Καντίς για ένα αγέννητο παιδί

The Holocaust

by Imre Kertész, Μάγκυ Κοέν (Translator)

"Ξέρω πόσο δύσκολο σας είναι να αποδεχθείτε το ότι μας κυβερνάνε κοινοί εγκληματίες· είναι δύσκολο ακόμα και αν σε άλλες περιπτώσεις τους αποκαλείτε κοινούς εγκληματίες και τους αντιμετωπίζετε ως τέτοιους. Ωστόσο, όταν ένας παράφρων εγκληματίας καταλήγει, αντί στο φρενοκομείο ή στη φυλακή, στην Καγκελαρία ή σε κάποια άλλη διοικητική θέση, εσείς αρχίζετε ευθύς να αναζητάτε το νόημα, το πρωτότυπο, το εξαιρετικό - δεν τολμάτε να το πείτε μεγαλόφωνα, το λέτε όμως κρυφά: αναζητάτε σ’ αυτόν το μεγαλείο, για να μην αναγκαστείτε να δείτε τους εαυτούς σας ως νάνους και την παγκόσμια ιστορία ως τεράστιο παραλογισμό."

Στο συγκλονιστικό αυτό μυθιστόρημα ο Ίμρε Κέρτες απευθύνει ένα καντίς - την επιμνημόσυνη προσευχή της εβραϊκής θρησκείας - για το παιδί που ο συγγραφέας αρνήθηκε να φέρει σε έναν κόσμο για πάντα τραυματισμένο από το Άουσβιτς. Είναι ένας πυκνός εσωτερικός μονόλογος - θυμίζει την Πτώση του Αλμπέρ Καμύ - που θέτει καίρια ιστορικά ερωτήματα και επαναπροσδιορίζει τα όρια της ατομικής και της συλλογικής ευθύνης. Εναλλάσσοντας διαρκώς τον καυστικό (αυτό) σαρκασμό με τον βαθύ φιλοσοφικό στοχασμό, ο συγγραφέας αποδεσμεύει τον αναγνώστη από το φορτίο του συναισθηματισμού και τον κάνει κοινωνό της δικής του απαράμιλλης διαύγειας και ελευθερίας σκέψης.

Genres: Fiction, Hungary, Nobel Prize, Holocaust, Hungarian Literature, Jewish, Historical Fiction

160 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1990

About the author

Born in Budapest in 1929, during World War II Imre Kertész was imprisoned at Auschwitz in 1944 and later at Buchenwald. After the war and repatriation, Kertész soon ended his brief career as a journalist and turned to translation, specializing in German language works. He later emigrated to Berlin. Kertész was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 2002 for "writing that upholds the fragile experience of the individual against the barbaric arbitrariness of history".

Reviews

[Diane S ☔ · Rating 4 out of 5]

Our unnamed writer/translator writes to his unborn child, a child he unequivocally refused to bring into this world, an astounding NO the answer he gave to his then wife when she asked for a child. A man who tries very hard to explain his thoughts, his rationality about his decision to not father a child. A man who had been imprisoned, like the author himself, in Auschwitz which left him with a great deal survivor guilt, and trying to make sense of a world that would allow something like this to happen, even exist.

This is a difficult book to read, it is a stream of consciousness novel, thoughts coming quickly and often circuitous. There is so many thoughts in this book, I reread sections again and again, and also read this with two other group friends and despite their added insights still do not feel I have a firm grasp on everything meant to be conveyed. At times I felt the words were angry, almost flung at me, his torment, his regret, his longing, filling the pages. His need to keep writing just to feel as if he exists, his trying to explain the events that were in place, people's apathy, that allowed the Holocaust to destroy so much.

I originally rated this a three, but have upped it to four because I find I can't quite get it out of my mind. It is important to realize that the author was imprisoned in both Auschwitz and then Buchenwald so this I believe is an autobiographical novel.

[Kuszma · Rating 5 out of 5]

"...mert már rég nem törekszem arra, hogy úgymond, összhangban éljek az emberekkel, a természettel, vagy akár csak önmagammal is, mi több, ebben egyenesen valami erkölcsi nyomort látnék, valami undorító perverzitást, mint egy ödipális viszonyban vagy két rút testvér közti vérfertőzésben."

Az jutott eszembe, hogy ha Kertész elbeszélője túl is élte a holokausztot, az bevégezte rajta a munkát. Ha nem is vette el az életét, de elvette annak bizonyosságát, hogy az élet lehetséges. Hogy van mód járni-kelni, emberekhez kapcsolódni, nagy levegőt venni, lenni csak úgy, anélkül, hogy valamibe bele kéne temetkeznünk, felejtőként. A lét tehát nem más, csak evolúciós vakvágány, a biológia értelmetlen vargabetűje, legjobb esetben is csak cigarettaszünet a semmiben. A ritmikus "Nem", amivel az elbeszélő kimondja a maga megfellebbezhetetlen ítéletét, ilyen értelemben a lehető legradikálisabb szabadságkiáltvány, mert azt állítja, az embernek szabadságában áll távol maradni mindentől - de távol maradni mindentől azt jelenti, hogy a semmibe vetjük magunkat.

Rémisztőek a kertészi konzekvenciák. Ugyanakkor a kertészi mondatok meg gyönyörűek: törekszenek a valóság résmentes kitöltésére, arra, hogy a gondolatokat addig ismeretlen pontossággal ragadják meg. Nem úgy törleszkedik lábához a magyar nyelv, mint mondjuk Esterházyéhoz - a nyelv itt inkább eszközszerű, amiből egy utolérhetetlen mester formál épp valami hibátlan tárgyat. Nem tudom nem bámulni ezt a kötetet, meg egyáltalán: Kertészt. De áldom a Magasságost, hogy író lett, nem pedig életvezetési coach.

[Lee Klein · Rating 4 out of 5]

A great, short, dense, post-Holocaust novel by Kertész, who probably didn't win the Nobel Prize solely on this one's strength. I've only read his Detective Story (by a different translator) and should soon at least get to Fatelessness, so I'm not sure how this fits among his other novels, but it feels very real as it digresses, loops back on itself, repeats images (a bald woman in a dress in front of a mirror [what he thinks about when he thinks about his so-called Jewishness]; writing as digging a grave in the air he was meant to be buried in [alluding to gas chambers at Auschwitz, which the author/narrator survived]), not like Bernhard although Bernhard is mentioned at one point, not a single paragraph though it feels like one. Questions what his sense of Jewishness really means, contradicts or destructs sentiments like "Auschwitz cannot be explained," realizes that he must work to live and work sets him free into what's essentially a prison of melancholy and pain, an existence that denies life, the only existence possible for him, which ultimately undermines his marriage to a woman who chooses life and children. "A life lived happily is a life lived mutely, I wrote. It turned out that to write about life means to think about life, to think about life is to question it, and the only one to question the element of his life is one suffocated by it or feeling out of place for one reason or another. It turns out, I don't write to find joy; on the contrary, it turns out, I seek pain, the sharper the better, bordering on the unbearable sort, quite probably because pain is truth, and the answer to the question of what constitutes truth is quite simple, I wrote: truth is what consumes." Long, semi-colon replete sentences. An approach that follows its instinct or its anti-instinct. Repeats "so to say" a lot and every time it distracted me since it seems like people say "so to speak." Again, as with Detective Story (just re-read my review), felt like the translation was a bit wonky at times (interesting that I sensed something off at times with different translators -- maybe they're both maintaining loyalty to occasional wonkiness in the author's prose?). A few typos in my edition. Either I read the last ten pages poorly or the last ten pages when he reveals the end and the aftermath of his marriage didn't quite hold my attention as some of the previous pages had, but I read them in bed super-tired and so I probably failed them. Will try to re-read (I'm thinking about a year of re-reading starting May 1 to celebrate my 10-year anniversary of writing reviews on here). The sort of short dense real hefty novel I love.

[Cherisa B · Rating 4 out of 5]

A unique and chilling testimony of surviving Auschwitz. Ambiguously fictional or biographical, over 95 pages with no chapters or sections and only a few paragraph breaks, the first person narrator is a writer and literary translator who paints the portrait of his blighted life.

Working backward from the present while walking in the woods with a colleague, he mines his memories to open his stunted lonely life to our perusal. Hard-to-grasp mile markers or way finders at times, wending our way through the pages, we’ll occasionally come to stunning images and blossoming understanding. His life is divided into parts, including his “rental life” where he owns nothing and all is tentative and temporary; his marriage, his childhood. His Jewishness pervades it all though he doesn’t feel Jewish, wasn’t raised Jewish nor even understands what it means. He has only a horrible memory of visiting an old Polish aunt that defines it for him - her sitting bald in a red robe before a mirror in a dark back bedroom, and his father laughing at him for not understanding. His work as a literary translator stands for his stunted ability to create.

In reverse chronology, we go through his marriage and the apparently brief attempt at love and intimacy, happiness, even the effort to collaborate for a new book. But his spirit resists and he is unable to let go or free himself to be vulnerable in the way intimacy requires.

Little in his life sets him up for love. His parents divorced when he was 5, when he was sent to boarding school, where rules he had to live by made no sense but affected him anyway, which rolled right into what he experienced in Auschwitz, including hunger and tyranny of the people in charge. You almost nod your head when he mentions he heard the director of the boarding school disappeared into the crematoriums.

It’s not very readable and it’s slow going, most of the 30 or so paragraph offsets are deployed with “No!” — a cry against life, but it’s elegiac and powerful and provokes deep pity, understanding and sorrow.

[Trinh · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Về Auschwitz không có lời giải thích”

Nỗi ám ảnh kinh hoàng về Auschwitz chỉ vỏn vẹn trong một câu ấy nhưng cả tác phẩm là một quá trình đấu tranh với chính mình của tác giả, một người từng sống trong những trại tập trung khắc nghiệt và man rợ của phát xít Đức.
Nỗi đau, quá khứ đau thương ấy một lần nữa rỉ máu khi tác giả đặt bút xuống và viết chúng thành câu chữ...


P.S: Rất muốn tìm sách để đọc lại một lần nữa.

[Eugene · Rating 5 out of 5]

a great and dark autobiographical book, speaking impossible truths with brazen and an often almost obscene courage... a courage so courageous it becomes obscene.

echoing bernhard -- whom kertesz has translated -- this is a great monologue of negation and destruction, which nonetheless (hopelessly) creates. speaking about the one thing that saved him ("albeit it saved me for the sake of destruction"), i.e. his work, kertesz writes, "In those years I recognized my life for what it was: as a fact on the one hand and as a spiritual form on the other, or, more precisely, the spiritual form of the survival instinct that no longer can survive, doesn't want to survive, and probably is no longer capable of survival, but one that still and because of it all demands its own, that is to say, its own formation like a rounded glass-hard object so that it could continue to exist, no matter why, no matter for whom--for everyone and no one..." (94).

also, to mention: some reviews i read somewhere favored the wilkinson translation over the wilson's. because of this i picked up both to compare (after starting with the wilson's)... even if kertesz himself seems to prefer the wilkinson (perhaps because this more recent, post nobel-winning translation is being done by a larger house), the wilson's was to me the far better translation, much more readable, and one that seemed to capture the book's bravura and darkness and humor with much more panache. of course i don't speak hungarian so maybe i'm wrong, but a little research has at least this agreeing opinion:

from www.forward.com/articles/13167/
Kertész’s early novels exist in two English translations: Tim Wilkinson, a British expatriate in Budapest and translator of both fictions under review, retranslated two books for Knopf that had earlier been translated by Christopher C. Wilson and Katharina M. Wilson and published by Northwestern University Press in the days before the author’s laureate and fame. Kertész himself is said to approve of Wilkinson’s translations, or at least to disapprove of the Wilsons’, telling The Journal News: “I really tried to protest against the first translations, but I found complete rejection. The publisher was not willing to do new translations. It was a really bad feeling. It was as if you had a very sane character who has a rendezvous with the reader and the person who shows up is basically a real jerk, with a stammer, bad breath and a foul mouth.”

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury of those of us who care about translation — this is a case of an author having to be saved from himself, or from his enthusiasm at being retranslated, at interest being breathed anew into his work. “Fateless” by the Wilsons is every word as effective as Wilkinson’s “Fatelessness,” and “Kaddish” I would reread in the Northwestern translation (titled “Kaddish for a Child Not Born”), which called upon the example of Austrian writer Thomas Bernhard — an unavoidable influence, whom Kertész has translated — without burying the text in received style or homage.

While the Wilsons are guilty of egregious sins of omission, they served their Muir roles with selflessness (husband and wife Edwin and Willa Muir being the first, though flawed, translators of Kafka), having Englished an uncompromising writer of inaccessible Europe relatively early and well. As for Wilkinson, one does not know what poetry Kertész reads into his prose. If Wilkinson is a good translator, he’s a middling writer. He knows Hungarian, he must, but he hasn’t much art in his native English, which is paramount for a prose as spare as Kertész’s, in which every word, every comma, counts.
from www.forward.com/articles/13167/

[Gill · Rating 4 out of 5]

September 2016
Reading this for a second time, now as a group read. The discussion is thought provoking and is enhancing my understanding of the book.
Finished for a second time- there ar a lot of layers to the book. Beautiful and moving writing, and I'll probably read it another time at some stage.

April 2016
I found this book difficult, both emotionally and because its style is complicated. I intend to re-read it at some stage, especially if I can do this as a readalong, so that I have people to discuss with on the way.

Available on Openlibrary.

[Mayk Can Şişman · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nobel ödüllü Macar yazar Imre Kertesz’ten okuduğum 3’üncü kitap oldu ‘Doğmayacak Çocuk İçin Dua’... Auschwitz yükünü sırtında taşıyan B.’nin, doğmayacak çocuğuna monologlarını okuyoruz kitapta. Beyin hücrelerini canlandıran, okuması oldukça zor bir metindi. Bir ‘Kadersizlik’ kadar vurucu olmasa da değindiği mühim konular -özellikle de var olma meselesi- ve yazarın Thomas Bernhard gibi cümlelerinden fışkıran zekası müthişti. Kertesz’le tanışma kitabı asla değil bu kitap. Ama onun neden Nobel kazandığına dair önemli bir ipucu...

[Samir Rawas Sarayji · Rating 2 out of 5]

Stream-of-consciousness is a beautiful literary technique... when used appropriately. When used inappropriately, it is tedious, superfluous, and (this is a very dangerous 'and') obfuscating. Enter Kertész's Kaddish for an Unborn Child, guilty of all three symptoms. The story premise is interesting enough, which is why I managed to reach halfway through this novella, but there are limits to my patience. I can see no justifiable reason why this style was adopted because at no point do I have the feeling of someone suffering say: Alzheimer's, or trauma while reading the novella. Unlike say Dostoevsky's protagonist in Notes of the Underground or Hamsun's protagonist in Hunger, where stream-of-consciousness is justifiable (PTSD and starvation), Kertész's protagonist here is retelling a story of why he does not want a child. A powerful and intriguing premise, and certainly being a survivor of Aushwitz most likely implies PTSD, but the setup at the start is never clear to establish this unreliable narrator. The way in which this literary technique is abused here muddles the essence of the content, and there is no underlying basis for a reader to invest the time needed to extract the information unless one reads the cover blurb first—surely not the way to go about it, right?

[Seth the Zest · Rating 4 out of 5]

While I had planned to read only twenty pages today because the books so dense, I found myself so drawn into the book that I had to finish almost all of it in one burst. I realized after a few pages that a paragraph hadn't ended and so I naturally wanted to see when it would so I could put the book down and go do something else. I believe it lasted twenty pages. So I then looked for a logical stopping point but couldn't find one. And one thing led to another and I finished it as if in a dream. The intensity of the book so overwhelmed me that I couldn't stop reading.

This was one of the strangest, densest, bravest, and most brilliant and beautiful things I've ever read.

[divayorgun · Rating 3 out of 5]

Kitabın bir üçlemesi olduğunu bilmeden rastgele okudum bu kitabı diğer iki kitabı da Kadersizlik ve Fiyasko imiş onları da merak ettim ancak diğer iki kitaptan da bağımsız bir şekilde okunabilir bu kitap bence.

Kertész, bu kitapta sadece bir karakterin hikâyesini değil, aynı zamanda tarihin karanlık yüzünü, hafızanın ağırlığını ve yaşamanın suçlulukla iç içe geçmiş halini anlatıyor. Metin, bir hatırlama ve hesaplaşma biçiminde ilerliyor; kimi zaman keskin, kimi zaman ise sessiz bir fısıltı gibi.

Okurken kolay ilerleyen bir roman değil, çünkü her cümle insanı durup düşündürüyor. Varoluşun yükü, insanın kendiyle ve tarihiyle çatışması satırlara sindirilmiş. Özellikle “doğmayacak çocuk” metaforu, hem bireysel hem kolektif bir kaybın, yaşanamayan bir hayatın simgesi gibi.

Kertész’in dili sert ve çarpıcı, okurdan sabır ve dikkat istiyor. Ama bittiğinde insanın zihninde uzun süre yankılanıyor.

[Dani Dányi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Eléggé lenyűgöző könyv ez, nem utolsósorban mivel kiderül számomra ebből, hogy amit saját privát életproblémámnak nem-ismerek, vagyis amivel ismerkedem egy ideje, mondjuk: egész életemben, az másoknak (na jó, fiktív embereknek, de hát ki nem az ugye) is nemhogy ismerős terepe, de szinte kultúrája, vagy annál valami több, netán kevesebb. Így megírni az életnek az ő problémáját, problematikáját, vagyis így elolvasni, azzal is jár, hogy ennek a könyvnek nem lehet (és ezt már az elején éreztem) eleje, és a véget érését sem igazán lehet végének tekinteni, mert ez az egész ahhoz túlmozgásos és amúgy sem lineáris szerkezetű, hogy csak úgy elkezdődjön vagy véget érjen. (Nyugalom, ez a könyvértékelés nem ilyen.)
A könyvnek a – mondjuk így – tartalmáról nem is tudom mit írjak, talán hogy egy nagyon közeli és romantikus történetnek olvastam a cselekményt és ahhoz kötődő bonyodalmat, és ijesztően, ugyanakkor megnyugtatóan ismerős az egész úgy ahogy van, ától cettig, túl sok minden van a helyén vagy került a helyére (vagy nyilván oda fog kerülni, vagy hely kerül majd a mindenek fennmaradó, viszonylag mellékesnek ható halmazára) ahhoz, hogy ne a magaménak tekintsem, döbbenetes, lehetetlen módon.
A szerkezete a címhez mérhetően nem is olvasói mint inkább használati szövegnek hat, körkörös, refrénekkel és halmozásokkal, ismétlődő és variálódó, mint az invokált Kaddis vagy bármilyen hasonló rituális szöveg, ami spirálisan nyílik kifelé, minduntalan visszatér a már elhangzottakhoz és minduntalan átrendezi magát az ismétlődésében annyira, hogy valami mást, valami változást, valami kibomlót sejtessen fel. Komponált egy szerkezet, és egyáltalán nem úgy működik, ahogyan mondjuk egy jól megírt sztoritól várhatnánk. Ez egy másik állatfajta. Rokonok vagyunk, azt hiszem.
Újra lesz olvasva (vagyis már most olyan, mintha már újra lett volna olvasva, vagyis fölösleges ilyen értelemben újraolvasni, de ez nem kizáró ok, csak eléggé különös.) Gondolta volna a fene, hogy a Kertész Imre ennyire érdekes lesz nekem, azt hittem a Sorstalanság oké az a mesterműve és akkor téma letudva, közben nem dehogy, sőt.
Végezetül de ezt tényleg csak úgy mondom : milyen bizarr lenne, ha ezt a könyvet mindenki elolvasná és azt képzelné, hogy érti, vagy legalábbis többnyire érti, ahogy én is ezt képzelem – azt hiszem teljesen más lenne a világ amiben élek; mondhatnánk ezt bármilyen nagy benyomást tett könyvről, de itt tényleg egyáltalában nem ezt mondom.


2021, újraolvasás.
Idén épp az utolsó Knausgaard kötet, a Harcok előtt olvastam el újra a Kaddist. Nem kevésbé mesteri szövegélmény, és váratlanul (?) újraélette velem, legaláb helyenként, az első olvasáskori élethelyzetem. Ezen kívül, vagyis ezzel együtt, pedig perspektívába került, szinte éreztette, vagyis én magammal az olvasásom által, hogy mennyire - hogy valamennyire - túl vagyok azon. Klasszikusokat muszáj újraolvasni, néha.

[Pavel Nedelcu · Rating 5 out of 5]

Cartea poate intra și la categoria eseu și la cea de roman. Poate fi citită dintr-un singur foc, cum se spune, pentru că este scrisă astfel: un bloc unic, fără alineat, puțin peste o sută de pagini. Volumul este în mare parte autobiografic, scris la persoana întâi.

Protagonistul, evreu, fost prizonier la Auschwitz, își povestește viața, care i se derulează în fața ochilor într-o singură noapte, provocat fiind de o discuție cu un prieten intelectual, filosof, o discuție, deci, filosofică.

Totuși, acel pretext de la care pleacă întreaga confesiune nu este unul de ordin filosofic (deși mai apoi va fi dezbătut, în paginile cărții, ca o problemă de natură folosofico-socială), ci o întrebare inocentă pe care prietenul intelectual i-o adresează protagonistului din pură curiozitate, anume dacă acesta are copii.

La această întrebare vocea narativă, personaj principal, răspunde tranșant: Nu! Întreaga carte va fi construită în jurul acestui NU categoric. Singurele dăți în care alineatul va fi folosit, va începe cu acest nu, evidențiindu-l, repetându-l și, până la final, clarificându-l în întregime.

[qwerty · Rating 4 out of 5]

Η ομορφιά του έγκειται ακριβώς στις υπερβολικά μακροσκελείς προτάσεις, στην έλλειψη κεφαλαίων και παραγράφων. Είναι ένας τρόπος γραφής που σε συνεπαίρνει. Μεταβαίνει από τον έναν συνειρμό στον άλλον αστραπιαία και συχνά "το χάνεις" και επιστρέφεις στην αρχή της πρότασης.

Ο συγγραφέας μας παρουσιάζει τα εσώψυχά του και το κεντρικό θέμα του βιβλίου είναι η άρνησή του να αποκτήσει απογόνους. Η άρνησή του, γενικότερα, προς έναν τυπικό τρόπο ζωής (δουλεύω, βγάζω χρήματα, επιτυγχάνω επαγγελματικά, παντρεύομαι, κάνω παιδιά) κι αυτό επειδή τα παιδικά του βιώματα, αλλά κυρίως το Άουσβιτς και το Μπούχενβαλντ τον σημάδεψαν.

[Brandon Prince · Rating 5 out of 5]

Kertész is inspired by Thomas Bernhard, but surpasses him. Rarely have the contradictions and unity between domination and freedom been so powerfully realized in a work of fiction. A definitive work of critical holocaust literature, Kaddish draws attention to the tenuous threshold that connects the horrors of Auschwitz to the banal assimilations of everyday life. Absolutely brilliant. One of the greatest books I have ever read.

[julieta · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ese "¡No!" Con el que empieza el libro es un "No", que atraviesa todo el libro. Una negación a muchas cosas, a un hijo, empecemos por ahí. Pero también a poder soltar el pasado, un pasado duro y terrible, un pasado que hace a IK, porque de entrada este libro no tiene nada de ficción, o no lo parece. Kertész vivió cosas terribles, y sobrevivió a Auschwitz, pero sus heridas llegan más profundamente, ya que llega a decir que para el estar en el campo de concentración es una extensión de la educación que recibió con su padre, y al haber estado en un internado cuando era niño. Al final es una negación de el Yo. Es un libro difícil, hasta en la manera en cómo está escrito, sin pausa, sin párrafos, sin historia. La única historia es la negación al hijo, a la ex mujer, que intenta acompañarlo, intenta estar, y al final lo deja, por no poder soportar la negación en la que el vive, a estar mejor.

Porque ella es un elemento importante, así como el escribir. Su trabajo, es un escape, y a la vez donde vive sus neurosis, y desde donde también la aleja a ella. Ella llega a mencionarle la posibilidad de ser un escritor "exitoso" y eso lo hace cuestionarse las razones por las que escribe, que no llegan ni de lejos a el tener "éxito" y ahí siente que ella está metiendo la mano en algo en donde no puede, supongo que se siente invadido, por ese instinto de poseer esa libertad en lo que hace, aunque eso es algo que supongo, porque el reacciona mucho a ese comentario que ella le llega a hacer.

Es duro, tiene algo de terrible todo lo que cuenta, es como un libro-monólogo contado casi para sí mismo, o para el hijo que se negó a tener, porque tiene esa relación compleja con su propio padre, y porque no quiere imponer a nadie el ser su padre, o el ser judío.

Se siente mucho odio a sí mismo, es un libro lleno de tristeza profunda, de horror, de incluso un poco de autodestrucción, pero a la vez sí, me conmueve, me metí en su viaje, y sufrí con el.

[Natty · Rating 3 out of 5]

3 Stars

Dear Mr Kertesz,

This text only passed my eyes because of my uni subject, where it is apart of the curriculum, it probably would've made my TBR otherwise. Your novel Kaddish for an Unborn Child maybe a whopping 160 pages or so, it packs so much into those pages.

My three stars are not because I found this average, but more so there is so much in this text, that I would need to re-read this over and over to gain further understanding and meaning, it is a text that requires to be slowly read in small doses to able to decipher your intentions.

For my first read through, I struggled to connect to your narrator because of this overload of messaging and meaning. I wasn't able to do it that kind of justice and I feel even if I didn't have the time constraints I am just not that style of reader. The format was a steady stream of consciousness thoughts, which were hard to engage at times and I think add in the fact that the text has been translated from Hungarian to English at times there wasn't this easy sense or reason.

While it was hard work and I was overly disconnected from the narrator, I could feel the disconnect he felt from the world, the disorientation of his place in the world, a world where he was intended to cease to exist (not by his choice) and the insights that had garnered him throughout his life.

Maybe one day I'll give it another read and see how it goes? See if I find it easier? See if I gain some new insights? or See if I can be that reader who can take it slow and steady?...

Today, Tomorrow or Next Week I won't be that reader, so until I am...

Natty

[Kris McCracken · Rating 2 out of 5]

Kaddish for a Child Not Born by Imre Kertész is one of a series of four novels which examine the life of a man who survives the Nazi concentration camps of World War II.

If Fatelessness offered a relatively conventional narrative approach, Kaddish for an Unborn Child, written fifteen years later, is anything but. It is a difficult novel of repetition and ambiguity, the narrator acknowledging all his uncertainty, and constantly reminding the reader of the difficulty of exact expression. In many respects, it’s an artist’s attempt at public self-flagellation.

Broadly, the novel is a meditation on the narrator's failed marriage, and in particular, his refusal to have children. Identity is fixed firmly to the present perspective, with the narrator constantly reminiscing yet always acknowledging what was to happen: history is fixed, even if, at the points he returns to, anything seemed possible. So he writes repeatedly of the woman he was to marry: "my wife (who at that time was not yet and is now no longer my wife)".

It’s an interesting text, a (self-) analysis of a state of being that is, in turn, deliberate and emotional, troubled by the inadequacy of the written word (and of human reaction). The author cannot rise above his inadequacies, but can only try to give them expression. As such, it is a jarring read. This is not a fluid narrative, but there is purpose to the careful locutions and the doubling back and emphasis on the contradictory.

It’s not easy going, and one best reserved when your strength of concentration is high!

[Hanna · Rating 2 out of 5]

There were parts, formally and tonally, that reminded me of Ponge's Soap and Dostoevsky's Notes from the Underground. However, the prose in Kaddish feels far less intentional or purposeful than either of those texts it is resembling. While I understand and appreciate what this book is trying to accomplish -- a painfully honest psychological portrait of its author through unmediated stream of consciousness -- for me it falls short aesthetically. The formal structure it seems to be following in the beginning pages -- a constant repetition of a story that builds itself more with each iteration -- is very interesting, but falls apart half way through the text upon which the narrative becomes dense psychobabble, to put it bluntly. This books requires a bit of patience and an enjoyment of unceasing rambling prose, neither of which I possess in great quantity.

[Jonfaith · Rating 4 out of 5]

This piercing unbroken paragraph novella ups the emotional and philosophical ante concerning the Shoah and leaves only scorched earth and tattered memories in its wake. Throughout the work there a number of nods to Bernhard, whereas Kertesz further gilds the homage to the Austrian with trademark recurrences and stilted rhythms. These circumstances extend beyond, of course. The decision reached is also an imperative, one which still bears considerable weight.

[Chim Cụt · Rating 3 out of 5]

SỨC MẠNH CỦA RỪNG CÂU DÀI MIÊN MAN

Hồi nhỏ, nếu bất chợt được nghe những con chiên của Chúa đọc kinh, một nỗi sợ hãi không tên cứ chạy khắp người làm tui lạnh tóc gáy, như thể vừa bị một sức mạnh vô hình bủa vây. Vì họ phát ra những âm thanh tui thắc mắc liệu nó có phải tiếng mẹ đẻ - tui đã nghĩ Chúa dạy họ ngôn ngữ riêng của Người. Vì họ đọc liền tù tì tui không biết nên nghỉ chỗ nào để nghe tiếp hay thậm chí để họ hít thở. Vì, quan trọng hơn cả, họ tạo nên bầu không khí dâng tràn sự thiêng liêng và đức tin.

Quyển Kinh này khiến tui cũng sợ vậy, sợ đến phát mệt, mệt đến phát nản, nản đến phát chửi rủa bản thân khi thời gian gần đây toàn đọc phải những quyển sách chả lôi cuốn gì mấy ở những lần giở trang đầu tiên.

Đến con số 69 rồi nhưng tui không chắc (thật ra là hoàn toàn không) hiểu được những gì đã đọc, chẳng biết phải đến con số bao nhiêu mới gặp được dấu chấm kết câu tiếp theo, và hơn hết, chả rõ tình trạng này sẽ còn kéo dài đến bao nhiêu phần của quyển sách, hay có lẽ đến tận con số cuối cũng nên.

Imre trồng một rừng câu dài miên man trong quyển Kinh.

Có lúc, tui muốn quẳng nó sang bên, phản bội lòng tin dẫu có dở đến đâu quyển sách cũng sẽ có điểm sáng trước giờ của mình. Nhưng ông là tác giả đoạt giải Nobel Văn Chương. Hãy đọc đi, hãy cố đọc đi! Nếu mày không phù hợp với mọi cái gắn với tính từ hàn lâm thì hãy vì tên của quyển Kinh mà đọc. Hãy tìm kiếm điều mày không thấy ở Thư gửi đứa trẻ chưa từng sinh ra của Oriana Fallaci.

Khi chưa đến được khúc cua tiếp theo của rừng câu này, tui lại động viên mình.

Như giờ đây ngộ ra, đọc kinh là nhắc lại những lời răn của Chúa với tốc độ nhanh hơn bình thường và lặp lại với số lần cần thiết trong tâm trí hòa nhập và dâng hiến, thì tui cần đọc nhanh để chóng hiểu ý nghĩa của xuất phát điểm ông muốn nói, hay có khi là cái ông muốn nói nhưng lại không nằm ở rừng chữ hiển hiện trước mắt, chứ không nên hoặc chưa phải lúc dừng lại phân tích từng câu từ - thói quen đọc sách trước đây, nguyên nhân khiến tui (tạm nhận) là con mọt mang họ rùa - để rồi đến cuối câu cũng quên luôn ông ấy mở đầu đoạn văn (tui cá nó không phải câu văn, có lẽ ông tác giả đã ngủ gật giữa chừng và ngỡ rằng mình đã đặt dấu chấm trước đó nên mới viết tiếp) với mục đích gì; nhưng đồng thời cũng phải đọc đi đọc lại nhiều đoạn (không dám nói là cả câu, vì nào biết phải lùi lại mấy trang để bắt gặp, ơn trời, dấu kết câu trước đó) để nhắc nhở bản thân hãy nắm bắt điều Imre gửi gắm đâu đó trong đoạn mà tui đã lướt qua theo triết lý rởm đọc nhanh chóng hiểu vì bất lực với cái tài múa bút vẽ câu của ông.

Khỉ gió thật, ai nói dài nói dai nói dại chứ tui thấy ông tài lắm! Tui mệt muốn đứt hơi khi cũng bày đặt múa bút vẽ câu như ông.

Không thể tin được là rừng câu này mọc từ trang 15 đến tận 143 trong độ dài (hoặc dày) 193 trang mới (hoặc lại) đưa tui quay về với đoạn mở đầu ở trang thứ mười lăm: ... những bản năng của chúng ta hoạt động chống lại những bản năng của chúng ta, có thể nói những phản bản năng của chúng ta hoạt động thay cho những bản năng của chúng ta... Đó là rừng câu dài nhất và kia là câu (thật ra chỉ là một ý) được lặp lại nhiều nhất, nếu trí nhớ tui có thể tạm sử dụng được (vốn nó rất tệ, mà khi đọc quyển này thì tui nhận ra nó còn tệ hơn tui tưởng) thì đó là bốn lần.

Bốn lần đã là gì!

Vợ, vợ tôi, vợ cũ tôi, đã từ lâu không còn là vợ tôi, giờ đã là vợ cũ, khi đó còn chưa là vợ tôi... cùng với những dấu ngoặc đơn đóng - mở rơi rớt trên trang giấy như lá rụng vào mùa. Sang đông, tưởng bước chân đi không còn ngập ngụa trong lá cây (hay câu) nữa thì lại vấp phải những hòn đá (hay dấu phẩy thân thiết của Imre - đôi bạn quấn quýt nhau với tần suất cao bất thường đến làm dấu chấm kết câu phải phát hờn), mà sau nó là những cơn mưa như trút nước tôi nói, tôi viết, tôi nói với vợ tôi, vợ tôi nói...

Bốn lần đã là gì! Không đếm được mới thật sự nhiều. Nào ai đếm được lá rụng, nào ai đếm được hạt mưa?

Chợt nhớ đến câu nói để đời của cụ cố Hồng trong Số đỏ, tui những muốn hét lên: Biết rồi, khổ lắm, nói mãi! Tui biết ông ở hiện tại đang nói về vợ cũ của ông rồi, hay ông ở quá khứ đang nói về vợ tương lai của ông rồi. Tui biết ông đang nói hay đang viết mà, vì tui đang nghe và đang đọc đây mà. Tui biết vợ ông đang nói mà, vì ngoài ông và bà ra thì còn ai vào đây nữa đâu mà.

Khỉ gió thật, tui biết mà, đừng nhắc mãi như thế!

Khỉ gió thật, rốt cuộc, ông cũng dừng múa bút vẽ câu!

Khỉ gió thật, người ta đọc kinh như thế nào thì ông viết Kinh y chang thế đó và tui đọc Kinh y chang thế đó!

Nói cách khác, tinh thần quyển Kinh của Imre đã phản ánh đúng tên của nó (hay phải nói cái tên rất phù hợp với tác phẩm) và phần nào đó các buổi đọc kinh cùng Chúa - dài không điểm dừng, nhanh không kịp thở, lặp lại nhiều đến thuộc theo quán tính. Và đương nhiên, có thiêng liêng. Và đương nhiên, có đức tin. Của một người làm chồng. Của một người không làm cha.

Tui nói mà, quyển sách dẫu có dở đến đâu cũng có điểm sáng. Hoặc nói là tui có tối dạ đến đâu thì cuối cùng cũng được khai sáng.

Thì ra là như vậy.

Do Thái!

Chối bỏ nguồn gốc Do Thái!

Chối bỏ bản tính Do Thái!

Chối bỏ hệ lụy Do Thái!

Chối bỏ đứa con Do Thái!

Tui hiểu rồi, thật ra ông cũng bị một sức mạnh bủa vây.

Nỗi sợ Do Thái!

Con không muốn làm một người Do Thái!

[LuciaBraeu · Rating 5 out of 5]

„I no longer remember exactly how we were related, but then why would I remember, they long ago dug their graves in the sky, into which they were sent up in smoke.“

„Why must we live with our face perpetually turned towards some scene of shame?“

„Beneath my feet the sewers bubble, as if the polluted flood of my memories were seeking to burst out of its hidden channel and sweep me away.“

[Zoltán · Rating 4 out of 5]

Kaddis: ősrégi ima, mely "egyértelműen Isten dicsőítéséről szól", "a gyásszal sújtott hozzátartozók ezzel (...) azt szeretnék kifejezésre juttatni, hogy súlyos fájdalmuk ellenére sem veszítették el hitüket."
Mi is ez a könyv? Szerintem egyetlen mély lélegzetvételre kiadott vallomás, önmarcangolás, egy tönkretett élet magából kiokádott krédója. Könyv arról, amiről sem beszélni, sem írni nem lehet, mégis beszélni és írni kell. Könyv arról, ami feldolgozhatatlan, s amelynek feldogozása mégis egy teljes írói pálya motorja lehet. Könyv arról, miként nem lehet túlélni azt, amit túl lehetett élni. Könyv arról, amit ma is ki kellene mondani, s amit ma sem mond ki hangosan senki, vagy csak kevesen, s azok hangja se hallatszik messzire. Könyv a feladott és a kijózanító apaságról.
Kertész Imre nehezen befogadható írása. Zaklatott, csapongó, önmagával megbékélni képtelen. Soha véget nem érő mondatok, vissza- visszatérő frázisok staccatoja, egy falat írom-mintha-mondanám. Felzaklat? Felzaklat. Nem érted? Ő sem mindig. Önmagát sem. Befogadható? Aligha. Csodálod? Ne csodáld!
Azt hiszem, Siegmund Freud mind a tíz ujját megnyalta volna, ha ezt a könyvet a kezébe veheti. Nemcsak azért, amire most gondolsz, hanem mert lett volna mondanivalójuk egymásnak - Kertész és Freud, két önnön zsidóságával hadilábon álló géniusz. Olyannyira különbözőek, hogy az már hasonlít.
De áruld már el, az utolsó oldalra érkezve, férfi létemre miért kellett egy könnycseppet szétmorzsolnom a szemem sarkában?

[Luke · Rating 4 out of 5]

Kertész is an author I've made room for long after my viewpoint of who he is and where he comes from and what awards he's won have all been complicated by recent experiences and present events. If there's one word I would use as my reason for returning to his writing, it would have to be schlock. Not that Kertész's writing is said schlock, but that, living as I do in a USA that, despite all the promises of good over evil and the underdog over the top, has refused to collapse, my day to day existence is compelled, conformed, and capitalized, the last in terms of both uppercase importance and financial stock, by schlock. And so, returning to Kertész and reading a sentence of his that draws a direct corollary between patriarchal society and Auschwitz, you get a reading that is, well, political. It's also stream of consciousness, and run on run on sentences, and the kind of self-excavation whose power slowly creeps up on you from the realms of the fatuous and into the worlds of all the too devastatingly real. Sure, it helps to have some basic familiarity with Celan, and if you're a fan of the likes of Spielberg's "Schindler's List," you may care more about Kertész's "controversy" than anything else. Still, with this coming at just under 100 pages, it wouldn't take much of your time to give it a taste, out of civic duty if nothing else.

[Du Nguyen · Rating 3 out of 5]

Điểm: 5.5/10
Một tiểu thuyết ngắn được viết bằng văn phong quá dài dòng, rườm rà, trùng lặp
Toàn bộ cuốn tiểu thuyết ngắn này là dòng hồi tưởng của nhân vật chính, một nhà văn Do Thái, đã từng trải qua cuộc sống trong trại tập trung Auschwitz, có cách hồi tưởng, hay đại loại như thế, quá rườm rà, có rất nhiều chỗ trùng lặp không cần thiết, theo mục đích của tác giả, sử dụng rất ít dấu chấm câu để tạo nên hiệu ứng liền mạch và rối rắm trong suy tưởng của nhân vật chính và ngăn chặn người đọc dừng lại nửa chừng (?).
Tựa sách có nói đến một đứa trẻ nhưng thực ra đứa trẻ chỉ xuất hiện thoáng qua.
Cả tác phẩm chỉ diễn ra trong vòng vài giờ nhưng gây ra cảm giác lê thê, mệt mỏi vì đọc hoài mà không hết một câu, nhiều nội dung cứ lặp đi lặp lại.
Nếu bạn cần tìm một cuốn sách có văn phong rườm rà để thử sự kiên nhẫn của chính mình thì đây là một lựa chọn tốt.

[Roula · Rating 3 out of 5]

No!” I could never be another person’s father, destiny, god,
“No!” what happened to me, my childhood, must never happen to another child,
“No!” something screamed and whined within me, it is impossible that this, childhood, should happen to it (to you) and to me;

Το καντίς είναι ένας εβραϊκός  ύμνος αφιερωμένος στον θεο. Έτσι και το βιβλίο αυτό είναι ένα καντίς, με την έννοια ότι εξιστορεί και "εξυμνεί" την αξία του να αντιλαμβάνεσαι πως ορισμένα δυσάρεστα γεγονότα, εμπειρίες, πρόσωπα, καθορίζουν τόσο πολύ τη ζωή σου που τελικά παίρνεις τη σκληρή, δύσκολη, αλλά και 1000% δίκαιη (κατά την ταπεινή μου άποψη) απόφαση να μην μεταφέρεις αυτά τα βιώματα σε έναν άλλο άνθρωπο, φέρνοντας τον στον κόσμο
Το κείμενο ξεκινά με ένα εμφατικό ΌΧΙ, το οποίο λέει ο συγγραφέας στη γυναίκα του σχετικά με το αν θα αποκτήσουν παιδί και συνεχίζει σε ένα σύντομο μεν, αλλά πυκνοτατο και δύσκολο λογιδριο επιχειρηματων στήριξης αυτής της απόφασης που αποτελείται από δυσάρεστες παιδικές εμπειρίες, δύσκολες σχέσης με γονείς, μέχρι φυσικά την εμπειρία του Άουσβιτς που έζησε τόσο ο αφηγητής, όσο και ο συγγραφέας,αλλα και το πως η εβραικοτητα γενικά καθορίζει τη ζωή και τις αποφάσεις των υποστηρικτών της.
Το βιβλίο αυτό θα το χαρακτήριζα δύσκολο σε όλα του, καταρχάς στο να το βρεις, καθότι έχει και αυτό πέσει στη μαύρη τρύπα των εξαντλημενων, δύσκολο στο να διαβάσεις τη συνεχόμενη, πυκνή και με ελάχιστα σημεία στίξης γραφή του Κερτες, δύσκολο στο θέμα του καθότι η κοινωνία μας μας έχει πείσει πως ο απόλυτος σκοπός ενός ανθρώπου χωρίς πολλά πολλά, είναι να τεκνοποιησει.. Τι γίνεται όμως όταν κάποιος όπως ο συγγραφέας παραθέτει κάποια εξαιρετικά επιχειρήματα για το αντίθετο? Οπωσδήποτε δεν είναι ένα εύκολο θέμα, αλλά είναι άκρως ενδιαφέρον και δίνει πολύ μεγάλη τροφή για σκέψη και συζήτηση. Νομιζω πως είναι ένα βιβλίο στο οποίο θα επιστρέψω ξανά ύστερα από χρόνια..

3.5 αστέρια ⭐⭐⭐🌠

[Andreea Ursu-Listeveanu · Rating 3 out of 5]

A very, very heavy read. Both from the point of view of Kertesz's style and of the subject. A broken man, a very broken Jewish man who had a sad childhood, a tough father, no mother, and if that weren't enough, he is a survivor of Auschwitz. No wonder he cannot fully belong to someone, he cannot love himself, he couldn't love a child. So he writes and pours all his sadness, his hatred, his loneliness, in words. He also spends his time telling his wife what his father, Auschwitz, and life itself did to him, which makes her leave him, because he cannot be saved and he doesn't even want to. The unborn child that this book seems to be dedicated to, although the direct refference to him or her is very rare, doesn't exist and will never exist, because the author cannot conceive of bringing a child into this cruel and absurd world. When asked, either by a doctor or his wife, he immediately and instinctively replies "NO" and this "no" carries within all his pain and all his past.

I gave it 3 stars because even if it's a really short novel, it was very hard to read, to restart reading after a pause. It's interesting, but an overwhelming stream of consciousness.

[Jo · Rating 4 out of 5]

To begin with: I'm not a fan of uber-long sentences. They actually drive me mad, more often than not. But I'm glad, very glad indeed, that I kept on reading. Kertész writes with much tenderness and fury and disarming frankness. Definitely a book I'd recommend to anyone who is even remotely interested in literature by Holocaust survivors. Don't let the long sentences put you off reading it.

[Julio César · Rating 3 out of 5]

Tiene partes muy buenas, claramente es un buen escritor, maneja bien la prosa, los recursos. Pero el tema no me atrajo tanto, para escritores que escriben de sus problemas me quedo con Philip Roth.

[Bere Tarará · Rating 3 out of 5]

Me pareció muy interesante el mensaje, aunque difícil de leer. Sospecho que es un libro para leer en la madurez