The Robber

by Robert Walser, Susan Bernofsky

The Robber, Robert Walser’s last novel, tells the story of a dreamer on a journey of self-discovery. It is a hybrid of love story, tragedy, and farce, with a protagonist who sweet-talks teaspoons, flirts with important politicians, plays maidservant to young boys, and uses a passerby’s mouth as an ashtray. Walser’s novel spoofs the stiff-upper-lipped European petit bourgeois and its nervous reactions to whatever threatens the stability of its worldview.

Genres: Fiction, German Literature, Classics, Novels, Literature, Roman, Germany

141 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1925

About the author

Robert Walser, a German-Swiss prose writer and novelist, enjoyed high repute among a select group of authors and critics in Berlin early in his career, only to become nearly forgotten by the time he committed himself to the Waldau mental clinic in Bern in January 1929. Since his death in 1956, however, Walser has been recognized as German Switzerland’s leading author of the first half of the twentieth century, perhaps Switzerland’s single significant modernist. In his homeland he has served as an emboldening exemplar and a national classic during the unparalleled expansion of German-Swiss literature of the last two generations.

Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Although the narrator all the way through the novel remains anonymous behind this anonymity hides the author himself and the robber of the title is his inner self and his alter ego…

Many a girl took his great, unhappy destiny very much to heart, for even from a distance his affliction showed. When he was with others, his eyes tended to flutter, flicker like wind-worried lights, stillness stirred by a breath of air.

The robber… He steals sympathy of others… Filches beauty of the views… Purloins love…
He pilfers paradoxes of life…

The virtuous are vexed by their own ceaseless virtue. A person must have been bad to feel a longing for good. And he must have experienced a life of disorder to desire order in his life. Thus from orderliness comes disorder, from virtue vice, from taciturnity speech, from lies honesty, from the latter the former, and both the world and the life of our attributes are round, are they not…

The circle is the most ideal form therefore everything in the universe moves in circles.

[William2 · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is the story of an ecstatic. The Robber, who enjoys life about as much as anyone possibly can, even when he suffers. Set in Switzerland in the early 1920s, he is forever moving between elation over this wonderful world, and despair over the fickle indifference of his great love, Edith. He tries to assuage his disappointment with liaisons with other women, but to no avail. This third-person narrative alternates with a first-person intrusive narrator who upbraids Edith for her indifference to The Robber and sounds off on any number of peripheral matters in a seemingly offhand if not random fashion. These "arabesques," as W.G. Sebald calls them, might also be thought of as a kind of ur-magic realism. As if that weren't enough, late in the text it is announced by the author that he and The Robber have teamed up to create the present text. This reader was reminded of Herman Melville's Pierre: or, the Ambiguities, though it should be said that The Robber is a laugh riot compared to that formal novel and far more, indeed almost obsessively, discursive.

[Sinem A. · Rating 5 out of 5]

yazarın anlatımı, romanının karakteri ve okuyucusu ile ilişkisinin naifliği , seçtiği kelimelerle kurduğu cümlelerle hissettirdikleri..
Bir de kitabın edebiyata kazandırılmasındaki emeği de unutmamak lazım.
Çeviri ve baskı da güzel olmuş. Süprizi ve hevesi kaçıran önsöz de yok.
Çok sevdiğiniz bir yemeğin verdiği doygunluk gibi.
Caanım Walser

[Eddie Watkins · Rating 5 out of 5]

The Robber is a guidebook for disappearance, an endlessly tangential map of the transient ghostliness of the ever-elusive self written by a gentleman who has politely bid farewell and stepped outside of his person. It is a precious hoot. It is a picaresque series of tiptoes around a goblin-infested forest. It is a shared narcissistic prism. It is a suite of rapid motions that spins in place. It is a needling delight, a frustrating pleasure.

Dear Walser pulled out of thin air a labyrinth constructed of air.

In other words it is one of the best detached representations of a mind unravelling represented by that very mind as it's unravelling. Maybe unravelling isn't the word, maybe a mind spinning around itself so rapidly that it achieves a sort of escape velocity from itself. Unravelling would imply that I accept the idea that Walser actually went crazy and didn't voluntarily admit himself to the sanatorium as a kind of career move. His mind might've unravelled but he still held all the threads, and the pattern in his hands was all the prettier (sadly, tragically) for the unravelling.

[Jimmy · Rating 5 out of 5]

'Robber' Walser has released his sentences like free-range chickens and upon this novel they roam every-which-way, free at last, free at last! they proclaim, which just sounds like BOKBOK! BOKBOK! insignificant noodling noises from abreast mountaintops of hay. Barely existing, they peck at the ground for miniscule specks of worm-or-seed-like protein, each one stuck like a needle in a brain that has only one trajectory, a glimmer that a second ago had been some other glimmer entirely. Chickenfeet propel the whole chicken across the street and already it's forgotten that this was a buildup to some kind of joke. But why? The mind is a chickenshit thing to waste, but this one's got nothing to lose. Nobody will know a thing of it if, just for shits and giggles, some pattern is scratched in the ground like... well, like chickenscratch which is a dumb pun, but also an ambitious one for a chicken, only to be blown away by the Swiss-Alpine wind running its unctuous fingers indolently through the uncut pages of a novel nobody was meant to read. Save the wind. Save the chickens.

[Sandra]

Robert Walser amava passeggiare. Questo sconcertante romanzo ( ma lo si può definire romanzo?) è una passeggiata tra le tante figure femminili che colpirono il cuore del protagonista, da Wanda a Selma a Edith, il grande amore del brigante, alter ego di Walser. Chi passeggia non è il brigante, protagonista del romanzo, ma è lo scrittore stesso. O meglio sono in due ma è come se fossero uno: continuo è il passaggio nella narrazione dalla terza persona alla prima persona, che testimonia la confusione di figure e pensieri. Da come parlo potreste pensare che lo scritto abbia una linearità. Non è così. Il romanzo è enigmatico e frammentario, senza una trama lineare, segue i pensieri dello scrittore, che si confonde con il suo personaggio, lo supporta, lo rimprovera, a momenti lo innalza nella considerazione comune, in altri lo difende dall’isolamento sociale in cui vive. Ci si perde spesso dietro il flusso di pensiero dello scrittore, per cui non ho avuto il “classico” piacere nella lettura.
Però c’è sempre un sottile sorriso sotteso alle parole, spesso aforismi, frasi di saggezza, ricche di ossimori e similitudini, interrotte all’improvviso in modo spiazzante con “ di questo parleremo più tardi” e poi invece mai ripreso, che dà piacevolezza e non appesantisce. Sembra un gioco lo scrivere in questo modo, come un voler irridere la letteratura seriosa e impegnata, ma è un gioco anche perché dietro al brigante si nasconde quel bambino che Robert Walser si è portato dietro per tutta la sua travagliata esistenza.
Non posso dare stelle perché la lettura è così spiazzante che non saprei come valutarla.

[Laurent De Maertelaer · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mijn recensie op THE DREAM LIFE OF BALSO SNELL staat hier: https://thedreamlifeofbalsosnell.tumb...

[Emre]

"Cüretkar insanların çoğu cesaretten, gururlu olanların çoğu ise gururdan yoksun olurlar ve pek çok zayıf insan, zaaflarını itiraf edecek ruhsal gücü bulamaz. Dolayısıyla zayıflar genellikle güçlü, kızgınlar neşeli, aşağılanmışlar gururlui kibirliler mütevazı davranış sergilerler." Sf:22

"Senin ve yeteneklerinin belki birini çok mutlu edebileceğini, sadece düşünmek için bile fazlasıyla üşengeçsin." Sf:24

"Bu kız onu bir cesede çeviriyordu ama daha önce hiç olmadığı kadar canlı bir cesede." Sf:33

"İyiler daima kötülerin ve düşüncesizlerin bıraktıkları kırıntılarla mı beslenmek zorundadırlar?" Sf:75

"Kimse bir başkasının kutsalı olmaktan hoşlanmaz, aksi takdirde bir imgeye dönüşmek zorunda kalır." Sf:83

"Davranışlarımıza çelişkilerin, ruhsal çalkantıların, asil korkuların gölgesi düştüğü zaman mı ortaya çıkar en güzel, en görülmeye değer halimiz? Dağınıklık içinde en hakiki, belirsizlik içinde en berrak, kararsızlık içinde en emin olduğumuz doğru mudur?" Sf:114

"Sizinle evlenmek istiyorum, çünkü size acıyorum." Sf:116

"Aşk, inanç ve umut topraklarıyla sadece sınır komşusu olan başlı başına bir krallıktır. Eğer bunlar aynı şey olsalardı, hepsi için yalnızca tek bir kelime olurdu. Aşk tepeden tırnağa bağımsızdır. İnanç muhtaçtır. Umut dilencidir." Sf:143

[Nathanimal · Rating 5 out of 5]

I could sit here all day letting Walser wing his paper airplane sentences at me. Dip. Whirl. Zwhoosh.. It is amazing to me that this novel, an instant favorite, was found etched into the margins of whatever scrap paper Walser found lying around as he was disappearing in a sanitarium. He made himself so small to fit there in those margins. There is joy and irreverence in making himself smaller and smaller. Honestly, he’s kind of my hero. Though for saying so I’m sure he’d box my ear and grin.

[Merve Eflatun · Rating 5 out of 5]

Walser'a mikrogram tekniğiyle bir hayran mektubu yazacağım.

[M. Sarki · Rating 5 out of 5]

http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/8522770...

"...He gave such a vulnerable impression. He resembled the leaf that a little boy strikes down from its branch with a stick, because its singularity makes it conspicuous."___Robert Walser from THE ROBBER

The Robber by Robert Walser is one of the most difficult books I have ever read. It wasn't until the last fifty pages that my reading speed accelerated. By the time I was finished I had already ordered two more books written by Walser and was searching for more I might be interested in. I stumbled on this masterpiece. Hard to say about a translation. The reader must believe in the translator as much as the author if he is to continue to trudge along with any certainty that he isn't wasting what little time he has left to live. The hourglass never relents in its violently obsessive droppings until the quickened bitter end. Really, I feel that way as I am reading. I hate to waste my time. Seems it is the reason I always have four or five books going at the same time, and one or another of them has to take me away sooner or later or the book gets read a page here or a page there which seems it takes forever to accomplish until finally being dumped into my reader's slush pile. 



The Robber took me every bit of five months to read. But the last fifty pages took me less than a week to glide through. The Robber could have been finished earlier this past week but I was savoring it. Now I am already plotting when I might begin my next reading of it. Walser speaks to me, or Bernofsky the translator does, I haven't quite decided who yet. Bernofsky has translated several Walser works and so has a fellow by the name of Middleton. I am presently reading his translation of Walser's The Selected Stories and not having nearly the fun I had reading the words of Bernofsky. That isn't to say that Middleton is not a fine translator. What interests me most in The Selected Stories is the title The Walk which Bernofsky also has recently translated herself. 

So what was so mesmerizing about such a dim and dreary book? I suppose it would be the relationships that both the author and the robber character (who may have been one and the same) had with all the different men and women making their way across and down each page. And I might add that the variety of characters were mostly women. It does not surprise me that, as biographically reported through the years, that Walser asked several different women to marry him. And let us not suppose that Walser was so serious about marriage as previously surmised, but instead, was most likely performing his due diligence for a just research regarding his work, of which there were many many pieces of it completed and never published for several reasons, two of which he destroyed many of his manuscripts and also his publishers lost some of them. Not to mention that not too many others were interested in what Mr. Walser actually had to say. But I am. Totally immersed in his work these days. I completely relate to this guy. He is a cynic and a skeptic and he notices things that I notice even today, which means that nothing much has changed throughout the passing of all these many years since Walser lived, at least in regards to the human condition. 



There is much to like in The Robber. As crazy as it is you can't help but think he is fooling us. Maybe even laughing his ass off at us. For a crazy guy his writing is quite exacting and his points well organized. But he is no lover of his modern society or the people in it. He does not like their decorations, bright lights, or advertising. According to Walser mediocrity is the norm. An extraordinary person won't go far in his world. Mediocre people are amused by extraordinary persons. And the extraordinary person who knows this also becomes ordinary and on the par with everyone else. But it is a torment to mediocre people to constantly see things and people just as they are. Being in "the company of a person with his own highly personal way of gazing into the world, that is, somewhat crookedly, as though he were a child, is coveted and sought after." Ah. My kind of guy and what I believe in. 



Don't we all read books, magazines, and articles in order to learn something about the world, ourselves and others, or to discover that we are not alone, that somebody else might think like we do? To be acknowledged? Confirmed? Verified? I learned long ago to personally stand on my difference. I believe it was Aristotle who said this first. There have been many people in the course of my personal life who have told me that I see things most differently. That they cannot believe after witnessing the same thing as I did that I would see it the way I do. They usually have some great difficulty sometimes disagreeing with my point of view, but nonetheless, it puzzles them greatly how I came to see it in the manner I did. The more I hear this about myself, the more I like it. Raymond Carver also said that the key to being a great artist is having the natural tendency to look at the world differently than the normal (and I would say, mediocre) person. I really do not believe you can be taught to do this either. It must come naturally, this different way of seeing things. You either do it or you don't. Gordon Lish also incorporates these same ideas in his teaching of fiction-writing, Gordon, a person of extremely high intelligence whose classes have become legendary and himself an even greater myth, even to those who think they know him. What an invigorating experience to discover a writer such as Robert Walser (or a translator such as Susan Bernofsky) who can show you the world in much the same way as you yourself can see it. And to think they thought Walser mad enough to be involuntarily put away. Amazing, these people who always seem to rule things around here. But Walser showed us all a thing or two, and for me, just in time, for I am at the period in my life when I am finally just getting warmed up.

[Proustitute (on hiatus) · Rating 5 out of 5]

If you are fond of pleasure postponed, of insertions, digressions, concealment—and who is not?—this maze will amaze you.

- William H. Gass

Gass's comments about Walser's The Robber are spot-on: the novel is certainly a maze, "an unsolvable riddle" as Walser describes the Robber's beloved Edith's lips. The last novel that Walser wrote, The Robber was long left untranslated because it was found in its microscript form, a miniaturized version of Kurrent script which Walser used for his manuscripts from about 1917 onward and which he would then transcribe into longhand German soon after. When his posthumous papers were found, no one knew what to make of these documents, some citing Walser's twenty-six-year-long stay in mental hospitals as evidence for writing gibberish, secret code, etc. In her translator's introduction to The Robber, Susan Bernofsky suggests that Walser never intended for the novel to be read because it was the only one he kept in microscript form: "When Walser wrote The Robber, he must have been fully aware, at least after the first few pages, that he would never be able to publish it. This would explain why he never prepared a clean copy of the manuscript for submission to publishers."

But why would The Robber have been so condemned by publishers, especially given that it shows Walser—who, despite not making much of a living from his writing was still famous in his heyday, praised by Robert Musil and envied and imitated by the likes of Kafka—at the height of his powers? Perhaps that is precisely why no publisher would have touched The Robber because its themes, while radical, are to be found in virtually all modernist novels: madness, artistry, dissections of class and gender, authorial interjections and insertions, etc. The Robber truly is a novel whose style mirrors its content, and vice versa, so that the reader is left in Walser's wholly capable hands, forced into often bizarre, idiosyncratic rhythms in large stretches of prose that simultaneously lull and jar the reader.

What is this novel about? The Robber is about everything and nothing; it is about the anxieties and trappings of class just as the class system is undergoing a destabilization after World War I; it is about an unnamed Robber and the author of the novel about said Robber, identities that often become conflated and intertwined throughout the text ("I have to be constantly on my guard not to confuse myself with him"). Above all, The Robber is about love and contradiction: it is an attempt to render in prose the ineffable emotional highs and lows that come with living, loving, and the many metaphoric acts of "robbery" of which we are all guilty. However, with that said, due to the diversionary tactics employed by Walser in this novel and the authorial interjections of his narrator, The Robber is also about the failure that meets anyone seeking truth or the depiction of truth in art. As the narrator even notes of his role: "I will make it my business to depict to you. One shouldn't say depict, but rather present... It isn't right for everything to be uncovered, illumined, otherwise what would the connoisseur have left to ponder?" And so The Robber is a continuous game of hide-and-seek, of revealing and occluding, of explicating and silencing.

Walser is a genius at using his characters to serve as microcosms for society at large—e.g., Jakob von Gunten in the eponymous novel, the writer-narrator in The Walk, Joseph in The Assistant, and the fluid "I" in his tales and criticism, an "I" that is both Walser and not Walser. What he is also a genius at is presenting individuals' flaws and strengths, balancing out each aspect of his characters (and our own) identities. While the Robber is persecuted by his community, the portrait that Walser (or, more accurately, the "I" narrating the novel) paints of him is sympathetic: "Flaws are touching." And while the narrator distinguishes himself as socially superior to the Robber "discussing" this postwar age all aglitter with plebeian sentiment—it is clear that Walser is asking us to not judge these prejudices, but instead to learn how they are instilled in the first place in order to overcome them.

The Robber is the work of a master, and one is literally left breathless coming away from the novel—from the sheer magic of Walser's prose and, sadly, from the fact that this was his final performance.

[Sini · Rating 5 out of 5]

Een paar jaar geleden raakte ik helemaal verrukt van Robert Walser: de (ultra)korte verhalen in "De dame op het balkon" en op de mooie site robertwalser.nl, het schitterende "De wandeling", en het netvliesscheurend prachtige "Jakob von Gunten". Prachtboeken, vol geniaal gestoord proza, en voor mij werd Walser daardoor een nieuwe topfavoriet. En nu is dan ook "De rover" vertaald, gelukkig weer door Machteld Bokhove, gelukkig weer op heel elegante wijze. Dat is Walsers laatste roman, geschreven in 1925, maar pas 50 jaar later gepubliceerd. Volgens sommigen had dit boek helaas erg te lijden onder Walsers groeiende geestelijke verwarring en zwaarmoedigheid. Volgens anderen is het zijn meesterwerk: Walser- bewonderaar Coetzee zegt zelfs dat dit boek de loop van de Duitse literatuur zou hebben veranderd als het in de jaren '20 zou zijn gepubliceerd. Zelf genoot ik ook uitbundig van dit ongelofelijk grillige en ongrijpbare boek. Ik vind het zelfs net zo formidabel als "Jakob von Gunten", dat voor mij een van de geniaalste boeken aller tijden is.

"De rover" is een van de teksten die Walser schreef in de vorm van microgrammen: in heel klein en onleesbaar handschrift, met potlood, op verschillende soorten papier. Voor het ontcijferen waren nieuwe technieken nodig en mensen met veel doorzettingsvermogen. Vandaar de late publicatie. Sommige Walser- kenners denken dat Walser zijn microgram-teksten onleesbaar wou houden, omdat hij alleen nog maar in het verborgene wou schrijven en niet meer blootgesteld wilde worden aan het oordelend oog van de lezer. Machteld Bokhove maakt in haar nawoord echter aannemelijk dat Walser het microgrammatisch schrijven als een soort beeldende kunst zag, en het schrijven met potlood als een vrolijk en bevrijdend soort spelen. Ik weet uiteraard niet hoe dit precies zit, maar er waart in "De rover" wel een heel speelse geest rond. Vooral omdat de ik-verteller voortdurend van de hak op de tak springt, associeert en fragmenteert, verhaallijnen versplinterd en vermengt, en ons steeds op maffe formuleringen trakteert. Zo begint hij de roman wel heel tegendraads met "Edith houdt van hem. Hierover later meer". Bovendien levert bij allerlei speels commentaar op het eigen schrijven, waarin die speelsheid vaak op speelse wijze verdedigd wordt: "Een pen zegt liever iets ongeoorloofds dan ook maar een moment uit te rusten. Misschien is dit een van de geheimen van het betere schrijverschap, d.w.z. er moet juist iets impulsiefs in 't schrijven terechtkomen". Dat 'impulsieve' komt ook sterk naar voren in het associëren en fragmenteren: de wijze waarop verhaallijnen afgebroken worden door nieuwe lijnen die ook weer afgebroken worden; de wijze waarop die verhaallijnen toch al zijn opgetrokken uit heterogene, barokke en soms onnavolgbare associaties; de wijze ook waarop de ik- figuur ironisch commentaar geeft op wat hij net heeft gezegd, en soms meteen terugneemt wat hij zonet nog had gezegd. Heel opmerkelijk is ook hoe vaak de verteller ineens afbreekt met "hierover later meer" of een variant op die formulering. Waarbij hij soms inderdaad veel later terugkomt op wat hij eerder vertelde, maar dan wel op verrassend associatieve wijze, en bovendien komt hij er heel vaak ook niet op terug.

Fascinerend aan de eerdere boeken van Walser vond ik de humoreske wanhoop, de combinatie van enorme zwaarmoedigheid en aanstekelijke vederlichtheid, de even treurige als opmonterende "innere Emigration" van de steeds kinderlijke en kleine verteller die alleen in de onderste regionen wil wonen, en die zich niet kan of wil voegen in de wereld en de conventies en ambities van de volwassenen. Dat alles zie ik ook in "De rover" op inspirerende wijze terug. De ik-figuur die het verhaal vertelt, en "de rover" die er de hoofdpersoon en ook vaak de medeschrijver van is, verkiezen het om een dikke kogelronde nul te zijn, verkiezen de totale nederigheid en nietswaardigheid, omdat zij op even humoreske als wanhopige wijze totaal elk geloof verloren hebben in de zwaarwichtigheid en ogenschijnijke diepzinnigheid van de gewone wereld. Net als bij Kafka is er voortdurende, bijna kinderlijke verbazing over de ontbrekende samenhang en betekenis van alles in deze wereld. Maar anders dan bij Kafka dompelen de ik-figuur en "de rover" zich met een droeve glimlach onder in deze chaos. En daarom is "De rover" zo springerig, ongrijpbaar, gefragmenteerd, anti-zwaarwichtig en anti-serieus. Sceptici zeggen dat dit boek zich, door zijn associatieve en gefragmenteerde karakter, in onleesbaarheid en structuurloosheid verliest, en dat Walser te veel ruimte bood aan de onbegrijpelijk door elkaar heen pratende stemmen in zijn verwarde hoofd. Inderdaad, de wijze waarop verhalen en personages even snel verdwijnen als dat ze vanuit het niets opkomen geeft dit boek een vluchtigheid en verwardheid die soms vrij benauwend is. Maar ja, ik ben juist geneigd dat als een kwaliteit te zien van dit boek. Bovendien is de roman niet zozeer 'structuurloos', zoals sceptici denken, als wel opgebouwd met een aanstekelijke associatieve en daardoor anti- conventionele structuur. De structuur en logica dus van een verteller die niet wil passen in de wereld van de volwassenen, en zich dus niet wil voegen naar de conventies van 'normale' romanciers. De logica van iemand die zich niet kan of wil aanpassen of inpassen. Maar wel degelijk een logica, zij het een associatieve logica met eigen wetten. En er zit ook wel degelijk enige lijn in het boek als geheel, zij het een heel speelse en ongrijpbare lijn waar je, als je alleen van conventionele romans houdt, geen enkele greep op krijgt. Maar dat vind ik nou juist zo leuk!

Bovendien is Walsers taal naar mijn smaak van een grandioos maffe schoonheid. Opvrolijkend origineel vind ik zinnetjes als "Eigenaardig hoe het in ons genoegelt" , of woordjes als "tederachtigs", "bakvisselen", "fier- vooruit- kijkerij". Ik veer op bij formuleringen als "glimlachend voorjaarsweer, dat de hele wereld blauw schildert", of "de smalle, fijne, tedere strijkstoklippen van Selma, die inderdaad een mond had alsof het een viooltoon was, zo fijnbesneden". Ik applaudisseer bij passages als "Zijn ogen plachten als hij tussen mensen was te fladderen, te flakkeren als door de wind verstoorde kaarslichten, als door een briesje aangetaste stilte. Zijn ogen waren kleine, rondhollende windhonden. Is dat niet mooi gezegd?" Zeker mooi gezegd, en origineel bovendien. Ik geniet bovendien van de stapeling van beelden, die iets verwards heeft (alsof één enkele metafoor de kern niet kan raken, omdat die kern er niet is), maar ook een soort kinderlijk plezier uitstraalt. En ik wordt opgevrolijkt en ontroerd door passages als: "Ons allerliefste rovertje is waarschijnlijk door vader en moeder, d.w.z. van huis uit, heel eenvoudig niet voor gehuil voorbestemd. Zijn opvoeding bestond louter uit kleine verwaarlozingen". Tamelijk humoresk- wanhopig en paradoxaal, deze formulering, net als de volgende: "Mij zijn ontelbare verwijten gemaakt. Al deze verwijten zijn zoiets als een legerstede geworden waar ik mezelf op uitstrek, wat misschien heel onterecht van me is, maar ik heb bij mijzelf gezegd dat ik het mezelf gemakkelijk moest maken […]". Verwaarlozingen en verwijten, die zijn voor de ik- figuur en de door hem beschreven rover een kwelling, maar ook iets waarin zij zich koesterend rondwentelen. Vandaar ook dat zij vaak losbarsten met poëtische mijmeringen of gloedvolle apologieën over nederigheid, kinderlijkheid, onaangepastheid, middelmatigheid. Het personage "de rover" wordt zo genoemd omdat hij steeds in roverskleren loopt, als een kind dat zich verkleed heeft en niet de kleren van volwassenen wil dragen. Zoals de ik- figuur eigenlijk een kind is dat geen roman kan maken, zich treurig vrolijk maakt over de verwijten die hij daarover krijgt, en dan een roman maakt die naar de smaak van volwassenen veel te maf en springerig en te raar in zijn taalgebruik is om een echte roman te zijn.

De mafheid van deze roman voel je bijvoorbeeld heel sterk als de ik-figuur, zomaar en zonder enige aanleiding, zegt: "De Genferstrasse en Portugal, hoe breng ik deze ver uiteengelegen dingen met elkaar in verband? ". Geen idee, denk je als lezer, vooral ook omdat Portugal nogal uit de lucht valt. Wat de ik- figuur niet belet om lyrisch verder te gaan met: "O die vlaggen, gedragen door de geesten van zeevaarders langs de kust van Portugal in naam van Europa's ontwikkelingsdrang. Dat was in de vijftiende eeuw, ten tijde van de ontdekking van de zeeroute naar Oost- Indië.". Helemaal waar, denk je als lezer, maar waarom is dit relevant? Nou, nergens om. Behalve dan dat ruim een bladzij later het volgende wordt verteld over de verliefdheid van de rover: "Hij kwam zich als een Portugees voor, en de lezer begrijpt nu waarom we het hiervoor over purperen vlaggen hadden. Zijn bevende ziel, door fatsoen in toom gehouden, leek op de stilliggende zee, en met behulp van een tapijthandelaar joeg hij ontdekkingen van nieuwe continenten na door zich door deze edele jongeman te laten vertellen hoe zij heette, wie haar ouders waren, waar zij woonde. Toentertijd wist hij nog niets van Edith. We beginnen nu langzamerhand ordentelijk te vertellen. Vanuit oerwouden, zo lees je in kranten, rijzen voor de ogen van verbaasde reizigers reusachtige bouwwerken op. Zo rees voor het hart van de rover de bouw van de bezieling van zijn gevoelsleven op. Hij werd verteerd door hartstocht. Er waren dagen waarop hij begon te dansen. Wanda zag eruit alsof ze naar school hing. Iedere avond posteerde hij zich voor het huis van haar verwanten". Dus de eerdere ogenschijnlijk in de lucht hangende passages over de vroegere Portugese ontdekkingsreizigers monden associatief uit in een fraaie passage waarin verliefdheid als een ontdekkingsreis wordt voorgesteld. Wat totaal verward leek heeft toch een samenhang, zij het een associatieve en speelse. Dat speelse heeft voor mijn gevoel ook iets kinderlijks, zoals ook de zucht naar avontuur - de associatie tussen verliefdheid en ontdekkingsreizen van vroeger- voor mij iets heeft van vroegere jongensboeken. Een sfeer die goed past bij de rover, die immers - zoals eerder gezegd- niet in de wereld van de volwassen kan of wil passen. En die liever een kind is, of een dienstmeisje, of een middelmatige nietsnut die door velen wordt veracht. Alles liever dan een geslaagde burger die succesvol is in de moderne maatschappij.

Ik genoot dus zeer van dit boek, dankzij de grandioos maffe genialiteit van zijn taal en de geniale gekte van zijn associatieve structuur. De onaangepastheid van de ik- figuur en van de door hem beschreven rover vond ik enorm ontroerend en enorm opvrolijkend tegelijk. Net als de gedachte dat het Duitse "Räuber" klink als "Robert": dat, samen met nog wat andere verwijzingen naar Robert Walsers leven, doet mij vermoeden dat de vaak zwaarmoedige Walser in "De rover" misschien ook speelde met de humoreske melancholie van zijn eigen onaangepastheid en oningepastheid. Hoe dan ook, ik hou van Walsers melancholieke wereld, die vol zit met wanhopige schaduwen maar ook met vriendelijk licht en verlichtende humor. En ik hoop dat er nog vele vertalingen van zijn boeken volgen!

[Ben Winch · Rating 5 out of 5]

2006, winter. My wife and I had just broken up (the last time) and I'd left our house in Melbourne to drive to my dad's place in northern New South Wales, taking my time and camping along the way, living out the back of a station-wagon and sleeping on a thick futon with a continental quilt and pillows in my 2-person tent in a series of beautiful, often rugged and isolated national parks. A strange mix of comfort and harshness, of the joy of release and the pain of loss. Nightly - by the campfire, by lantern-light - I'd unpack my box of books and pore over them, but none moreso than The Robber. How describe its effect on me? For the two weeks of that journey I was almost convinced it was the greatest book ever, or the most singular. It had everything: the games with identity that so fascinated me in Pessoa, a dexterity with language and a philosophical basis for exercising that dexterity that seemed the equal of Beckett's The Unnamable, a warmth and good-naturedness comparable to Hesse, and a rogueish humour uniquely Walserian, capable of making the most apparently-innocuous scene or tone of voice subversive, as if whatever was beneath the surface of this dazzling, rushing, pleasant/pretty mirror-plane might leap out and bite you without warning if you slackened your attention for a second.

The Robber, you should know, stands before you as a man who paid multiple visits to a schoolteacher who, each time she conversed with him or he with her, placed a loaded revolver on the table so that any impropriety might be answered with the use of arms... We say this only because, at the moment, nothing of more weight occurs to us. A pen would rather say something improper than lie idle even for an instant. This is perhaps a secret of quality literature, in other words, the writing process must work on impulse.

Truth is, no-one embodies that credo like Robert Walser. Here he is in 'The Last Prose Piece', another work from his late period in which his style seems, almost, to have hit a brick wall:

This is likely to be my last prose piece... Times are changing, and the little years vanish like April snow. I'm a poor, no longer young, man, with just enough skill left to compose prose pieces like the following:

'Trot, trot, trot. What's with me? Have I gone a bit nuts? What's going to become of me?...'

Writer's block? Walser - realising that to follow the direction of his instinct, against which he is powerless, is financial suicide - wages a constant battle against it, but in taking a step back as he does so, in framing his battle in prose, he defeats it, repeatedly, to infinity. The Robber, like all his late-period work, is both the transcript of this battle and the investigation of what happens to a personality when some other part of the self takes that 'step back' and contemplates it. True to life, the novel (for want of a better word) is a series of hiccups, of eruptions of knowing, between which a forgetfulness takes over that we then recognise as the ordinary resting state of the 'healthy' human mind. But we - all of us - experience these momentary crises, when the pronoun 'I' won't do anymore, and seems as if it never will nor ever did, before some sleight-of-mind lulls us back to unseeing and the process starts over. The Robber, then, is a thousandfold magnification of the whims and pratfalls of personality, in which plot is irrelevant and linear development minimal. That the continuous disruption of the unfolding by the necessities of the structure is frustrating, that the translation is necessarily and visibly imperfect, that the quality of illumination is fitful and uneven - none of this matters to the reader who seeks above all to discover. Like all 'high modernist masterpieces', The Robber is difficult, uneven, at times near-infuriating. It is not meant to be easily-liked and makes few concessions to the reader even while addressing him/her affably in a tone at once intimate and conversational.

And so, at any rate, I remain in command of this cock-and-bull, sorry, cop-and-robber story. I believe in myself. The Robber doesn't quite trust me, but I find it of little consequence whether or not others believe in me.

So the struggle between believer and doubter, both of them Walser - a perpetual-motion machine conjured into existence by an always-uncompromising artist who has gone beyond caring what an audience thinks of him. 'If I don't have to suffer on account of my belief, it's not what it pretends to be.' The enduring achievement of Robert Walser is to have transmuted that suffering into playful beauty. An inverted Unnamable, The Robber takes everything that is heavy and dolorous in Beckett and transposes it into the realm of birdsong. Where Beckett's unnamed hero looks on dungeon-within-dungeon, Walser's gazes out at the no-less-infinite sky. True, on reflection I've decided it's not the greatest book ever written after all (it's too uneven, too thwarted, perhaps too coy for that), but it is among the most singular. And it helped me through a time when my own inner battle was unrelenting.

[Marc Lamot · Rating 2 out of 5]

"Now, will you finally come up with that story, if only because it might be about something funny"
The above sentence, written by Walser himself, regularly flashed through my head while reading. So Walser absolutely was aware of the unruliness of his book; he even concludes with the words: "the whole, by the way, appears to me as one big, big gloss, ridiculous and incomprehensible", and that too is a remarkable but striking summary!

The Swiss writer Robert Walser (1878-1956) wrote this book in a feverish mood in 1926, in a short period of time, a few years before he was admitted to a mental health institution for the rest of his life. Is this the book of a madman? After some hesitation, I have to say "no, but..."

The story does indeed constantly jumps up and down and there is hardly to make any sense of it. Walser starts describing a situation, then halts and promises "more on this later on" , and proceeds on something else, without ever keeping his promise. Nevertheless, it soon is clear that the author takes one young man as the focal point, the nameless 'robber', who turns out to be primarily a robber of stories and behaviors. Because, especially in his dealings with women, he constantly takes on different poses, and also provokes controversy in his dealings with other people. It is as if Walser is venturing an experimental study of human behavior. So, indeed, there seems to be a common thread, but again: this book constantly brings you out of balance, it repels and attracts, it is hermetic and yet recognizable, and so it is quite a burden to read.

Real literature experts put this forward as a small masterpiece of modernism. I don’t know, I’m hesitating. It is an intriguing read to say the least and it certainly contains flashes of beauty, starters to something big. It is sometimes reminiscent of the feverishness of Gogol and the cynical filleting of the human soul by Svevo, but Walser is inscrutable in his own way. This really is only for die-hard enthusiasts.

[Daniele · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fantastico!
La genialità e le perle di saggezza che dispensa questo stravagante romanzo lo rendono un'opera unica.
Walser ci racconta le gesta del suo alterego il Brigante, criticandolo/si là dove necessario e lodandolo/si all'occorrenza.
La cosa che mi manda fuori di testa è pensare che Il Brigante sia stato estrapolato dai microgrammi, scritti a matita con calligrafia lillipuziana durante uno dei suoi soggiorni in ospedali psichiatrici.
Povero Robert, animo pure e gentile.
Questa è l'opera definitiva di un autore definito "il più solitario fra i poeti solitari".

Nel vino è insita una sorta di diritto alla superiorità. Quando bevo vino, comprendo i secoli antichi, mi dico che anch'essi erano fatti di cose presenti e del piacere di viverci in mezzo. Il vino ti trasforma in conoscitore di stati d'animo. Ti rende attento a tutto e attento a niente. Nel vino balugina il ritmo. Se sei amico del vino, sei allora pure amico delle donne, e patrono di ciò che a loro è caro. I rapporti, anche i più ramificati, che intercorrono tra uomo e donna, ti sbocciano dal bicchiere di vino come fiori.

Fedeltà, infedeltà eccetera: sono tutti concetti Borghesi, di cui Amor si fa sommamente beffe.

Rivolgo alle persone sane il seguente appello: suvvia, non leggete sempre e soltanto libri sani, accostatevi anche alla letteratura cosiddetta patologica, dalla quale potrete forse trarre vera edificazione. Le persone sane dovrebbero sempre, in certo qual modo, rischiare qualcosa. Altrimenti, corpo di mille fulmini, a che scopo mai essere sani? Solo per morire un giorno di troppa sanità? Sorte maledettamente desolata...

La vita si dischiude solo a chi le dà fiducia.

lo sono uno che stava ovunque lo mettessero, ad esempio nel cunicolo di una miniera, o in cima a una montagna, in una dimora sontuosa o in una bicocca miseranda. lo sono al colmo dell'imperturbabilità, che, naturalmente, è stata spesso presa per insensibilità, per mancanza di interesse. Mi sono stati mossi infiniti rimproveri. Tutti questi rimproveri sono diventati una sorta di giaciglio, sul quale mi allungo e mi stiracchio, il che da parte mia è forse un'emerita ingiustizia, eppure mi son detto: è mio dovere starmene negli agi, in avvenire infatti potrebbero capitarmi disagi in grande numero, e spetterà a me dimostrare di sapervi tener testa. In una certa qual maniera, caro dottore, ne sopporto di cotte e di crude, e forse la malattia, ammesso che così io possa definire il mio stato, consiste in un eccesso d'amore. Dentro di me ho riserve spaventosamente grandi di energia amorosa, e ogniqualvolta metto piede in strada io prendo ad amare qualcosa, qualcuno: ecco perché ho fama ovunque di persona senza carattere, ma io la pregherei di riderci un po' sopra. La ringrazio molto del viso grave che, ciononostante, preferisce fare e le assicuro quanto segue: una volta a casa, se mi dedico a un'occupazione che richieda intelligenza, dimentico tutto ciò, e questo grande amore per il mondo e per gli uomini mi sta piacevolmente alla larga.

Mai dare l'impressione d'essere bramosi, assetati di vita, insomma pieni di desideri - pensò. Non si fa bella figura. Dovremmo invece quanto più possibile dare l'impressione di essere degni di stima, di amore. Per quelli che ce l'hanno scritto in faccia, il bisogno di amore, non c'è misericordia né amore ma solo scherno. Coloro che dentro di sé hanno trovato la pace, la misura, che, riconciliati con se stessi e con l'esistenza, sono l'immagine dell'equilibrio, costoro sì che meritano amore.

[Юра Мельник · Rating 5 out of 5]

Як на божевільного у Вальзера навдивовижу ясний розум і блискуче почуття гумору

[[P] · Rating 5 out of 5]

Reading The Robber is like listening to your delightfully drunk father trying to tell you a story. More on that later. Robert Walser is perhaps more well-known for his novel Jakob Von Gunten, which was made into a film called Institute Benjamenta, or This Dream People Call Human Life. I haven’t seen the film, but I have read the book. The Robber smiles at you, while flicking your ears. I’ll have much to say on that at some point. Walser wrote the book in what is called miscroscript. Micro means small, of course. Apparently people had trouble deciphering what he had written. It was as though the novel was trying to hide but was not very good at it. There is something coquettish about that. Robert Walser died while on a walk through the snow. He also wrote a story, a sort of novella, called The Walk. The novella was not about his own death, of course. The Robber might be the best of his novels. I must say something meaningful about this. There is a woman in it called Edith, but I do not wish to linger over her, although she is important. The titular character is not really a robber. How whimsical that is. Perhaps The Walk is not really about a walk either. You, the reader of this review, no doubt wish that I would stick to the point. If only I could press your hand and look sincerely into your eyes. There are reviewers who are very good at sticking to the point; what a horrid experience it is to read their reviews. The Robber is one of those clowns, those layabouts, those good-for-nothings, of whom we all know at least one. How enchanting these good-for-nothings are. Franz Kafka was influenced by Walser, have I mentioned that? It is often said that Walser is The Robber; this claim is given weight in some way. Robber is so sweetly shy of being Robert. But there is more to it than that. What about Edith? I must return to her. The Robber is a novel of asides and disruptions. It reminded me strongly of Diderot’s Jacques the Fatalist & his Master. The Czech Bohumil Hrabal also peddled the same sort of thing. It is so satisfying to make comparisons. How kittenish The Robber is. Novels are so much less playful these days. Reviewers often write about unravelling minds. The Robber’s and Walser’s. That makes me titter somewhat. Is The Robber the funniest novel ever written? I may try to make that argument, for it would please me, but first I must say something about the translation. Walser spent some time in a sanatorium, which perhaps adds weight to all that unravelling minds talk. The translation issue is still winking at me. I feel as though we are making splendid progress. Walser snatches away the tablecloth and sends all the plates and cutlery flying, but how beautifully he approached the table. Submission, it strikes me, is an important theme in Walser’s work. Many of his characters want to serve, in a dreamy, useless sort of way. Was Walser a rogue? If we were all rogues how much more fun we would have. But what about the translation? It is excellent, although I do not speak or read German, so my opinion is all but worthless. Yet I find that it is the worthless opinions that are the most pleasurable to hold. I must confess that if Walser was mad, I hope my mind unravels in exactly the same way as his. Contrary to opinion, life does not have a constant forward momentum. How expertly The Robber captures the stop-startingness, the circularity, the charming meaningless of everyday life. Is it really a novel? Or a manifesto? It is pleasing to throw words around, and never desire to truly understand them. Such foolishness, such a lack of seriousness, defines our Robber. What tediousness it is to read a serious book, to be a serious reader.

[Volpe Nera · Rating 4 out of 5]

Майже всю книгу можна розібрати на цитати. І всі дуже відгукнулися.

А чувак (автор) то в психлікарні помер🤔

[Murat · Rating 4 out of 5]

Walser, geçirdiği "ruhsal sarsıntı" sonucu tedavi altına alındığı Waldau Kliniği'nde, mektup zarfları dergi kenarları vb. gibi atık kağıtlara aşağıda bir örneğini görebileceğiniz gözle görülemeyecek kadar küçük yazılar yazıyor. Bu yazılar bulunduğunda önce şifreli bir yazı tipi olduğu sanılsa da, sonraları bir doktora öğrencisi bu yazıların mercek yardımıyla okunacağını keşfediyor ve büyük çaba göstererek bir kısmı bu kitabı oluşturacak metinlerin temize çekilmesini sağlıyor.



Öncelikle belirtmeliyim ki; Haydut kolay bir kitap değil. 192 sayfa aralıksız bir metinle karşı karşıyayız. Çok zorlayıcı öte yandan çok da ilginç bir anlatım tekniği var. Anlatıcı zaman zaman baş karakter Haydut'la özdeşleşirken zaman zamansa olaylara tanık bir 3.kişi konumuna geçiyor. Bu duruma alışmak okuyucu için zor olsa da, yazar açısından başka avantajları var tabi.

Haydut bambaşka bir kitap. Benim algoritmamda yazım ve anlatım tekniği olarak benzeri yok. Kıvırcık ressam Bob Ross'un resimleri gibi bir kitap. Walser, bir şeyler anlatırken birden duraklayıp, "bu konunun ayrıntılarına sonra döneceğiz", "bu kişiden daha sonra bahsedeceğiz" vb. cümlelerle başka bir şeyler anlatmaya başlıyor. "Şuraya da bir çam ağacı çizelim." Bu sözleri öyle çok tekrarlıyor ki, verdiği sözlerin çoğunu da tutmuyor tabii ki. Kanımca bunu da bilerek yapıyor. "Belki burada da mutlu bir meşe vardır." Zaten belli bir süre sonra siz de, verilen sözleri takip etmeyi bırakıyorsunuz.

Sözleriyle önce belirsiz bir resim çiziyor, fotoğrafçılıktaki "beni öne al, arka bulanık olsun" tekniği olarak da görebiliriz aslında bunu. Yani olay örgüsünü aktarmakla beraber çok da önemsemeden derdini öne çıkarıyor kitap. Derdi ne? Özetle toplumun değerleri ve bu değerleri kabul etmeyenlere reva görülenler.

Sonuç: Bulanık, bambaşka ama çok güzel bir toplum resmi; Haydut.

[Iryna · Rating 4 out of 5]

Це не роман, що варто читати заради сюжету. Так само не роман, що варто читати заради форми. Це роман, що читати просто варто. Не знаю, що це за магія така, але вона вельми приємна і багатослівна.
Чому не 5 зірочок, бо все ж варто докладати зусиль, щоб просто сприйняти написане.

Одначе точно видно, як Вальзер і те що його турбує виросли та помужнішали в цьому тексті. Тут менше юнацького максималізму і категоричності, але більше прагнення до цілком заземленого - кохання. Та кохання в його, Вальзера, особливому вигляді.

Теми служіння та бідності - те, що супроводжує автора крізь всі твори, що я читала. Тут саме ці фактори впливають на те як розбійник проявляє своє кохання до неї.

Час від часу вигулькують філософські пасажи, з якими час від часу я спечалась, а інколи просто над ними розмірковувала.

Читала доречі вголос, бо інакше з усіма тими відгалуженнями не встигала за думкою, що вибудовував автор.

Після "Прогулянки" "Розбійник" на другому місці в моєму особистому топі доробку Вальзера.

[Adriana · Rating 5 out of 5]

Walser es un maestro, no hay con qué darle. Este libro, encima, es un experimento o más bien un juego o un chiste interno, no estaba destinado a publicarse, lo que lo hace realmente muy gracioso. Ese tono burlón y ligero que tiene siempre (burlón y ligero pero para nada superficial) acá está multiplicado, como liberado. Como dice el mismo narrador, que a su vez es el escritor que escribe "ayudado por" el protagonista (mmm....), es una novela breve pero que rebosa cultura y sustancia. El final es magnífico.
De las muchas frases que subrayé quiero citar una que hace referencia a un gesto del bandido pero que parece que habla en realidad del estilo del capo de Walser: "le tributó un homenaje de respeto y se inclinó con una elegancia de la que, por supuesto, no pudo por menos de reírse en su interior".

[Aylin · Rating 3 out of 5]

———Dikkat———
Bu kitabı okumak için dinlenmiş bir kafa, açık bir algı gerekiyor. İlk defa şöyle bir önerim olacak; önce sonsözü okuyarak kitaba başlayın. Spoiler yemenin imkansız olduğu bir kitap olduğu için hiç sorun olmayacaktır.

Sonsöz’de de belirtildiği gibi, “süreklilik beklentisi” ile okumaya başlayan okur için ıstırap verici bir süreç olacağını bilmekte fayda var. Başlarda yazar benimle konuşuyor gibi hissettim ve çok sevdim tarzı ama kitapta kalabilmek çok çok zor. Daha önce rastlamadığım bir dağınıklıktaki anlatım biçimi fazlasıyla yordu beni. Bir roman okuma isteği ile başladıysanız sonuç benim yaşadığım gibi bir zorlanma olur. Çok farklı bir anlatım tarzı okumak isteyenlere tavsiye ederim.

[Tyrone_Slothrop (ex-MB) · Rating 4 out of 5]

Il flusso di autoanalisi di un ragazzo strambo

Romanzo recuperato dai Microgrammi di Walser (pagine e pagine di parole scritte con calligrafia minutissima), è considerato da molti scrittori ammiratori di Walser il suo capolavoro (tra i quali W.G. Sebald, Coetzee, Kafka).
Difficile da definire, è in ogni caso un'opera modernissima e unica - parte oggetto meta-letterario dove il Brigante, il narratore e l'autore si mescolano e si specchiano uno nell'altro, parte flusso di pensieri e riflessioni a tratti poco comprensibili e avari di riferimenti.
Walser autore fa capolino spesso, quasi beffardo verso il lettore: Mai, da che sto chino allo scrittoio, ho preso a darmi con tanta audacia e spavalderia alla penna ; Rivolgo il seguente appello alle persone sane: suvvia, non leggete sempre e soltanto libri sani - e la pagina si riempie di osservazioni acute e puntuali, in un continuo fluire di frammenti, riflessioni, pensieri concatenati ed oscuri. E' un'impresa complicata per il lettore costruirsi una visione chiara, la prosa walseriana è sfuggente ed evasiva e trovare una linea in questa labirintiche divagazioni è alquanto arduo: a meno che non si riesca a cogliere l'ineffabile essenza di ciò che Walser vuole comunicare celata nelle molte righe a prima vista "inutili".
Raccomando a tutti di dedicarsi a questa lettura, perchè una esperienza unica e straniante e perchè vi sono pagine davvero preziose e inimitabili sia da un punto vista letterario (splendido il paragrafo in cui la vita si impersonifica e demolisce alcuni luoghi comuni sulla vita stessa) che da quello biografico (le pagine in cui il Brigante si autoanalizza davanti ad un dottore sono di una lucidità e chiarezza incredibili).

[wow_42 · Rating 4 out of 5]

треба буде перечитати ще раз колись.

[Agris Fakingsons · Rating 4 out of 5]

..Valzera „Laupītājs” ir pārdomāti juceklisks un reizē pārsteidzoši vienkāršs un melanholisks darbs, pilns gaumīgu asprātību. šī ir dzīves ironijas grāmata.

[Zbestpersonever · Rating 5 out of 5]

Читати цю книгу - це наче перебувати в голові людини з шизофренією. Уже тільки це робить її цікавою, адже такий досвід випадає отримати не кожен день і не кожній людині.

Я не літературознавець і не критик, тому свої враження від текст опишу мовою обивателя.

Текст складний, через нього треба пробиватися. Іноді мені доводилося перечитувати цілі абзаци, щоб зрозуміти, що взагалі сталося. Оповідач у нас ненадійний, тому він часто перестрибує з теми на тему, але розставляє гачки і обіцяє повернутися до того чи іншого моменту.

Хоча автор обіцяє нам, що нічого розумного та філософського ми в книзі не зустрінемо, я з ним категорично не погоджуюсь. Можливо, це не щось геніальне, але багато думок та роздумів Вальзера мені відгукувалися. А крім цього, в нього шикарне почуття гумору — хіхікнула я тут не один раз.

Книга стане ідеальним читацьким досвідом для тих, хто насолоджується в першу чергу стилем письма і формою. Хто шукає щось нове. І хто не боїться потоку свідомості 😁

У кращій традиції «Розбійника» забула написати, про що книга. А книга ця про любов, про людей і про написання самої книги. Такі справи.

[Derian · Rating 4 out of 5]

Un cago de risa. Me reía solo en el subte, la pasé bien. Walser es el Cacho Garay de la literatura, o sea un tipo que te cuenta un chiste serio, sin mover un músculo. Si no me creen, miren:

"Hablo trivialmente, casi como haciéndome el entendido. Cuánto lo siento".

"Para poder amar, hay que hacer todo lo posible por no amar. Y entonces, sin uno darse cuenta, estará amando. Para hallar un profundo respeto, hay que mostrarse irrespetuoso durante cierto tiempo, entonces aparecerá la necesidad de respetar. Son excelentes consejos que les doy totalmente gratis. Intenten seguirlos no ya por obediencia sino para su contento y provecho, pues uno da consejos para hacer feliz a la gente".

"Una pluma prefiere escribir algo improcedente a tener que descansar siquiera un instante. Tal vez sea éste uno de los secretos de la mejor escritura: hay que escribir según el impulso. Que no acabes de comprendernos, eso es harina de otro costal".

[Beata · Rating 3 out of 5]

Fabuła jest tu sprawą trzeciorzędną, choć ma znaczenie i spina całość, powieść składa się w zasadzie z samych dygresji, wiele wątków (wzmianek? o postaciach czy wydarzeniach) w ogóle się nie łączy. Ale trafiają się perełki, obok nie-perełek, rzecz jasna. Autor ma dar przeskakiwania z tematu na temat z wyjątkową lekkością, drąży tam, gdzie inni porzuciliby temat i czasem uroczo mu wychodzi. I z humorem. Dygresje, całe mnóstwo migawek jedna za drugą, jakby ktoś nieustannie potrząsał kalejdoskopem. Niełatwo się czyta, trzeba się przyzwyczaić do stylu, nie odpuszczać uwagi. Nie czytałam dotychczas nic aż tak pozornie niezbornego. Pozornie, bo całość jest spuentowana. Ktoś w internetach napisał, że czytanie Walsera to jak słuchanie podchmielonego wujka, który nie odpuszcza i za wszelką cenę chce opowiedzieć do końca, choć z natury meandruje bardzo. I jeszcze mu przerywają, każą dookreślać, czasem cofnąć opowieść. Coś w tym jest. :)
Miłośnikom szybkiej akcji odradzam.

[Rafal · Rating 3 out of 5]

Dziwna powieść. We wstępie napisano, że powstała poprzez swoisty strumień świadomości autora, który zanotował tekst, który potem został opublikowany bez żadnej redakcji.

Technikę tworzenia widać wyraźnie. Widać wyraźnie także, że ta powieść była swoistym rozliczeniem z otoczeniem, które miało do Twórcy pretensje, że nie dość dużo tworzy.

Co zaś do wrażeń z czytania: chwilami się nie da. Ten strumień jest czasem tak monotonny, że usypia. Ale - szczególnie w drugiej części - robi się wciągająco. Losy narratora i jego alter ego - Zbója - zaczynają być interesujące.

Poza techniką strumienia świadomości, ta powieść bardzo często posługuje się ironią. I ta ironia w drugiej części, zaczyna powieść nieść. Momenty ironiczne czyta się bardzo dobrze.

Rzeczywiście bardzo ciekawy - w sensie technicznym - jest sposób prowadzenia narracji. Mamy tu dwóch narratorów: Autora i Zbója, ale bezustanne poczucie, że to ten sam narrator w dwóch osobach. To fajne i ciekawe, ale nie wpływa na generalny odbiór książki.

Myślę, że ta powieść jest ważna. Ale pasjonująca raczej nie jest.