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Killing the Second Dog
Robert and Jacob are two down-and-out Polish con men living in Israel in the 1950s. They’re planning to run a scam on an American widow visiting the country. Robert, who masterminds the scheme, and Jacob who acts it out, are tough, desperate men, exiled from their native land and adrift in the hot, nasty underworld of Tel Aviv. Robert arranges for Jacob to run into the woman, who has enough trouble with her young son to keep her occupied all day. Her heart is open though, and the men are hoping her wallet is too. What follows is a story of love, deception, cruelty and shame, as Jacob pretends to fall in love with the American. But it’s not just Jacob who seems to be performing a role; nearly all the characters are actors in an ugly story, complete with parts for murder and suicide. Hlasko’s writing combines brutal realism with smoky, hardboiled dialogue, in a bleak world where violence is the norm and love is often only an act.
138 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1965
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About the author
Marek Hłasko
64 books187 followersOne of the most popular Polish writers of the 20th century. Author of numerous short stories and novels. Some of his works were adapted into films. His works were ruled by the idea of an evil dominating over good, inevitable loss of ideas in clash with the reality, as well as with the masculinist point of view. He wrote about protest of a moral nature. In his works he depicted the lives of the lower classes as dominated by hopelessness and cynicism. His characters dream about changes which come out to be vain.
After initial approval of his talent, his nonconformism and critique of communism forced him to leave Poland, and he spent the rest of his life abroad (mainly in Israel, Germany and U.S.A.) He died in Wiesbaden (Germany) in 1969. The circumstances of his death remain unknown. One hypothesis is that he mixed alcohol with sedative drugs.
After initial approval of his talent, his nonconformism and critique of communism forced him to leave Poland, and he spent the rest of his life abroad (mainly in Israel, Germany and U.S.A.) He died in Wiesbaden (Germany) in 1969. The circumstances of his death remain unknown. One hypothesis is that he mixed alcohol with sedative drugs.
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May 13, 2019
מארק חלאסקו נזרק מפולין ונשלח לגלות ע"י השלטון הקומוניסטי. הוא הגיע לארץ ישראל של שנות החמישים ובמשך שנתיים ששהה כאן כתב סיפורים וניהל רומן אהבים עם דיילת אלעל. כשהוא יוצא מהארץ הוא נישא לסוניה ארוסתו הגרמניה וממשיך לטייל בעולם. הסיפורים שלו בוטים, מתארים מציאות חורכת משמש, דלות והתהוללות אלכוהולית.
הסיפור הראשון, "ביום מותו". סיפור קשה אך כתוב מצויין. מסופר מנקודת מבטו של מהגר שהגיע לא"י אי אז בימי הקמתה. הוא מתאכסן אצל חברו גרישא, אישתו לנה ובתם התינוקת שצורחת בלי הפסק.
החום הארץ ישראלי מייבש אותם והם שותים אלכוהול כמו מיים והשמש קופחת על ראשיהם.
הם סובלים ממחסור כספי איום ומחפשים עבודה, אך לא מצליחים במשך חודשים למצוא אחת. הם מנסים את מזלם בתל אביב אבל גם שם סוחר ממולח סוחט אותם ודורש 300 לירות כדי לסדר להם עבודה, כסף שאין להם וגם אם יעבדו חודש שלם לא ירוויחו.
המספר פוגש בת אביב בזונה יפיפיה בשם אווה. הוא מתאהב בה ומשביע אותה שבכל יום הוא יהיה הראשון שלה. היא מתאהבת בו ומציעה לו חעבוק איתה לירושלים להתחיל בחיים חדשים אך הוא מסרב.
הסוף הטראגי של הסיפור רק מדגיש את העליבות של חיי המהגרים שהגיעו לארץ ללא עבר, ללא הווה ולבסוף גם ללא עתיד.
"יש לי רעיון. "
"מה אתה אומר, " אמרתי. "לכל אחד מהנוכלים שיושבים כאן יש איזה רעיון. "
"יש לי רעיון בשבילך. "
"איזה רעיון? "
" אני יודע איך לעשות כסף, " אמר רוברט.
" איתי אף אחד עוד לא עשה כסף, " עניתי. "בעצם דווקא כן. פעם התנגשה בי מכונית ואחר כך העבירו את הפיצויים שהגיעו לי להונגרי אחד שהשם שלו נשמע דומה לשלי. זה הכול. אחר כך לא מצאו יותר את ההונגרי הזה. "
הסיפור השני, "להרוג את הכלב השני" מתאר את מסעם של המספר וחברו רוברט ברחבי תל אביב בניסיון לפתות נשים נשים בודדות שמחפשות אהבה לתת להם כסף, עד שאחת מהן נופלת ברשתם. רוברט הוא הבמאי של הסצנות, הוא כותב למספר את הדיאלוגים ומביים את הסצנות שלו עם נשים וזה כל כך מגוחך כי לא אחת באמצע סצנה עם אישה, המספר נאלץ לרוץ לתא הטלפון בקומת הלובי של המלון כדי לברר עם רוברט את המשך הסצנה. כל הבימוי התאטרלי הזה מתרחש בזמן שלמספר ולרוברט אין כסף, אין אוכל והם מחפשים היכן להעביר את לילם.
חאלסקו הוא מספר נפלא. הוא מעמיד את התפאורה ואת הדמויות בתוכה באופן אמין בלי ליפות את הגסות והכיעור. הדמויות שמופיעות בספר שיכורות לא רק מאלכוהול אלא גם מהחלומות הגדולים שלהן. חלומות שמנותקים מהמציאות הבוערת והדלה עד שהן הופכות לפתטיות ברעב שמקבל מימד נפשי מעבר למימד הפיזי שבו הן מתקיימות.
הסיפור הראשון, "ביום מותו". סיפור קשה אך כתוב מצויין. מסופר מנקודת מבטו של מהגר שהגיע לא"י אי אז בימי הקמתה. הוא מתאכסן אצל חברו גרישא, אישתו לנה ובתם התינוקת שצורחת בלי הפסק.
החום הארץ ישראלי מייבש אותם והם שותים אלכוהול כמו מיים והשמש קופחת על ראשיהם.
הם סובלים ממחסור כספי איום ומחפשים עבודה, אך לא מצליחים במשך חודשים למצוא אחת. הם מנסים את מזלם בתל אביב אבל גם שם סוחר ממולח סוחט אותם ודורש 300 לירות כדי לסדר להם עבודה, כסף שאין להם וגם אם יעבדו חודש שלם לא ירוויחו.
המספר פוגש בת אביב בזונה יפיפיה בשם אווה. הוא מתאהב בה ומשביע אותה שבכל יום הוא יהיה הראשון שלה. היא מתאהבת בו ומציעה לו חעבוק איתה לירושלים להתחיל בחיים חדשים אך הוא מסרב.
הסוף הטראגי של הסיפור רק מדגיש את העליבות של חיי המהגרים שהגיעו לארץ ללא עבר, ללא הווה ולבסוף גם ללא עתיד.
"יש לי רעיון. "
"מה אתה אומר, " אמרתי. "לכל אחד מהנוכלים שיושבים כאן יש איזה רעיון. "
"יש לי רעיון בשבילך. "
"איזה רעיון? "
" אני יודע איך לעשות כסף, " אמר רוברט.
" איתי אף אחד עוד לא עשה כסף, " עניתי. "בעצם דווקא כן. פעם התנגשה בי מכונית ואחר כך העבירו את הפיצויים שהגיעו לי להונגרי אחד שהשם שלו נשמע דומה לשלי. זה הכול. אחר כך לא מצאו יותר את ההונגרי הזה. "
הסיפור השני, "להרוג את הכלב השני" מתאר את מסעם של המספר וחברו רוברט ברחבי תל אביב בניסיון לפתות נשים נשים בודדות שמחפשות אהבה לתת להם כסף, עד שאחת מהן נופלת ברשתם. רוברט הוא הבמאי של הסצנות, הוא כותב למספר את הדיאלוגים ומביים את הסצנות שלו עם נשים וזה כל כך מגוחך כי לא אחת באמצע סצנה עם אישה, המספר נאלץ לרוץ לתא הטלפון בקומת הלובי של המלון כדי לברר עם רוברט את המשך הסצנה. כל הבימוי התאטרלי הזה מתרחש בזמן שלמספר ולרוברט אין כסף, אין אוכל והם מחפשים היכן להעביר את לילם.
חאלסקו הוא מספר נפלא. הוא מעמיד את התפאורה ואת הדמויות בתוכה באופן אמין בלי ליפות את הגסות והכיעור. הדמויות שמופיעות בספר שיכורות לא רק מאלכוהול אלא גם מהחלומות הגדולים שלהן. חלומות שמנותקים מהמציאות הבוערת והדלה עד שהן הופכות לפתטיות ברעב שמקבל מימד נפשי מעבר למימד הפיזי שבו הן מתקיימות.
June 1, 2017
A wonderful Polish new wave cinema, but in book form. Well, there are plenty of film references here that would entertain Jean-Luc Godard. Beyond that, this is a tale of two Polish hustlers on the make in Israel and on top of that a demanding and horrible child. There is also a dog. The dialog in the novel is fantastic, which means the translator did a great job. His name is Tomasz Mairkowicz. Hłasko is a combination of Blaise Cendrers and Charles Bukowski. If you reader, know those two names, you will not be disappointed with the writings of Hłasko. Ignore the horrible book cover illustration which makes it look like a self-help book. This is a very funny with cutting remarks on culture and society. Hłasko is a humorist who can pull himself out to look at his surroundings. In real life, he wasn't so lucky, but in his words/writings, he is a master. Read and locate him.
February 8, 2023
בחיים שלי לא שמעתי על הסופר הפולני מארק חלאסקו… עטיפת הספר בו חלאסקו מצולם, הזכירה לי את דמותו של השחקן המנוח ג׳יימס דין ועוררה את סקרנותי.
מסתבר שלחלאסקו היה סיפור חיים מאד מעניין שהשתלב עם מגורים בישראל בין השנים 1958-1960.
חלאסקו היה בשעתו כוכב ספרות פולני, כיכב במדורי הרכילות בעולם ובישראל, כתב תסריטים וסרט על פי תסריט שכתב כיכב בפסטיבל קאן הידוע. הוא גם ניסה לקבל עזרה מרומן פולנסקי שהצליח בשעתו מאד בהוליווד אבל לא ממש עזר.
הספר מורכב מסיפור קצר + נובלה שמתארות את החיים בחצרות האחוריים של תל אביב באותה תקופה, אותם כתב לאחר שחזר למולדתו פולין.
כתיבתו של חלאסקו ישירה, לעיתים בוטה ומציגה את החברה שסבבה אותו בלי לנסות ליפות אותה.
מזל שאורי בר-און גילה אותו במקרה כשקרא ספר שלו שיצא לאור בישראל בשנת 1958, נדלק על כתיבתו ועשה הכל כדי ללמוד עליו ולהוציא לאור בישראל לפחות את הספרים שכתב על תקופתו בארץ.
הערה: בר-און הוא מי שמחזיק את הזכויות לתרגום העברי של הספר, כתב אחרית דבר והוסיף ראיון מעניין עם חבריו הישראליים של חלאסקו.
מתוך אחרית הדבר אצטט פסקה המסכמת יפה את נקודת מבטו הייחודית של חלאסקו על ישראל שהכיר.
“הסיפורים הישראליים של חלאסקו לא נכתבו בזמן השהות שלו בישראל, אלא לאחר עזיבתו. נקודת המבט של חלאסקו על ישראל היא נקודת מבט ייחודית, השונה מכל מה שקראתי אי–פעם על תל אביב של אותן השנים. תל אביב של חלאסקו אינה שייכת לישראל הציונית והחלוצית, לבטח לא לישראל הפוסט–ציונית. אין זו ישראל הראשונה או השנייה, אלא ישראל מנקודת המבט של החצרות האחוריות של רחוב אלנבי, מנקודת המבט של פושעים קטנים, סרסורים וזונות, של אלכוהול ושל אגרופים בברים ושל פליטים חסרי כול ונעדרי תקווה, שנפלטו אל חופי המדינה הזאת וכל רצונם לשרוד ליום הבא, ישראל שהוא עצמו כינה "המערב הפרוע של יוצאי השואה".
לתחושתי, כדי להבין את ישראל של היום, יש להבין מאין צמחה, ואני מוצא בסיפוריו הישראליים של חלאסקו - סיפורים של פליט לא–יהודי המנסה לשרוד בישראל - דמיון לסיפורי מהגרים לא–יהודים המנסים לשרוד בה בימינו.”
אהבתי מאד את הספר הזה, לטעמי מדובר בסופר מאד מיוחד שהלוואי שיתרגמו עוד מכתביו.
מסתבר שלחלאסקו היה סיפור חיים מאד מעניין שהשתלב עם מגורים בישראל בין השנים 1958-1960.
חלאסקו היה בשעתו כוכב ספרות פולני, כיכב במדורי הרכילות בעולם ובישראל, כתב תסריטים וסרט על פי תסריט שכתב כיכב בפסטיבל קאן הידוע. הוא גם ניסה לקבל עזרה מרומן פולנסקי שהצליח בשעתו מאד בהוליווד אבל לא ממש עזר.
הספר מורכב מסיפור קצר + נובלה שמתארות את החיים בחצרות האחוריים של תל אביב באותה תקופה, אותם כתב לאחר שחזר למולדתו פולין.
כתיבתו של חלאסקו ישירה, לעיתים בוטה ומציגה את החברה שסבבה אותו בלי לנסות ליפות אותה.
מזל שאורי בר-און גילה אותו במקרה כשקרא ספר שלו שיצא לאור בישראל בשנת 1958, נדלק על כתיבתו ועשה הכל כדי ללמוד עליו ולהוציא לאור בישראל לפחות את הספרים שכתב על תקופתו בארץ.
הערה: בר-און הוא מי שמחזיק את הזכויות לתרגום העברי של הספר, כתב אחרית דבר והוסיף ראיון מעניין עם חבריו הישראליים של חלאסקו.
מתוך אחרית הדבר אצטט פסקה המסכמת יפה את נקודת מבטו הייחודית של חלאסקו על ישראל שהכיר.
“הסיפורים הישראליים של חלאסקו לא נכתבו בזמן השהות שלו בישראל, אלא לאחר עזיבתו. נקודת המבט של חלאסקו על ישראל היא נקודת מבט ייחודית, השונה מכל מה שקראתי אי–פעם על תל אביב של אותן השנים. תל אביב של חלאסקו אינה שייכת לישראל הציונית והחלוצית, לבטח לא לישראל הפוסט–ציונית. אין זו ישראל הראשונה או השנייה, אלא ישראל מנקודת המבט של החצרות האחוריות של רחוב אלנבי, מנקודת המבט של פושעים קטנים, סרסורים וזונות, של אלכוהול ושל אגרופים בברים ושל פליטים חסרי כול ונעדרי תקווה, שנפלטו אל חופי המדינה הזאת וכל רצונם לשרוד ליום הבא, ישראל שהוא עצמו כינה "המערב הפרוע של יוצאי השואה".
לתחושתי, כדי להבין את ישראל של היום, יש להבין מאין צמחה, ואני מוצא בסיפוריו הישראליים של חלאסקו - סיפורים של פליט לא–יהודי המנסה לשרוד בישראל - דמיון לסיפורי מהגרים לא–יהודים המנסים לשרוד בה בימינו.”
אהבתי מאד את הספר הזה, לטעמי מדובר בסופר מאד מיוחד שהלוואי שיתרגמו עוד מכתביו.
April 1, 2022
Es un libro corto y bastante entretenido, uno mira como se desarrolla una estafa a una turista, si bien la trama es buena, lo que me pareció más llamativo fue el personaje principal, Jakub, un polaco que ha entrado en esa interesante etapa en los 30 donde uno comienza a pensar seriamente en su decadencia pues empieza a ver muchos de sus efectos, es interesante la perspectiva y los sueños no cumplidos por todas las razones.
Es bastante entretenido, y se pasa muy rápido la lectura, hay momentos que me parecieron artificiales, pero no hacen desmerecer el libro.
Es bastante entretenido, y se pasa muy rápido la lectura, hay momentos que me parecieron artificiales, pero no hacen desmerecer el libro.
April 20, 2017
Ha sido una lectura increíble. No conocía yo a este escritor polaco de mediados de siglo y tengo que reconocer que me ha dejado encantada con su manera de escribir tan urbana y directa, a la vez que construye unos magníficos diálogos llenos de sentimientos reales y fríos...
Opinión completa en https://millibrosenmibiblioteca.blogs...
Opinión completa en https://millibrosenmibiblioteca.blogs...
February 1, 2017
Una prosa subyugante, una historia hipnótica y fascinante. Se trata de un gran teatro delictivo que, precisamente, podría representar sus afilados diálogo en forma dramatúrgica sin ningún género de dudas.
Recomendable.
La edición de Malpaso es IM-PE-CA-BLE
Recomendable.
La edición de Malpaso es IM-PE-CA-BLE
November 2, 2023
Świetna.
December 17, 2014
The Polish novella is very alt-1950s-man: kinda hardboiled, kinda existentialist, kinda Kerouac; referencing Sartre and Belmondo, Debbie Reynolds and Henry Miller and Mickey Spillane. (It was actually published in 1965.) Marek Hłasko was Poland's answer to the Angry Young Men, flowering during a brief thaw. Whilst his British counterparts grew old and more or less Establishment, he died young of a drug overdose, exiled by Communist disapproval of his work after the predictable clampdown, and never having recovered from the trauma of the Second World War. Jakob, narrator of Killing the Second Dog, recounts a list of atrocities witnessed in Warsaw - quite possibly autobiographical.
Jakob is one of a pair of Polish grifters hanging about Israeli beach resorts, fleecing rich widows and divorcees, usually American. He looks like a movie star going to seed, and is the one who's marketed as boyfriend to these women; his directionlessness and depression are genuine, but his partner sees them as an asset that will inspire women to rescue him. Robert is a short, fat failed theatre director and Shakespeare buff who more or less tells the younger man what to say. What they and their small-time underworld mates hadn't counted on was that the latest mark would have a ten-year-old son who's a budding psychopath with a line in life-threatening practical jokes, or that Jakob would actually like this woman.
The translator tries to create a noir-ish tone, which works most of the time. It was the culturally distinctive lines which were most interesting however, and set the book apart from similar American stories, e.g.:
- “I converted to Catholicism because the priests promised to help me get a Canadian visa,” the hunchback explained.
- "You think like a small-scale herring merchant..."
- as straight as the prick of a Russian soldier
I'd highly recommend the book to people who like this sort of thing - existentialism, and noir as told by a criminal - but I prefer a grifter story as a film, a comedy, or both. (Not sure why I even got the novella - probably a cut price offer - but it's a very quick read anyway.) Summarising the plot above, it sounds like it has a ton of comic potential - but on the page it's played for brooding gloom.
[Awful cover BTW... to paraphrase Eddie Izzard, 'this is a poo book'. And, that apart, I don't much like the trend for faux-naive, childlike designs anyway, but it doesn't suit the story in the slightest. A black & white photo would have been just the thing.]
Jakob is one of a pair of Polish grifters hanging about Israeli beach resorts, fleecing rich widows and divorcees, usually American. He looks like a movie star going to seed, and is the one who's marketed as boyfriend to these women; his directionlessness and depression are genuine, but his partner sees them as an asset that will inspire women to rescue him. Robert is a short, fat failed theatre director and Shakespeare buff who more or less tells the younger man what to say. What they and their small-time underworld mates hadn't counted on was that the latest mark would have a ten-year-old son who's a budding psychopath with a line in life-threatening practical jokes, or that Jakob would actually like this woman.
The translator tries to create a noir-ish tone, which works most of the time. It was the culturally distinctive lines which were most interesting however, and set the book apart from similar American stories, e.g.:
- “I converted to Catholicism because the priests promised to help me get a Canadian visa,” the hunchback explained.
- "You think like a small-scale herring merchant..."
- as straight as the prick of a Russian soldier
I'd highly recommend the book to people who like this sort of thing - existentialism, and noir as told by a criminal - but I prefer a grifter story as a film, a comedy, or both. (Not sure why I even got the novella - probably a cut price offer - but it's a very quick read anyway.) Summarising the plot above, it sounds like it has a ton of comic potential - but on the page it's played for brooding gloom.
[Awful cover BTW... to paraphrase Eddie Izzard, 'this is a poo book'. And, that apart, I don't much like the trend for faux-naive, childlike designs anyway, but it doesn't suit the story in the slightest. A black & white photo would have been just the thing.]
March 22, 2018
An unusual and haunting book. The central characters are Robert, a failed theatre director, and Jacob, the narrator, a failed actor. Both are Polish-born and have washed up in Israel where they try to survive by conning rich American widows or divorcées on holidays to part with a hefty sum of money to "help out" the aging but still good-looking Jacob. Robert is the master-mind of the operations and finds an outlet for his pent-up creativity by scripting Jacob's supposedly fortuitous encounters with their chosen victims. Typically, they meet their mark on the beach, and Jacob sets out to appear like a man pursued by relentless hard luck who has nobly embraced his fate as a loser. Instead of trying to flirt with his victim, Jacob plays hard to get until the woman is desperate for him to agree to follow her to the US. A dog is part of their act, hence the title. The story starts when Jacob gets to work on Mary, whose 10 year old son Johnny is giving her no end of trouble. As a single mother, Mary can't control the boy who is an unstoppable and often cruel prankster. By fishing Johnny out of trouble a number of times, Jacob quickly endears himself to Mary. The main narrative is cleverly broken up by allusions to past cons, the pair's various stints in gaol, and a vast array of colorful secondary characters. All these diversions, which are fresh and surprising in themselves, also work to building up the suspense as Jacob seems to fall for Mary, or at least to feel real compassion for her. But in the end, Jacob goes through with the con, even though it does seem like he could have a happy future with Mary. This is because although his description of himself as someone who has been brutalized by life is supposed to be an act, in reality he is a war survivor whose sensibility has been blunted by trauma. This is what makes the book special. Jacob is a very slippery character, who can behave with the utmost cruelty towards somebody he can and does identify with and even love, all so that, for a few months, he can "rent a separate room for myself, buy lots of books, and read them." For him conning women is hard work, but having a real relationship would be even harder work, something that he is truly not up to anymore, if he ever was.
September 1, 2024
Ten koncept - niby banalny teatr w prawdziwym życiu, ale naprawdę bardzo dobrze poprowadzony. Całość jak zwykle u Hłaski trochę koloryzowana, bohaterowie są wszechwiedzący i najsilniejsi, cudem wszystko uchodzi im płazem, ale nie sprawiło to, ze gorzej mi się czytało tę książkę. Styl Hłaski bardzo pasuje to takiej 'intrygi', wszystko składa się w perfekcyjną, nie-idealną całość.
August 14, 2018
Libro extraño, que aún no sé si me ha gustado; aunque hay partes que no. Trata sobre dos timadores, en el recién creado estado de Israel, que encandilan a las mujeres que viajan solas a dicho país, para posteriormente robarles.
Los personajes, a los que conocemos por sus conversaciones, son extraños, cuesta imaginárselos (solo dan datos aproximados de edad, condición, aspecto...) y carecen totalmente de empatía.
Después de bastantes días, aún no he decidido mi opinión final.
Los personajes, a los que conocemos por sus conversaciones, son extraños, cuesta imaginárselos (solo dan datos aproximados de edad, condición, aspecto...) y carecen totalmente de empatía.
Después de bastantes días, aún no he decidido mi opinión final.
April 1, 2024
"Nie cierpię niespodzianek. Boję się ich bardziej od piekła. Tylko to sprawia radość, na co człowiek czekał i czego chciał"
"Drugie zabicie psa" Marka Hłasko to moje pierwsze spotkanie z pisarzem. I na pewno nie ostatnie.
Akcja utworu rozgrywa się w Izraelu, do którego bohater zawędrował w poszukiwaniu łatwego zarobku. Za pomocą różnych oszustw i tricków psychologicznych stara się on nakłonić turystki z Ameryki do przekazania swoich oszczędności.
O narratorze nie dowiadujemy się zbyt wiele, tylko tyle, że ma około trzydziestu lat, a wygląda na dużo więcej i że ma za sobą bogatą przeszłość. Siedział w więzieniu, przebywał w szpitalu psychiatrycznym, często głodował i nie mógł znaleźć legalnej oraz dobrze płatnej pracy. Jest człowiekiem zdolnych do wszelkich podłości i nigdy nie ma problemów natury moralnej. Oszukał Amerykankę? I co z tego, przecież wszystkie kobiety to według niego "k...wy". Dla własnego kaprysu zamordował psa? To przecież tylko zwierzę. Trzeba kogoś zlikwidować? Proszę bardzo, jeśli tylko nie skończy się więzieniem, to czemu nie...
Pomaga mu podstarzały Żyd Robert, który pasjonuje się teatrem, ukończył nawet anglistykę, by móc czytać Szekspira w oryginale. Ponieważ nie udało mu się otrzymać pracy reżysera, wyżywa się na swoim młodszym towarzyszu, bezustannie go pouczając, co ma mówić, jakim tonem i z jaką miną.
Jest to powieść o kłamstwie, miłości, człowieku, obłudzie, marzeniach i przegrywaniu...
Utwór Hłasko czyta się niesamowicie szybko. Czytelnika fascynuje i pochłania bez reszty świat Hłaski - człowieka nie mniej niż jego bohaterowie doświadczonego przez życie. Brutalność i niesamowita wymowa zderzenia filozofii i przemyśleń bohaterów z ich czynami powala, fascynuje, pobudza do przemyśleń.
Naprawdę warto przeczytać!!!
"Drugie zabicie psa" Marka Hłasko to moje pierwsze spotkanie z pisarzem. I na pewno nie ostatnie.
Akcja utworu rozgrywa się w Izraelu, do którego bohater zawędrował w poszukiwaniu łatwego zarobku. Za pomocą różnych oszustw i tricków psychologicznych stara się on nakłonić turystki z Ameryki do przekazania swoich oszczędności.
O narratorze nie dowiadujemy się zbyt wiele, tylko tyle, że ma około trzydziestu lat, a wygląda na dużo więcej i że ma za sobą bogatą przeszłość. Siedział w więzieniu, przebywał w szpitalu psychiatrycznym, często głodował i nie mógł znaleźć legalnej oraz dobrze płatnej pracy. Jest człowiekiem zdolnych do wszelkich podłości i nigdy nie ma problemów natury moralnej. Oszukał Amerykankę? I co z tego, przecież wszystkie kobiety to według niego "k...wy". Dla własnego kaprysu zamordował psa? To przecież tylko zwierzę. Trzeba kogoś zlikwidować? Proszę bardzo, jeśli tylko nie skończy się więzieniem, to czemu nie...
Pomaga mu podstarzały Żyd Robert, który pasjonuje się teatrem, ukończył nawet anglistykę, by móc czytać Szekspira w oryginale. Ponieważ nie udało mu się otrzymać pracy reżysera, wyżywa się na swoim młodszym towarzyszu, bezustannie go pouczając, co ma mówić, jakim tonem i z jaką miną.
Jest to powieść o kłamstwie, miłości, człowieku, obłudzie, marzeniach i przegrywaniu...
Utwór Hłasko czyta się niesamowicie szybko. Czytelnika fascynuje i pochłania bez reszty świat Hłaski - człowieka nie mniej niż jego bohaterowie doświadczonego przez życie. Brutalność i niesamowita wymowa zderzenia filozofii i przemyśleń bohaterów z ich czynami powala, fascynuje, pobudza do przemyśleń.
Naprawdę warto przeczytać!!!
Read
December 8, 2024oczywiście - "I będę mógł sobie kupić dużo książek i czytać je; będę wieczorami chodził do taniego kina na ulicę ben-jehuda, a nocami będę słuchał deszczu spadającego na miasto. I tak będzie aż do wiosny. I aż do wiosny nie będę do nikogo mówił o miłości."
December 3, 2023
mam nadzieję, że tak nie upadnę
November 18, 2025
miała wszystko co lubię: szekspira, dużego psa i nazywanie bergmana bachorem
January 21, 2023
Libro corto y ágil para la lectura, si bien no transmite muchas emociones en su lectura y se hace plano a veces.
Muy interesante la biografía del escritor descrita en el epílogo.
Muy interesante la biografía del escritor descrita en el epílogo.
June 26, 2018
Première incursion dans la littérature polonaise, ce livre me titillait depuis un ou deux ans. Magouille, évocation du théâtre, marginalité, c'était un monde un peu à part, à la fois fascinant et déroutant. J'ai aimé cette immersion, j'ai suivi l'écriture de Marek Hlasko avec curiosité. Cet écrivain est intriguant et il a réussi avec ce texte à me donner envie d'en découvrir davantage.
August 14, 2014
This is a book that I enjoy talking about more than I enjoyed reading.
The characters and voice are a hoot: everyone speaks like he is the star of his own film noir but no one's really in the same movie as anyone else. The major triumph, though, is the narrative style.
Our narrator, rather than spelling out how he feels instead describes the way he acts. Literally acts. He is an actor and most of his actions have been coached by his theater director friend. Even his emotions are discounted as acting decisions implanted within him by his director friend. There's a remove without doing away with reliability, a sadness without self-pity.
It's very strange and though I've made this sound like the interior monologue of a sociopath, in the novel it comes off instead as a raw-nerved dispatch from a deeply wounded man. There's compromise and blame-shifting in his every move or word, something that's present in most lives but not acknowledged with the frankness displayed here.
Perhaps because of all this, the book weighs too heavily for it ever to reach the frothy heights it might otherwise. But it's not a farce and it's not a thriller or a madcap crime comedy. It's something closer to Dirty Rotten Scoundrels played as a drama.
As a side note, this publisher New Vessel Press is doing some really neat things. Their edition of Cocaine is awesome and I've gotten a few others on faith based on these two books.
Anyhow, some highlights:
man is but the shadow of a dream, but I couldn’t think of the book’s title or the name of the author. I don’t know who had dropped that line on me or at what point in his life the author had written it. Was it while he was gazing at the dying flame of a candle, or watching a dog with a bone in its jaws, its eyes shining with fearful ecstasy
It must have been a glorious moment and I can only thank God I wasn’t present, since most likely I would have added a few words and spoiled the whole show. That’s the way I am. And then what would have happened to the light? But I don’t like light. I like the darkness, which frees us from our faces and the shadows we cast.
We were walking side by side. Darkness was all around us, but not the kind that envelops a city like a dream. It didn’t make us forget our hot and tired bodies. This darkness was rough and hard, like the dust; and like the dust it clung to our skin.
“I won’t pay any attention to either of you,” I said. “You won’t interest me at all. I’ll just sit there looking out at the garden, and your loud, repugnant voices will seem to me both meaningless and unreal.”
Robert disliked taking showers and almost always refused, claiming that only dirty people need to wash very often. Chacun à son goût.
Yeah, a sweet little cripple. Or maybe a paraplegic. Jesus Christ, think how much money we could save that way!” “Oh, come on,” I said. “Dreams like that never come true. Besides, who ever brings a hunchback to the beach?” “Don’t you worry. To you it may have a hump the size of a camel’s but to its own mother the kid is as straight as the prick of a Russian soldier. What do you know about women? If they love someone, they’re blind as bats.”
The night seemed solid and dusty, like some forgotten theater set.
“One day people stop visiting you and so you start visiting them. That’s the onset of old age.”
I thought of a man I shared a hotel room with once; he was constructing a bomb he planned to throw at the minister of finance. Since he had no experience at bomb-making, everybody was afraid to stay with him. Then I started thinking of someone else, the brother-in-law of our hotel desk clerk. When his family committed him to a mental hospital, he set the building on fire. All the nuts ran off to some nearby orange grove, dancing and singing, and the cops had to search two days for them and move them to other hospitals all over the country.
He returned right away in the best of spirits, beaming like shit in heaven.
He continued to stare at me with a confused and helpless look. “Don’t you like my face?” I asked. “Well, neither do I. Just imagine how nice it would be if I looked exactly like you. Neither of us would need a mirror to shave.”
all the familiar smells: fish, grilled meat, and hot copper. While the bouncer was packing clothing into a suitcase, studying each piece separately and folding it carefully like a loving wife, I said
you can screen yourself from sadness and anger with the image of a face like that. I could use her face the way a child brings up his hand to shut out the view of something he’s afraid of.
someone who’s found the ladder to heaven in a woman’s gentle touch. That man was myself!
Poor Robert; he always looked like an insect emerging into light for the first time from under an overturned stone.
like a couple of kids. “Quite a sight, huh?” “Somebody should shave that bastard’s balls and send him back to kindergarten.”
Looking at her face, I thought three or four years from now no head would turn when she walked down the street or went into a movie theater. It’s odd how women’s looks suddenly disappear and the women themselves, too, vanish without a trace at the age when men become truly handsome and mature. Women’s faces grow cold and gray, and they begin to speak in sharp high voices that have no love, no despair, only a kind of miserable wisdom that prevents them from doing reckless things.
How many things are there, I wondered, that a man can discover about himself without anyone’s help? Not many; all that shouting Robert talks about drowns out the way we really are and all the gifts we possess, even though we don’t possess so many. So it’s a good thing we have at least the sea to look at and listen to.
Sartre made the astounding discovery that men’s underwear sometimes happens not to be very clean, and for that reason alone Sartre will be immortal.
string to an old man’s chair, and when the old poop was about to sit down, he pulled it out from under him. “The kid’s got a healthy sense of humor,” Robert said, watching the old man try to get up.
“Good god, how do you know all that?” “I don’t,” I said. “But if you close your eyes, you can improve on anybody’s life. Though if you don’t like this ending, I can make up a different one: he let a monkey jump on his back and can still be seen from time to time in the company of leprous beggars. A true Hollywood ending.”
“No. I hate surprises. I fear them more than anything. The only thing that brings joy is something you want and have been waiting for.”
“I’ll tell you something about my childhood. I once had a friend who experimented on frogs. The frogs really hated that. That was in Poland.” I fell silent. “Is that your only memory from Poland?” she asked after a terribly long pause, when she must have lost all hope of my continuing the conversation. “Actually the only thing I really remember from Poland is Khrushchev’s face,” I said. “You’re a very strange lover.” “I know. Once for three nights in a row I explained the construction of a steam engine to some girl. It didn’t get me very far. But apparently I was very cheeky as a kid. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment. This room doesn’t have a toilet.”
“You should buy him a toy,” the old man said. “Maybe a spear gun, something like that.” “You don’t know him,” I said. “The only toy he’d enjoy playing with is a flamethrower. Come, Johnny. Come along, dear. There’s something we have to talk about.
“I don’t have any kids. I’ve spent more money on abortions than there is in the Vatican budget. Even though I’m careful. As you’ve probably noticed.” I went over and sat on the bed.
This is probably how she had spoken to Johnny when he was very small and had trouble falling asleep. I think God created her so that she would give men love, peace, and rest. So that she could make them tired and then make them sleep. I’m sure He forgave her everything.
“I’m just a cheap gigolo,” I said. “It’s not my fault if you don’t want to believe me.” “You’re a big boy who probably started shaving too soon,” she said. “In America you’ll buy yourself a sports car and wreck it. I’ll help you do it. Now go to sleep. Sleep in peace. It’s all because of this wind.”
in lace she would have been the perfect model for somebody forging Renaissance portraits.
When the bishop of Warsaw diocese died, the kids from Catholic schools had to go and pray for him. There he was, laid out in state, one gloved hand hanging limply from the open coffin, and we had to kneel down and kiss that cold, rigid hand. When my turn came, I said I won’t do it, and the nuns dragged me over by force. So I bit into that dead hand with such a fury that it took several nuns to pry me off. They almost overturned the coffin.” “How old were you?” “I don’t remember. Maybe nine.” “It’s a good story,” Robert said. “Tell it to that broad. Americans love analyzing experiences like that. Let her exercise her brains. A small thing, but what joy it can bring to a woman! Just like a prick.”
He was beaming; he looked like a potato gifted with intelligence.
The characters and voice are a hoot: everyone speaks like he is the star of his own film noir but no one's really in the same movie as anyone else. The major triumph, though, is the narrative style.
Our narrator, rather than spelling out how he feels instead describes the way he acts. Literally acts. He is an actor and most of his actions have been coached by his theater director friend. Even his emotions are discounted as acting decisions implanted within him by his director friend. There's a remove without doing away with reliability, a sadness without self-pity.
It's very strange and though I've made this sound like the interior monologue of a sociopath, in the novel it comes off instead as a raw-nerved dispatch from a deeply wounded man. There's compromise and blame-shifting in his every move or word, something that's present in most lives but not acknowledged with the frankness displayed here.
Perhaps because of all this, the book weighs too heavily for it ever to reach the frothy heights it might otherwise. But it's not a farce and it's not a thriller or a madcap crime comedy. It's something closer to Dirty Rotten Scoundrels played as a drama.
As a side note, this publisher New Vessel Press is doing some really neat things. Their edition of Cocaine is awesome and I've gotten a few others on faith based on these two books.
Anyhow, some highlights:
man is but the shadow of a dream, but I couldn’t think of the book’s title or the name of the author. I don’t know who had dropped that line on me or at what point in his life the author had written it. Was it while he was gazing at the dying flame of a candle, or watching a dog with a bone in its jaws, its eyes shining with fearful ecstasy
It must have been a glorious moment and I can only thank God I wasn’t present, since most likely I would have added a few words and spoiled the whole show. That’s the way I am. And then what would have happened to the light? But I don’t like light. I like the darkness, which frees us from our faces and the shadows we cast.
We were walking side by side. Darkness was all around us, but not the kind that envelops a city like a dream. It didn’t make us forget our hot and tired bodies. This darkness was rough and hard, like the dust; and like the dust it clung to our skin.
“I won’t pay any attention to either of you,” I said. “You won’t interest me at all. I’ll just sit there looking out at the garden, and your loud, repugnant voices will seem to me both meaningless and unreal.”
Robert disliked taking showers and almost always refused, claiming that only dirty people need to wash very often. Chacun à son goût.
Yeah, a sweet little cripple. Or maybe a paraplegic. Jesus Christ, think how much money we could save that way!” “Oh, come on,” I said. “Dreams like that never come true. Besides, who ever brings a hunchback to the beach?” “Don’t you worry. To you it may have a hump the size of a camel’s but to its own mother the kid is as straight as the prick of a Russian soldier. What do you know about women? If they love someone, they’re blind as bats.”
The night seemed solid and dusty, like some forgotten theater set.
“One day people stop visiting you and so you start visiting them. That’s the onset of old age.”
I thought of a man I shared a hotel room with once; he was constructing a bomb he planned to throw at the minister of finance. Since he had no experience at bomb-making, everybody was afraid to stay with him. Then I started thinking of someone else, the brother-in-law of our hotel desk clerk. When his family committed him to a mental hospital, he set the building on fire. All the nuts ran off to some nearby orange grove, dancing and singing, and the cops had to search two days for them and move them to other hospitals all over the country.
He returned right away in the best of spirits, beaming like shit in heaven.
He continued to stare at me with a confused and helpless look. “Don’t you like my face?” I asked. “Well, neither do I. Just imagine how nice it would be if I looked exactly like you. Neither of us would need a mirror to shave.”
all the familiar smells: fish, grilled meat, and hot copper. While the bouncer was packing clothing into a suitcase, studying each piece separately and folding it carefully like a loving wife, I said
you can screen yourself from sadness and anger with the image of a face like that. I could use her face the way a child brings up his hand to shut out the view of something he’s afraid of.
someone who’s found the ladder to heaven in a woman’s gentle touch. That man was myself!
Poor Robert; he always looked like an insect emerging into light for the first time from under an overturned stone.
like a couple of kids. “Quite a sight, huh?” “Somebody should shave that bastard’s balls and send him back to kindergarten.”
Looking at her face, I thought three or four years from now no head would turn when she walked down the street or went into a movie theater. It’s odd how women’s looks suddenly disappear and the women themselves, too, vanish without a trace at the age when men become truly handsome and mature. Women’s faces grow cold and gray, and they begin to speak in sharp high voices that have no love, no despair, only a kind of miserable wisdom that prevents them from doing reckless things.
How many things are there, I wondered, that a man can discover about himself without anyone’s help? Not many; all that shouting Robert talks about drowns out the way we really are and all the gifts we possess, even though we don’t possess so many. So it’s a good thing we have at least the sea to look at and listen to.
Sartre made the astounding discovery that men’s underwear sometimes happens not to be very clean, and for that reason alone Sartre will be immortal.
string to an old man’s chair, and when the old poop was about to sit down, he pulled it out from under him. “The kid’s got a healthy sense of humor,” Robert said, watching the old man try to get up.
“Good god, how do you know all that?” “I don’t,” I said. “But if you close your eyes, you can improve on anybody’s life. Though if you don’t like this ending, I can make up a different one: he let a monkey jump on his back and can still be seen from time to time in the company of leprous beggars. A true Hollywood ending.”
“No. I hate surprises. I fear them more than anything. The only thing that brings joy is something you want and have been waiting for.”
“I’ll tell you something about my childhood. I once had a friend who experimented on frogs. The frogs really hated that. That was in Poland.” I fell silent. “Is that your only memory from Poland?” she asked after a terribly long pause, when she must have lost all hope of my continuing the conversation. “Actually the only thing I really remember from Poland is Khrushchev’s face,” I said. “You’re a very strange lover.” “I know. Once for three nights in a row I explained the construction of a steam engine to some girl. It didn’t get me very far. But apparently I was very cheeky as a kid. You’ll have to excuse me for a moment. This room doesn’t have a toilet.”
“You should buy him a toy,” the old man said. “Maybe a spear gun, something like that.” “You don’t know him,” I said. “The only toy he’d enjoy playing with is a flamethrower. Come, Johnny. Come along, dear. There’s something we have to talk about.
“I don’t have any kids. I’ve spent more money on abortions than there is in the Vatican budget. Even though I’m careful. As you’ve probably noticed.” I went over and sat on the bed.
This is probably how she had spoken to Johnny when he was very small and had trouble falling asleep. I think God created her so that she would give men love, peace, and rest. So that she could make them tired and then make them sleep. I’m sure He forgave her everything.
“I’m just a cheap gigolo,” I said. “It’s not my fault if you don’t want to believe me.” “You’re a big boy who probably started shaving too soon,” she said. “In America you’ll buy yourself a sports car and wreck it. I’ll help you do it. Now go to sleep. Sleep in peace. It’s all because of this wind.”
in lace she would have been the perfect model for somebody forging Renaissance portraits.
When the bishop of Warsaw diocese died, the kids from Catholic schools had to go and pray for him. There he was, laid out in state, one gloved hand hanging limply from the open coffin, and we had to kneel down and kiss that cold, rigid hand. When my turn came, I said I won’t do it, and the nuns dragged me over by force. So I bit into that dead hand with such a fury that it took several nuns to pry me off. They almost overturned the coffin.” “How old were you?” “I don’t remember. Maybe nine.” “It’s a good story,” Robert said. “Tell it to that broad. Americans love analyzing experiences like that. Let her exercise her brains. A small thing, but what joy it can bring to a woman! Just like a prick.”
He was beaming; he looked like a potato gifted with intelligence.
December 11, 2023
Hłasko has a way with storytelling that makes reading his work a compulsion.
This is the Tinder-swindler of the 1950s. It's dark, it's depressing, it is every-man-for-himself. It's about two characters who work in tandem to con women out of money. There's Robert, the dramaturge and architect of the cons, and there's Jacob, the player (hah). To a certain degree, this is all they know, but their vocation is also a reflection of what they really love. For Robert, it's the théâtre. For Jacob, it's... I'm not sure. He kinda just goes with the flow. He fell in with Robert and plays his part well. Gets his and gets out. Tries not to be too cruel.
In the end, there's an element of inevitability. Jacob tries to spoil the whole thing, tired of the charade, not wanting to do anything with the mark (which is, conveniently, also in line with the con), but she doesn't believe him; she falls in love with him even more. He can't get out. He's trapped. Everything he does is pushing the con further along.
And that's when he kills the dog. He disappears. He's both furthering the con and leaving it. Robert then finishes the job in Jacob's absence, which is — I shouldn't have to say — *also* furthering the con.
I'd say that it's not a life-changing book, but it's still too soon to tell. I might find myself thinking of it more as time goes on (à la "Monogamy" by Sue Miller — milquetoast to read but... I'm unable to stop thinking about it, and I draw lessons from its scenes).
I'd need to read this book again in order to better understand the themes and character parallels; someone smarter could do it in a single pass.
This is the Tinder-swindler of the 1950s. It's dark, it's depressing, it is every-man-for-himself. It's about two characters who work in tandem to con women out of money. There's Robert, the dramaturge and architect of the cons, and there's Jacob, the player (hah). To a certain degree, this is all they know, but their vocation is also a reflection of what they really love. For Robert, it's the théâtre. For Jacob, it's... I'm not sure. He kinda just goes with the flow. He fell in with Robert and plays his part well. Gets his and gets out. Tries not to be too cruel.
In the end, there's an element of inevitability. Jacob tries to spoil the whole thing, tired of the charade, not wanting to do anything with the mark (which is, conveniently, also in line with the con), but she doesn't believe him; she falls in love with him even more. He can't get out. He's trapped. Everything he does is pushing the con further along.
And that's when he kills the dog. He disappears. He's both furthering the con and leaving it. Robert then finishes the job in Jacob's absence, which is — I shouldn't have to say — *also* furthering the con.
I'd say that it's not a life-changing book, but it's still too soon to tell. I might find myself thinking of it more as time goes on (à la "Monogamy" by Sue Miller — milquetoast to read but... I'm unable to stop thinking about it, and I draw lessons from its scenes).
I'd need to read this book again in order to better understand the themes and character parallels; someone smarter could do it in a single pass.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 18, 2024
I had this book recomended to me by a Polish fellow university student. It was his favorite book. He had even brought his English version of it all the way from Poland.
Well I did not like it one bit. Which is odd. This kind of book should be right up my ally. I read Celine's 'Journey To The End of The Night' and enjoyed it. I've read Sartre and Kerouac et al. I've lived in ghettos and suffered a life of poverty. But IMHO this book just sucks dog poop.
Reading the quotes in another review I admit some of the are quite funny. But reading them in the context of the story is just dreary. In fact reading the book is an experience in dreariness. Think A.Rand's 'We The Living' but with AR trying to make jokes.
The book is only 140 pages but it reads like a long dreary grey we are living under communist nightmare. No joy at all and I think that's the fatal flaw in the book. No one ever has, or can, or ever will crack even a hint of a smile. It's just cover to cover depression.
I read 'Survival in Auschwitz' by Primo Levi around the same time and it was 100 times a more cheerful book.
I do recommend this book and when I gave my now ex-friend back his book I suggest he maybe not recommend any more books for me. He was a bit, no a hudge lot of a fraud and a phoney so maybe that's why it was his favorite book. He also liked to play the victim a lot so maybe...
Anyways maybe I should reread it again and see if I have a different opinion of it this time. But I won't read it again, I already know that. Life is too short....even for a 140 page piece of crap like this. SHOOT THE DOG! PLEASE!
Well I did not like it one bit. Which is odd. This kind of book should be right up my ally. I read Celine's 'Journey To The End of The Night' and enjoyed it. I've read Sartre and Kerouac et al. I've lived in ghettos and suffered a life of poverty. But IMHO this book just sucks dog poop.
Reading the quotes in another review I admit some of the are quite funny. But reading them in the context of the story is just dreary. In fact reading the book is an experience in dreariness. Think A.Rand's 'We The Living' but with AR trying to make jokes.
The book is only 140 pages but it reads like a long dreary grey we are living under communist nightmare. No joy at all and I think that's the fatal flaw in the book. No one ever has, or can, or ever will crack even a hint of a smile. It's just cover to cover depression.
I read 'Survival in Auschwitz' by Primo Levi around the same time and it was 100 times a more cheerful book.
I do recommend this book and when I gave my now ex-friend back his book I suggest he maybe not recommend any more books for me. He was a bit, no a hudge lot of a fraud and a phoney so maybe that's why it was his favorite book. He also liked to play the victim a lot so maybe...
Anyways maybe I should reread it again and see if I have a different opinion of it this time. But I won't read it again, I already know that. Life is too short....even for a 140 page piece of crap like this. SHOOT THE DOG! PLEASE!
November 10, 2025
Rozgrywającesię w izraelskiej scenerii minipowieści, napisane przez Hłaskę na emigracji. Robert i to para oszustów matrymonialnych. Pierwszy obmyśla scenariusz, dzięki któremu uda im się wyłudzić pieniądze od kolejnej bogatej, rozczarowanej życiem kobiety. Drugi gra w nim rolę melodramatycznego amanta. Początkowo wszystko idzie zgodnie z planem: ofiara – samotna kobieta z dzieckiem – ulega czarowi Jakuba, odgrywającego doświadczonego przez los outsidera. Wszystko psuje jednak chamsin – „wiatr, który robi z ludzi wariatów”... Ponownie spotykamy bohaterów w „Nawróconym w Jaffie”. Bez grosza przy duszy nadal brną w kłamstwa i czekają na dobry moment, by uwieść następną kobietę. Podczas pobytu w Tel Awiwie zawierają znajomość z kanadyjskim misjonarzem i jego młodą żoną... Życie to teatr albo film – udowadnia Marek Hłasko w swoich dwóch izraelskich minipowieściach. Ale los jego bohaterów nie zależy wcale od tego, jak dobrze nauczą się swoich kwestii... Znałem tu wiele miejsc i wiele ludzi. Ale dlaczego nie potrafiłem o tym pisać? Dlaczego potrafiłem to czuć, a nie umiałem o tym mówić - nie wiem. Dlaczego nie powiedziałem i nie napisałem nigdy, iż nie ma większego nieszczęścia jak życie w nieświadomości Boga; jak życie wbrew Jego przykazaniom - nie wiem. Dlaczego nie umiałem nigdy powiedzieć, że największym grzechem jest stracenie miłości drugiego człowieka - nie wiem. Może było za gorąco, a może po prostu zapomniałem. Marek Hłasko, "Drugie zabicie psa"
August 22, 2024
https://www.instagram.com/p/Cm6KsXCt6BO/
Niektóre nazwiska są synonimem jakości. Tak jest w tym przypadku. Jeden z moich ulubionych autorów literatury wysokiej w każdym dziele zaprasza nas na intelektualną ucztę. Piękny dwudziestoletni serwuje nam psychologiczną rozprawę na temat człowieczeństwa. Pełną nieoczywistych ludzkich wyborów, zaskakująco wnikliwej analizy psychologicznej, smutnej, lecz trafnej obserwacji człowieka. Ostry, męski język, brak laurkowości i upiększania świata to cechy charakterystyczne dla prozy Hłasko. Tekst jest trudny, niewskazany, kiedy mamy w życiu gorszy czas, ale warty wysiłku czytelnika.
Fabularnie bohater Abakarow traci na trzy lata licencje pilota. Wie, że po tym okresie wróci za stery, ale nie to trzyma go przy życiu. Do życia napędza go przygotowana z zimną krwią zemsta za śmierć przyjaciela. W życiu lotnika po tym brudnym czynie pojawia się kobieta. Alkoholiczka i podstarzała gwiazda filmowa. Wydaje się, że Rosjanin otrzymuje od życia szanse na wyrwanie się z objęć zła. Jednak każde wyrządzone przez nas w życiu zło ciągnie za sobą bolesne skutki. Miłości obarczonej jego brzemieniem trudno stać się czystym uczuciem...
Podsumowując „Brudne czyny” to pozycja trudna w odbiorze, mroczna, ponura, skłaniająca do myślenia. Bez zwątpienia warta do polecania każdemu, kto chce wejść w Nowy Rok wraz z ambitną literaturą.
Niektóre nazwiska są synonimem jakości. Tak jest w tym przypadku. Jeden z moich ulubionych autorów literatury wysokiej w każdym dziele zaprasza nas na intelektualną ucztę. Piękny dwudziestoletni serwuje nam psychologiczną rozprawę na temat człowieczeństwa. Pełną nieoczywistych ludzkich wyborów, zaskakująco wnikliwej analizy psychologicznej, smutnej, lecz trafnej obserwacji człowieka. Ostry, męski język, brak laurkowości i upiększania świata to cechy charakterystyczne dla prozy Hłasko. Tekst jest trudny, niewskazany, kiedy mamy w życiu gorszy czas, ale warty wysiłku czytelnika.
Fabularnie bohater Abakarow traci na trzy lata licencje pilota. Wie, że po tym okresie wróci za stery, ale nie to trzyma go przy życiu. Do życia napędza go przygotowana z zimną krwią zemsta za śmierć przyjaciela. W życiu lotnika po tym brudnym czynie pojawia się kobieta. Alkoholiczka i podstarzała gwiazda filmowa. Wydaje się, że Rosjanin otrzymuje od życia szanse na wyrwanie się z objęć zła. Jednak każde wyrządzone przez nas w życiu zło ciągnie za sobą bolesne skutki. Miłości obarczonej jego brzemieniem trudno stać się czystym uczuciem...
Podsumowując „Brudne czyny” to pozycja trudna w odbiorze, mroczna, ponura, skłaniająca do myślenia. Bez zwątpienia warta do polecania każdemu, kto chce wejść w Nowy Rok wraz z ambitną literaturą.
April 26, 2020
This guy can write. I didn't know it at first, but the pseudonym Marek Van Der Jagt, with which Arnon Grunberg had a second throw at the debutant prize in Holland, was a tribute to this Polish author. There are similarities in their style indeed, and a cynical tone is one of them.
Two Polish grifters in Israel have a complex ploy they always repeat to get rich female tourists to give them money out of compassion. It involves having an affair with the tourist, an imaginary dying mother and a pretty risky suicide attempt. Along the way there are many colourful characters: the obnoxious little kid Johnny, a lifeguard at the beach, a jewish money launderer, a drunk, a hunchback who reads thrillers in front of the hotel restroom (he has diarrhea and doesn't want to wander off too far), two men fighting for who will get to touch the hump of the huchback first (it brings good fortune) and many others. This isn't a feelgood story, but if you can stand some black humour, definitely go for it!
Two Polish grifters in Israel have a complex ploy they always repeat to get rich female tourists to give them money out of compassion. It involves having an affair with the tourist, an imaginary dying mother and a pretty risky suicide attempt. Along the way there are many colourful characters: the obnoxious little kid Johnny, a lifeguard at the beach, a jewish money launderer, a drunk, a hunchback who reads thrillers in front of the hotel restroom (he has diarrhea and doesn't want to wander off too far), two men fighting for who will get to touch the hump of the huchback first (it brings good fortune) and many others. This isn't a feelgood story, but if you can stand some black humour, definitely go for it!
April 17, 2024
This is one that’s just begging to be adapted. The first person prose leaves a lot of wiggle room for creative interpretations of this project into a bigger movie. The characters of Jacob and Robert are as admirable as they are despicable. Both packed to the brim with charm yet contain a subtle darkness. A darkness that Jacob reveals. Which per the novel introduction connects directly to the author’s experiences. The way information is revealed is brilliant. Just giving you enough to get an idea of what’s going on but never the full picture. Until the very end!
November 16, 2024
8.1/10
Very enjoyable book about two Polish conmen living in 1950s Israel scamming lonely widow's out of their savings. We see influences of Chekov and Dostoyevsky (both mentioned by name) as well as the beat generation in this novel. Highly recommend. Robert and Jacob, a hunchback with IBS, and crazy kid, a lonely widow, and several other supporting characters really make this book a fun read. "Comes off the page at you like a pitbull." is how the Washington Post described this novel and I agree.
Very enjoyable book about two Polish conmen living in 1950s Israel scamming lonely widow's out of their savings. We see influences of Chekov and Dostoyevsky (both mentioned by name) as well as the beat generation in this novel. Highly recommend. Robert and Jacob, a hunchback with IBS, and crazy kid, a lonely widow, and several other supporting characters really make this book a fun read. "Comes off the page at you like a pitbull." is how the Washington Post described this novel and I agree.
September 28, 2025
Absolutely hilarious, cinematic, and philosophical. This is one of the darkest books out there, the characters reject all possibility of redemption, and it portrays a purely negative view of human nature. Hlasko touches on the deepest traumas that live under layers of (self-)deception and cruelty, and takes us to the conclusion that this is all life can be. It's hard not to wince at how hateful and misogynistic the book can be at times, and Hlasko himself was clearly a troubled person, but he is also perhaps the most sensitive and perceptive pessimist of the 20th century.
July 24, 2018
Este libro ha sido diferente en muchos sentidos: en la forma de contar la historia, en la historia en sí, el carácter de los personajes, su forma de actuar y como el autor dentro de la ironía, puede contar relatos terribles. Me ha gustado por lo diferente de la historia si bien hay partes que echan para atrás por su rudeza.
March 10, 2019
Novela un poco sórdida. Retrata la vida de dos timadores en Israel. Es muy corta y se lee rápido pero no me ha atrapado demasiado. El autor es polaco, y tiene una vida un poco maldita. Murió joven por una mezcla de alcohol y drogas. La novela es en parte autobiográfica.
Lo mejor el personaje del niño, un autentico demonio.
Lo mejor el personaje del niño, un autentico demonio.
May 12, 2017
The introduction was amazing. The story itself interesting, sets the period but jumps to actions you would not expect if you are not paying attention. Definitely not for the average bubble gum novel reader. I would call this Literature.
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