Melankoli

Melancholia #1-2

by Jon Fosse, Banu Gürsaler Syvertsen (Translator)

Jon Fosse, bir ressamın dünyasına götürüyor bizleri bu defa. Ressamın melankolik ve kırılgan dünyasındaki özel ışığı ve güzelliği sergiliyor. Melankoli I-II, dünyanın ve yaşamın gerçekliğine bir meydan okuma ve aynı zamanda düşlere, yanılsamalara, hayallere karmaşık bir övgü.
Ne Dediler:
“Fosse, Avrupa’nın en büyük yazarlarından.” Karl Ove Knausgaard
“Fosse ilginç ve gizemli sayılabilecek bu romanında bir sanatçının yalnızlığı ve kaderi ve kendi kendini takibini konu ediniyor. Sosyal dünyanın sisler altına kaldığı, derin ve varoluşçu bir anlatı.” Hari Kunzru
“Büyük bir sezgisellik ve yetenekle hayatın hayaletlerinden oluşan bir aynalar diyarına yolculuk. Yalnızlık ve kasvet bir arada.” Bryan Karetnyk

“Fosse boşuna Ibsen ve Beckett ile kıyaslanmıyor. Esasında onlardan daha fazlası; şiirsel yalınlıkta onların ötesine geçiyor.” New York Times

“Jon Fosse, tamamen kendine ait bir edebiyat alemi oluşturdu.” Nordic Council Literary Prize
...içim bomboş olmalı, huzurlu ve bomboş olmalı ki içim işte o zaman dışarının ışığı içimde parlayabilir, zira ne zaman ki içim huzurlu ve bomboş olur o zaman ışık içimde parlamaya başlayabilir, huzurlu ve bomboş olmalı içim, itiş kakıştan vazgeçmeliyim, sakinleşmeliyim, yalnızca içimde parlayacak ışıktan ibaret olmalıyım, hiçbir şey arzu etmeyen bir ışık olmalıyım, Stakland’daki Kvekar Cemaat Evi’nde, hiç konuşmayan insanların oturduğu daire şeklinde yerleştirilmiş sandalyelerden birinde, sandalyemde oturmalıyım, orada babamın yanında oturmalıyım, ışıkta oturan Kvekar Cemaatine mensup diğer insanların arasında, gayet sakin ve gözü kapalı oturmalıyım, içimde bir uçtan bir uca koşturan kargaşa, o itiş kakış önce bir çizgi üzerinde düzene girecek, sonra o çizgiler kaybolacak ve içim boşalacak, arınacak, huzur bulacağım, görülebilecek ve düşünülebilecek her şeyden temizlenmiş olacak içim, orada Stakland’ taki o küçük Kvekar Cemaat Evi’nde evde öylesine oturacağım, bomboş, sakin, oturacağım orada, hiçbir konuda fikir sahibi olmadan, dünyanın tamamen dışında, içimde ışığı, o gökyüzünde, bulutlarda görülen ışığı taşıyarak, gördüğüm, resmini yapabildiğim ve benden başka kimsenin resmedemediği ışık, bu ışık içimde olacak ve ben o sandalyede oturacağım babamın yanında..

Genres: Fiction, Literature, Art, Contemporary, Scandinavian Literature, Nobel Prize, Literary Fiction

352 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1995

About the author

Jon Olav Fosse was born in Haugesund, Norway and currently lives in Bergen. He debuted in 1983 with the novel Raudt, svart (Red, black). His first play, Og aldri skal vi skiljast, was performed and published in 1994. Jon Fosse has written novels, short stories, poetry, children's books, essays and plays. His works have been translated into more than forty languages. He is widely considered as one of the world's greatest contemporary playwrights. Fosse was made a chevalier of the Ordre national du Mérite of France in 2007. Fosse also has been ranked number 83 on the list of the Top 100 living geniuses by The Daily Telegraph.

He was awarded The Nobel Prize in Literature 2023 "for his innovative plays and prose which give voice to the unsayable".

Since 2011, Fosse has been granted the Grotten, an honorary residence owned by the Norwegian state and located on the premises of the Royal Palace in the city centre of Oslo. The Grotten is given as a permanent residence to a person specifically bestowed this honour by the King of Norway for their contributions to Norwegian arts and culture.

Reviews

[karen · Rating 1 out of 5]

karen's book club says:



** edit to include excerpt because it is hard to explain how painful this book is without making you guys feel it, too. **

no. this book is not for me. but i learned the value of maybe not just buying every book with a nice cover, or put out by dalkey, or that sounds mildly interesting on the back copy. dana gives the two-page test. maybe i should use that once in a while. because i would never never have bought this one. it is so heavily stylized with repetition and insanely neurotic narratorial voice that you never feel you are making any progress. i thought maybe i would read it aloud a little to see if it helped, but it just made me feel like i was dr. seuss' older, less successful embittered brother. there are different books for different people... some people read to learn things, some read for escapism, some read to feel like they are trapped in the mind of a demented norwegian painter. if you are in the last category, might i recommend this book? it may be just the thing for you. for me, i require a fluid storytelling technique and a certain accessibility to the story itself that doesn't seem like in order to get to it, i have to pass fairy-tale style tasks like clearing the brambles to get to it. but i am a lazy american. sorry, fosse, you've been banished.

this is what this book is like. had i opened up TO ANY PAGE i would have known this and have been able to avoid it. it gives me a headache.

And Mr. Winckelmann pulls Helene toward the door and I have to just sit quietly and watch while Mr. Winckelmann takes my darling Helene away from me, Mr. Winckelmann is pulling my darling Helene away from me forever, he is pulling my darling Helene with him, he is pulling her out of the room I rented in Mrs. Winckelmann's apartment, he is grabbing the arm of my darling Helene hard and pulling her away from me and while Mr. Winckelmann is pulling my darling Helene away from me Mrs. Winckelmann just stands in the doorway and watches. My darling Helene is being pulled out of the room by her arm. And he can't do that. And I have to just sit here. And my father is standing over by the window and watching Mr. Winckelmann pull Helene out of the room. My father is staring at Mr. Winckelmann who is pulling my darling Helene out of the room. My darling Helene is being pulled out of the room forever, away from me, away from me forever. And my father doesn't say anything, he just stands there with his cap in his hand, in his wooden shoes, he stands there and watches Mr. Winckelmann pull my darling Helene away from me. And Elizabeth, my darling sister Elizabeth, why are you just standing there and looking up at Mr. Winckelmann??

and on and on and on for the whole book. i was so glad to see the end of this one, i tell you.

come to my blog!

[Helga · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sometimes life is still good…

The story is black. Its darkness is the same darkness of black. It is a darkness that isn’t dead, it shines. It is a shining darkness.
Melancholy I is divided in three parts: year 1853, 1856 and 1991. Melancholy II is set in the year 1902.
I have tried to write my review replicating the author’s style of writing.

His name is Lars Hertervig. He is a painter. Lars Hertervig is a painter, studying in Düsseldorf. He is a student of the famous Hans Gude. He is studying art in Düsseldorf. Lars Hertervig is a Norwegian, studying painting in Germany. He is the young Norwegian painter, Lars Hertervig. One of the greatest talents in contemporary Norwegian art. That’s what he is. He is not a bad person. He can really paint. Lars Hertervig is a very good painter. And now he is renting a room at the Winckelmanns’. Lars Hertervig, a Norwegian art student who is studying art in Düsseldorf with the famous Hans Gude, is in his rented room, lying on his bed, daydreaming. And now he is lying on his bed, listening to Helene Winckelmann play the piano. Helene Winckelmann, with her pale blue eyes and long hair, is playing the piano for him, Lars Hertervig, an insignificant painter from Norway. Because Lars Hertervig and Helen Winckelmann are in love.

I’ll walk over to you and then I’ll put my arms around you, press you to me, then I’ll stand there and hold you tight, press you to me, all I want is to stand there and press you to me and breathe through your hair. All I want is to stand there. Stand there and press you to me. And then you’ll put your arms around me and then we’ll stand there. We’ll just stand there. Stand there quietly, stand right next to each other, stand there right up next to each other.

Lars Hertervig, one of the best contemporary painters in Germany is lying on his bed in the rented room at the Winckelmanns’ listening to Helene play the piano. And now there is a soft sound of footsteps coming towards his door. The piano has stopped and now someone is at his door, knocking at his door, while he is lying on his bed thinking about his Helene. There is a knock on his door and Lars Hertervig and Helene are in love. There is a knock on his door and the door opens and Helene is standing there with her pale blue eyes and beautiful long hair. She is standing there and telling him that he, Lars Hertervig, the art student from Norway, should leave their house. That her uncle, Mr. Winckelmann has told Helene to tell Lars to leave their house immediately and never show his face again.

Without you maybe the empty movement in everything I paint will always be empty? Maybe there’ll be nothing left? Maybe I’ll die then? Maybe I won’t be able to paint anymore? Maybe then I won’t be able to think anymore? Maybe I’ll have to alternate between being awake and being asleep, being hungry and being full?

Lars Hertervig, a Norwegian student in Düsseldorf, a good painter and the lover of Helene is standing in the street. Lars Hertervig is standing in the street carrying a suitcase in each hand.
Lars Hertervig is a great painter. He isn't a bad person. Lars Hertervig loves Helene, with her pale blue eyes and long hair. Lars Hertervig hasn't done anything wrong. Why should he leave?
What should he do? Where should he go?

Maybe you never want to see me again. I am walking up the street… to the house where you live, to your face in the window. Your hair, pale, flowing. Your eyes, so blue, so pale. And your white dress. And your voice, saying my name. From the moment I wake up until it’s night I can hear your voice. I can see your eyes. Inside me is you. I miss you. I am coming to you. I am my longing for you. And you are waiting for me, now I’ll come to you. I’ll see you. I’ll hear your voice. And you speak so calmly and your voice fills your chest. You fill me, like the light fills its day. I am a darkness without you. I miss you. I am walking up the street, but I can’t see anything. I am my longing for you.

Here is an excerpt. Read and get to know the author's style before rushing to add this book to your TBR:

I can paint. But the others can’t paint, they are painters but they can’t really paint. They want to paint, but painting is beyond them. And now I have to go to you, Helene my darling. The only thing I know is that I have to get to you. You asked me to come, and I will come to you. To you my Helene. And then your hair. Your long hair, Helene. I see you before me always. I see you coming Helene. And I have to go to you. I miss you so much. And I don’t know why I miss you so much, from when I wake up until I fall asleep, the whole time, the longing is there, it pulls me, like the sky, like the light. You are like sky and light in me. I miss you so Helene. And now you’ve asked me to come to you. And I’m walking away from Malkasten, I am walking to the street where you live, with your mother, with your little brothers and sisters. I am walking to you, to you, my darling Helene. Because you are in me. You are in me, I am walking to you. And you are in me. You are me. Without you I am only a movement, without you I am only an empty movement, a turn. A turning towards you. A movement towards you. Helene. Towards you, towards you. Helene. From the moment I wake up until I fall asleep, I am always a movement towards you. I am turned towards you, I am a movement towards you. I am walking to you because you asked me to come to you, and now I am coming and maybe you don’t want to see me, you don’t want me to come, maybe you just want me to disappear and never come to you, maybe you never want to see me again, maybe your big eyes, so blue, so pale, never want to see me again, maybe you never want to do anything with me again, maybe you never want to see me again, because your mother said you can’t ever see me again, a landscape painter from Norway, a painting student, a strange man, barely a man. Maybe you never want to see me again. I am walking up the street.

[Manny · Rating 5 out of 5]

People who should know better keep insisting that the novel is dead, but they are making a fundamental mistake. It is the publishing industry, with its soulless insistence on chasing profit to the exclusion of everything else, which is dying. The novel is very much alive: you just need to look for it in the right places.

Melancholia is a stunning example. When Not and I first heard about this book, we couldn't help smiling: here's a six hundred page stream-of-consciousness account based on two days in the life of an obscure nineteenth century painter, moreover written, not just in Norwegian, but in the less commonly spoken version of that small language. It sounds like an SBS Woman parody come to life. But I found, to my considerable surprise, that the book works. It isn't just readable, it's compulsively readable, and it says some things about art and the human mind that...

So what's it saying, you want to know? I was wondering how I could try to explain, but on reaching the book's final pages I found that the author had anticipated me. The painter's sister, now a very old woman, is sitting on the toilet looking at the picture her brother had given her many years ago:

Og ein dag kom han Lars springende etter henne og gav henne dette biletet, og ho sa vel ikkje takk eingong, tenkjer ho Oline, og ikkje syntest ho vel at biletet var noko særleg, heller, helst var det vel berre noko rableri, syntest ho nok, men ho tok då imot og så hengde det der på veslehuset og der har det nu hange i alle dei år, tenkjer ho Oline, og ho synest vel og etter kvart at biletet er vakkert, og ho skjøner vel og kva Lars kan ha meint med det biletet, gjer ho vel, men å seie det! få sagt kva han kan ha meint! nei det går vel ikkje, eg ho kan vel omogeleg seie det, heller, for då var det vel ikkje noko vits for han Lars å male biletet, då, kan ein vel tenkje, tenkjer ho Oline, men biletet er fint, det, sjølv om det vel helst er noko rableri, fordi han Lars ha malt det, er biletet fint, det meiner ho nok, ja, om einkvan andre enn han Lars hadde malt det, hade ho ikkje synst at det var noko vakkert, tenkjer ho Oline, men no synest ho at biletet er så vakkert at det nesten er som om ho skal ta til tårene når ho ser på det.

My translation:

And one day Lars came running after her and gave her this picture, and she didn't even say thank you, thinks Oline, and she didn't think the picture was anything special either, really just a scribble, she thought, but she let him give it to her and she hung it in the outhouse and it's been hanging there all these years, thinks Oline, and in the end she thought the picture was beautiful, and she understands what Lars meant with the picture, she does, but how would she say it! say what he meant! no you can't do that, she could never say it, because then why would Lars have painted the picture would he, thinks Oline, but the picture is lovely, even if it's just a scribble, because Lars painted it the picture is lovely, that's what she thinks, yes, even though if someone else had painted it she wouldn't have thought it was anything special, thinks Oline, but now she thinks the picture is so beautiful that tears almost come to her eyes when she looks at it.

Please forgive the infelicities in my translation: this is almost the first thing I've read in nynorsk. But it won't be the last.
________________

If you want some idea of what the passage sounds like in Norwegian, here is a C-LARA version. Word glosses by GPT-4, audio by Google TTS (NO-Wavenet-B voice; unfortunately I can't find a nynorsk TTS voice) and image by DALL-E-3.

[MJ Nicholls · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is an exceptional attempt to penetrate into the artistic vision of Norwegian landscape painter Lars Hertervig. The first part details one day (assuming a pivotal one) in Lars’s life during his time as a student in his early twenties (in 1853) at the Dusseldorf Arts Academy. Using a striking technique of near maddening repetition, Fosse captures the inside of Lars’s mind—plagued with visions of smothering black and white clothes, prone to childhood daydreams, completely at remove from reality—as he is kicked out a boardinghouse after falling in love with the owner’s daughter. He is ridiculed and humiliated by all his fellow students and tutors in the pub, and these excruciating sections are the most painful to read (sensitivity towards mental illness would need another 130 years). Skipping three years to his time in Gaustad Asylum, the story continues in the same style, ratcheting up the misery as Lars seems fated to remain locked up forever due to his violent sexual fantasies and self-abuse. The final section is less convincing—set in the 1990s around a writer descended from Lars pondering his re-entry into the Roman Catholic Church (written in a similar elliptical style). The story of Lars is fascinating and this book only offers a vague sliver of his life story, although Fosse seems to have written a second volume in Norwegian—hopefully being translated right now for Dalkey pub. A tremendous, painfully, painfully sad novel.

[Nora Barnacle · Rating 5 out of 5]

Osim što uspeva u svakoj varijaciji, tema „koprcanje tanane umetničke dušice u raljama okrutne sudbine“ nepogrešivo nasankava na pitanje zašto nam je Demijurg morao biti baš ovolika malograđanska džiberčina (da bi se, pošto srdžba umine, ćuti-dobro-je konstatacijom da su sreće bljutavo jednolične otkupila manja ili veća doza katarze kojom će se zavoskirati dalje granjanje intimnog očaja).
U tu svrhu, a probavno lakše, može poslužiti bilo koji biografski film, pa i najjeftinije produkcije i zašto biste, onda, čitali skoro četristo strana koje je jedan od najpoznatijih savremenih norveških pisaca napisao o jednom o najvećih norveških slikara, a nama ih - ne ćutimo kad je hvale vredno! - časno priredio izdavač Blum?

Zato što su se oko ovog Laša nesretnika životne okolnosti zavrzle potpuno nepredvidivo? Ma kakvi! Banalni kliše: kvalitetno ludilo*, na kakvo se samo u besputim nordijskim Pizdincima nasukati može, pod teretom božanskog talenta počinje da kipi u predelu prepona, sve u doba kad se ucena smatrala medicinskim sredstvom, a masturbacija grehom. I dobro je što nije drugačije.
Zato što Jun Fose dobro piše? Fose dobro piše, ali ima onih koji su raskošnije afektirali tok svesti lude osobe: eto, Fonker je bolji (Bendži). Nagađam da bi mu još komfornije bilo u dramskom tekstu, sa glumcem u gestu i kostimu. I prevod Radoša Kosovića je uobičajeno dobar, ali ne bih rekla da mu je ovo najveća dika. Ipak, dobro je što je sve baš ovako.

Zato što je po sredi dovitljivo rešenje? Pa... jeste Foseov postupak neobičan, ali ni to nije čudo neviđeno jer se temelji na opštem mestu da se načete svesnosti drugačije orijentišu u vremenu (Bernhard se o to najviše kešao): roman je podeljen na dva dela od kojih je prvi tok svesti lude, a drugi dementne osobe. U ludoj glavi smo (na 175 strana) jedno popodne 1853. i još pola dana (50 strana) tri godine kasnije, a u dementnoj nekih par sati (i 100 strana). Praveći dovoljnu, ali (tendenciozno) ne preoštru razliku, Fose u oba slučaja štavi vreme repeticijom i turira kratkim rečenicama, pa se čitaocu manta u vrtlogu jednoličnosti, ali mu to ne uzima za zlo, kao što trogodišnjem detetu (ili idiotu) ne uzima za zlo pravljenje loptica od hleba, a dementnoj babi (ili idiotu) neumorno ponavljanje istog pitanja. Ima i treći deo, središnji: najkraće, na dvadesetak strana, tokom jedne kratke večernje posete iz 1991. pratimo tok svesti potpuno funkcionalne ličnosti, a osrednjeg pisca koga nešto neće (prečica do večnosti). Tu ćemo se malo zamišljati, malo trkeljisati po religijskim pitanjima, ali, (prihvatajući kao pošalicu Slučaja to što je pošiljka zakasnila, pa sam, nemajući o tome pojma, čitanje počela na 101. godišnjicu smrti Laša Herterviga), nakon tri dana dumanja izjavljujem da je dobro što ni tu nije keč.

U naslovu je.

*Kako me psihološke nomenklature ni najmanje ne uzbuđuju, dodaću da mi je nevažno** da li je ovde reč o idiotizmu, autizmu, savantizmu, genetskom zapisu ili hormonskoj kapisli. Takođe mi nije važno ni da li je u pitanju gola, istorijska ili autofikcija.
** Važno mi je što je skupa ispalo toliko dobro da, evo, bez ikakve zadrške, izjavljujem kako je Melanholija među najupečatljivijim utiscima moga čitalačkog života.

[Momčilo Žunić]

U sva tri slučaja - Laršovom, Vidmeovom,
Ulininom (glavni junaci prim. ur.)- život se ne čini pričom, već ponajpre narativnim tremorom, koji je i bauljanje u isušenoj (autističnoj) iskaznosti misli, i nesamostalni misaoni tokovi puni praznine iz oskudice, ispraznosti stvarnosti i skučenog rečnika u pratnji, i neuravnoteženo curenje razuma (kada bi događaji i sećanja istodobno da nahrupe na vrata i prelepljuju se jedan preko drugog), i životni prelom (jer nema prečice do Boga - umesno već reče Nora; možda samo do prečasnih sisa - neumesno ću ja za jedan od tokova), i osteoporoza pamćenja u koje, u metežnom neposluhu, događaji i misli izranjaju i tonu, klešteći se...

A misli su predaleko od uzemljenja. Niti rukovode podarenim telima, niti saobraćaju sa sobom. Svako je "na svoju ruku" odlepljen od sopstvene teže. Premda "Svako mora da bude negde.": konac se prekinuo, a u svetlost se hoće umaći. Mada se ni to ne iska, prosto se dogodi. Svetlost koja je (dobro, kvekerski kredo, ali i pre negoli to) s jedne strane samosagorevanje kroz dar (dar kao obavezujuće prokletstvo pozvanja u koje se sumnja i koga nam brane), a s druge utjeha kose* i slikanje dok slika ne izbledi. Svetlost Stendalovog sindroma koja ushićuje, razbuđuje i udivljuje, ali upravo tad i zrcali drugu stvaralačku osrednjost kojoj je dar izmakao, te do daljeg ne prebacuje više od sagorevanja u trudu. Svetlost koja je izlaz iz poljskog klozeta u svetlost slike, ma koliko bušni, dementni, zapišani i zamuzgani bili.

I tu tačke nema, samo upuštanjâ u svetlost

* Da, mislim na Matoša ("Utjeha kose") koji misli na Bodlerovu "Kosu" koju mislim da misli Fose da je živi Larš.

[Paul Fulcher · Rating 4 out of 5]

And I walk out across the bar, in between my two suit-cases, in my purple velvet suit, in my goddamn purple velvet suit, Lars Hertervig the Quaker is walking through the bar, Malkasten, Lars Hertervig the Quaker is walking to the door of Malkasten in the purple velvet suit that he got from Hans Gabriel Buchholdt Sundt, Lars Hertervig the quacker is walking to the door of Malkasten in between his two suitcases that he also got from Hans Gabriel Buchholdt Sundt, that's what I'm doing, yes. And where should I go now? Because everyone has to be somewhere. And now I have to walk past the round table soon, where all the painters who can't paint are sitting, and they'll ask me where I'm going? why I'm carrying my suitcases around? they'll ask am I going on a trip somewhere? was I kicked out of my room? am I going to Norway? they'll ask and I am walking out through the bar, through Malkasten, to the door. And I'll never go to Malkasten again. I have to go to my darling Helene.

Having commissioned and published translations of Jon Fosse's stunning Septology, released simultaneously with the Norwegian originals, Fitzcarraldo Editions are also publishing some of the author's back works.

Melancholia I and Melancholia II were originally published in Norway separately in 1995 and 1996 although later editions then combined both.

In English, in the US, Grethe Kvernes and Damion Searls's translation of the first book, Melancholy I, was published by Dalkey Archive in 2006. Searls at the time chose not to translate the 2nd volume and Eric Dickens translation, Melancholy II, appeared in 2014.

The Fitzcarraldo Editions volume combines the two into one book, for the first time in English, and has a 2023 re-translation by Damion Searls of the 2nd volume.

Unlike other's of Fosse's works I've read, here the protagonist is based on a real-life historical figure, painter Lars Hertervig (1830-1902).


(Skogtjern, 1865)

He studied painting at the Arts Academy of Düsseldorf from 1852, as the private pupil of Hans Gude, and the first part of the Melancholy I is set there:

DUSSELDORF. AFTERNOON. LATE AUTUMN, 1853

I am lying in bed, dressed in my purple velvet suit, my beautiful, beautiful suit, and I don’t want to meet with Hans Gude. I don’t want to hear Hans Gude say he doesn’t like my painting. I just want to stay in bed. Today I can’t bear to see Hans Gude. Because what if Hans Gude doesn’t like the picture I’m painting, what if he thinks it’s bad, embarrassingly bad, what if it makes him think that I can’t paint after all, what if Hans Gude runs his thin fingers through his beard and looks straight at me with his narrow eyes and says that I can’t paint, that I have no business at the Düsseldorf Academy of Art, or any other Academy of Art either as far as he’s concerned, what if Hans Gude says I will never be a painter. I can’t let Hans Gude tell me that. I have to just stay in bed. because Hans Gude is coming to the studio today, the studio in the attic where we stand in perfect rows and columns and we paint, and he’ll go from painting to painting and say what he thinks of each one and then he’ll look at my painting too and say something about it. I don’t want to see Hans Gude. Because I can paint. And Gude can paint. And Tidemann can paint. I can paint. No one can paint like me, just Gude. Tidemann too. And today Gude will look at my painting, but I won’t be there, I’ll be lying in bed, staring straight ahead, at the window, I want to just lie on my bed in my purple suit, my beautiful, beautiful suit, just lie here and listen to the sounds from the street.

This section is set over one, decisive, day, with Hertervig, although confident of his own skills and calling, obsessively worried about what Gude will think of his work, and sexually obsessed with his landlord's 15 year old daughter Helene. On the day in question, he is avoiding a session at the Academy where Gude is appraising each student's work; Helene's uncle gives him notice to quit his lodgings (to protect Helen, although Hertervig thinks it is because the uncle himself lusts after his niece); and, struggling with his mental health and experiencing hallucinations, he visits for the first time the bar at Malkasten, an artist's club (founded in 1848 and still open today), where his fellow students are less that sympathetic, not least as he makes it clear to them that Malkesten [is] where all the painters who can't paint go.

This is all told in the third person but from Hertervig's - at times rather bitterly crude, delusional even hallucinogenic, and repetitively circular - perspective.

The second section of Melancholy I is set on Christmas Eve 1856, 3 years later, with Hertervig's mental health problems having increased so that he is incarcerated in Gaustad Asylum in Norway and while his infatuation with Helen remains his masturbatory thoughts are increasingly misogynistic.

And the third section of Melancholy I is set in 1991, from the persepctive of a writer Vidme, in his mid 30s and distantly related to Hertevig. Vidme experienced a transcendent moment in front of one of Hertervig's works, and visits a pastor in the Norwegian Church to ask if he can, and should, be readmitted.

Then he caught sight of a picture that drew him in and then Vidme stood there and looked at a picture by the painter Lars Hertervig, a picture called From Borgøya, and Vidme the writer stayed standing in front of this picture, sometime in the late 1980s, Vidme the writer stood in front of a picture by Lars Hertervig the painter, and then and there on a rainy morning in Oslo Vidme the writer had the greatest experience of his life. Yes, that's what he thought. The greatest experience of his life.


(Fra Borgøya, 1867)

This third section divides views - Fosse's own literary agency quotes Publisher's Weekly's description of it as a "brief and less satisfying coda", where in contrast's Damion Seals decision to originally not translate Melancholia II was because he felt this third section was a “wonderfully satisfying ending.” I'm with Searls, and there are clear forward nods to the Septology, particularly in the closing words when the sympathetic pastor has told Vidme that he may be too 'mystic' for the conservative protestant church:

he will just sit here, in his study, sit here year in and year out, he will just sit here and write and now May God have mercy on him, now may God have mercy so he can write. Now he needs to be able to write. He sits there, Vidme the writer, and thinks. Now may God have mercy on him so that he can write.

Melancholy II is set in 1902, shortly after the artist's death and is told from the perspective of his (I think fictional) older sister Oline, looking back on his life and their childhood, with parts narrated while she sits in the outhouse, and while her sister-in-law tries to persuade her to visit another, younger, brother who is dying that day. This ultimately is a moving, if scatalogical, meditation on ageing and, as Searls observes, may be the first time Fosse used his technique of time slippage in a character's memories:

and Oline realizes that her breath is calm and Oline really has to answer when Alida's talking to her and her breath is so calm, Oline realizes, and she suddenly feels so infinitely relaxed and so infinitely calm and then she sees the fish eyes open and she sees light come out of the fish eyes and from Lars's picture and she's never felt this calm before and she slumps against the wall, Oline sits with her head resting against the wall and she feels that now something's coming out down there and then it's just these fish eyes and then this calm light

Read after the Septology it's hard not to see the echoes in the later work, indeed this and Aliss at the Fire, also re-released recently by Fitzcarraldo, were both seen as milestone works by Fosse at the time, but the Septology arguably combines the best of both. Aliss at the Fire is also an easier gateway work.

Nevertheless a very strong work in its own right and recommended.

[Ivana Balnožan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Edit: Ova knjiga je sve bolja što više vremena prolazi.

“Slikaću dok tvoja slika ne iščezne.”
Bogamiii, 4.5⭐️

[Cláudia Azevedo · Rating 1 out of 5]

Esta leitura correu francamente mal. Ler os pensamentos e a experiência de pessoas com doenças mentais graves é muito angustiante. Funcionaria, para mim, como literatura médica, não como ficção. Mas compreendo a necessidade de dar uma voz a estes problemas.

[Petra Jovanović · Rating 5 out of 5]

K a k o je moćna! Bukvalno mi se vrti u glavi.

"Ja sam moja čežnja za tobom."
"Slikaću dok tvoja slika ne iščezne."

[Grazia · Rating 5 out of 5]

"[..]è l’arte a legittimare la letteratura, non la storia."(*)

Un pittore (realmente esisito), Hertervig, malato psichiatrico, sofferente di Melancolia connesso virtualmente con uno scrittore, frutto di fantasia ma che rappresenta l'alter ego dello scrittore.

Pittore e scrittore in comunione divina per il tramite dell'arte. Le nuvole di Hertervig che si riverberano nelle parole dello scrittore, che guardando le stesse, prova la sensazione di essere in contatto col divino o con la sensazione di percepire il senso ultimo della vita.


"un romanzo costituisce ha qualcosa a che fare con il divino"

Nuvole come le parole della prosa di Fosse, che, viaggiando ellittiche, come in una danza o come una musica, iterano sempre la stessa melodia. Che ritorna e ritorna ancora, ossessiva sempre sullo stesso concetto.


"Non è sul disturbo psicotico che Jon Fosse vuole scrivere, bensì dall’interno di esso."(*)

L'oscurità che blocca qualsiasi azione. Il nero che comunque è illuminato da una luce. E questa luce non è che l'arte.


"È nero nello stesso modo in cui Lars è nero. Il buio è lo stesso. Si tratta di un buio che non è morto, ma che luccica, un buio luminoso, come dire."

E poi c'è la vita che finisce.

Sicuramente un libro che è un'opera d'arte, per composizione e forma. Anche in questo caso la storia è ininfluente, anche perché praticamente inesistente.

Non per tutti.

Per affrontarlo occorrono tempo e testa (nel senso di alta concentrazione durante la lettura).

(*) Dalla postfazione di Cristina Falcinella

[Nathanimal · Rating 5 out of 5]

To: Nate "Nathanimal" G[REDACTED]
From: Vice President, Joe Biden

Nate,

How's it going? I've been poking around your gmail account (don't worry, just routine stuff) and I noticed you've been emailing the Norwegian government trying to apply for citizenship. The Norwegians are super folks, don't get me wrong, had some great haddock over there (and I'm not even a fish guy!) but what's up with you trying to leave? Something wrong with the good ol' you ess of eh?

Best,
V.P Joe Biden

To: Vice President, Joe Biden
From: Nate "Nathanimal" G[REDACTED]

Vice President Biden,

With all due respect, please stop going through my emails. It's creepy enough when Google does it.

If you must know, I've just finished a book by Jon Fosse called *Melancholy* printed by Dalkey Archive Press, in which a young landscape artist goes nuts. I died for this book. Then in the "about the author" in the back of the book I read this: "Fosse was awarded a lifetime stipend from the Norwegian government for his future literary efforts." Did you hear that? All his FUTURE literary efforts. The guy could do nothing but write his name with puff-paint pens for the rest of his life, he's covered.

I'm just really impressed with the Norwegians for rewarding this book the way they have. I mean, by endorsing it they are basically allowing the demented artist who narrates this book (and who is an actual beloved and famous Norwegian painter) to be their ambassador to the world. I might also mention that he spends a good amount of time touching himself.

What I'm saying is I dig the Norwegian's style. And style is often more important than people give it credit for. I might point out that all that stuck in the national memory from your last veep debate was you saying things like "malarkey" and "that's just a buncha stuff!" whereas the voice of this book will remain forever like a sliver in my soul.

Best,
Nate

[Marcello S · Rating 5 out of 5]

Raccontare la scrittura di Fosse è complicato tanto quanto è facile riconoscerla. È una prosa lenta, circolare, con un uso della ripetizione quasi esasperante; musicale, che scava su continue variazioni di uno stesso tema; ricercata nella forma quanto apparentemente semplice nel lessico; dove la narrazione scorre passando dai dialoghi minimali al flusso di pensieri incontrollati, mischiando piani spaziali e temporali.
Qui si narrano le vicende del pittore paesaggista norvegese Lars Hertervig attraverso un vago frammento della sua vita. Figura ipersensibile, inquieta, monomaniacale, al limite della malattia mentale; afflitto da visioni soffocanti, incline ai sogni ad occhi aperti, scollato dalla realtà.

Un romanzo che è puro stile.
Purtroppo introvabile.

[81/100]


Cristina Falcinella, la traduttrice, si chiede nella postfazione:
Fino a che punto la lingua italiana può tollerare un impianto linguistico reiterativo nell'essenza, la violenza e le consistenze eteree di tanta parsimonia lessicale? Come condurre da quel mondo al nostro le intenzioni suggerite da una lingua abituata a ritmare i silenzi? Come tradurre chi dice l'indicibile?

[Hux · Rating 3 out of 5]

The fictionalised account of a real person's life, Lars Hertervig (1830 - 1902), a Norwegian painter who experienced mental health issues in his life and was placed in an asylum for many years. The book begins in 1853 with Lars living in Dusseldorf as a painter and he is enamoured with his landlady's daughter, Helene. He is told he must pack his bags and leave. Then we jump to 1856 and his time at the asylum. Then we jump to 1991 and follow a character called Vidme. Then part II concludes in 1902 with his elderly sister reminiscing about Lars not long after his death.

The only interesting part of the book was the stuff focusing on Lars himself and listening to his first person narration as he descended deeper into mania and madness was curious to say the least. The other chapters didn't really offer me much especially the contemporary one though I did enjoy some aspects of the ending with his elderly sister as she repeatedly shat herself (always a good metaphor for life). The book is a good exploration of mental decline and paranoia. But the method used isn't entirely without its flaws. The style of writing Fosse uses to convey this mental breakdown is effective but it's also somewhat tedious to read. And while he can justify it as an example of the racing, untethered thoughts which consume Lars, it doesn't entirely explain why he uses it in other circumstances. After a while, I was immensely bored with it. Imagine a sentence like: 'I went to the shop to buy some bread.' Well, here's how Fosse would give it to you...

"I went to the shop to buy some bread. I went to the shop. To buy some bread. Yes, I Lars Hertervig went to the shop. For some bread. To buy some bread. I went to the shop. I did not have any bread so went to the shop. Yes, I, Lars Hertervig, went to the shop. I walked to the shop, I walked down the street. To buy some bread. I walked to the shop. I needed to buy some bread. I needed to go to the shop. To the shop. What would I do without bread? I needed bread. So I went to the shop. To buy some bread. Yes, I went to the shop to buy some bread. Yes I, Lars. Lars Hertervig needed bread and so I went to the shop. I went to the shop. I went to the shop for bread. To buy some bread."

If that's your idea of exquisite prose then good luck to you. To me, it's merely an effective method for demonstrating a man's mental state and rapid descent into mania and racing (often intrusive) thoughts. But again, even when we're no longer in the head of Lars, we still get this style all the way through the book. I can't speak for the original Norwegian but the English translation is prosaic and obvious, lacking in anything that might be described as inventive or creative language. It's all very basic stuff. But apparently if you keep repeating a sentence, you're producing ground-breaking literature. Who knew? Anyway, the book (especially the first two parts) was pretty compelling but the novelty (and let's not kid ourselves, that's what it was... a novelty) soon wears off.

I was intrigued enough to read more of his work but this was a very performative and uninspired start.

[SusanneH · Rating 3 out of 5]

Dieses Buch zu bewerten fällt mir gerade richtig schwer.
Die Erzählweise und Sprache hat etwas und ich will auf jeden Fall noch was von diesem Autor lesen, aber ich finde die ist Geschichte nicht fertig erzählt.

[Reyer · Rating 4 out of 5]

From the first page, it was clear to me what the jury of the Nobel Prize for Literature saw in Jon Fosse (b. 1959). The Norwegian author has an extraordinary ability to get under the skin of people with troubled minds. In the first part of Melancholy, published in 1995, Fosse writes from the perspective of Lars Hertervig, a young Norwegian landscape painter who lived from 1830 to 1902. While the narrative is fictitious, events are loosely based on Hertervig’s life.

Fosse’s Hertervig is as endearing as he is grim. Reality appears blurred through the twists and turns of his thoughts, which are obsessive about authority and women. As Fosse drip-feeds new information, immersing his character’s mind in repetition, the truth behind Hertervig’s love for his ‘darling’ Helene is only gradually revealed. In addition, Hertervig is far from a consistent narrator, often shifting his opinions.

I am the young Norwegian painter, Lars Hertervig, one of the greatest talents in contemporary Norwegian art, that’s what I am! because I am a great talent. I can really paint. And I’m afraid to hear what Gude says about my picture. Because really, can I paint? I can, it must be true, right? Is there anyone better at painting than me? Maybe I’m even better at painting than Gude, and that’s why Gude wants to tell me I can’t paint? Gude is going to tell me I can’t paint and so I have to go back to Stavanger, I have no business at the Academy of Art, neither this Academy of Art nor any other, that’s what he’ll say, so, he’ll say, I should paint doors, not pictures.

Authority is initially embodied by Hertervig’s teacher, Hans Gude; in the second chapter – set in a psychiatric hospital in Oslo – he is replaced by Dr Sandberg. Compared to the first chapter, I found this one much weaker. This is even more true of the third chapter, which is set in 1991 and told from the perspective of a writer, likely a reflection of Fosse himself.

In 1996, Fosse published a sequel, Melancholy II. I found it a compelling counterpart to the first chapter, as this time the author writes from the perspective of an elderly woman suffering from memory loss, while returning to the theme of authority. The sequel is set in 1902, when Hertervig is already deceased and his fictitious sister Oline is meant to visit the deathbed of another brother, but instead loses herself in her thoughts about Hertervig. Not only is this external perspective welcome, I found the scene in which Oline speaks to her brother’s body hilarious.

Fosse is a master at depicting troubled minds. One novel that came to mind as I read was Cliënt E. Busken (Dutch) by Jeroen Brouwers, because of its narrative approach. It’s hard not to love poor Hertervig, despite his unpleasant traits, and despite the fact that the novel can become tedious at times.

[Matthew Ted · Rating 4 out of 5]

As I said in an early update: Fosse on steroids. Although this is 'early' Fosse, his style seems extreme in these two novels, fictionalising the life of Norwegian painter Lars Hertervig (1830-1902), compared to his later works. He is attempting to capture Hertervig's madness. The second part of Melancholy I opens like this,

the seagulls are calling. And the seagulls should call, because then everything is all right. When I can't sleep, I like that the seagulls are calling. I want the seagulls to call. And I see the seagulls float across the sky, then they drop straight down, to the surface of the water, beak first, and then the seagulls float slowly up again towards the clouds. I can't sleep. And when I can't sleep, it's good that the seagulls are calling, if I open my eyes I can't see anything and I hear the seagulls call and I see the seagulls float slowly up or down through the sky. I can't sleep. I am lying in bed in the ward, in the sixth bed, counting from the door, and I can't sleep. And to my right in the row of beds are two more beds. The seagulls are calling. I can't sleep and so the seagulls need to call. Now the seagulls are calling. One segull calls, lots of seagulls call.

Etc., etc.; it continues in that way for another page or so. Maddening, and I suppose if you are not used to Fosse's novels (in some ways, they are all the same), decidedly pointless and stupid. Countless reviews say as much. But, like with his other novels, gradually his repetitive sentences begin to follow the contours of the mind. So little happens but we see the breakdown of Lars Hertervig's mind. The whole first part (nearly 200 pages) consists of Hertervig leaving his rental property, going to the pub, going back to the rental property, going back to the pub, before going back to the rental property, only to leave again. Somehow, Fosse fills 200 pages this way. Even the plot is as repetitive and looping as the sentences. Not everything focusses on Hertervig, though, and in fact, Melancholy II is set after his death, and instead focuses on his fictional sister.

Damion Searls, Fosse's translator, calls Melancholy a watershed moment in Fosse's writing ('It also marks the first time Fosse uses his mature technique of having a character's thoughts slip into and out of different time frames'), but I prefer the slightly more refined Fosse of Septology. At times, Hertervig's madness was truly maddening to read, beyond any sense, repeating the same refrain, such as the seagulls calling, for pages at a time. So although I can appreciate what Fosse was capturing (and in a way, he does so successfully), it is not always pleasant to read. Of course, he still writes that way now, but it feels slightly less uncontrolled here. Yet, like with his other books, you get into a rhythm; sometimes it is hard to put him down, even when a character is simply going from one place to another and back again. When seemingly, nothing is happening. I was very pleased when he won the Nobel Prize, and I have Vaim, his first post-Nobel novel, on the bookcase behind me.

[Jean Ra · Rating 3 out of 5]

Prosa beckettiana, de flujo de conciencia que crea anillos y ciclos de frases y motivos, reiteraciones que plasman los nudos mentales de Lars, su protagonista, un pintor dotado y sin embargo envuelto en las mezquindades del mundo material: caseros displicentes, compañeros de profesión mezquinos y un enamoramiento sumamente peliagudo -incluso incómodo- por una adolescente.

La primera aborda un día de 1853 de este pintor noruego en Düsseldorf, después ya salta al encierro de Lars en el sanatorio, absolutamente desquiciado; y en la tercera un escritor, posible trasunto del mismo Fosse, queda deslumbrado por las pinturas de Hertervig en la galería nacional noruega y queda inspirado, decide escribir sobre él, aunque primero necesita aclarar ciertas dudas religiosas.

En el segundo libro, en España editados conjuntamente, aborda la vida de una de las hermanas de Lars, en 1902, en Noruega. La prosa también reincide en algunas repeticiones, aunque más suavizadas, y aborda a su vez un día en la triste vida de esta señora, ya mayor y castigada por la edad, que en algunos fragmentos también permite contemplar al pintor Lars desde otra perspectiva. Su virtud no es el arte, si no algo más evanescente o transitorio: el amor, que sólo existe mientras ella exista y no cuenta con la inmortalidad de una obra de arte. Esa falta, es compensada por Jon Fosse mediante su escritura, él es encargado de dar voz a esta persona, más anónima que su hermano Lars.

Es curioso el punto dónde se sitúa la novela. Habla de Lars Hertervig, una persona real, un pintor de quien podemos consultar en línea algunos de sus cuadros, pero la novela apenas toma unos pocos datos y hechos puntuales de la vida y el tiempo de Hertervig, concentrando su esfuerzo en esa escritura obsesiva, frases sencillas reiteradas en ciclos intermitentes, incidiendo más en el trabajo de la imaginación del escritor que no en documentar el tiempo del pintor. La conclusión que saco yo es que Fosse quiere remitirnos a las pinturas de Lars Hertervig, que comprobemos que efectivamente tienen un poder y una gracia notables, un juicio fuera de la novela. Han de suponer la prueba física de ese virtuosismo pictórico, el fruto luminoso de una vida está envuelta en un mar de miseria y desesperación, como de ese clima opresivo y desasosegante surge una obra brillante y conmovedora. Conocida son las creencias religiosas de Fosse, que en pleno XXI se declara católico, aunque su escritura es de todo menos beata o pacata, sólo busca la forma de representar de forma literaria lo que se puede entender como la gracia.

Cuando comprendes las elecciones formales del estilo de Fosse y su método en verdad resulta emocionante. Lástima que tras más de trescientas páginas hay momentos en los que esos nudos retóricos, carentes de avances narrativos, desgastan y ese contacto con la gracia se agota como una fuente en Agosto. Aún y así, un buen libro que plasman el amor y la pintura como sinónimos de la virtud y la gracia, envueltos en las miserias terrenales que lo emponzoñan y lo desfiguran hasta su destrucción. Si una novela se titula Melancolía es de turulatos esperar un derroche de alegría y jolgorio.

[Meltem Sağlam · Rating 4 out of 5]

Çok uzun, çok üzüntülü bir hikaye. Yazarın okuduğum iki kitabı (Sabahtan Akşama ve Üçleme) gibi, insanın içine işleyen bir anlatım.

İlk iki kitabı ile yazarın diline ve üslubuna alışmış saysam da kendimi, zaman zaman zor bir okuma olduğunu söylemek isterim.

Kurduğu kalıp cümleleri, yeni betimlemeler ekleyerek, sayısız defalar tekrarladığı -ve beni zorlayan- bölümlerin amacını anlamaya çalışıyorum. Kitapta, ana karakterin yaşam süresi içerisinde yaşananların anlatıldığı dönemler dışında, iki ayrı dönemin anlatıldığı bölümler yer almakta. Ve bu bölümlerde de aynı anlatım tarzı devam ediyor. Amaç, basit bir mantıkla ulaşılabilen basit bir amaç mı, yoksa metin, Nobel Ödülü kazanmış bir yazarın hedeflediği daha derin anlamlar mi içermekte?

Kitapta, çeviri yapan tarafından işaret edilmiş ve edilmemiş bazı isimlendirme farklılıkları olduğu tespit edilebiliyor. Yazarın hatası mı, amacı mı, yoksa basım hatası mı olduğu anlaşılmıyor.

Büyük bir ressamın hayatından kısa bir dönem ile, kesintilerle anlatılan çocukluk ve gençlik dönemlerini içeren bir roman olması nedeniyle, 350 sayfalık bu kitabı sabırla okudum, sizin de okumanızı, fakat yazarı okumaya, yazarın bu kitabından başlamamanızı öneririm.

[Théo d'Or]

I think what sets Melancholy apart is Fosse's masterful approach to time and narrative. The novel unfolds through a fragmented structure, mirroring the disjointed nature of memory, and the fractured state of the mind affected by melancholia. Fosse confronts the existential abyss with unflinching honesty, he actually holds up a mirror, urging the reader to gaze into the abyss, hoping that, in doing so, he may glimpse a flicker of transcendence amidst the darkness. Several times he reminded me of Julian Barnes' approaches, so intense in sensitivity, although his dialogue tends to be quite minimalistic. His plots may jump back and forth in time, weaving together various threads of his characters' lives, this technique heightens the sense of ambiguity and reflects the fragmented nature of memory and human thought. I think this is what sets his work apart, and leaves a lasting impression on readers. At least, on me.

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

I always thought that Tarjei Vesaas would have been worthy of the Nobel Prize in Literature, and there is something about Fosse that brought Vesaas to mind, even though Vesaas wrote in a simple spare prose, whilst Fosse is more of a challenge, there was just something there. Unlike the crazy choice of Bob Dylan, or when I frowned in puzzlement at the award going to Elfriede Jelinek, It's good to see Norwegian Fosse get this prize which, only going off this one book, I can see why theNobel Committee looked to Fosse. Whilst there is an element of Thomas Bernhard--esque repetitiveness in the narrative, I felt it worked to good effect as it's like Fosse is painting poetic brushstrokes back and forward; building layers of delicate variance each time, to create an intensely deep landscape of Lars Hertervig's breakdown. Some gorgeous passages of writing here, and it felt the perfect book to sink into as the nights are drawing in. I cant say I was familiar with Lars Hertervig but it didn't really matter. I can clearly see that a lot of thought has gone into this book, and whilst some my find it rather dull, I thought it a very powerful read.

[thefogweaver · Rating 4 out of 5]

Jun Fose je ovogodisnji dobitnik Nobelove nagrade za knjizevnost, a evo i sta ja imam da kazem o “Melanholiji”, u par teza:

•Melanholija je kod Fosea opipljiva, mozete da je dodirnite ili zagrlite, ona je sveprozimajuce zivo bice koji udise i izdise, po potrebi.

•Repeticija, gotovo automatsko ponavljanje reci, recenica i misli doprinosi brutalnom razotkrivanju, prvo piscevog ludila, zatim Vidmeovu zbunjenost, a potom i Ulinu apaticnost i patolosko stanje.

•Skoro svi likovi u ovom romani zavrsavaju tragicno, njihov poslednji jauk (eufemizam, kako da ne!) toliko je glasan, cucete ga i dok se budete najsrecnije smejali.

•Svi moramo negde da budemo, a Las Hertervig je u Gaustadskom azilu, Vidme je kod mlade svestenice sa bujnim grudima, a Uline skoncava u klozetu nadomak mora, sa uprljanim gacama.

Svi moramo negde da budemo, dabome.

[Akvile Melkūnaitė · Rating 4 out of 5]

Kiek stipri, tiek pat sunki knyga, tik todėl dedu 4 žvaigždutes, kad tokia sunkiasvorė.
Apie beprotybę beprotybę su humoru apie senatvę; kodėl melancholija?
Žodynas: melanchòlija (gr. melas, kilm. melanos – juodas + cholē – tulžis), būsena, pasireiškianti bendra liūdna savijauta, entuziazmo, nuotaikos, energijos stoka, apatija.
Taip įtaigiai toji juoda tulžis sunkiasi, taip monotoniškai, ritmingai, ir trūkčiojančiai kapsi, kad prasiskverbia iki kaulų ir - gelia.
Kai Olinė kopdama į kalną laukė, kol gyvenimas (dėl kojų gėlos) bus "livable again", taip laukiau knygos pabaigos, kur sušvinta "calm light", pabaigos kaina.
Gėla vienas, gėla du, gėla trys... Tikra gėlos gėlė.
J. Fosse nuostabus gėlininkas.

[Miroslav Maričić · Rating 5 out of 5]

„Ја морам да сликам, јер ако не сликам, нема ничега. Нема светлости,. Нема ничега. Само змије има. Ничег другог.“

Меланхолија је, бар док не прочитам Септологију, оставила најјачи утисак на мене од свих књига које сам прочитао од Фосеа. У питању је биографска прича о норвешком сликару Лашу Хертервигу, мени непознатом, али уколико прочитате историјске податке везане за њега, видећете колико је фантастичан посао урадио писац овог дела, али ћете видети и то фантастично осликано небо изнад немирних норвешких фјордова. Књига је испрва написана у два дела, али је на препоруку Фосеа, два дела Меланхолије потребно гледати као на јединствено дело, али наслов Меланхолија 1 и 2 је остао. У делу Меланхолија 1 сликар је описан са два историјска места битна за његов живот, Дизелдорф где је студирао сликарство и ставангерско лечилиште за душевне болести. У првом делу се налази и део који описује први покушај биографске реконструкције живота сликара Лаша од стране непознатог писца Видмеа и његово истраживање на местима где је сликар живео и стварао. Текст који се бави животом сликара у Дизелдорфу у потпуности је презентован на начин човека који има душевну болест. Мисли, говор, понављање увек истих делова мисли како би се један догађај описао доводе до непријатних осећања код читаоца, баш као у случајевима када испред себе имате особу која не влада у потпуности својим мислима. Сликар је заљубљен у девојчицу од петнаест лета, ћерку својих станодаваца, он ту своју маничну опсесију преноси на околину, која у виду колега са класе, користи и исмева уметника. Комбинација љубавне маније са халуцинацијама и паранојом која мене подсећа на шизофрена цепања, доводи до тога да сам сликар у неким ситуацијама не зна шта је стварност, а шта збиља, и да ли је сва Хеленина љубав коју он представља околини у ствари истина или измишљотина. Напетост у мозгу сликара представљена је, као што сам већ поменуо, узастопним понављањем истих делова реченице, на много различитих начина, што изазива нелагоду и на прави начин нас упућује како је у ствари у тим тренуцима било и сликару, али и околини која се у том тренутку налазила покрај њега. Недостатак чврстог породичног окружења још више појачава његову болест која се истицала још у детињству, а недостатак људи који би без подсмеха реаговали на маничност сликара још више појачава његову изгубљеност и мешање реалности и имагинације. Све су то били сликари који не знају да сликају, осим Тидемана, он је како каже Лаш једини уз њега умео да слика.
У другом делу на сцени је ставангерско лечилиште, дубоко у природи, без додира са спољним светом. Лечилиште ради на принципу физичког напора и лечења медикаментима, али болест Фосеовог сликара не јењава. Његов проблем је Хелен и замишљање Хелен, уз стално мастурбирање, које је по речима његовог лекара све оно што је лоше код сликара, тачније једино лоше, то је и узрок и последица и њему заправо замишљање женског тела и константно додиривање себе заправо изазива душевну бол и параноју. Могуће је и то, знам пар људи којима је жена помутила мозак, али да то буде узрок психичке болести и за инквизицију представља лудост. И заиста у историјским чињеницама наводи се да је сликар полудео због Хелене и претеране мастурбације. Овај део је написан другачијим стилом од првог дела, без толико понављања и сам сликар изгледа смиреније, а једина напетост изражава се у недостатку сликарског алата који толико недостаје нашем сликару.

„Чујем галебове. Видим галебове. Лежим и гледам како галебови лагано лете на небу, а онда се спуштају, у наглом паду, ка води, и након дугог пада зарањају кљун у воду, и онда галебови поново узлећу ка небу са нечим у кљуну, нечим што нестане у трену. Увек видим галебове. И хоћу да увек видим галебове. Нећу да видим облаке, ни чамце, ни људе, само хоћу да видим галебове, велика јата галебова хоћу да видим, и трудим се колико могу да само галебове видим, док седе на стенама, док лете на небу, док се обрушавају и хватају нешто за јело. Хоћу да видим галебове. Видим галебове. Чујем галебове.“

Меланхолија 2 је заправо прича коју нам прича сликарева измишљена сестра Улин. У питању је дементна особа која заправо не може да оцени шта су сећања, а шта стварност. Она у том свом лимбу прича причу о свом детињству са Лашом и својом породицом, али и причу о норвешкој стварности пре проналаска нафте и богатства, причу о рибарењу, фјордовима, хладноћи и генерално о старим особама о којима се нико не брине него лутају дементни по стазама своје стварности. Упечатљиво је описивање сликаревог детињства где он угаљ меша са водом и на комадима дрвета скицира своју околину, фјордове, море, небо. Његово детињство, његово задовољство огледа се у томе да одлута од куће, на места где нико не зна где је, да ради оно што воли и да се после одређеног времена враћа. Описан је и траг зачетка болести сликара, као и лудило које се манифестује и у генетском наслеђу преко оца. У сам текст описана је и квекерска стварност сликареве породице, а пошто ни сам нисам знао ко су квекери и то сам прелистао, тако да је ова књига послужила и као одлична подлога се упознам са неким новим сазнањима. Меланхолија је дивно дело, вишеслојно, паметно и оригинално, од мене огромна препорука, а од Септологије сада само очекујем још више.

„Црна је на исти начин на који јe и Лаш црн. Мрак је исти. То је мрак који није мртав, већ који светли, то је светли мрак, некако. “

[Héctor Genta · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Penso che Lars è come il mare e il cielo, sempre cambia, dalla luce al buio, dal bianco al nero più nero.”

Melancholia è un dittico che ruota attorno alla figura di Lars Hertervig, paesaggista norvegese dell’Ottocento.
La prima parte del primo libro (quella principale) è focalizzata su un solo giorno nella vita del pittore, quello che rappresenta il punto di rottura, l’istante di non ritorno, il momento in cui la pazzia del protagonista si rende manifesta.
Una delusione amorosa è il primum movens della pazzia del protagonista (pazzia che, come scopriremo più avanti, era già in fieri ed aspettava solo di essere messa in moto), personaggio in bilico tra la convinzione di essere un grande pittore (“io so dipingere. Anche Gude sa dipingere. E pure Tidemann sa dipingere. Io so dipingere. Nessuno sa dipingere come me, solo Gude. E poi Tidemann.”) e la paura di sottoporsi al giudizio del suo maestro, che lo spinge a non presentarsi quella mattina all’Accademia delle Belle Arti per il timore che il suo quadro possa non piacere. Un personaggio senza equilibrio quindi, pericolosamente sospeso tra due assoluti (il cielo e la polvere), incapace di gestire i rapporti interpersonali, perché confonde i suoi pensieri con la realtà e non comprendendo ciò che lo circonda cerca rifugio nei ricordi e nelle allucinazioni condannandosi all’inazione.
Fosse dimostra di aver studiato a fondo la schizofrenia, perché nella figura di Hertervig che tratteggia ci sono tutte le caratteristiche della malattia: la vulnerabilità, la confusione spazio-temporale, la paranoia, le allucinazioni uditive e visive (“le vesti bianche e nere”), il rifugio in movimenti stereotipati auto-consolatori (“ E mi premo le mani contro la faccia, e comincio a dondolarmi con il busto, faccio dondolare il busto da un lato all’altro”)…
Originalissima la scelta dell’autore di raccontare Hertervig in prima persona e soprattutto di farlo dal punto di vista della malattia, la schizofrenia, che Fosse cerca di restituirci attraverso un corpo a corpo con la scrittura difficile da seguire, a tratti fastidioso, caratterizzato da frasi brevi e ripetizioni continue, pensieri e parole che il protagonista rimastica ossessivamente con l’intento di convincersi della veridicità dei suoi ragionamenti e finendo invece con il precipitarci dentro affondando sempre di più nella malattia. Sorprendentemente la scrittura con cui lo scrittore norvegese cerca di riprodurre la schizofrenia del protagonista, mostra anche parecchi tratti in comune con la pittura: le reiterazioni, i tentativi di definire, precisare, raccontare da capo quasi ininterrottamente, sembrano altrettante pennellate, strati su strati di colore, colate materiche versate sulla tela nel tentativo di riprodurre quella luce che in un gioco di rimandi sembra ossessionare tanto l’Hertervig del libro quanto l’Hertervig pittore, almeno a giudicare dai suoi quadri (Borgoya, uno dei principali, appare nella copertina del volume). La luce quindi come centro del libro proprio perché centro del dramma del protagonista, luce che vede provenire dagli occhi della sua amata e che lui sente essere la stessa luce verso la quale tendono i suoi dipinti e nella quale riesce ad entrare nei momenti, quasi mistici, di ispirazione.
“Io so dipingere, - dice ad un certo punto – perché infatti io so vedere, sì, io vedo tutto e vedo quello che altri non possono vedere e per questo so dipingere”. Ma più avanti aggiunge: “Vedo troppo. Vedo troppo per poter dipingere.”.

Una postilla, solo per aggiungere che purtroppo questo libro è costellato da un numero di refusi ed errori (soprattutto negli a capo) inusuale e piuttosto fastidioso.

[Li'l Vishnu · Rating 4 out of 5]

I am only a turning toward you. I am walking. I am walking to you, I am a turning toward you. I am my longing for you. I am only a turning toward you. I am walking. I am walking to you. I can't do anything else, I can only be a movement turned toward you, whether you're there or not. All I am is a movement toward you. A movement, a turning, toward you.
— p. 97

This is the area before we form cohesive thoughts. This is all of those fragments. Not just the fragments of a lunatic. Not just the rantings. This is where we all inhabit. Primitive fragments, repetitive. The loops we are stuck in. The stories we retell ourselves. The images we revisit, again and again, without meaning. The symbols we tie together to compose us. The things we think before we know what we are thinking. And before we know our mood. Or before we have experienced anything yet. Or before we grasp meaning.

And yet, to read this grasping, to walk through the details of the details, this is thought cruelly slowed—or, at times, sped up—to become stilted and maddening. Here I was reading and struggling to think in parallel to Lars Hertervig—which only fascinated me, how most of the time we are idly reading these plots, as if it was a slender tape travelling through our mind, idly considering it and reading it, plunking into imagery and then recoiling to examine it, fully within it, but sitting and pondering within it—but how do we ponder inside someone else's complete thoughts? It takes up all the space—either I do or he does. It grinds the mind down to a halt. We are in a scene walking across the snow and there is nothing to do but walk across the snow, to examine the footprints, to see the shovelers, the snow, the footprints, the snow, the snow, the snow—it leaves nowhere to go but into his thoughts.

A great work of realist stream of consciousness—perhaps the absolute pinnacle. There were times when I was Lars Hertervig. I struggled. But then, when I didn't, we coalesced.

[endrju · Rating 3 out of 5]

The second Fosse's novel I've read and I'm still not convinced. The feverish, recursive style works perfectly in imagining what an experience of a mad individual may look like, but using the same style with slight variations for all characters? It gets tiresome, not to mention that it stops working after awhile. It flattens everything so there might as well be just a single text about anything. I'm not giving up though, will get to Septology at one point, just not any time soon. I need a bit of a rest from faux stream-of-consciousness about Norwegian Protestantism.

[Nataša]

Bome dobro je što pročitah Melanholiju pre odlaska na more - nakon jednog letovanja sa Foknerom, imadoh traume kada je tok svesti u pitanju.

Međutim, sada ne beše mučno (osam godina kasnije, kanda sazrevam). Čitanje je nekako baš lagano teklo, iako štivo nije relaksirajuće...da ne kažem plažno; čak mi je Laš bio mio u tom svom ludilu i ni najmanje naporan.
Sva ta silna ponavljanja koliko god da su išla u nedogled, učinila su da pojedine rečenice ostave prilično jak utisak.

Šta znam, iako ovo nije nešto što bih čitala svakodnevno, mogu reći da mi se generalno dopalo.

[G. Munckel · Rating 3 out of 5]

Cada página de este libro es un atentado contra la economía de lenguaje, pero esa es su propuesta, una mezcla extraña entre virtud y carga. El flujo de conciencia de Fosse está saturado de repeticiones constantes, así que leerlo se hace exasperante por momentos, pero a la vez resulta una forma muy interesante de meterse en la mente desequilibrada de su protagonista: el pintor noruego Lars Hertervig.

Melancolía I consta de tres capítulos: el primero es sobre la tarde en que se desencadena la esquizofrenia de Hertervig, cuando lo echan de su hospedaje en Alemania; el segundo es sobre la mañana de Nochebuena en que decide abandonar el sanatorio donde estaba internado, y el tercero transcurre muchos años después de su muerte y se enfoca en Vidme, un escritor que quiere empezar una novela sobre Hertervig. Pero hay algo en esta primera novela no termina de convencerme: es tan repetitiva que me desesperaba y sigo sin entender su punto.

Melancolía II, en cambio, me resultó más consistente e interesante. En este caso, la protagonista es Oline, una campesina anciana y hermana de Lars Hertervig. Es una historia desgarradora sobre las penurias de la vejez, cuando el cuerpo y la mente empiezan a traicionarla. La memoria de Oline es borrosa y olvida lo que acaba de hacer o tiene que hacer. Su presente se desdibuja con frecuencia y se mezcla con recuerdos de su hermano: los primeros dibujos con carbón diluido de su juventud y su posterior locura, que lo convirtió en un hombre iracundo y melancólico.

[PaperBird]

Impressions here: https://youtu.be/m095uJzoV4Y