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The Way of the World
Depuis cinquante ans qu'il arpente le globe, Nicolas Bouvier fait figure de référence pour tous les écrivains voyageurs. Ses livres sont rares pourtant et l'on n'y trouvera guère mention de records ou de raids spectaculaires. Cet Usage du monde ne fait pas exception. Car l'écrivain suisse aime prendre son temps. Il attendra parfois dix ans, voire vingt, avant de relater, solidement mûries ses impressions de voyage. Cette patience accumulée lui permet de pénétrer en profondeur les paysages comme les êtres humains. Une documentation toujours très solide affleure, mais sans gêner un récit libre et alerte, plein d'humour. Photographe par ailleurs remarquable, jamais il ne mitraille, ni ne s'éparpille en vains clichés : un souci constant de vérité l'anime, guide son pas de marcheur économe. Et c'est bien la respiration, le souffle d'un véritable écrivain qui gonfle ces carnets. --Scarbo
309 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1963
317 people are currently reading
6957 people want to read
About the author
Nicolas Bouvier
102 books111 followersNicolas Bouvier (1929-1998) was a Swiss writer and photographer.
His travels all over the world incited him to recount his experiences and adventures. His work is marked by a commitment to report what he sees and feels, shorn of any pretence of omniscience, leading often to an intimacy bordering on the mystical. His journey from Geneva to Japan was in many ways prescient of the great eastward wave of hippies that occurred in the sixties and seventies - slow, meandering progress in a small, iconic car, carefully guarded idiosyncrasy, a rite of passage. Yet, it differs in that the travelogues this journey inspired contain deep reflections on man's intimate nature, written in a style very much aware and appreciative of the traditions and possibilities of the language he uses. (He wrote mainly in French, though he does mention writing a series of travel articles in English for a local journal during his stay in Ceylon.)
His most famous books are The Way of the World, The Japanese Chronicles, and The Scorpion Fish.
His travels all over the world incited him to recount his experiences and adventures. His work is marked by a commitment to report what he sees and feels, shorn of any pretence of omniscience, leading often to an intimacy bordering on the mystical. His journey from Geneva to Japan was in many ways prescient of the great eastward wave of hippies that occurred in the sixties and seventies - slow, meandering progress in a small, iconic car, carefully guarded idiosyncrasy, a rite of passage. Yet, it differs in that the travelogues this journey inspired contain deep reflections on man's intimate nature, written in a style very much aware and appreciative of the traditions and possibilities of the language he uses. (He wrote mainly in French, though he does mention writing a series of travel articles in English for a local journal during his stay in Ceylon.)
His most famous books are The Way of the World, The Japanese Chronicles, and The Scorpion Fish.
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January 5, 2011
I hadn’t heard of Nicolas Bouvier before, but a preface by Patrick Leigh Fermor means something to me: it means that I will definitely buy the book. I’m happy to say that I wasn’t disappointed. In fact, I found myself keeping a mental list of dear friends living in ignorance of their sore and pressing need for me to send them a copy of The Way of the World as a gift.
It’s 1953. Bouvier and the painter Thierry Vernet are driving a temperamental Fiat through the Balkans, across Turkey and Iran, to Pakistan and Afghanistan and up the Khyber Pass. Almost without fail, Bouvier summons the exquisite, most telling details of each place and person encountered. Every page has its quotable passages, and every page is informed by Bouvier’s curiosity, his general knowledge, and a warm, humane spirit.
Does Bouvier’s book bear comparison to Kerouac’s On the Road, as some have said? No, it does not, thank God. Frankly, I might be a better person now in my thirties if I had read Bouvier (and Fermor!) rather than getting mired in the Beats when I was twenty years old. But now I know how to inoculate my own children when they reach that strangely defenseless age.
To locate The Way of the World’s place in the cosmic library by triangulation, I suppose you could take a first measurement from Fermor’s own Between the Woods and the Water. A second measurement might be made from Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities. The third, perhaps, from Arabian Nights. It’s a travel book, in other words, a storybook, an off-hand treatise on art and history; it’s also an enchantment.
It’s 1953. Bouvier and the painter Thierry Vernet are driving a temperamental Fiat through the Balkans, across Turkey and Iran, to Pakistan and Afghanistan and up the Khyber Pass. Almost without fail, Bouvier summons the exquisite, most telling details of each place and person encountered. Every page has its quotable passages, and every page is informed by Bouvier’s curiosity, his general knowledge, and a warm, humane spirit.
Does Bouvier’s book bear comparison to Kerouac’s On the Road, as some have said? No, it does not, thank God. Frankly, I might be a better person now in my thirties if I had read Bouvier (and Fermor!) rather than getting mired in the Beats when I was twenty years old. But now I know how to inoculate my own children when they reach that strangely defenseless age.
To locate The Way of the World’s place in the cosmic library by triangulation, I suppose you could take a first measurement from Fermor’s own Between the Woods and the Water. A second measurement might be made from Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities. The third, perhaps, from Arabian Nights. It’s a travel book, in other words, a storybook, an off-hand treatise on art and history; it’s also an enchantment.
September 6, 2023
اول از همه بگم که انتظار سفرنامه رو از این کتاب نداشته باشید. درسته موضوع اصلی سفر بوده ولی بیشتر کتاب خاطره نویسی و روزمره نویسی هستش
پس برای چی به این کتاب ۴ ستاره دادم و چه چیزیش برام جالب بود؟
اینکه نویسنده قلم خیلی خوبی داره، اطلاعات تاریخی و هنری جالبی داره، میدونه که دنبال چی هست و از همه مهمتر حاضر هستش برای تجربهی دست اول خطر کنه و فقط به تعاریف بقیه گوش نده.
اوایل شاید رک بودن نویسنده توی ذوقم زد و حس سیاهنمایی ازش گرفتم ولی بعدتر که تعصب رو کنار گذاشتم دیدم واقعا یه سری حقایق رو داره میگه که متاسفانه بعضیهاش تلخه. در عین حال زیباترین توصیفها رو از آذریها و کردها، غذاهای آذربایجان و تاریخ ایران و طبیعت میکنه که تعجب میکنم این جملهها رو از یه خارجی میشنوم
نویسنده حدود ۶ ماهی توی زمستان تبریز گیر میکنه تا بتونه بیاد به سمت تهران، این شش ماه رو خیلی جالب توصیف میکنه
بخش دوم کتاب که از تهران به مرز پاکستان میرسه بسیار سریع طی میشه و خیلی خیلی کم در موردش مینویسه که خب به خاطر سختی مسیر، گرما و خرابیهای مکرر ماشین میشه بهش حق داد که خیلی روزها شاید توان نوشتن نداشته، ولی خب من دوست داشتم بیشتر ازش بدونم
پس برای چی به این کتاب ۴ ستاره دادم و چه چیزیش برام جالب بود؟
اینکه نویسنده قلم خیلی خوبی داره، اطلاعات تاریخی و هنری جالبی داره، میدونه که دنبال چی هست و از همه مهمتر حاضر هستش برای تجربهی دست اول خطر کنه و فقط به تعاریف بقیه گوش نده.
اوایل شاید رک بودن نویسنده توی ذوقم زد و حس سیاهنمایی ازش گرفتم ولی بعدتر که تعصب رو کنار گذاشتم دیدم واقعا یه سری حقایق رو داره میگه که متاسفانه بعضیهاش تلخه. در عین حال زیباترین توصیفها رو از آذریها و کردها، غذاهای آذربایجان و تاریخ ایران و طبیعت میکنه که تعجب میکنم این جملهها رو از یه خارجی میشنوم
نویسنده حدود ۶ ماهی توی زمستان تبریز گیر میکنه تا بتونه بیاد به سمت تهران، این شش ماه رو خیلی جالب توصیف میکنه
بخش دوم کتاب که از تهران به مرز پاکستان میرسه بسیار سریع طی میشه و خیلی خیلی کم در موردش مینویسه که خب به خاطر سختی مسیر، گرما و خرابیهای مکرر ماشین میشه بهش حق داد که خیلی روزها شاید توان نوشتن نداشته، ولی خب من دوست داشتم بیشتر ازش بدونم
April 6, 2025
توصیفات فوق العاده و قدرت تصویر پردازی آقای نیکلا بوویه به همراه ترجمه عالی سرکار خانم ناهید طباطبایی خواندن این سفرنامه را برای من جذاب و دلنشین کرد. کتاب شیر و خورشید بخشی از سفرنامه آقای بوویه به همراه دوستش تی یری، به اسم راه و رسم دنیا هست که حال و هوای ایران در دهه ۱۳۳۰ شمسی را به زیبایی ترسیم می کند.
September 15, 2025
کتاب شیر و خورشید یک سفرنامهی کلاسیک دربارهی ایران است؛ بخشی از ترجمهی سفرنامهی نیکلا بوویه، نویسنده، شاعر و عکاس سوئیسی که با نگاهی جستوجوگر و انسانی به فرهنگ و مردم ایران پرداخته است. او سفرنامهاش را با مهارتی خاص در توصیف، تصویرسازی و تأملات فلسفی نوشته و از پیشداوریهای رایج در آثار غربی فاصله گرفته است.
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با وجود اینکه کتاب با نگاهی بیقضاوت و محترمانه نوشته شده، برای من چندان جذاب نبود و نتوانست آنطور که انتظار داشتم، مرا درگیر کند...
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یکی از جملات معروف بوویه دربارهی سفر که بازتابی از نگاه عمیق اوست:
«سفر احتیاج به دلیل ندارد، بلکه خودش دلیل کافی است. هر مسافر در ابتدا خیال میکند که سفر را خواهد ساخت، اما دیری نمیگذرد که متوجه میشود این سفر است که او را میسازد.»
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با وجود اینکه کتاب با نگاهی بیقضاوت و محترمانه نوشته شده، برای من چندان جذاب نبود و نتوانست آنطور که انتظار داشتم، مرا درگیر کند...
.
یکی از جملات معروف بوویه دربارهی سفر که بازتابی از نگاه عمیق اوست:
«سفر احتیاج به دلیل ندارد، بلکه خودش دلیل کافی است. هر مسافر در ابتدا خیال میکند که سفر را خواهد ساخت، اما دیری نمیگذرد که متوجه میشود این سفر است که او را میسازد.»
September 30, 2023
“ ایران، این مریض کهن که همچنان خلق میکرد، دوست میداشت، از غرور عصیان میکرد، دسیسه میکرد و تاب میآورد. “
سفرنامه طوری بود که گاهی حال نیکولا و همراهش خوب بود و گاهی نه ! درست مثل حال و روز الان ما! ( البته اینروزا دیگه رمقی برای حال خوب واسمون نمونده… )
ایران همینه! احساس میکنم خود نویسنده هم از این حجم از شگفتی و بالاوپایینهای این سرزمین متعجب شده بود.
حال و هوای دههی ۳۰ رو همراه با کدریِ خاصی از اون دوران، خوب و جالب توضیح داد.
تلاقی فرهنگ جدید و غربی درکنار مذهب و سنت در اون برهه بخوبی مشهوده.
حال و هوای تهران و بخصوص تبریز بهدلیل مدت زمان بیشتری که نویسنده اونجا اسکان داشته خیلی خوب و با جزییات شرح داده شده.
البته سختی و مشقتهای زیادی رو هم بواسطهی نبود امکانات و جادههای نامناسب تحمل کردن
نویسنده از بعضی شهرها مثل اصفهان و شیراز بصورت گذرا رد شده و جسته گریخته نوشته، و خب بصورت کامل از ایران گفته نشده، و اینطور به نظر میاد که ایران بخشی از مسیر اصلی سفرش بود که در قالب یک سفرنامهی کاملتر به نام راهورسم دنیا نوشته شده
امتیاز : ۳/۵
سفرنامه طوری بود که گاهی حال نیکولا و همراهش خوب بود و گاهی نه ! درست مثل حال و روز الان ما! ( البته اینروزا دیگه رمقی برای حال خوب واسمون نمونده… )
ایران همینه! احساس میکنم خود نویسنده هم از این حجم از شگفتی و بالاوپایینهای این سرزمین متعجب شده بود.
حال و هوای دههی ۳۰ رو همراه با کدریِ خاصی از اون دوران، خوب و جالب توضیح داد.
تلاقی فرهنگ جدید و غربی درکنار مذهب و سنت در اون برهه بخوبی مشهوده.
حال و هوای تهران و بخصوص تبریز بهدلیل مدت زمان بیشتری که نویسنده اونجا اسکان داشته خیلی خوب و با جزییات شرح داده شده.
البته سختی و مشقتهای زیادی رو هم بواسطهی نبود امکانات و جادههای نامناسب تحمل کردن
نویسنده از بعضی شهرها مثل اصفهان و شیراز بصورت گذرا رد شده و جسته گریخته نوشته، و خب بصورت کامل از ایران گفته نشده، و اینطور به نظر میاد که ایران بخشی از مسیر اصلی سفرش بود که در قالب یک سفرنامهی کاملتر به نام راهورسم دنیا نوشته شده
امتیاز : ۳/۵
February 27, 2019
Dello splendore per usura
Nicolas Bouvier, scrittore, fotografo e iconografo ginevrino non beneficia, purtroppo, di un largo seguito in Italia. L'editoria e il pubblico estero hanno viceversa riconosciuto ne La polvere del mondo un classico della letteratura di viaggio, anche se la definizione di genere è del tutto angusta al respiro e alla portata della sua scrittura.
L'ultima edizione italiana in circolazione credo sia quella di Diabasis, anno 2009, cui perdono una delle copertine più respingenti del mondo in virtù della perfetta, magistrale prefazione di Jean Starobinski, esponente della Scuola di Ginevra e conterraneo di Bouvier ( Fermor ha invece curato quella di una edizione inglese).
La polvere del mondo è il diario di due anni di viaggio, 1953, dalla Svizzera all'India a bordo di una Topolino.
La dimensione del viaggio ha in sé una matrice sottile che attrae e condensa un istinto latente, un elemento quiescente, compattato e riposto che affonda nel nostro sostrato psichico più antico, nella memoria di specie. Siamo stati nomadi per migliaia di anni, decine di migliaia, e una manciata di millenni all'ombra di un tetto faticano a stingerne la traccia.
Percorso di conoscenza, cerca mistica, strada del pellegrino, solco di schiera cavalleresca, cammino metafisico, sentiero di fuga, formazione o scoperta, il viaggio è sempre, nella sua natura più profonda, narrazione delle rotte recondite dell'io.
"...e volta nostra poppa nel mattino, de’ remi facemmo ali al folle volo..."
Tracciare, annotare, testimoniare il segno intimamente impresso da queste rotte, e coniugarne l’onda di riflusso, sono le coordinate costanti dello spazio di Bouvier, dove a una geografia fisica rintocca sempre, coincidente, una interiore.
E così scrive all'inizio di questo diario, il cui titolo in francese, L’usage du monde, rivela già, come elemento centrale della sua riflessione, il rovesciamento del concetto di viaggio da tempo di disimpegno a quello di rinnovamento per usura, ad opera di ciò che, oltre la soglia, attende di assottigliarci come la trama di un tappeto sfilacciato:
" ...un viaggio non ha bisogno di motivi. Non ci mette molto a dimostrare che basta a se stesso. Pensate di andare a fare un viaggio, ma subito è il viaggio che vi fa, o vi disfa."
”Non si viaggia per addobbarsi d’esotismo e di aneddoti come un albero di Natale, ma perché la strada ci spiumi, ci strigli, ci prosciughi, ci renda simili a quelle salviette consunte che ci allungano con una scaglia di sapone nei bordelli”, annota ancora ostinatamente ne Il Pesce Scorpione.
Il viaggio è freccia nel tempo che ci attraversa, trafigge, ossida.
Ruvida e radiante, la prospettiva di Bouvier ha il suo punto di fuga nella spoliazione di sé, nell'offerta della propria fragilità, nella dilatazione della superficie di contatto tra l’individuo e il mondo, nell’esperire se stessi attraverso una scelta che genera accoglienza.
Un'accoglienza di certo rischiosa, perché contamina e porge, rompe e concepisce.
Ben lontana dall'attuale logica per accumulo.
Trovare sottraendo.
Oltre a ad ogni altra interpretazione dell'autore, il libro è poi bellissimo, appaga, incanta e stordisce con una scrittura limpida, trasparente alla luce, alla visione, al paesaggio (un paesaggio che ci è ormai interdetto) :
"Addossati a una collina, si guardano le stelle, i movimenti vaghi della terra che se ne va verso il Caucaso, gli occhi fosforescenti delle volpi, Il tempo passa tra tè bollenti, qualche rara frase, sigarette; poi l'alba s'alza, si spiega, ci si mettono in mezzo le quaglie e le pernici ... e ci si affretta ad affondare quell'istante supremo come un corpo morto in fondo alla memoria, dove si andrà a ripescarlo un giorno. Ci si stiracchia, si fa qualche passo, pesando meno di un chilo, e la parola felicità pare troppo scarna e particolare per descrivere ciò che vi succede."
“Viaggiare ti lascia senza parole, poi ti trasforma in narratore”, scriveva Ibn Battuta, il più grande viaggiatore di tutti i tempi.
"Davanti a quella prodigiosa incudine di terra e di roccia, il mondo dell'aneddoto era come abolito. La distesa di montagne, il cielo chiaro di dicembre, il tepore di mezzogiorno, il crepitio del narghilè, fino agli spiccioli che mi tintinnavano in tasca, diventavano gli elementi di uno spettacolo a cui ero giunto dopo un'infinità di ostacoli, e in tempo per recitare la mia parte. << Perennità ... trasparente evidenza del mondo ... tranquilla appartenenza ...>> neanche io so più come dire ...perché per parlare con Plotino: << Una tangente è un contatto che non si può né concepire né formulare >>. "
Quando l'io fa un passo indietro, trova spazio l'essere.
ps la nota in apertura è ripresa dal seguente brano de Il Pesce Scorpione di Nicolas Bouvier:
"ll quartiere delle pietre preziose. Qui e là, dietro i sorrisi che sbarrano la soglia dei levigatori, dietro le loro minuscole bilance, riposano, fasciati da carta di seta, rubini occhio-di-gatto, topazi e pietre di luna, luccicando e sfolgorando segretamente. Quelle gemme che hanno pazientemente maturato al buio la loro bellezza sono una lezione di permanenze e di lentezza. La trasparenza e lo splendore per usura."
Nicolas Bouvier, scrittore, fotografo e iconografo ginevrino non beneficia, purtroppo, di un largo seguito in Italia. L'editoria e il pubblico estero hanno viceversa riconosciuto ne La polvere del mondo un classico della letteratura di viaggio, anche se la definizione di genere è del tutto angusta al respiro e alla portata della sua scrittura.
L'ultima edizione italiana in circolazione credo sia quella di Diabasis, anno 2009, cui perdono una delle copertine più respingenti del mondo in virtù della perfetta, magistrale prefazione di Jean Starobinski, esponente della Scuola di Ginevra e conterraneo di Bouvier ( Fermor ha invece curato quella di una edizione inglese).
La polvere del mondo è il diario di due anni di viaggio, 1953, dalla Svizzera all'India a bordo di una Topolino.
La dimensione del viaggio ha in sé una matrice sottile che attrae e condensa un istinto latente, un elemento quiescente, compattato e riposto che affonda nel nostro sostrato psichico più antico, nella memoria di specie. Siamo stati nomadi per migliaia di anni, decine di migliaia, e una manciata di millenni all'ombra di un tetto faticano a stingerne la traccia.
Percorso di conoscenza, cerca mistica, strada del pellegrino, solco di schiera cavalleresca, cammino metafisico, sentiero di fuga, formazione o scoperta, il viaggio è sempre, nella sua natura più profonda, narrazione delle rotte recondite dell'io.
"...e volta nostra poppa nel mattino, de’ remi facemmo ali al folle volo..."
Tracciare, annotare, testimoniare il segno intimamente impresso da queste rotte, e coniugarne l’onda di riflusso, sono le coordinate costanti dello spazio di Bouvier, dove a una geografia fisica rintocca sempre, coincidente, una interiore.
E così scrive all'inizio di questo diario, il cui titolo in francese, L’usage du monde, rivela già, come elemento centrale della sua riflessione, il rovesciamento del concetto di viaggio da tempo di disimpegno a quello di rinnovamento per usura, ad opera di ciò che, oltre la soglia, attende di assottigliarci come la trama di un tappeto sfilacciato:
" ...un viaggio non ha bisogno di motivi. Non ci mette molto a dimostrare che basta a se stesso. Pensate di andare a fare un viaggio, ma subito è il viaggio che vi fa, o vi disfa."
”Non si viaggia per addobbarsi d’esotismo e di aneddoti come un albero di Natale, ma perché la strada ci spiumi, ci strigli, ci prosciughi, ci renda simili a quelle salviette consunte che ci allungano con una scaglia di sapone nei bordelli”, annota ancora ostinatamente ne Il Pesce Scorpione.
Il viaggio è freccia nel tempo che ci attraversa, trafigge, ossida.
Ruvida e radiante, la prospettiva di Bouvier ha il suo punto di fuga nella spoliazione di sé, nell'offerta della propria fragilità, nella dilatazione della superficie di contatto tra l’individuo e il mondo, nell’esperire se stessi attraverso una scelta che genera accoglienza.
Un'accoglienza di certo rischiosa, perché contamina e porge, rompe e concepisce.
Ben lontana dall'attuale logica per accumulo.
Trovare sottraendo.
Oltre a ad ogni altra interpretazione dell'autore, il libro è poi bellissimo, appaga, incanta e stordisce con una scrittura limpida, trasparente alla luce, alla visione, al paesaggio (un paesaggio che ci è ormai interdetto) :
"Addossati a una collina, si guardano le stelle, i movimenti vaghi della terra che se ne va verso il Caucaso, gli occhi fosforescenti delle volpi, Il tempo passa tra tè bollenti, qualche rara frase, sigarette; poi l'alba s'alza, si spiega, ci si mettono in mezzo le quaglie e le pernici ... e ci si affretta ad affondare quell'istante supremo come un corpo morto in fondo alla memoria, dove si andrà a ripescarlo un giorno. Ci si stiracchia, si fa qualche passo, pesando meno di un chilo, e la parola felicità pare troppo scarna e particolare per descrivere ciò che vi succede."
“Viaggiare ti lascia senza parole, poi ti trasforma in narratore”, scriveva Ibn Battuta, il più grande viaggiatore di tutti i tempi.
"Davanti a quella prodigiosa incudine di terra e di roccia, il mondo dell'aneddoto era come abolito. La distesa di montagne, il cielo chiaro di dicembre, il tepore di mezzogiorno, il crepitio del narghilè, fino agli spiccioli che mi tintinnavano in tasca, diventavano gli elementi di uno spettacolo a cui ero giunto dopo un'infinità di ostacoli, e in tempo per recitare la mia parte. << Perennità ... trasparente evidenza del mondo ... tranquilla appartenenza ...>> neanche io so più come dire ...perché per parlare con Plotino: << Una tangente è un contatto che non si può né concepire né formulare >>. "
Quando l'io fa un passo indietro, trova spazio l'essere.
ps la nota in apertura è ripresa dal seguente brano de Il Pesce Scorpione di Nicolas Bouvier:
"ll quartiere delle pietre preziose. Qui e là, dietro i sorrisi che sbarrano la soglia dei levigatori, dietro le loro minuscole bilance, riposano, fasciati da carta di seta, rubini occhio-di-gatto, topazi e pietre di luna, luccicando e sfolgorando segretamente. Quelle gemme che hanno pazientemente maturato al buio la loro bellezza sono una lezione di permanenze e di lentezza. La trasparenza e lo splendore per usura."
March 24, 2025
ترجمه اش را دوست نداشتم . بعضی جاها واقعا گنگ بود
قبل خرید چند تا نظر در مورد کتاب تو گودریدز خوانده بودم ولی هیچ کدام به این نکته اشاره نکرده بود
قبل خرید چند تا نظر در مورد کتاب تو گودریدز خوانده بودم ولی هیچ کدام به این نکته اشاره نکرده بود
August 23, 2024
کتاب یه چیزی بین خاطره نویسی و سفرنامه هست اطلاعات خوبی از مردم و اوضاع کشور در اون زمان ارائه میده.من صوتی رو گوش دادم و زیاد پیش اومده صوتی یه کتاب رو بشنوم و بعد برم کاغذیشم بخرم و بخونم ولی این کتاب برام جز اون کتابها نشد
December 4, 2020
فوق العاده متفاوت و دقیق و شاعرانه
یک نفر سوئیسی از سال 1332 یک سفری را آغاز کرده و از ایران هم گذر کرده، این کتاب ترجمه بخش ایران سفرنامه ست.
این کتاب با بقیه تیپیکال سفرنامه ها تفاوت داره شاید به این خاطر که سیاح خود نویسنده و نقاش بوده و ذهن خلاق و طبع هنرمندانه ای داشته.
کتاب از وقتی شروع میشه که به آذربایجان ایران می رسند و بخاطر برف و بستن راه ها بیشتر از 6 ماه در این منطقه گرفتار و جاگیر میشوند، در قسمت ارامنه نشین شهر خانه ای می گیرن و میان مردم شهر زندگی می کنند و جا باز می کنند و حتی برای مخارج سفر شاگرد می گیرند.
نویسنده انگار در هر قسمت به دنبال تجربه زندگی کردن بوده و این سفرنامه حاصل احساسیه که از این امر به دست اومده. به همین خاطر به جای توصیف صرف مناظر و امور، احساسی رو که این ها بهش میدن رو بیان می کنه و باعث می شه مثل یک رمان شخصیت ها زنده باشند و مکان ها و اتفاقات در خدمت سفر باشند.به نظرم بزرگترین تفاوت این سفرنامه با بقیه سفرنامه ها همینه که امر مهم و مرکزی نه سیاح که خود سفر است.
نیکلاس بویر واقعا این مدت در بین مردم زندگی می کنه و مثل کسی که عمری این جا زندگی کرده از ایران راضیست یا گاهی متنفر و خشمگین میشه
اما مثل یک معشوقه هیچ وقت بزرگی وشرقی بودن اون رو فراموش نمی کنه.
نیمه اول کتاب فوق العاده بود و با توصیفات زنده و شاعرانه ای که داشت شهر ها رو خصوصا تبریز و مهاباد رو در دهه 30 به شکل هیبت زنده ای روبروی شما قرار می ده انگار که این ها همه مال الان است و هروقت که خواستی می تونی سفر کنی.
نشناختن و نخواندن این کتاب ما رو از یک تجربه عمیق از ایران، این گربه افسونگر محروم می کنه.
امیدوارم دوستان بیشتری بخونند و لذت ببرند و تجربه شون رو به اشتراک بگذارند من حس میکنم به اندازه کافی نمی تونم توجه شما را به این کتاب معطوف کنم.
یک نفر سوئیسی از سال 1332 یک سفری را آغاز کرده و از ایران هم گذر کرده، این کتاب ترجمه بخش ایران سفرنامه ست.
این کتاب با بقیه تیپیکال سفرنامه ها تفاوت داره شاید به این خاطر که سیاح خود نویسنده و نقاش بوده و ذهن خلاق و طبع هنرمندانه ای داشته.
کتاب از وقتی شروع میشه که به آذربایجان ایران می رسند و بخاطر برف و بستن راه ها بیشتر از 6 ماه در این منطقه گرفتار و جاگیر میشوند، در قسمت ارامنه نشین شهر خانه ای می گیرن و میان مردم شهر زندگی می کنند و جا باز می کنند و حتی برای مخارج سفر شاگرد می گیرند.
نویسنده انگار در هر قسمت به دنبال تجربه زندگی کردن بوده و این سفرنامه حاصل احساسیه که از این امر به دست اومده. به همین خاطر به جای توصیف صرف مناظر و امور، احساسی رو که این ها بهش میدن رو بیان می کنه و باعث می شه مثل یک رمان شخصیت ها زنده باشند و مکان ها و اتفاقات در خدمت سفر باشند.به نظرم بزرگترین تفاوت این سفرنامه با بقیه سفرنامه ها همینه که امر مهم و مرکزی نه سیاح که خود سفر است.
نیکلاس بویر واقعا این مدت در بین مردم زندگی می کنه و مثل کسی که عمری این جا زندگی کرده از ایران راضیست یا گاهی متنفر و خشمگین میشه
اما مثل یک معشوقه هیچ وقت بزرگی وشرقی بودن اون رو فراموش نمی کنه.
نیمه اول کتاب فوق العاده بود و با توصیفات زنده و شاعرانه ای که داشت شهر ها رو خصوصا تبریز و مهاباد رو در دهه 30 به شکل هیبت زنده ای روبروی شما قرار می ده انگار که این ها همه مال الان است و هروقت که خواستی می تونی سفر کنی.
نشناختن و نخواندن این کتاب ما رو از یک تجربه عمیق از ایران، این گربه افسونگر محروم می کنه.
امیدوارم دوستان بیشتری بخونند و لذت ببرند و تجربه شون رو به اشتراک بگذارند من حس میکنم به اندازه کافی نمی تونم توجه شما را به این کتاب معطوف کنم.
May 22, 2020
A few years back a friend asked me why I would want to waste my time and money wandering about the world. I babbled something about how I feel a growing need to experience this way of life, to experience the excitement of not knowing what town or country I'll be in tomorrow, to hold in my hands a one-way ticket to a destination still unknown to me. I don't think I made my reasons clear because she gave me an incredulous look probably thinking to herself: "Oh, you pitiful little dreamer, how can you be so foolish?"
I still went on my trip. And yes, I had moments of doubt when, traveling aimlessly, I was thinking this was a bad idea. Just like Bouvier in the book: "And what about this trip? A mess...a failure. You travelled, you were free, you were heading for India...what then?[...] Everything spoke of dissolution, refusal and absence. Thierry's heart was also in his boots; he shared my feelings although I hadn't said a word to him." But these were brief drawbacks incapable of spoiling the memories of what I've seen and done, the happiness I've felt, the friends I've made, the places I've visited and learned to call home.
"When I went home", Bouvier says, "there were many people who had never left who told me that with a bit of imagination and concentration they travelled just as well. I quite believed them. They were strong people. I'm not. I need that physical displacement, which for me is pure bliss."
It's interesting how people fit in these small boxes that ultimately define them, how one's happiness is another's sorrow or fear, how we are all so different from each other, but how no matter how peculiar one is there's always someone who will have an understanding look.
3.5
I still went on my trip. And yes, I had moments of doubt when, traveling aimlessly, I was thinking this was a bad idea. Just like Bouvier in the book: "And what about this trip? A mess...a failure. You travelled, you were free, you were heading for India...what then?[...] Everything spoke of dissolution, refusal and absence. Thierry's heart was also in his boots; he shared my feelings although I hadn't said a word to him." But these were brief drawbacks incapable of spoiling the memories of what I've seen and done, the happiness I've felt, the friends I've made, the places I've visited and learned to call home.
"When I went home", Bouvier says, "there were many people who had never left who told me that with a bit of imagination and concentration they travelled just as well. I quite believed them. They were strong people. I'm not. I need that physical displacement, which for me is pure bliss."
It's interesting how people fit in these small boxes that ultimately define them, how one's happiness is another's sorrow or fear, how we are all so different from each other, but how no matter how peculiar one is there's always someone who will have an understanding look.
3.5
June 19, 2008
Fans of the genre would probably give this one another star. Personally, I prefer a few anecdotes in a history book to a little history in a book of anecdotes. Bouvier can't quite avoid those tedious ticks of travel writing: long lists of unrelated and insignifcant observations (a broken doll's head, an out-of tune accordion, the nub of an old man's amputated arm, the state logo on a carton of socialist cigarettes...) intended, I suppose, to give a sort of pointilliste portrait of the landscape; personal reflections on events or complex social issues largely beyond the passing voyager's ken; spurious superlatives ("Turkish food is the most substantial in the world", "Iranis are the most poetic people"). For the most part, though, the book is well written. If you're interested in the lives of ordinary people in the multi-ethnic world of Yugoslavia, Iran, and Afghanistan in the mid-1950's... is there any other book for you? Note to travel writers: while tales of car trouble can give insight into native customs of hospitality, if your car breaks down on every other page, you might want to consider hopping on a bus.
September 3, 2020
Travel journals belong to an ancient literary tradition where words become colors, brushes in a canvas led by a dissecting eye in an aim to reproduce distant lands, emblematic towns, vast landscapes, flamboyant characters, that the errant traveler seizes by way of embellished descriptions that magically transform the motionless reader into a perceptive wanderer.
For years, Nicolas Bouvier was such a traveler, engaged in duplicating through stylistic prose everything his insatiable curiosity set eyes on. The refined portrayals and colorful imagery are all part of his appealing views of the world. A talented writer, he devoted his work to such endeavor producing a good number of works all belonging to the traveling tradition. L’Usage du Monde is his best-known book. It was written during his first trip by car, in 1953, with his friend the painter Thierry Vernet that began in Belgrad and finished in Afghanistan. It was first published in 1963, (paid by Bouvier himself), by the Librairie Droz in Geneva. The text is enriched by the designs of Vernet.
Nicolas Bouvier and Thierry Vernet during their journey in 1953-54
Without any sense of haste in their plans, the two friends embarked in the extraordinary adventure of traveling from Yugoslavia to India. That is basically the only fixed plan they had, leaving everything else to decision-making while on route. Throughout the journey, Bouvier engaged as a journalist in the local newspapers, as a French teacher in schools or lecturer in cultural institutions and Vernet as a painter, to be able to provide their expenses.
Language limitations were never an obstacle for the charismatic travelers, who tried to engage in friendly conversations with the locals in every town they visited. Without a fixed agenda, they stayed for weeks in a village just because of a certain attraction or simply passed by an uninteresting town and continue their journey, overcoming the most bizarre complications with patience and good will, like the many problems with their car.
Thierry Vernet in the old Fiat Topolino, near Ankara in 1953.
An interesting book that has been appropriately praised for its elegant and polished writing style. There are parts that are more compelling than others, sections where the writing is much more poetic and convincing, descriptions that stand out for their impeccable construction. My overall impression however, is of slight unevenness. Next in my series of books by Bouvier will be Chronique japonaise, but echoing his lack of a fixed plan, I do not know when I'll get to it. As all good readers know, we are incurable dreamers...
Nicolas Bouvier was born in Geneva in 1929. He worked as a journalist and was sent on assignment to Finland and later to Algeria, and thus his love of traveling was born. He died of cancer in February of 1998.
I read L'Usage du Monde in the superb volume of his works in the QUARTO Collection of Gallimard, that includes a large number of photographs by Bouvier (who became a professional photographer during the trip), some sections of his hand-written diaries, his poetry and most of his travel books.
Nicolas Bouvier, circa 1970
For years, Nicolas Bouvier was such a traveler, engaged in duplicating through stylistic prose everything his insatiable curiosity set eyes on. The refined portrayals and colorful imagery are all part of his appealing views of the world. A talented writer, he devoted his work to such endeavor producing a good number of works all belonging to the traveling tradition. L’Usage du Monde is his best-known book. It was written during his first trip by car, in 1953, with his friend the painter Thierry Vernet that began in Belgrad and finished in Afghanistan. It was first published in 1963, (paid by Bouvier himself), by the Librairie Droz in Geneva. The text is enriched by the designs of Vernet.
Nicolas Bouvier and Thierry Vernet during their journey in 1953-54
Without any sense of haste in their plans, the two friends embarked in the extraordinary adventure of traveling from Yugoslavia to India. That is basically the only fixed plan they had, leaving everything else to decision-making while on route. Throughout the journey, Bouvier engaged as a journalist in the local newspapers, as a French teacher in schools or lecturer in cultural institutions and Vernet as a painter, to be able to provide their expenses.
Language limitations were never an obstacle for the charismatic travelers, who tried to engage in friendly conversations with the locals in every town they visited. Without a fixed agenda, they stayed for weeks in a village just because of a certain attraction or simply passed by an uninteresting town and continue their journey, overcoming the most bizarre complications with patience and good will, like the many problems with their car.
Thierry Vernet in the old Fiat Topolino, near Ankara in 1953.
An interesting book that has been appropriately praised for its elegant and polished writing style. There are parts that are more compelling than others, sections where the writing is much more poetic and convincing, descriptions that stand out for their impeccable construction. My overall impression however, is of slight unevenness. Next in my series of books by Bouvier will be Chronique japonaise, but echoing his lack of a fixed plan, I do not know when I'll get to it. As all good readers know, we are incurable dreamers...
Nicolas Bouvier was born in Geneva in 1929. He worked as a journalist and was sent on assignment to Finland and later to Algeria, and thus his love of traveling was born. He died of cancer in February of 1998.
I read L'Usage du Monde in the superb volume of his works in the QUARTO Collection of Gallimard, that includes a large number of photographs by Bouvier (who became a professional photographer during the trip), some sections of his hand-written diaries, his poetry and most of his travel books.
Nicolas Bouvier, circa 1970
January 12, 2021
Récit de voyage de Suisse en Afghanistan. Ce voyage en roadtrip qui semble très moderne date de 1953 et c'est un récit assez précurseur dans ce sens.
D'abord, j'ai pas mal aimé ce document car mon mode de voyage est quasi équivalent. Je prends ma vieille bagnole pour visiter la France et l'Europe régulièrement et je vadrouille en fonction de mes centres d'intérêt. Je partage avec l'auteur la curiosité intellectuelle d'essayer de réparer son vieux tacot par soi-même, un peu à l'arrache. J'ai pu facilement m'identifier à ces deux garçons en train de bricoler un moteur défaillant, réfléchir à ce qui a lâché, faire des essais et tout recommencer en s'énervant un petit peu quand même... Par ailleurs, je me suis également retrouvé dans leurs rencontres improbables, même si dans mon cas ce sont plus souvent des punks à chien, des roots, des chasseurs, des camping-caristes ou des agriculteurs qui moissonnent leur champ à une heure tardive... (et pas des camionneurs ouzbeks, des colonels iraniens ou des archéologues expatriés)
Ensuite, c'est un suisse qui se permet de voyager sans revenus 8 ans après la fin de la seconde guerre mondiale et qui s'en sort toujours. Celui-ci n'a pas apparemment besoin de travailler pour gagner sa vie. J'avais un peu l'impression de lire les aventures d'un bobo qui fait un break pendant ses études de médecine pour éviter le burn-out. Après tout, qui pouvait ce permettre ce genre de fantaisie à cette époque là vraiment ? Après que l'Europe entière fut dévastée ? Déjà, de nos jours ce n'est pas évident... Cela m'a rendu assez perplexe.
A part ça, c'est juste un récit de voyage de deux types qui vont d'un point A à un point B, si ce n'est pas votre truc, laissez tomber car au final, on n'y apprend pas grand chose.
Enfin, j'ai trouvé ça très bien écrit dans l'ensemble. Dans le style récit de voyage, il me semble que c'est un classique qu'il faut avoir lu au moins une fois. C'est un peu le livre culte du routard. Si c'est votre mode de transport/de voyage/de découverte alors vous aurez un jour ce livre sur votre route sans avoir besoin de le chercher. C'est le troisième exemplaire que j'ai en ma possession, c'est au bout du troisième que je me suis décidé à le lire pour ma part. Quoi de mieux qu'un livre de voyage quand on est presque contraint à domicile ? Livre un livre de voyage en plein confinement, n'est ce pas déjà partir un peu ?
Bon courage à tous en ces temps difficiles,
Portez-vous bien et bonne année,
SB
D'abord, j'ai pas mal aimé ce document car mon mode de voyage est quasi équivalent. Je prends ma vieille bagnole pour visiter la France et l'Europe régulièrement et je vadrouille en fonction de mes centres d'intérêt. Je partage avec l'auteur la curiosité intellectuelle d'essayer de réparer son vieux tacot par soi-même, un peu à l'arrache. J'ai pu facilement m'identifier à ces deux garçons en train de bricoler un moteur défaillant, réfléchir à ce qui a lâché, faire des essais et tout recommencer en s'énervant un petit peu quand même... Par ailleurs, je me suis également retrouvé dans leurs rencontres improbables, même si dans mon cas ce sont plus souvent des punks à chien, des roots, des chasseurs, des camping-caristes ou des agriculteurs qui moissonnent leur champ à une heure tardive... (et pas des camionneurs ouzbeks, des colonels iraniens ou des archéologues expatriés)
Ensuite, c'est un suisse qui se permet de voyager sans revenus 8 ans après la fin de la seconde guerre mondiale et qui s'en sort toujours. Celui-ci n'a pas apparemment besoin de travailler pour gagner sa vie. J'avais un peu l'impression de lire les aventures d'un bobo qui fait un break pendant ses études de médecine pour éviter le burn-out. Après tout, qui pouvait ce permettre ce genre de fantaisie à cette époque là vraiment ? Après que l'Europe entière fut dévastée ? Déjà, de nos jours ce n'est pas évident... Cela m'a rendu assez perplexe.
A part ça, c'est juste un récit de voyage de deux types qui vont d'un point A à un point B, si ce n'est pas votre truc, laissez tomber car au final, on n'y apprend pas grand chose.
Enfin, j'ai trouvé ça très bien écrit dans l'ensemble. Dans le style récit de voyage, il me semble que c'est un classique qu'il faut avoir lu au moins une fois. C'est un peu le livre culte du routard. Si c'est votre mode de transport/de voyage/de découverte alors vous aurez un jour ce livre sur votre route sans avoir besoin de le chercher. C'est le troisième exemplaire que j'ai en ma possession, c'est au bout du troisième que je me suis décidé à le lire pour ma part. Quoi de mieux qu'un livre de voyage quand on est presque contraint à domicile ? Livre un livre de voyage en plein confinement, n'est ce pas déjà partir un peu ?
Bon courage à tous en ces temps difficiles,
Portez-vous bien et bonne année,
SB
March 28, 2012
One of very few books I found difficult to finish which is odd considering I have such a strong interest in the countries which were described. The main problem I had with the book was the author's style. He seemed to be a bit too fond of his own voice and was often trying too hard to sound reflective and insightful. Overall this tone of voice made it feel a bit contrived. I felt that there was some kind of intellectual barrier between the author and all the people/experiences he encountered, so that no vivid impressions were ever conveyed. Somehow after more than 300 pages I don't feel that I got a better idea of the places or people he described.
I have read many travel journals and this was the least impressive. Perhaps it's better when read in French. And what's with all the strange ugly illustrations every few pages? I really think a child could do better.
I have read many travel journals and this was the least impressive. Perhaps it's better when read in French. And what's with all the strange ugly illustrations every few pages? I really think a child could do better.
October 2, 2020
If you were to consider a trip from Geneva to the Khyber Pass these days you would need a lot of planning, visas and even if you were trying to do it on a budget, a reasonable wad of cash. Back in 1953 Nicolas Bouvier and his friend, the artist Thierry Vernet decided to do this very journey in a convertible Fiat Topolino. They had no idea how long it would take and they only had enough money for four months travelling.
This limited budget would come to define the trip and the rich experiences that they gained from it. Rather than charge across the landscape, glimpsing sights and the people as they drove past they were forced to go slowly, stop and take time to earn more for the next stage of the journey and move slowly on again. The lack of funds meant that they have to find the cheapest possible places to stay and eat, this brings them into regular contact with people that if they had been sightseeing on a bigger budget they would have missed completely. It gives them a much better insight into the character of a city
In some of the places that they stopped they were there for a considerable length of time, arriving in Tabriz they were quizzed by a police colonel who gained permission from the local general to stay as long as they like. With their passes stamped, they could rent rooms; they were to be in Tabriz for some time. The Armenians told them many bad things about the Turkish families at the other end of the village, so they thought they would pay the head a visit just to see if any of it was true. He was an interesting character who it turns out had lived in France for a few years and he filled them in about the history of the place. They made friends with the postmaster too, collecting the letters would involve a chat and several cups of tea, but he never lost one and it was a lifeline to the outside world.
You think you are making a trip, but soon it is making you – or unmaking you.
They were to stay in the village for around six months before trying to leave. They had tried to leave earlier, but couldn’t make it through the water and were pulled behind a peasant and his horse, but they did eventually make it away and onto the next stage of their journey, through Mianeh and onto Tehran. The attempts at modernisation were a bit half-hearted and seemingly carried out without anything resembling a plan. But there were plane trees on some of the avenues that offered cool shade over cafes where you could spend the rest of your life. What really struck them was the blue that was used to colour everything. Its intensity in the sun lifted their hearts.
They left Tehran for Isfahan with heavy hearts and were driving along tarmacked roads that were pitted with potholes, making it a slightly perilous journey. They arrived at the place they were staying tired from the journey and weary from Tehran. They were their briefly and then onto the next town, Shiraz, but what they really wanted to do was leave Iran. They were asked to wait at the customs post until the superior officer arrived. The register was duly signed, and now they needed a push from the soldiers to get going again into Pakistan.
They reached Quetta and found a whitewashed hotel to stay in. They drank whisky on the roof terrace and listened to Mulberries drop onto the courtyard below. Just reaching here was enough. One rebuilt engine later and they were ready to move on to the final part of their journey.
After all, one travels in order for things to happen and change; otherwise, you might as well stay at home.
I had read Bouvier’s collection So it Goes, about his travels in the Aran Isles and Xian late last year but not read this even though I had had a copy for a while now. I now wish that I had read it earlier, as it is an absolutely superb travel book. Even though it was written a decade after they began their journey, it still feels of the moment. They take everything as it comes, rough and smooth, savouring the good experiences and taking the lessons from the failures and setbacks. The book is liberally scattered with the art and sketches from Vernet, they are full of energy and bring and extra dimension to the text. It is the sort of journey that I could imagine that Patrick Leigh Fermor would have continued with after his great trudge had he had the opportunity. Very highly recommended.
This limited budget would come to define the trip and the rich experiences that they gained from it. Rather than charge across the landscape, glimpsing sights and the people as they drove past they were forced to go slowly, stop and take time to earn more for the next stage of the journey and move slowly on again. The lack of funds meant that they have to find the cheapest possible places to stay and eat, this brings them into regular contact with people that if they had been sightseeing on a bigger budget they would have missed completely. It gives them a much better insight into the character of a city
In some of the places that they stopped they were there for a considerable length of time, arriving in Tabriz they were quizzed by a police colonel who gained permission from the local general to stay as long as they like. With their passes stamped, they could rent rooms; they were to be in Tabriz for some time. The Armenians told them many bad things about the Turkish families at the other end of the village, so they thought they would pay the head a visit just to see if any of it was true. He was an interesting character who it turns out had lived in France for a few years and he filled them in about the history of the place. They made friends with the postmaster too, collecting the letters would involve a chat and several cups of tea, but he never lost one and it was a lifeline to the outside world.
You think you are making a trip, but soon it is making you – or unmaking you.
They were to stay in the village for around six months before trying to leave. They had tried to leave earlier, but couldn’t make it through the water and were pulled behind a peasant and his horse, but they did eventually make it away and onto the next stage of their journey, through Mianeh and onto Tehran. The attempts at modernisation were a bit half-hearted and seemingly carried out without anything resembling a plan. But there were plane trees on some of the avenues that offered cool shade over cafes where you could spend the rest of your life. What really struck them was the blue that was used to colour everything. Its intensity in the sun lifted their hearts.
They left Tehran for Isfahan with heavy hearts and were driving along tarmacked roads that were pitted with potholes, making it a slightly perilous journey. They arrived at the place they were staying tired from the journey and weary from Tehran. They were their briefly and then onto the next town, Shiraz, but what they really wanted to do was leave Iran. They were asked to wait at the customs post until the superior officer arrived. The register was duly signed, and now they needed a push from the soldiers to get going again into Pakistan.
They reached Quetta and found a whitewashed hotel to stay in. They drank whisky on the roof terrace and listened to Mulberries drop onto the courtyard below. Just reaching here was enough. One rebuilt engine later and they were ready to move on to the final part of their journey.
After all, one travels in order for things to happen and change; otherwise, you might as well stay at home.
I had read Bouvier’s collection So it Goes, about his travels in the Aran Isles and Xian late last year but not read this even though I had had a copy for a while now. I now wish that I had read it earlier, as it is an absolutely superb travel book. Even though it was written a decade after they began their journey, it still feels of the moment. They take everything as it comes, rough and smooth, savouring the good experiences and taking the lessons from the failures and setbacks. The book is liberally scattered with the art and sketches from Vernet, they are full of energy and bring and extra dimension to the text. It is the sort of journey that I could imagine that Patrick Leigh Fermor would have continued with after his great trudge had he had the opportunity. Very highly recommended.
January 9, 2025
شنیدن ایران قبل از انقلاب اون هم از دید یک خارجی … توصیفات خوب و دلنشینی داشت
August 1, 2017
Des pages et des pages de bonheur, de rêverie, de contemplation.
Sa description des espaces, des couleurs, ...à faire rêver.
Je n'oublierai pa ses pages sur les bleus d'Iran.
Sa description des espaces, des couleurs, ...à faire rêver.
Je n'oublierai pa ses pages sur les bleus d'Iran.
April 12, 2022
There are some books one never wants to get to the end of, and Nicolas Bouvier's The Way of the World is certainly one of them. If he had not ended the book at the top of the Khyber Pass, looking down into Pakistan, I would not have minded if he went on to India, Southeast Asia, China, the Moon, and Mars.
I should have figured this was a great book when the edition contained an introduction by Patrick Leigh Fermor, the Prince of Travel Writers, whose The Time of Gifts still glitters in my memory like some polished gemstone.
As I read the book, I would come across Bouvier's own gems, such as "[T]hey digested Democritus' tough axiom: neither sweet nor bitter exists, but only atoms and the space between atoms." Or this realization on the Khyber Pass:
I should have figured this was a great book when the edition contained an introduction by Patrick Leigh Fermor, the Prince of Travel Writers, whose The Time of Gifts still glitters in my memory like some polished gemstone.
As I read the book, I would come across Bouvier's own gems, such as "[T]hey digested Democritus' tough axiom: neither sweet nor bitter exists, but only atoms and the space between atoms." Or this realization on the Khyber Pass:
That day, I really believed that I had grasped something and that henceforth my life would be changed. But insights cannot be held for ever. Like water, the world ripples across you and for a while you take on its colours. Then it recedes, and leaves you face to face with the void you carry inside yourself, confronting that central inadequacy of soul which you must learn to rub shoulders with and to combat, and which, paradoxically, may be our surest impetus.So for four days, I followed Nicolas and his painter friend as they motored in a rackety old Fiat through Yugoslavia, Turkey, Iran, and Afghanistan for over a year, becoming a part of whatever strange land they found themselves in, and fitting in quite well.
May 29, 2015
TO BYŁA DŁUGA DROGA.
I nie tyle Nicolasa i jego kumpla, ale moja w czytaniu tej książki. Koniec końców, opłaciło się.
Podróż sama w sobie jest fascynująca, ale w czasach, gdy każdy głupek może wsiąść do byle jakiego samolotu, polecieć do Tajlandii lub Wietnamu, zeżreć tam coś i dostać sraczki, a potem przez pół roku wszem i wobec głosić, jaką miał przygodę życia, nie ona stanowi o wartości "Oswajania świata".
Znowuż, podobnie jak u Fermora, najlepsze jest "narratora życie wewnętrzne" - jego refleksje, przeplatane odniesieniami do filozofii, poezji (Hafiz!), literatury. A ze wszystkiego najciekawsza jest wewnętrzna przemiana.
Nicolas na początku swojej wyprawy jest, nie bójmy się tego nazwać, nieco nadętym, nieco naiwnym, szwajcarskim bubkiem, mocno europocentrycznym, o jakości przemyśleń może o półkę wyżej od przeciętnego polskiego blogera (brrrr!). Pierwsze strony to migawki z podróży, nieskażone nawet cieniem charakteru - kolorowe obrazki oglądane przez świeżo upieczonego absolwenta, który poczuł wolność. I te przymiotniki, na litość boską, po co tyle przymiotników? Jakoś to wszystko było dla mnie budyniowate, na dodatek była zima, było ciemno i ponuro, żadna większa podróż nie kroiła się na horyzoncie, z uchachanym Nicolasem w ogóle się nie zidentyfikowałam, więc książkę pizgnęłam w kąt.
Ale jego uśmiechnięta i przystojna twarz spoglądała na mnie z okładki, tak, jego wesołe spojrzenie docierało do mnie nawet z tego ciemnego kąta - więc któregoś wieczoru powróciłam do przygód dwóch artystów w wiecznie psującym się samochodziku. A Nicolas powoli dojrzewał i nabierał charakteru - zapewne gdzieś pchając zepsute auto pod którąś z tureckich przełęczy, na pewno siedząc kilka miesięcy w odciętym od świata Tebrizie. Grunt, że jego opis pobytu w Iranie jest przepełniony taką czułością i sympatią, jego obserwacje tak celne i koncentrujące się na, z braku odpowiednich słów, nazwijmy to "esencją życia", że znowu, jak u Fermora, nie sposób nie zakochać się w tym, jak Bouvier postrzega świat.
Wreszcie, nie sposób odgonić myśli natrętnych jak muchy azjatyckie, czy Teheran i Kabul są wciąż tak piękne, jak opisywał? Czy to, co stało się w ciągu ostatnich 60-70 lat nieodwracalnie zniszczyło ludzi patrzących na świat przez pryzmat "cywilizacji z historią pięciu tysięcy lat"? Albo wprost - co my najlepszego uczyniliśmy, doprowadzając do tego, że pomysł przejazdu na luzie pyrczącym samochodzikiem przez kraje takie jak Iran, Afganistan, Pakistan, jest obecnie dla wielu nierealną misją samobójczą?
Wspaniała książka, polecam ze wszystkich sił!
I nie tyle Nicolasa i jego kumpla, ale moja w czytaniu tej książki. Koniec końców, opłaciło się.
Podróż sama w sobie jest fascynująca, ale w czasach, gdy każdy głupek może wsiąść do byle jakiego samolotu, polecieć do Tajlandii lub Wietnamu, zeżreć tam coś i dostać sraczki, a potem przez pół roku wszem i wobec głosić, jaką miał przygodę życia, nie ona stanowi o wartości "Oswajania świata".
Znowuż, podobnie jak u Fermora, najlepsze jest "narratora życie wewnętrzne" - jego refleksje, przeplatane odniesieniami do filozofii, poezji (Hafiz!), literatury. A ze wszystkiego najciekawsza jest wewnętrzna przemiana.
Nicolas na początku swojej wyprawy jest, nie bójmy się tego nazwać, nieco nadętym, nieco naiwnym, szwajcarskim bubkiem, mocno europocentrycznym, o jakości przemyśleń może o półkę wyżej od przeciętnego polskiego blogera (brrrr!). Pierwsze strony to migawki z podróży, nieskażone nawet cieniem charakteru - kolorowe obrazki oglądane przez świeżo upieczonego absolwenta, który poczuł wolność. I te przymiotniki, na litość boską, po co tyle przymiotników? Jakoś to wszystko było dla mnie budyniowate, na dodatek była zima, było ciemno i ponuro, żadna większa podróż nie kroiła się na horyzoncie, z uchachanym Nicolasem w ogóle się nie zidentyfikowałam, więc książkę pizgnęłam w kąt.
Ale jego uśmiechnięta i przystojna twarz spoglądała na mnie z okładki, tak, jego wesołe spojrzenie docierało do mnie nawet z tego ciemnego kąta - więc któregoś wieczoru powróciłam do przygód dwóch artystów w wiecznie psującym się samochodziku. A Nicolas powoli dojrzewał i nabierał charakteru - zapewne gdzieś pchając zepsute auto pod którąś z tureckich przełęczy, na pewno siedząc kilka miesięcy w odciętym od świata Tebrizie. Grunt, że jego opis pobytu w Iranie jest przepełniony taką czułością i sympatią, jego obserwacje tak celne i koncentrujące się na, z braku odpowiednich słów, nazwijmy to "esencją życia", że znowu, jak u Fermora, nie sposób nie zakochać się w tym, jak Bouvier postrzega świat.
Wreszcie, nie sposób odgonić myśli natrętnych jak muchy azjatyckie, czy Teheran i Kabul są wciąż tak piękne, jak opisywał? Czy to, co stało się w ciągu ostatnich 60-70 lat nieodwracalnie zniszczyło ludzi patrzących na świat przez pryzmat "cywilizacji z historią pięciu tysięcy lat"? Albo wprost - co my najlepszego uczyniliśmy, doprowadzając do tego, że pomysł przejazdu na luzie pyrczącym samochodzikiem przez kraje takie jak Iran, Afganistan, Pakistan, jest obecnie dla wielu nierealną misją samobójczą?
Wspaniała książka, polecam ze wszystkich sił!
June 15, 2011
Successful travel writing, as far as I’m concerned, is an exercise in the craft of writing, observation, a bit of adventure, and a willingness to open up, learn, absorb, dig in, and be at least somewhat changed (don't overdo it, though, as the whole "travel as life changing" idea is often petty and forced). The problem with a lot of travel writing is that the adventure—the physicality of the journey—far outweighs the quality of the writing and the knowledge, history, and understanding of the places and people in question.
By these standards, then, The Way of the World is one of the finest pieces of travel writing I’ve encountered, as it strikes an impressive balance between all of above qualities. At times the text is rich, observant, and wholly lyrical; the winter spent in Tabriz is a beautiful novella in and of itself. As far as adventure is concerned, the crossing of the Lut desert in an old Fiat is as harrowing as any other tale I’ve read. And the time spent in cafes—whether in Belgrade or Quetta—drinking , conversing, and playing music provides the right amount of romance and, let’s be honest, exoticism one wishes for in a travel tale.
Throughout, Bouvier casts a loving, if occasionally incredulous eye on the sundry characters and places encountered along the way, reminding us that travel isn’t about our being wholly changed or having some great self-realization, but, rather, it is about accepting that change is the way of life, the way of the world. The truly profound resides not in some great epiphany had in a far off land, but in those brief moments where we wholly realize our place in the world, even if just for that instant, be it bathing at dawn in a river in Serbia, being holed up in a prison cell in Iran, descending the Khyber Pass in the back of a truck beneath a pile of rugs, or simply changing a flat tire.
By these standards, then, The Way of the World is one of the finest pieces of travel writing I’ve encountered, as it strikes an impressive balance between all of above qualities. At times the text is rich, observant, and wholly lyrical; the winter spent in Tabriz is a beautiful novella in and of itself. As far as adventure is concerned, the crossing of the Lut desert in an old Fiat is as harrowing as any other tale I’ve read. And the time spent in cafes—whether in Belgrade or Quetta—drinking , conversing, and playing music provides the right amount of romance and, let’s be honest, exoticism one wishes for in a travel tale.
Throughout, Bouvier casts a loving, if occasionally incredulous eye on the sundry characters and places encountered along the way, reminding us that travel isn’t about our being wholly changed or having some great self-realization, but, rather, it is about accepting that change is the way of life, the way of the world. The truly profound resides not in some great epiphany had in a far off land, but in those brief moments where we wholly realize our place in the world, even if just for that instant, be it bathing at dawn in a river in Serbia, being holed up in a prison cell in Iran, descending the Khyber Pass in the back of a truck beneath a pile of rugs, or simply changing a flat tire.
January 9, 2015
Quite possibly the greatest travelogue ever written, the prose in this extraordinarily lyrical piece of work is, even in translation, sublime. A book I read and reread, recommend regularly, and am never disappointed by. One of my desert island books without question.
November 6, 2022
De la littérature de voyage qui n’échappe ni à l’orientalisme, ni au sexisme ni même a l’homophobie. Je ne comprends pas pourquoi cet auteur est aussi apprécié
November 14, 2025
La polvere del mondo è un libro di viaggio poetico e coinvolgente. L'autore si evolve durante il percorso verso l'Afghanistan e il suo punto di vista si modifica fino a mettersi al servizio della narrazione e del viaggio stesso. Le descrizioni sono meravigliose, somigliano a dei quadri.
Ho dato però 4 stelle e non 5 perché ogni volta che Bouvier parla di una donna la oggettifica. E' vero, è un libro degli anni '50 del Novecento, ma personalmente ho dovuto spegnere il cervello sull'argomento per poter procedere con la lettura.
Ho dato però 4 stelle e non 5 perché ogni volta che Bouvier parla di una donna la oggettifica. E' vero, è un libro degli anni '50 del Novecento, ma personalmente ho dovuto spegnere il cervello sull'argomento per poter procedere con la lettura.
February 10, 2017
Geleund tegen een aardhoop kijk je naar de sterren, het golvende landschap richting de Kaukasus, de lichtgevende ogen van een vos. Je verdrijft de tijd met hete thee, af en toe een woord, een sigaret, en dan wordt het licht, het breidt zich uit, kwartels en patrijzen laten zich horen... en je haast je om dit ultieme moment in je geheugen als geheel op te slaan, waaruit je het op een dag weer zult opdiepen. Je rekt je uit, je zet een paar stappen, voelt je heel licht en het woord 'geluk' lijkt plotseling veel te mager om te beschrijven wat er door je heen gaat.
Soms heb je van die boeken die in je achterhoofd blijven hangen. Je leest een lovende recensie, ziet een interessante titel of omslag en je denkt: dát boek moet ik echt een keer lezen. De wegen van de wereld was zo'n boek voor mij; ik was het zeven jaar uit het oog verloren toen ik het ineens in de bibliotheek tegenkwam en besloot er meteen aan te beginnen. Nu is zeven jaar een lange tijd om naar een boek uit te kijken, en er was een grote kans dat het me enorm zou tegenvallen, juist door die lange periode van anticipatie... maar het was een schitterend boek.
In De wegen van de wereld laat Bouvier zijn zinnen sprankelen en de beelden die hij met zijn woorden schetst tot leven komen. Zowel de (bloemrijke) mensen die hij tegenkomt als de landschappen die hij ziet weet hij goed over te brengen. Hij doet een persoonlijk verslag van een reis, maar je hebt als lezer niet het gevoel dat hij zijn persoon op de voorgrond wil plaatsen. Ik had eerder het idee dat hij voornamelijk zijn enthousiasme voor het reizen (en deze specifieke reis) en zijn levenslust over wilde dragen. Ik heb qua reisboeken verder alleen The Old Patagonian Express gelezen, wat vermakelijk was, maar waarbij Theroux zijn eigen mening heel erg op de voorgrond zette, en zichzelf neerzette als de Ultieme Reiziger die met een mengeling van irritatie en arrogantie de (in zijn mening) Niet Zo Ultieme Reizigers om zich heen becommentarieerde. De wegen van de wereld is totaal niet zo'n boek. Het is niet cynisch, het is geen wedstrijdje; het is een heel oprecht boek van een jonge man die je bescheiden vertelt hoe een lange reis zijn leven heeft veranderd, wat hij heeft gezien en gedaan, wat mooi was en wat verschrikkelijk was, en hij geeft wat interessante achtergrondinformatie over de landen, gebieden en mensen die hij ontmoet. Zo simpel is het. Het is ontwapenend eenvoudig en ontzettend mooi; het is die zeven jaar wachten meer dan waard.
May 11, 2012
I am a "fast" reader, but I stretched reading this one out as long as I possibly could. Two young men heading East in a Fiat in the summer of 1953 through to 1955 from Belgrade to the Khyber Pass. The world they describe is beautiful, strange, and I suspect far gone. Bouvier is the best sort of travel writer - one you sees the differences but doesn't dwell or worry about them. He is never condescending, nor does he pity or romanticize. His delight and interest in other human beings jumps from the page. All other forms of life that surround him also is painted in words. For example, I never want to meet an Afghan fly!
Before reading this I knew nothing about these lands other than their names. Now I feel as though I have a sense of their souls.
Before reading this I knew nothing about these lands other than their names. Now I feel as though I have a sense of their souls.
December 4, 2022
نوشتار خیلی قشنگ و مختصر و مفیدی داره.
من به شخصه ترجیح میدادم کمی اطلاعات پر جزئیات تری از روابطشون با افراد دریافت کنم. برای مثال اینکه وقتی بعد از ۶ ماه میخوان تبریزو ترک کنن وارد چه سناریو های معذب کننده ای میتونستن بشن:)) و یا درکل تجربیات قبلی چه تاثیری روی طرز فکرشون در آینده گذاشته و در هردوره با چه عواطفی سر و کله میزدن.
البته احتمالا نوشتار خیلی طولانی میشد به اون شکل و دیگه انقدر راحت نمیشد کتابو خوند.
به هر صورت کتاب جالبیه و طنز ریزی هم داره. قطعا پیشنهادش میکنم. 😁
درضمن دید من رو به سفر و جهانگردی به شدت باز کرد و باعث شد تصمیم بگیرم راحت تر سفر کنم. وقتی دو تا اروپایی که فارسی بلد نیستن با یه ماشین داغون میرن پرت و پلاترین و خطرناک ترین نقاط ایران ما چه بهونه ای داریم؟:))
من به شخصه ترجیح میدادم کمی اطلاعات پر جزئیات تری از روابطشون با افراد دریافت کنم. برای مثال اینکه وقتی بعد از ۶ ماه میخوان تبریزو ترک کنن وارد چه سناریو های معذب کننده ای میتونستن بشن:)) و یا درکل تجربیات قبلی چه تاثیری روی طرز فکرشون در آینده گذاشته و در هردوره با چه عواطفی سر و کله میزدن.
البته احتمالا نوشتار خیلی طولانی میشد به اون شکل و دیگه انقدر راحت نمیشد کتابو خوند.
به هر صورت کتاب جالبیه و طنز ریزی هم داره. قطعا پیشنهادش میکنم. 😁
درضمن دید من رو به سفر و جهانگردی به شدت باز کرد و باعث شد تصمیم بگیرم راحت تر سفر کنم. وقتی دو تا اروپایی که فارسی بلد نیستن با یه ماشین داغون میرن پرت و پلاترین و خطرناک ترین نقاط ایران ما چه بهونه ای داریم؟:))
January 9, 2011
This 1.5 year trip from Yugoslavia to Afghanistan takes place only 8 years after WWII a time of poverty when certainly few people were traveling to this area. The author is in his mid-20s, has daredevil youth on his side but has sophisticated skills in perception, communication, and language. Beautifully written, a well balanced mix of historical and cultural material with crazy personal adventures of the author and his artist friend - filled with characters, generous or dangerous, but always fascinating. The best of travel writing in my book!
August 28, 2021
Un récit hors du temps -hors de notre temps- qui frappe par les changements qui ont touché "notre" monde, au point où le périple de deux amis en Fiat à travers l'Asie semble d'un anachronisme enchanteur. Une écriture dont la justesse éblouit quand elle sonde l'âme des peuples et des gens.
Trop peu évoquée dans les "reviews" Les parallèles entre le voyage du narrateur et son voyage intérieur. Surtout le passage des fouilles en Afghanistan...
Trop peu évoquée dans les "reviews" Les parallèles entre le voyage du narrateur et son voyage intérieur. Surtout le passage des fouilles en Afghanistan...
September 25, 2019
1953 brachen die Welschschweitzer Nicolas Bouvier und Thierry Vernet ohne große Planung und mit wenig Geld mit ihrem Fiat Topolino auf, um die Welt zu erkunden und bis nach Indien zu fahren. Dabei wollte Bouvier Geld als Reiseberichterstatter und Journalist dazu verdienen und Vernet - bereits angehender Maler - wollte unterwegs malen und die Reise mit dem Verkauf von Bildern finanzieren. Die Reiseroute führte sie von Jugoslawien über Griechenland in die Türkei. Quer durch die Türkei in den Iran, von dort aus nach Indien, nach Afghanistan und zurück nach Indien. Hier trennten sich die Freunde und damit endet auch das Buch. Während Vernet zurückreise, setzte Bouvier die Reise durch Asien fort und kehrte erst von Yokohama aus mit dem Schiff nach Europa zurück. Eine solche Reise und dieser Zeit verspricht interessante Einblicke und die im Klappentext zitierten Kritiker loben Bouvier als Schweitzer Bruce Chatwin. Leider ist dem nicht so:
Zunächst ist anzumerken, dass die Reise recht arhythmisch verläuft. Etwa 20% der Reise (und eine entsprechende Anzahl von Seiten) verbrachten die Beiden in Jugoslawien, vornehmlich in Belgrad. Danach ging es in einer rasanten Fahrt in etwa 2 Wochen bis Täbris, wo sie 1/3 der Reise (und eine entsprechende Anzahl von Seiten) verbrachten und überwinterten. Die Reise im Rest des Iran und in Afghanistan ist dann etwas gleichförmiger. Man merkt Bouvier an, dass er spätestens ab Teheran die Lust verliert. Das Schreiben wirkt hektischer und es geht immer mehr um Straßenverhältnisse und noch seltener, als zuvor um Menschen und Erlebnisse. Das gerade ist aber der Schwachpunkt. Während Chatwin Reisen als Vorwand schreibt um über (teils fiktionale) Menschen zu schreiben, sind dies einfach die Reiseerinnerungen eines Anfang-Zwanzigjährigen, der kuriose Erlebnisse aneinanderreiht. Dies zeigt sich am Besten im Iran. Die beiden Reisenden kommen gerade nach der Absetzung von Mohammad Mossadegh in den Iran und verbringen dort den Löwenanteil der Reise. Dabei geht es aber meistens um die Schwierigkeiten Geld zu verdienen und Bekanntschaften aus Teehäusern. Ebenso ist es in Afghanistan, wo die Straßenverhältnisse die Berichte dominieren.
Fazit: Wer Reisebeschreibungen mag wird das interessant finden. Mehr ist allerdings auch nicht drin, weswegen es eine verpasste Chance ist.
Zunächst ist anzumerken, dass die Reise recht arhythmisch verläuft. Etwa 20% der Reise (und eine entsprechende Anzahl von Seiten) verbrachten die Beiden in Jugoslawien, vornehmlich in Belgrad. Danach ging es in einer rasanten Fahrt in etwa 2 Wochen bis Täbris, wo sie 1/3 der Reise (und eine entsprechende Anzahl von Seiten) verbrachten und überwinterten. Die Reise im Rest des Iran und in Afghanistan ist dann etwas gleichförmiger. Man merkt Bouvier an, dass er spätestens ab Teheran die Lust verliert. Das Schreiben wirkt hektischer und es geht immer mehr um Straßenverhältnisse und noch seltener, als zuvor um Menschen und Erlebnisse. Das gerade ist aber der Schwachpunkt. Während Chatwin Reisen als Vorwand schreibt um über (teils fiktionale) Menschen zu schreiben, sind dies einfach die Reiseerinnerungen eines Anfang-Zwanzigjährigen, der kuriose Erlebnisse aneinanderreiht. Dies zeigt sich am Besten im Iran. Die beiden Reisenden kommen gerade nach der Absetzung von Mohammad Mossadegh in den Iran und verbringen dort den Löwenanteil der Reise. Dabei geht es aber meistens um die Schwierigkeiten Geld zu verdienen und Bekanntschaften aus Teehäusern. Ebenso ist es in Afghanistan, wo die Straßenverhältnisse die Berichte dominieren.
Fazit: Wer Reisebeschreibungen mag wird das interessant finden. Mehr ist allerdings auch nicht drin, weswegen es eine verpasste Chance ist.
January 5, 2024
Un periplu acum o viata de om - in 1953-54 - din Elvetia in Balcani, apoi in Turcia, Persia, Pakistan si Afganistan. Dar nu e un voyage de plaisir, caci autorul si prietenul sau (pictorul Thierry Vernet), intr-un Fiat Topolino care se strica mereu prin desert, trecatori la mii de metri, crevase si noroi, trebuie sa isi castige banii de calatorie pe masura ce merg. Picteaza, scriu, fac expozitii, tin conferinte, canta in carciumi (acordeon si chitara) si picteaza, noaptea, peretii unui bar. Pe jos, cu masina (cand merge), in camioane, printre paturi si gaini, Nicolas Bouvier gaseste energia sa scrie, sa scrie, sa scrie, sa observe, sa analizeze si, nu in ultimul rand, sa ramana deschisi in fata (in mijlocul!) unor lumi atat de diverse nu doar de Elvetia (si Europa), cat mai ales de lumea noastra de azi. Si asta e uimirea mea, nedisimulata, mesmerizata. Am gasit la un anticariat online Pestele-Scorpion, continuarea calatoriei in India si Ceylon (aaa pardon, Sri Lanka). Mai e si o Japonie pe undeva, sa vad daca o gasesc si pe ea.
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