For a novel renowned for its post-war era atmosphere of depression and despair, the only depressing thing about it was how long it took me to finish reading it. With all due respect to its troubled author, Island of the Doomed simply didn't create any degree of investment in the narrative or the characters for me to care how hopeless their situation was. The numerous abstract dream-like sequences only served to confuse matters more, and the sexualisation of particularly the two female characters seemed completely gratuitous, adding no symbolic value whatsoever. I've probably written this in another review somewhere, but I believe that the classics are classics because of their ability to withstand the passage of time, and for me, this was just not the case with Island of the Doomed.
January 16, 2023
"Island of the Doomed" was more than I expected. Although most reviews were positive, some were mixed. Some reviews suggest that fear is the basic theme. I certainly agree that fear is a pervasive presence in the novel. I was reminded of the director David Lynch in Dagerman's ability to create a mood. But the mood is more than fear.
Dagerman's characters face numerous existential crisis: hopelessness, guilt, paranoia, meaninglessness and yes, fear. The characters share their inner struggles in powerful and convincing ways. Are these struggles personal or universal? Likely both.
Some of the novel's appeal for me is undoubtedly personal. I can connect with the emotional content. I accept that many readers may find the work tedious and be put off by the unyielding bleakness of its message. Yet, for me at least, the feelings are far too real.
Dagerman's characters face numerous existential crisis: hopelessness, guilt, paranoia, meaninglessness and yes, fear. The characters share their inner struggles in powerful and convincing ways. Are these struggles personal or universal? Likely both.
Some of the novel's appeal for me is undoubtedly personal. I can connect with the emotional content. I accept that many readers may find the work tedious and be put off by the unyielding bleakness of its message. Yet, for me at least, the feelings are far too real.
August 28, 2022
A Ilha dos Condenados segue sete náufragos numa ilha deserta. Estes carregam o peso do seu passado, e nem no limiar da sobrevivência, entre estranhos, se libertam da forma como este (o passado) os moldou. A estrutura do livro divide-se numa parte que foca na sua trajectória e na sua condição actual, e noutra que avança a história e que se foca na interacção entre as personagens e estas com a ilha.
Já o disse, considero Stig Dagerman um prodígio. A sua curta vida produziu um número reduzido de obras que ficam para a posteridade. Este livro mostra, uma vez mais, como o autor consegue produzir personagens e reflexões complexas, desta vez sobre a culpa e a condição humana. Há um desalento, não necessariamente com a ilha, com a vida, que marca cada passo deste livro.
Já o disse, considero Stig Dagerman um prodígio. A sua curta vida produziu um número reduzido de obras que ficam para a posteridade. Este livro mostra, uma vez mais, como o autor consegue produzir personagens e reflexões complexas, desta vez sobre a culpa e a condição humana. Há um desalento, não necessariamente com a ilha, com a vida, que marca cada passo deste livro.
October 29, 2025
Like I Swedish ”Lost” complete with flashbacks to the survivors sins in their previous life. The prose is dense. More so then I remember from ”Bränt barn” or ”Ormen”, the other Dagerman novels I’ve read. The anxiety becomes pressurized and reaches almost a feverpitch towards the end of the book. But I can never quite jive with the characters way of preaching to each other and to the reader. They never end up feeling much like human beings to me, with one or two notable exceptions. The book becomes increasingly impenetrable by the end. Dagermans language puts up a barrier towards what is actually happening externally and is much more interested in what’s happening internally. But since all narrators are essentially mad in some sense, it’s sometimes a challenge to follow along.
October 10, 2021
För ungefär 15 år sedan läste jag Ormen av Stig Dagerman. Boken var en omvälvande resa i människans psyke och jag sög i mig allt. Det var därför förvånande att när jag nu, vid 24 års ålder, läste De dömdas ö fick kämpa för att ta mig igenom romanen. Språket tränger in i en och för med sig ett totalt ångestmörker. Ibland orkade jag inte läsa mer om kaptenen som värderade ensamheten över allt annat eller om rikemanspojkens skuld som långsamt åt upp honom inifrån. Ändå var det en fantastisk läsupplevelse. Dagermans känsla för det svenska språket är svåröverträffad.
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