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Spadsereturen
Spadsereturen (1917) er en historie hvor man betages af det forførende sprog, den sprudlende glæde og de umiddelbare sansninger der dvæler forelsket ved små detaljer som normalt bliver overset. Henrykkelsen over en udstilling i et butiksvindue, glæden ved to børn der leger stille, fornøjelsen ved en samtale med en høflig bankmand, eller betagelsen af sollyset, der stråler ned gennem trætoppene i en fredfyldt skov.
Det er på mange måder en enkel fortælling. Vi følger fortælleren og lader os føre gennem hans møder med andre mennesker og verden omkring ham. Men Walsers ord og beskrivelser er langt fra enkle, og de åbner en charmerende og vidunderlig verden fremkaldt af hans fortryllende sproglige sans.
Det er på mange måder en enkel fortælling. Vi følger fortælleren og lader os føre gennem hans møder med andre mennesker og verden omkring ham. Men Walsers ord og beskrivelser er langt fra enkle, og de åbner en charmerende og vidunderlig verden fremkaldt af hans fortryllende sproglige sans.
84 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1917
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3760 people want to read
About the author
Robert Walser
219 books844 followersRobert Walser, a German-Swiss prose writer and novelist, enjoyed high repute among a select group of authors and critics in Berlin early in his career, only to become nearly forgotten by the time he committed himself to the Waldau mental clinic in Bern in January 1929. Since his death in 1956, however, Walser has been recognized as German Switzerland’s leading author of the first half of the twentieth century, perhaps Switzerland’s single significant modernist. In his homeland he has served as an emboldening exemplar and a national classic during the unparalleled expansion of German-Swiss literature of the last two generations.
Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.
Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.
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December 11, 2024
I walk, therefore I am
And then I see a darkness
“Did I pick flowers to lay them upon my sorrow?” I asked myself, and the flowers fell out of my hand.
Modernism, romanticism, melancholia, irony: it is all there, in the few pages of this bittersweet fairy-tale. As this was my first acquaintance with Walser’s prose, and there is plenty left to discover, here is a happy reader.
The narrator, a poet, flees from his writing room, “or room of phantoms”, and goes out for a stroll. Crossing the path of a variety of passers-by, he gives a tragi-comical account on his impressions, thoughts, futile undertakings and encounters on his walk through a nameless little town and the countryside. As in a manic frenzy, he natters on, slowing down his walking pace, almost stumbling over his own words in his eagerness to report on every detail hitting his eye or striking his mind.
It is a walk without a purpose or destination. As the day and the walking progress, the hypersensitive narrator experiences a multitude of mood swings, changing from frantic happiness and ecstatic joy, an almost neurotic rapturous state, to defeatism, indignation and back to euphoria: the hues of four seasons in one day. In a state of jubilant exultation, the narrator/poet loses himself, he coincides with nature, becomes one with the world soul, Anima Mundi:
The exuberant torrent of words is obviously hiding something. Behind this sprightly verbosity, there is despair, loneliness and angst. Which demons is the voluble narrator running from? The blank page, a writer’s block? The critics? Himself?
The dark thoughts that the narrator so skilfully tries to keep at bay on his stride, slowly obfuscate the pleasure he takes in the Arcadian scenery. His bumping into the pitiable giant Tomzack, an allegoric alter ego of himself, could be seen as a first gloomy omen:
Walser’s prose bristles with exaggerations and reprises; he accumulates pointless tautologies (pun intended) resulting in baroqueness and pomposity, which creates an alienating and deranging effect to the reader at first. Once one becomes used to his curvy, hyperbolic style, the whimsical, syntactically almost derailing sentences turn out strikingly appropriate and functional, as a cunning mimicry of moving, funny ineptitude. At times his prose reminded me of Hrabal’s, yet less gaudy.
In his encounters with the outer world, the narrator/poet behaves himself in a most peculiar, awkward way. He profuses with uncongenially solemn courtesy, is obsequiously polite, while inwardly (or in writing) scolding and disdaining the high and mighty, oscillating from self-disparaging and cowardice to elation; self-destructive recklessness, supercilious megalomania and delusions of grandeur. Facing settled society’s intolerance for day-thieving artists, lazybones, vagrants, ‘unproductive’ dreamers – and the weak and destitute – he exhausts himself in justifying his observant life, his vocation, his very existence. Presenting his narrator/poet – actually himself - as the gentle village idiot, a queer, enigmatic and eccentric figure, Walser considers the relation between the artist and society. In all its jocularity and irony, this relation, for Walser, could only be one of torment, according to his friend Carl Seelig.
Often the narrator directly addresses the reader, seeking his approval and legitimating himself to the point of absurdity. While on the one hand he attempts to ingratiate himself with the reader, he simultaneously lectures the reader on the radical freedom of the artist, making crystal clear that writing is not a game of give and take to oblige the reader. As a “serious writer” he doesn’t feel called upon to jump at the reader’s fancies, at the same time giving a firm sneer at rising consumerism (rather visionary, it’s 1917):
And so Walser throws his pearls, his graceful sentences, at us, like “delectable, luscious tidbits”.
Ambulo ergo sum – I walk therefore I am (Pierre Gassendi)
Walser, the walker, fits in the long tradition of numerous walking writers and philosophers (Kant, Nietzsche, Rousseau, Sebald, Woolf, the Dutch philosopher Ton Lemaire, the list is endless). For the narrator, and for Walser, walking is not only stimulating aesthetical and philosophical reflection. However complex and strained the artist’s relation towards the wilful outside world, the outing is a vital need, social interaction is required for inspiration; walking is living, is being in the world, like writing is.
A ragged soul, Sebald called him, quoting from Walser’s The Tanners (in Sebald’s essay on Walser that was published in A Place in the Country, Le Promeneur Solitaire: A Remembrance of Robert Walser). A part of this essay (which however does not relate much to The Walk) can be found here.
And then I see a darkness
“Did I pick flowers to lay them upon my sorrow?” I asked myself, and the flowers fell out of my hand.
Modernism, romanticism, melancholia, irony: it is all there, in the few pages of this bittersweet fairy-tale. As this was my first acquaintance with Walser’s prose, and there is plenty left to discover, here is a happy reader.
The narrator, a poet, flees from his writing room, “or room of phantoms”, and goes out for a stroll. Crossing the path of a variety of passers-by, he gives a tragi-comical account on his impressions, thoughts, futile undertakings and encounters on his walk through a nameless little town and the countryside. As in a manic frenzy, he natters on, slowing down his walking pace, almost stumbling over his own words in his eagerness to report on every detail hitting his eye or striking his mind.
It is a walk without a purpose or destination. As the day and the walking progress, the hypersensitive narrator experiences a multitude of mood swings, changing from frantic happiness and ecstatic joy, an almost neurotic rapturous state, to defeatism, indignation and back to euphoria: the hues of four seasons in one day. In a state of jubilant exultation, the narrator/poet loses himself, he coincides with nature, becomes one with the world soul, Anima Mundi:
The soul of the world had opened and I fantasized that everything wicked, distressing and painful was on the point of vanishing….all notion of the future paled and the past dissolved. In the glowing present, I myself glowed. The earth became a dream; I myself had become an inward being, and I walked as in an inward world.
The exuberant torrent of words is obviously hiding something. Behind this sprightly verbosity, there is despair, loneliness and angst. Which demons is the voluble narrator running from? The blank page, a writer’s block? The critics? Himself?
The dark thoughts that the narrator so skilfully tries to keep at bay on his stride, slowly obfuscate the pleasure he takes in the Arcadian scenery. His bumping into the pitiable giant Tomzack, an allegoric alter ego of himself, could be seen as a first gloomy omen:
Without motherland, without happiness he was; he had to live completely without love and without human joy. He had sympathy with no man, and with him and his mopping and mowing no man had sympathy. Past, present and future were to him an insubstantial desert, and life was too small, too tiny, too narrow, for him. For him there was nothing which had meaning, and he himself in turn meant something to nobody. Out of his great eyes there broke a glare of grief in overworlds and underworlds. Infinite pain spoke from his slack and weary moments. A hundred thousand years old he seemed to me, and it seemed to me that he must live for eternity, only to be for eternity no living being. He died every instant and yet he could not die. For him, there was no grave with flowers on it.
Walser’s prose bristles with exaggerations and reprises; he accumulates pointless tautologies (pun intended) resulting in baroqueness and pomposity, which creates an alienating and deranging effect to the reader at first. Once one becomes used to his curvy, hyperbolic style, the whimsical, syntactically almost derailing sentences turn out strikingly appropriate and functional, as a cunning mimicry of moving, funny ineptitude. At times his prose reminded me of Hrabal’s, yet less gaudy.
In his encounters with the outer world, the narrator/poet behaves himself in a most peculiar, awkward way. He profuses with uncongenially solemn courtesy, is obsequiously polite, while inwardly (or in writing) scolding and disdaining the high and mighty, oscillating from self-disparaging and cowardice to elation; self-destructive recklessness, supercilious megalomania and delusions of grandeur. Facing settled society’s intolerance for day-thieving artists, lazybones, vagrants, ‘unproductive’ dreamers – and the weak and destitute – he exhausts himself in justifying his observant life, his vocation, his very existence. Presenting his narrator/poet – actually himself - as the gentle village idiot, a queer, enigmatic and eccentric figure, Walser considers the relation between the artist and society. In all its jocularity and irony, this relation, for Walser, could only be one of torment, according to his friend Carl Seelig.
Often the narrator directly addresses the reader, seeking his approval and legitimating himself to the point of absurdity. While on the one hand he attempts to ingratiate himself with the reader, he simultaneously lectures the reader on the radical freedom of the artist, making crystal clear that writing is not a game of give and take to oblige the reader. As a “serious writer” he doesn’t feel called upon to jump at the reader’s fancies, at the same time giving a firm sneer at rising consumerism (rather visionary, it’s 1917):
Perhaps there were a few repetitions here and there. But I would like to confess that I consider man and nature to be in lovely and charming flight from repetitions, and I would like further to confess that I regard this phenomenon as a beauty and a blessing. Of course, one finds in some places sensation-hungry novelty hunters and novelty worshippers, spoiled by overexcitement, people who almost every instant covet joys that have never been seen before. The writer does not write for such people, nor does the composer compose for them, nor does the painter paint for them. On the whole I consider the constant need for delight and diversion in completely new things to be a sign of pettiness, lack of inner life, of estrangement from nature, and of a mediocre or defective gift of understanding. It is little children for whom one must always be producing something new and different, only in order to stop their being dissatisfied. The serious writer does not feel called upon to supply accumulations of material, to act the agile servant of nervous greed; and consequently he is not afraid of a few natural repetitions, although of course he takes continual trouble to forfend too many similarities.
And so Walser throws his pearls, his graceful sentences, at us, like “delectable, luscious tidbits”.
Ambulo ergo sum – I walk therefore I am (Pierre Gassendi)
Walser, the walker, fits in the long tradition of numerous walking writers and philosophers (Kant, Nietzsche, Rousseau, Sebald, Woolf, the Dutch philosopher Ton Lemaire, the list is endless). For the narrator, and for Walser, walking is not only stimulating aesthetical and philosophical reflection. However complex and strained the artist’s relation towards the wilful outside world, the outing is a vital need, social interaction is required for inspiration; walking is living, is being in the world, like writing is.
A ragged soul, Sebald called him, quoting from Walser’s The Tanners (in Sebald’s essay on Walser that was published in A Place in the Country, Le Promeneur Solitaire: A Remembrance of Robert Walser). A part of this essay (which however does not relate much to The Walk) can be found here.
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May 19, 2023
The earth became a dream; I myself had become an inward being, and I walked as in an inward world.
The joys, clear-headed thinking, and sheer beauty of a walk through the world come alive in Robert Walser’s The Walk. This is a sentiment that I too share, as I find I do my best thinking and arrive at my best inspirations while out on a run—I never review a book without getting at least one run in between the completion of the novel and sitting down to write so I can contemplate what it is I want to say and formulate at least one satisfactory statement to include in the review. There is a certain clarity that seems to accrue with my heart thumping out in the greater world as I attempt to conduct phrases to the rhythm of my footfalls down the paths cut between the trees, a clarity and rejuvenation of heart and soul that the narrator of The Walk seems to enlist as a canvas for his literary creations. Leaving behind his ‘room of phantoms’ where he was ‘brooding gloomily over a blank sheet of paper’, the narrator embarks on foot through the open air where ‘everything I saw made upon me a delightful impression’. Chronicling his walk through the town and countryside, Walser’s narrator builds an introspective portrait of an artists creation process and philosophical musings through the allegorical, and often surreal, events that transpire along the way.
It is his encounters with other people that send the narrator into a downward spiral of anger and grief. While the sight of a pretty woman inspires great confidence and loquacious praise to her talents, his encounters with the wealthy or those with airs of power get his blood boiling. Each event chronicled into text becomes an exceptional allegory for the society around him, and Walser emphasizes the comical grotesqueries in each scene to give an absurdly surreal look at the people and places that pass before the narrator. The upper class and those with power are typically the ones that most come under his satirical aim. He describes the any actions that ‘gratify the thirst for money’ as ‘the vilest thing on earth’ and is constantly furious at any signs of one displaying themselves as above anyone else. Even the sight of golden lettering on a bakery inspires a vitriolic rant. The narrator reflects an uneasy sense of alienation from those with wealth, those who ‘think themselves important because they are inconsiderate and discourteous, who think themselves powerful because they enjoy protection.’ He rejects these people, and their pleasures, for they are the ones he sees as holding down him and fellow artists of letters. He enters a bookshop to ‘cold-bloodedly’ dismiss the most popular and widely read novel that he request the bookseller to find, He insists that critics are nothing but injurious to the lives and livelihoods of artists. His sources of income are few and far between, and even then, they are suffocating.
The narrator makes a plea for the author and artists. He compares an author to a military general because of their ‘laborious preparations before they dare march to the attack and give battle: in other words, fling their book or artistic or shoddy product into the book market, an action which sometimes vigorously provokes very forceful counterattacks.’ He argues that a true lover or art appreciates even the most dull and inferior forms because they acknowledge that heart, soul and passion went into its creation.
The narrator writes in an engaging, highly descriptive style that often switches tenses to occasionally accommodate a present tense. As he often addresses the reader, pontificating and apologizing to the reader at times in an attempt to appear as a cordial, good natured narrator, these shifts in tense help build a sense that the reader is out on the walk with them, with the narrator occasionally overtaking them or walking along-side them. It also helps highlight the difference between the narrator-on-the-walk and the narrator-writing-the-book, with the reader always conscious that the narrator must return to his gloomy room and battle with the blank page before him to wrangle his experiences into words. While the reader is aware of the joys experienced by the walking narrator, they are always besieged by the omnipresent melancholy of the authorial narrator locked away in his shadowy studio—despite the comedic nature of most events, on the fringes lurks a vicious sadness that keeps the reader in a state of unease even in the most jovial of passages knowing that the narrator must leave the warm inward world or the outdoors to enter the vicious introspection behind closed doors. The final pages of the book are sure to break the readers heart, hinting at a looming sadness and allowing them to feel the burden of his painful self-criticisms. While the novel is a blend of both images of the narrator, the interplay between both mindsets it what brings out the sheer brilliance of this short book.
Originally written in 1917 but then heavily edited in 1920, this new translation by Susan Bernofsky is mostly a reworking of the Christopher Middleton translation in accordance with Walser’s own revisions. Apparently, Walser altered nearly every sentence, cutting out the superfluous to achieve his incredible minimalism, ensuring that every sentence maintained an eloquent flow, and ‘minimizing the divide between the walking protagonist and the writing protagonist’ (from Bernofsky’s introduction). Although I have never read the original translation—The Walk being Walser’s only work to be translated into English during his lifetime—what appears in print here is a darkly comedic masterpiece of subtlety. While this short novel initially didn’t strike me as anything special, about halfway though (and while out on a run, which seems fitting) I realized the incredible depths that hid within each carefully crafted sentence. Walser has a very special story to tell about being an author and offers a very positive plea for those who appreciate art to be good to one another and to not drown authors in negative criticism or suffocate them with elitism. This is a wonderful little book (the New Directions Pearl edition is 96pgs and about the size of a checkbook) with a wide wealth of ideas to ponder on your next walk. I will certainly be back for more Walser. I’ll take you out [with dedication to the lovely (ifer) of course] on this seemingly appropriate song. Now I need to go for my own walk with my dogs.
4.5/5
’I would like to confess that I consider nature and human life to be a solemn and charming flow of fleeting approximations, which strikes me as a phenomenon which I believer to be beautiful and replete with blessings.’
The joys, clear-headed thinking, and sheer beauty of a walk through the world come alive in Robert Walser’s The Walk. This is a sentiment that I too share, as I find I do my best thinking and arrive at my best inspirations while out on a run—I never review a book without getting at least one run in between the completion of the novel and sitting down to write so I can contemplate what it is I want to say and formulate at least one satisfactory statement to include in the review. There is a certain clarity that seems to accrue with my heart thumping out in the greater world as I attempt to conduct phrases to the rhythm of my footfalls down the paths cut between the trees, a clarity and rejuvenation of heart and soul that the narrator of The Walk seems to enlist as a canvas for his literary creations. Leaving behind his ‘room of phantoms’ where he was ‘brooding gloomily over a blank sheet of paper’, the narrator embarks on foot through the open air where ‘everything I saw made upon me a delightful impression’. Chronicling his walk through the town and countryside, Walser’s narrator builds an introspective portrait of an artists creation process and philosophical musings through the allegorical, and often surreal, events that transpire along the way.
’Walking is for me not only healthy, it is also of service—not only lovely, but also useful.’The walks around town have become an essential component of the narrators writing process, a segment he holds in higher regard than the actual act of writing. ‘Without walking I would be dead, and would have long since been forced to abandon my profession,’ he writes. ‘A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small.’ It is a time for inspiration, of intense soul searching, where one can appreciate their small place in a world so great and beautiful. Although others question his walks as being the sign of a lazy man, he is proud of them and considers them a high point of industriousness. The reader sees how his emotional and intellectual state is so tied to his walks and the world around him as the bright, welcoming sky raises his spirits, while oppressive encounters with offensive others instantly plunge him into fear and sadness. It is in the solitude of nature where he finds himself most at peace, and the ineffable beauty of the natural world quickly assuages any dark thoughts and pulls him to ecstatically aware of his place in the present.
The soul of the world had opened and I fantasized that everything wicked, distressing and painful was on the point of vanishing….all notion of the future paled and the past dissolved. In the glowing present, I myself glowed.These walks instill a near-religious experience in him and allow him to comfortably—and without the fear of shadows, pain and phantoms but guided by warmth and love instead—move inward into his soul and true self where he can extract the essentials needed to produce his literature. ‘In the sweet light of love I believed I was able to recognize—or required to feel—that the inward self is the only self which really exists.’
It is his encounters with other people that send the narrator into a downward spiral of anger and grief. While the sight of a pretty woman inspires great confidence and loquacious praise to her talents, his encounters with the wealthy or those with airs of power get his blood boiling. Each event chronicled into text becomes an exceptional allegory for the society around him, and Walser emphasizes the comical grotesqueries in each scene to give an absurdly surreal look at the people and places that pass before the narrator. The upper class and those with power are typically the ones that most come under his satirical aim. He describes the any actions that ‘gratify the thirst for money’ as ‘the vilest thing on earth’ and is constantly furious at any signs of one displaying themselves as above anyone else. Even the sight of golden lettering on a bakery inspires a vitriolic rant. The narrator reflects an uneasy sense of alienation from those with wealth, those who ‘think themselves important because they are inconsiderate and discourteous, who think themselves powerful because they enjoy protection.’ He rejects these people, and their pleasures, for they are the ones he sees as holding down him and fellow artists of letters. He enters a bookshop to ‘cold-bloodedly’ dismiss the most popular and widely read novel that he request the bookseller to find, He insists that critics are nothing but injurious to the lives and livelihoods of artists. His sources of income are few and far between, and even then, they are suffocating.
The narrator makes a plea for the author and artists. He compares an author to a military general because of their ‘laborious preparations before they dare march to the attack and give battle: in other words, fling their book or artistic or shoddy product into the book market, an action which sometimes vigorously provokes very forceful counterattacks.’ He argues that a true lover or art appreciates even the most dull and inferior forms because they acknowledge that heart, soul and passion went into its creation.
Is not all music, ever the most niggardly, beautiful to the person who loves the very being and existence of music? Is not almost any human being you please - even the worst and most unpleasant - loveable to the person who is a friend of man?What he argues for is a polite society where we accept we all have weaknesses.
I here implement a policy of softheartedness, which has a beauty that is not to be found anywhere else; but I consider a policy of this sort to be indispensible. Propriety enjoins us to be careful to deal as severaly with ourselves as with others, to judge others as mildly as we judge ourselves…The narrator attempts to practice what he preaches and always checks himself when he lets his indignation get out of hand and apologizes to the reader. ‘Abuses of writing should not be practiced,’ he often says, and keeps his promise to return to criticize himself just as he does those around him. When this moment arrives, it is utterly heart wrenching and leaves the reader drenched in sorrow and pity, yet full of blossoming adoration.
The narrator writes in an engaging, highly descriptive style that often switches tenses to occasionally accommodate a present tense. As he often addresses the reader, pontificating and apologizing to the reader at times in an attempt to appear as a cordial, good natured narrator, these shifts in tense help build a sense that the reader is out on the walk with them, with the narrator occasionally overtaking them or walking along-side them. It also helps highlight the difference between the narrator-on-the-walk and the narrator-writing-the-book, with the reader always conscious that the narrator must return to his gloomy room and battle with the blank page before him to wrangle his experiences into words. While the reader is aware of the joys experienced by the walking narrator, they are always besieged by the omnipresent melancholy of the authorial narrator locked away in his shadowy studio—despite the comedic nature of most events, on the fringes lurks a vicious sadness that keeps the reader in a state of unease even in the most jovial of passages knowing that the narrator must leave the warm inward world or the outdoors to enter the vicious introspection behind closed doors. The final pages of the book are sure to break the readers heart, hinting at a looming sadness and allowing them to feel the burden of his painful self-criticisms. While the novel is a blend of both images of the narrator, the interplay between both mindsets it what brings out the sheer brilliance of this short book.
Originally written in 1917 but then heavily edited in 1920, this new translation by Susan Bernofsky is mostly a reworking of the Christopher Middleton translation in accordance with Walser’s own revisions. Apparently, Walser altered nearly every sentence, cutting out the superfluous to achieve his incredible minimalism, ensuring that every sentence maintained an eloquent flow, and ‘minimizing the divide between the walking protagonist and the writing protagonist’ (from Bernofsky’s introduction). Although I have never read the original translation—The Walk being Walser’s only work to be translated into English during his lifetime—what appears in print here is a darkly comedic masterpiece of subtlety. While this short novel initially didn’t strike me as anything special, about halfway though (and while out on a run, which seems fitting) I realized the incredible depths that hid within each carefully crafted sentence. Walser has a very special story to tell about being an author and offers a very positive plea for those who appreciate art to be good to one another and to not drown authors in negative criticism or suffocate them with elitism. This is a wonderful little book (the New Directions Pearl edition is 96pgs and about the size of a checkbook) with a wide wealth of ideas to ponder on your next walk. I will certainly be back for more Walser. I’ll take you out [with dedication to the lovely (ifer) of course] on this seemingly appropriate song. Now I need to go for my own walk with my dogs.
4.5/5
’I would like to confess that I consider nature and human life to be a solemn and charming flow of fleeting approximations, which strikes me as a phenomenon which I believer to be beautiful and replete with blessings.’
October 15, 2018
Nuevamente acabo maravillado por lo aparentemente injustificado que se me antoja el placer que me proporciona leer a Walser. No es fácil explicar cómo me atrapa la sencillez y la austeridad de su prosa, la simplicidad aparente de su narración, la despreocupación y la indolencia con la que parece haber sido escrita. Al igual que las divagaciones no parecen responder más que al azar que rige los encuentros, tan propias de un paseo por otra parte, todo predispone a pensar que no se persigue ningún propósito concreto, que no se pretende llegar a sitio alguno. A ello contribuye en buena medida el tono paródico, burlesco y hasta sarcástico que endosa Walser a este poeta de personalidad solemne y arrogante, sin inspiración ni público, inclinado a las lucubraciones y fantasías literarias que sublima y lamenta su oficio, siempre expuesto a la cruel opinión ajena, y gran invasor de la vida cuyas satisfacciones son, antes que disfrutadas, pensadas para darles forma escrita después.
Sin embargo, son muchas las reflexiones que caben en este corto paseo y en estas pocas páginas. Walser, huyendo de la grandilocuencia con el mismo horror con que el paseante de este relato huye del oro y la plata que adornan el rótulo de una panadería, reivindica el placer de la contemplación silenciosa de esos detalles y elementos cotidianos y habituales que, por tal condición, son fácilmente inadvertidos y que con rapidez son convertidos por el paseante en ideales objetos de fantasía o análisis. Nuestro paseante escenifica ese silencio que domina el alma feliz, donde nada perturba, donde surgen sin dificultad castillos y castellanos de reluciente armadura; un alma de donde emana la alegría de vivir, una alegría del mediodía, de la juventud, con la que poder disfrutar de caminos, calles, campos y bosques; un tiempo en el que las resoluciones de las inevitables y molestas responsabilidades pueden predisponernos rápidamente al éxtasis, al entusiasmo de la libertad y a la libertad del juego y a la posibilidad de ser otro y, precisamente por eso, “ser otra vez yo”.
Pero también, un poeta molesto con los que engañan con una dulce y suave sonrisa, con un mundo donde impera el valor del dinero, del parecer más que del ser, del oropel, de la novedad por la novedad, donde son abundantes las inmensas e injustas desigualdades, donde es común la opresión del débil por el fuerte de la que ni él mismo duda en disfrutar en cuanto tiene ocasión. Un poeta para el que, además de las “muchas ocurrencias, relámpagos y luces de magnesio (que) se mezclan y se encuentran con naturalidad para ser cuidadosamente elaboradas” también surge el monstruo, el conflicto con uno mismo, su particular Tomzack.
Un paseo en el que inevitablemente llega el momento de hacer recuento del cumplimiento y los inevitables descuentos que se produjeron en “nuestros anhelos, en los osados deseos, en las dulces y elevadas concepciones de la felicidad” que tuvimos. Un paseo en el que no tarda en caer la tarde creando un ambiente propicio para la nostalgia de aquella hermosa muchacha que estúpidamente dejamos ir, en la que nos asaltan reproches y malos recuerdos donde no faltan la infidelidad, el odio, la terquedad, la maldad. Un ocaso, donde nos sacude la necesidad de tumbarnos ya en la orilla… porque ya es tarde y todo está oscuro.
Sin embargo, son muchas las reflexiones que caben en este corto paseo y en estas pocas páginas. Walser, huyendo de la grandilocuencia con el mismo horror con que el paseante de este relato huye del oro y la plata que adornan el rótulo de una panadería, reivindica el placer de la contemplación silenciosa de esos detalles y elementos cotidianos y habituales que, por tal condición, son fácilmente inadvertidos y que con rapidez son convertidos por el paseante en ideales objetos de fantasía o análisis. Nuestro paseante escenifica ese silencio que domina el alma feliz, donde nada perturba, donde surgen sin dificultad castillos y castellanos de reluciente armadura; un alma de donde emana la alegría de vivir, una alegría del mediodía, de la juventud, con la que poder disfrutar de caminos, calles, campos y bosques; un tiempo en el que las resoluciones de las inevitables y molestas responsabilidades pueden predisponernos rápidamente al éxtasis, al entusiasmo de la libertad y a la libertad del juego y a la posibilidad de ser otro y, precisamente por eso, “ser otra vez yo”.
Pero también, un poeta molesto con los que engañan con una dulce y suave sonrisa, con un mundo donde impera el valor del dinero, del parecer más que del ser, del oropel, de la novedad por la novedad, donde son abundantes las inmensas e injustas desigualdades, donde es común la opresión del débil por el fuerte de la que ni él mismo duda en disfrutar en cuanto tiene ocasión. Un poeta para el que, además de las “muchas ocurrencias, relámpagos y luces de magnesio (que) se mezclan y se encuentran con naturalidad para ser cuidadosamente elaboradas” también surge el monstruo, el conflicto con uno mismo, su particular Tomzack.
Un paseo en el que inevitablemente llega el momento de hacer recuento del cumplimiento y los inevitables descuentos que se produjeron en “nuestros anhelos, en los osados deseos, en las dulces y elevadas concepciones de la felicidad” que tuvimos. Un paseo en el que no tarda en caer la tarde creando un ambiente propicio para la nostalgia de aquella hermosa muchacha que estúpidamente dejamos ir, en la que nos asaltan reproches y malos recuerdos donde no faltan la infidelidad, el odio, la terquedad, la maldad. Un ocaso, donde nos sacude la necesidad de tumbarnos ya en la orilla… porque ya es tarde y todo está oscuro.
January 6, 2022
جولة سريعة ساحرة ، ملهمة ، تختزل حياة إنسان، ذكريات وشجون، إناس بعيدون من هنا وهناك ومغامرة تجسدها الرواية في مشوار مشي ..
رواية لطيفة للغاية يصحبنا فيها "روبرت فالزر" في مشوار هاديء مليء بالتأمل والعمق والمعاني الجميلة والدهشة ومغازلة الطبيعة، رحلة لا تأخذ منك وقتاً طويلاً وتعطيك بعضاً من قيم الجمال وتحفزك على إستشعار كل كلمة وخطاب يوجهه لنفسه أو لذكرياته أو للناس الذين يلتقي بهم، قد لا تجد أحداثاً معينة، قد لا تجد مغامرة ، أو فلسفة، ولكن هنا روح الإنسان وحدها، عارية أمام نفسها ، وأمام الطبيعة ..
مشوار ربما يتكرر كل يوم مع الحالمين ..
أحببتها جداً ..
رواية لطيفة للغاية يصحبنا فيها "روبرت فالزر" في مشوار هاديء مليء بالتأمل والعمق والمعاني الجميلة والدهشة ومغازلة الطبيعة، رحلة لا تأخذ منك وقتاً طويلاً وتعطيك بعضاً من قيم الجمال وتحفزك على إستشعار كل كلمة وخطاب يوجهه لنفسه أو لذكرياته أو للناس الذين يلتقي بهم، قد لا تجد أحداثاً معينة، قد لا تجد مغامرة ، أو فلسفة، ولكن هنا روح الإنسان وحدها، عارية أمام نفسها ، وأمام الطبيعة ..
مشوار ربما يتكرر كل يوم مع الحالمين ..
أحببتها جداً ..
February 6, 2022
كل مشوار مشي طويل يصاحبه مشاهدات وتأملات ولقاءات وكأنه مشوار الحياة
البطل هنا كاتب مشاغب ثرثار يخرج في بداية القصة في مشوار مشي
ويحكي تفاصيل مشاهداته وحواراته ونظرته الخاصة لكل ما يصادفه في الطريق
مشوار لطيف, مشحون بأفكار وملاحظات عن الحياة والناس والطبيعة والمعالم
روبرت فالزر كاتب سويسري حياته كانت بين حب الكتابة والمشي
عانى في السنوات الأخيرة من حياته من الفقر والعزلة والمرض النفسي
يدخل المصحة النفسية بإرادته وبعد سنين يموت وحيدا أثناء مشوار للمشي
وبعد وفاته تُعاد طباعة أعماله ليستعيد شهرته ومكانته مرة أخرى
البطل هنا كاتب مشاغب ثرثار يخرج في بداية القصة في مشوار مشي
ويحكي تفاصيل مشاهداته وحواراته ونظرته الخاصة لكل ما يصادفه في الطريق
مشوار لطيف, مشحون بأفكار وملاحظات عن الحياة والناس والطبيعة والمعالم
روبرت فالزر كاتب سويسري حياته كانت بين حب الكتابة والمشي
عانى في السنوات الأخيرة من حياته من الفقر والعزلة والمرض النفسي
يدخل المصحة النفسية بإرادته وبعد سنين يموت وحيدا أثناء مشوار للمشي
وبعد وفاته تُعاد طباعة أعماله ليستعيد شهرته ومكانته مرة أخرى
August 31, 2016
I love walking and the weather has been so pleasant lately that I have been taking long walks everyday. But this morning it was raining, so instead of walking, I sat by the open window, listened to the sweet summer rain pouring down, and read The Walk. If I couldn’t take my walk, I would at least get some vicarious pleasure from reading of the walk of someone else who loved to walk. But it was a very different walk I took with Walser than I have ever taken on my own!
Walser observes everyone and everything he sees ~ the people, the storefronts, the scenery. Nothing escapes his notice. But Walser’s brilliance is not confined to description. He also muses, reflects, and philosophizes on everything that he passes. He engages in conversation, if his profuse speeches to bewildered men and women can be called conversation. And he is hilarious. One moment he is railing against the ostentation of a bakery’s sign and the next he’s merrily waving to a workman who teases him for idling during working hours. In fact, he is at his most amusing when he is outraged.
The most mundane errands become madcap adventures with Walser as my walking companion and I am very much his companion on this walk, for he addresses me directly and sometimes even begs my pardon. In the course of our walk through town and countryside he engages with everyone from banker to tailor to tax collector. He mails a letter and eats lunch. Escapades almost beyond imagining! But I will confine my remarks to three themes which are closest to my heart.
1. Writing: The Walk begins as Walser takes a break from writing. The relationship between his writing and his walking is apparent throughout the book. Yet he also reveals many of his frustrations with his profession ~ not with writing itself, which he loves, but with the business of being a writer. His comical exchange with the bookseller is actually a scathing reproach against book critics. He confesses his fear of his readers, likens the author to a general preparing for battle, and explains to the tax collector that his books have been ill-received by the public. As an indie author, how could I not relate to his worries and woes?
2. Nature: Walser becomes positively rhapsodic once he passes from town to countryside. Here he effuses on how beautiful, humble, and spiritual everything is. Thoughts of pure goodness and love fill his mind. Past and future slip away, leaving him with a deep appreciation of the present moment. He is nearly in ecstasy. These pages are the loveliest in the book. City-dweller that I am, when I take my walks I head for the nearest trees and they never let me down. There may be no countryside for me to wander through, but there are a few grand old trees that fill me with the joy Walser feels as he gazes upon fields, cottages, and gardens.
3. Walking: Although Walser accepts the good natured ribbing he sometimes receives from people who see him strolling around town when most folks are at work, he never doubts the value of his walks. Neither do I. In his defense of walking, he explains that he is at his most industrious when he appears most idle, that his walks inspire him with ideas and allow him to forget himself in the contemplation of nature. As a writer, there are times when I too must throw down my pen and go for a walk, allow my thoughts to meander along with my feet, and forget myself. As Walser says: “Walking is for me not only healthy, it is also of service—not only lovely, but also useful” (60).
In the last few pages of the book it becomes apparent that there are memories Walser would like to forget. It is a somber note upon which to end his walk, but a walk always leads back home again. This touch of bittersweetness recalls to my mind the end of Robert Walser. Troubled by mental illness, living his final years in an asylum, he died while taking a walk on Christmas day. A good death, I think. But any melancholy thoughts I might be inclined to entertain are banished by the return of the sun. Now that the rain has ended, I can take my walk under a clear blue sky and idly muse, reflect, and philosophize my afternoon away.
Walser observes everyone and everything he sees ~ the people, the storefronts, the scenery. Nothing escapes his notice. But Walser’s brilliance is not confined to description. He also muses, reflects, and philosophizes on everything that he passes. He engages in conversation, if his profuse speeches to bewildered men and women can be called conversation. And he is hilarious. One moment he is railing against the ostentation of a bakery’s sign and the next he’s merrily waving to a workman who teases him for idling during working hours. In fact, he is at his most amusing when he is outraged.
The most mundane errands become madcap adventures with Walser as my walking companion and I am very much his companion on this walk, for he addresses me directly and sometimes even begs my pardon. In the course of our walk through town and countryside he engages with everyone from banker to tailor to tax collector. He mails a letter and eats lunch. Escapades almost beyond imagining! But I will confine my remarks to three themes which are closest to my heart.
1. Writing: The Walk begins as Walser takes a break from writing. The relationship between his writing and his walking is apparent throughout the book. Yet he also reveals many of his frustrations with his profession ~ not with writing itself, which he loves, but with the business of being a writer. His comical exchange with the bookseller is actually a scathing reproach against book critics. He confesses his fear of his readers, likens the author to a general preparing for battle, and explains to the tax collector that his books have been ill-received by the public. As an indie author, how could I not relate to his worries and woes?
2. Nature: Walser becomes positively rhapsodic once he passes from town to countryside. Here he effuses on how beautiful, humble, and spiritual everything is. Thoughts of pure goodness and love fill his mind. Past and future slip away, leaving him with a deep appreciation of the present moment. He is nearly in ecstasy. These pages are the loveliest in the book. City-dweller that I am, when I take my walks I head for the nearest trees and they never let me down. There may be no countryside for me to wander through, but there are a few grand old trees that fill me with the joy Walser feels as he gazes upon fields, cottages, and gardens.
3. Walking: Although Walser accepts the good natured ribbing he sometimes receives from people who see him strolling around town when most folks are at work, he never doubts the value of his walks. Neither do I. In his defense of walking, he explains that he is at his most industrious when he appears most idle, that his walks inspire him with ideas and allow him to forget himself in the contemplation of nature. As a writer, there are times when I too must throw down my pen and go for a walk, allow my thoughts to meander along with my feet, and forget myself. As Walser says: “Walking is for me not only healthy, it is also of service—not only lovely, but also useful” (60).
In the last few pages of the book it becomes apparent that there are memories Walser would like to forget. It is a somber note upon which to end his walk, but a walk always leads back home again. This touch of bittersweetness recalls to my mind the end of Robert Walser. Troubled by mental illness, living his final years in an asylum, he died while taking a walk on Christmas day. A good death, I think. But any melancholy thoughts I might be inclined to entertain are banished by the return of the sun. Now that the rain has ended, I can take my walk under a clear blue sky and idly muse, reflect, and philosophize my afternoon away.
March 30, 2021
"Declaro que una hermosa mañana, ya no sé exactamente a qué hora, como me vino en gana dar un paseo, me planté el sombrero en la cabeza, abandoné el cuarto de los escritos o de los espíritus, y bajé la escalera para salir a buen paso a la calle."
Si un escritor es admirado con devoción por Franz Kafka, Thomas Mann, Elías Canetti, Robert Musil o Walter Benjamin es porque su prestigio y calidad literarios son inalterables y dignos de respeto, además de ser inspirador para cualquier lector que aprecia la buena literatura.
Dicen que Kafka amaba leer sus escritos a sus allegados en voz alta, para que todos pudieran reconocer la maestría de Walser.
Lamentablemente, el deterioro mental de Walser, que era de origen hereditario (su madre y hermanos habían muerto de lo mismo) terminó con su vida, paradójica y casualmente durante un paseo cerca del hospital psiquiátrico en el que residía.
Vivió 78 años, pero su período más fructífero a nivel literario se desarrolló entre 1904 y 1925. En esos años dejó plasmadas sus mejores novelas y cuentos. Las más recordadas son "Los hermanos Tanner" y "El ayudante", además de numerosos relatos como éste, "El paseo".
Y es verdaderamente exquisito y delicioso leer "El paseo".
Se deja uno llevar por la miradas y los encuentros de este narrador donde se cruza con personas de distinta índole, con los que entabla entretenidas charlas para también encontrarnos también que al estar narrado obviamente en primera persona, roza este por momentos con toques de monólogo interior pero tal vez más del estilo de Edouard Dujardin en "Los laureles cortados" que de los famosos stream of conciousness de James Joyce.
El narrador (que obviamente es Walser) nos invita a que lo acompañemos con su declaración de principios:
"Pasear me es imprescindible, para animarme y para mantener el contacto con el mundo vivo, sin cuyas sensaciones no podría escribir ni media letra más ni producir el más leve poema en verso o en prosa".
"Sin pasear estaría muerto, y mi profesión a la que amo apasionadamente, estaría aniquilada. Para mí pasear no es solo sano y bello, sino también conveniente y útil."
"Sin el paseo y sin la contemplación de la Naturaleza a él vinculada, sin esa indagación tan agradable como llena de advertencias, me siento como perdido y lo estoy de hecho."
Repito que es "El paseo" es en verdad delicioso, ya que en su economía y su estilo simple radica la belleza que podía demostrarnos este escritor tan particular como fue Robert Walser y de quien intentaré conseguir más obras.
Por lo pronto, invito a los lectores que no hayan leído este libro a dar un paseo con el incomparable Robert Walser.
Si un escritor es admirado con devoción por Franz Kafka, Thomas Mann, Elías Canetti, Robert Musil o Walter Benjamin es porque su prestigio y calidad literarios son inalterables y dignos de respeto, además de ser inspirador para cualquier lector que aprecia la buena literatura.
Dicen que Kafka amaba leer sus escritos a sus allegados en voz alta, para que todos pudieran reconocer la maestría de Walser.
Lamentablemente, el deterioro mental de Walser, que era de origen hereditario (su madre y hermanos habían muerto de lo mismo) terminó con su vida, paradójica y casualmente durante un paseo cerca del hospital psiquiátrico en el que residía.
Vivió 78 años, pero su período más fructífero a nivel literario se desarrolló entre 1904 y 1925. En esos años dejó plasmadas sus mejores novelas y cuentos. Las más recordadas son "Los hermanos Tanner" y "El ayudante", además de numerosos relatos como éste, "El paseo".
Y es verdaderamente exquisito y delicioso leer "El paseo".
Se deja uno llevar por la miradas y los encuentros de este narrador donde se cruza con personas de distinta índole, con los que entabla entretenidas charlas para también encontrarnos también que al estar narrado obviamente en primera persona, roza este por momentos con toques de monólogo interior pero tal vez más del estilo de Edouard Dujardin en "Los laureles cortados" que de los famosos stream of conciousness de James Joyce.
El narrador (que obviamente es Walser) nos invita a que lo acompañemos con su declaración de principios:
"Pasear me es imprescindible, para animarme y para mantener el contacto con el mundo vivo, sin cuyas sensaciones no podría escribir ni media letra más ni producir el más leve poema en verso o en prosa".
"Sin pasear estaría muerto, y mi profesión a la que amo apasionadamente, estaría aniquilada. Para mí pasear no es solo sano y bello, sino también conveniente y útil."
"Sin el paseo y sin la contemplación de la Naturaleza a él vinculada, sin esa indagación tan agradable como llena de advertencias, me siento como perdido y lo estoy de hecho."
Repito que es "El paseo" es en verdad delicioso, ya que en su economía y su estilo simple radica la belleza que podía demostrarnos este escritor tan particular como fue Robert Walser y de quien intentaré conseguir más obras.
Por lo pronto, invito a los lectores que no hayan leído este libro a dar un paseo con el incomparable Robert Walser.
November 17, 2020
إنني على قناعة بأن مشوار المشي لابد والقيام به وأنت تأخذ حذرك ألا يصادفك أحد فى طريقك فهو ينذر بتهديد صريح لما انتويت عليه من رفقة ذاتك ، تسير بخطى ثابتة ، ولتكن مسرعة لأنني لا أحبذ السير بخطوات وئيدة ، وبالرغم من استقامة قامتك لكن رأسك ينحني قليلاً فهو مثقل بالأفكار المتزاحمة ، تترقب انت ما بين لحظة واخرى التماعة فكرة ما تطفو على السطح ، او قد تستدعي ذكرى ما ترتسم على إثرها ابتسامة خاطفة - أحبها جداً تلك الابتسامة - بالرغم من إنها قد تُخلف وراءها فوضى عارمة تسلم نفسك لها ، وقد تنظر الى من حولك دونما أن ترى شيئاً بعينه ، فأنت لا تأبه إلا برفقة ذاتك دون سواها....
هنا مشوار المشي يخالف قناعتي ولكنني تقبلته الى حد ما ، فالكاتب انطلق بمزاج رائق ومغامر ، التقى بعديد من الأشخاص واستطرد فى محاوراتهم وقد استنتجت ان ذلك تحقيقاً لمتعة شخصية بطرح رؤياه الحماسية المندفعة ازاء الفن والجمال والمجتمع ..
سرعان ما كان يعقب اندفاعاته باعتذارٍ ما لبِقاً ومُهذباً...
وأخيراً....لقد انتهى مشوار المشي حيث " استلقى أرضاً مستظلاً بغمامة من حزن شفيف وإحساسه بالعجز لفقد حبيبته ، فلقد تأخر الوقت وبات معتماً...."...
هنا مشوار المشي يخالف قناعتي ولكنني تقبلته الى حد ما ، فالكاتب انطلق بمزاج رائق ومغامر ، التقى بعديد من الأشخاص واستطرد فى محاوراتهم وقد استنتجت ان ذلك تحقيقاً لمتعة شخصية بطرح رؤياه الحماسية المندفعة ازاء الفن والجمال والمجتمع ..
سرعان ما كان يعقب اندفاعاته باعتذارٍ ما لبِقاً ومُهذباً...
وأخيراً....لقد انتهى مشوار المشي حيث " استلقى أرضاً مستظلاً بغمامة من حزن شفيف وإحساسه بالعجز لفقد حبيبته ، فلقد تأخر الوقت وبات معتماً...."...
October 23, 2020
و تنتابك مرة رغبة عامرة في المشي ، للخروج ، للانفتاح على العالم و التمازج مع ما حولك ، تترك الطبيعة تداعب خواطرك كما تداعب هبّات النسيم أوراق الشجر ، يتفتح ذهنك عن أفكار و شذرات هائمة ، يقودك خطوك لمحطات عشوائية ووجوه بشرية غريبة ، تتلاطم تأملات الفن و الجمال و الوجود على شاطئ ذهنك ، لتنحسر بعدها عن الذاكرة فيظهر لك الوجه الوحيد الذي فعلتَ كل ما فعلتْ ، لأجل ألا تفكر به ...
كان مشوار مشي مرهف للغاية ... 🍂💛
هل جمعتُ الزهور لأضعها على محنتي ؟ 🌼
كان مشوار مشي مرهف للغاية ... 🍂💛
هل جمعتُ الزهور لأضعها على محنتي ؟ 🌼
May 2, 2022
De un tirón. Y quise alargarlo, y no fui capaz, y lo empecé a leer en voz alta porque me parece de tal belleza lo escrito que casi necesitaba que lo oyeran los demás...tengo subrayados que por no parar de leer no he puesto aquí, no conocía a este autor pero esta no será la única vez que lea este libro. Es una auténtica joya lo que dice y como lo dice. La prosa es exquisita, supongo que hay que dar gracias al traductor que su mérito tiene. Cuanto saber concentrado en un paseo. Cuantas cosas nos perdemos en los rápidos andares que llevamos... De diez.
March 8, 2023
مشوار مشي ناعم رايق لطيف.🌼
October 11, 2021
"Quella che molti credono essere la vitalità dei tempi, rumorosa, aggressiva, scalpitante e roboante, appartiene al regno della morte" (I. Calvino, da "Lezioni americane").
L'occasione per imbattersi in una scrittura veramente bella e profonda.
Un dono che Robert Walser realizza per il lettore che ama lo stile lieve e armonioso, si direbbe da avvicinarsi alla musica.
Una passeggiata, dunque, per immergersi nell'incanto della natura e del paesaggio e lasciar scorrere pensieri profondi.
Già la partenza avviene "in una disposizione d'animo avventurosa e romantica" .
Inoltrandosi nel bosco, l'Io-narrante si sente invaso da "un indicibile senso dell'universo, e insieme, strettamente unito" da "un fiotto di gratitudine prorompente con forza dall'anima lieta. (...) Suoni di un mondo primordiali giungevano, provenienti chissà da dove. (...) Di lassù, dalla cima degli abeti, veniva un fruscio lontano e lieve" .
Superato il bosco, la passeggiata si snoda tra case, un'osteria non pretenziosa che "appariva come la familiarità e la fedeltà stessa " e altre immagini liete: un "trasognato giardino" e "sopra un chioschetto (...) pendeva e si torceva con squisita grazia un rosaio tutto fiorito" .
Con Walser, ovviamente, nulla di lezioso e ridondante. Egli stesso pare prenderne le distanze : "i fiori sono certamente belli, ma la loro funzione non è quella di banalizzare" ; il paesaggio ingentilito è tanto amato quanto "l'austera bellezza" .
Qui tutto è autenticità, emozione pura senza nulla 'che pesi o che posi' . E' severamente interdetto navigare su ' un oceano di crema pasticcera ' .
L'occasione per imbattersi in una scrittura veramente bella e profonda.
Un dono che Robert Walser realizza per il lettore che ama lo stile lieve e armonioso, si direbbe da avvicinarsi alla musica.
Una passeggiata, dunque, per immergersi nell'incanto della natura e del paesaggio e lasciar scorrere pensieri profondi.
Già la partenza avviene "in una disposizione d'animo avventurosa e romantica" .
Inoltrandosi nel bosco, l'Io-narrante si sente invaso da "un indicibile senso dell'universo, e insieme, strettamente unito" da "un fiotto di gratitudine prorompente con forza dall'anima lieta. (...) Suoni di un mondo primordiali giungevano, provenienti chissà da dove. (...) Di lassù, dalla cima degli abeti, veniva un fruscio lontano e lieve" .
Superato il bosco, la passeggiata si snoda tra case, un'osteria non pretenziosa che "appariva come la familiarità e la fedeltà stessa " e altre immagini liete: un "trasognato giardino" e "sopra un chioschetto (...) pendeva e si torceva con squisita grazia un rosaio tutto fiorito" .
Con Walser, ovviamente, nulla di lezioso e ridondante. Egli stesso pare prenderne le distanze : "i fiori sono certamente belli, ma la loro funzione non è quella di banalizzare" ; il paesaggio ingentilito è tanto amato quanto "l'austera bellezza" .
Qui tutto è autenticità, emozione pura senza nulla 'che pesi o che posi' . E' severamente interdetto navigare su ' un oceano di crema pasticcera ' .
June 19, 2018
C’è bisogno di un libro come questo per riconciliarsi con il mondo, un libro che racconta con grazia, poesia, ironia e leggerezza una specie di fantasia, una passeggiata pullulante di incontri forse mai avvenuti.
Eppure ciò può avvenire, e io credo che in realtà sia avvenuto.
Uscire dal proprio scrittoio o stanza degli spiriti e imbattersi in un autorevole scienziato e in due signore dalle gonne sbalorditivamente corte. Leggere il manifesto di una trattoria riservata solo a signori distinti, fare i complimenti a una vecchia attrice e a una giovane cantante, entrare in banca dove le domande si formulano solo sottovoce e chiedere all’ufficio delle imposte una riduzione delle tasse.
C’è anche il tempo per una visita in libreria, per chiedere qual è l’opera che sta mettendo d’accordo pubblico e critica.
“Può lei giurarmi che questo è il libro di maggior successo dell’anno?”
“Senza dubbio.”
“Può affermare che questo è il libro che bisogna assolutamente aver letto?”
“Assolutamente.”
“E’ davvero un bel libro?”
“La sua domanda è del tutto superflua e inopportuna!”
“La ringrazio molto” dissi imperturbabile, lasciai dove si trovava il libro e uscii senz’altro aggiungere, ossia in perfetto silenzio.
“Uomo ignorante e incolto!” non mancò di gridarmi dietro il libraio, nel suo giustificato corruccio.
E cercare, in un piccolo paese svizzero di un secolo fa, la calma della natura e il silenzio del bosco, lontano dal traffico automobilistico con tutto il suo fetore ammorbante. E fare questo col sorriso, dimenticando per qualche ora i momenti tristi e gli antichi errori.
“Ho raccolto fiori solo per deporli sulla mia infelicità?”
Eppure ciò può avvenire, e io credo che in realtà sia avvenuto.
Uscire dal proprio scrittoio o stanza degli spiriti e imbattersi in un autorevole scienziato e in due signore dalle gonne sbalorditivamente corte. Leggere il manifesto di una trattoria riservata solo a signori distinti, fare i complimenti a una vecchia attrice e a una giovane cantante, entrare in banca dove le domande si formulano solo sottovoce e chiedere all’ufficio delle imposte una riduzione delle tasse.
C’è anche il tempo per una visita in libreria, per chiedere qual è l’opera che sta mettendo d’accordo pubblico e critica.
“Può lei giurarmi che questo è il libro di maggior successo dell’anno?”
“Senza dubbio.”
“Può affermare che questo è il libro che bisogna assolutamente aver letto?”
“Assolutamente.”
“E’ davvero un bel libro?”
“La sua domanda è del tutto superflua e inopportuna!”
“La ringrazio molto” dissi imperturbabile, lasciai dove si trovava il libro e uscii senz’altro aggiungere, ossia in perfetto silenzio.
“Uomo ignorante e incolto!” non mancò di gridarmi dietro il libraio, nel suo giustificato corruccio.
E cercare, in un piccolo paese svizzero di un secolo fa, la calma della natura e il silenzio del bosco, lontano dal traffico automobilistico con tutto il suo fetore ammorbante. E fare questo col sorriso, dimenticando per qualche ora i momenti tristi e gli antichi errori.
“Ho raccolto fiori solo per deporli sulla mia infelicità?”
August 16, 2016
Keyword: aureoled. Ambulatory satori. Reminded me of Bruno Schulz, Hrabal, a bit of Joseph Roth, Aira, A Confederacy of Dunces. Took some time to acclimate to the old-timey overwritten language, especially in dialogue. Too many modifiers early on? Had to reread unclear constructions that sometimes revealed flat-out errors. Wasn't sure I was gonna rate it more than two stars. But things settled down and clarified. The narrator developed. The language flowed after the road was cleared of modifier pile-ups. I saw around the narrator's elaborate complimentary effusions to young lasses. Not a walk without a goal: he has to hit the post office, tailor, and tax man. But it's something more than a walk. It becomes an ecstatic experience of oneness before he returns to society, faced with an exasperatingly exacting lodging house call for well-educated men, whereupon he retreats to a quiet secluded spot to settle down for good in a way that suggests permanence as the world sheds tears. Good-natured and playful, with a sorrowful finish. Better read on foot than in bed.
January 7, 2022
«هل جمعتُ الزهور لأضعها على محنتي؟»
عندما تقرأ قصة انتيكية من الدرجة الأولى!
أديب مرهف الحس وباحث في الآثار والطبيعة يتجول في أنحاء المدينة لنشاهد بعينه أدق التفاصيل، فهو يحب الهدوء والبساطة في كل شيء مما أغضبه لافتة المخبز الذهبية المبالغ فيها و الزي المنمق لرجل مر بجانبه بينما أبناء الفقراء في الشوارع لا يجدون ما يستر جسدهم .. كان يرجو استعادة الحس القديم بالطهر والشرف والتواضع ويراها خصال فُقدت لتحل مكانها التظاهر بالثراء والنبل والشجاعة.
حتى وهو فقير ومعدم كان شجاع في نقد المسؤولين ومدعين الثقافة والعدل والمعرفة، فأرسل لأحد المسؤولين خطابا قاسيا غير مبالي في العلاقات الاقتصادية التى ستقطع أو العقوبة التي سينالها :
كان يعاني من جلد الذات حتى وهو يتمشى بينما يكد العمال ليكتسبوا قوت يومهم.. ولكن مشوار المشي لابد منه عندما أوضح ذلك لموظف الضرائب لكي يرد تهمة الترف التي وجها إليه، فمشوار المشي هو آخر ما يربطه بالعالم الخارجي، ولكي تطرق على ذهنة أفكار قصص وأشعار جديدة، ويطلع على أخبار الناس وأحوالهم، وينعش روحه ويشعر بالحياة والأمل من جديد.
حوار فلسفي مليء بالمشاعر والأحاسيس اكتسبها هذا العمل، والآن بعد اطلاعي على قصة حياة Robert Walser استطيع الجزم بأن هذا العمل نوع من السيرة الذاتية و وصف دقيق لكل ما عاشه في الحقيقة، كان يحب المشي لدرجة أنه توفى بين الثلوج في إحدى مشاوير المشي .. 💔
روبرت فالزر (1878- 1956)، كاتب سويسري، يكتب بالألمانية، ولِدَ في مدينة بييل بسويسرا. لم تُكتب لأعماله الذيوع في أثناء حياته. وخرجت إلى النور في أواخر السبعينات من القرن الماضي. كتب الرواية والقصّة القصيرة والمقال الأدبي، يُعدّ أحد آباء الحداثة النثرية في الأدب الألماني في القرن العشرين، وكتباته نالت إعجاب الكثير من العمالقة مثل فرانز كافكا ..
أتمنى أن أجد له روايات مترجمة أخرى لأعيش معه لحظات استثنائية صادقة من جديد 💙
= الاقتباسات :
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26/10/2020 ✅
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عندما تقرأ قصة انتيكية من الدرجة الأولى!
أديب مرهف الحس وباحث في الآثار والطبيعة يتجول في أنحاء المدينة لنشاهد بعينه أدق التفاصيل، فهو يحب الهدوء والبساطة في كل شيء مما أغضبه لافتة المخبز الذهبية المبالغ فيها و الزي المنمق لرجل مر بجانبه بينما أبناء الفقراء في الشوارع لا يجدون ما يستر جسدهم .. كان يرجو استعادة الحس القديم بالطهر والشرف والتواضع ويراها خصال فُقدت لتحل مكانها التظاهر بالثراء والنبل والشجاعة.
حتى وهو فقير ومعدم كان شجاع في نقد المسؤولين ومدعين الثقافة والعدل والمعرفة، فأرسل لأحد المسؤولين خطابا قاسيا غير مبالي في العلاقات الاقتصادية التى ستقطع أو العقوبة التي سينالها :
كان يعاني من جلد الذات حتى وهو يتمشى بينما يكد العمال ليكتسبوا قوت يومهم.. ولكن مشوار المشي لابد منه عندما أوضح ذلك لموظف الضرائب لكي يرد تهمة الترف التي وجها إليه، فمشوار المشي هو آخر ما يربطه بالعالم الخارجي، ولكي تطرق على ذهنة أفكار قصص وأشعار جديدة، ويطلع على أخبار الناس وأحوالهم، وينعش روحه ويشعر بالحياة والأمل من جديد.
حوار فلسفي مليء بالمشاعر والأحاسيس اكتسبها هذا العمل، والآن بعد اطلاعي على قصة حياة Robert Walser استطيع الجزم بأن هذا العمل نوع من السيرة الذاتية و وصف دقيق لكل ما عاشه في الحقيقة، كان يحب المشي لدرجة أنه توفى بين الثلوج في إحدى مشاوير المشي .. 💔
روبرت فالزر (1878- 1956)، كاتب سويسري، يكتب بالألمانية، ولِدَ في مدينة بييل بسويسرا. لم تُكتب لأعماله الذيوع في أثناء حياته. وخرجت إلى النور في أواخر السبعينات من القرن الماضي. كتب الرواية والقصّة القصيرة والمقال الأدبي، يُعدّ أحد آباء الحداثة النثرية في الأدب الألماني في القرن العشرين، وكتباته نالت إعجاب الكثير من العمالقة مثل فرانز كافكا ..
أتمنى أن أجد له روايات مترجمة أخرى لأعيش معه لحظات استثنائية صادقة من جديد 💙
= الاقتباسات :
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26/10/2020 ✅
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January 6, 2025
Pocas prosas tan bellas como la de Robert Walser. Leyendo esta pequeña maravilla que es simplemente (o no) la descripción de un paseo, me viene a la cabeza el dicho: 'Beauty is in the eyes of the Beholder' - La belleza está en los ojos del que contempla. Porque la mirada de Walser lo ilumina todo, y además nos lo sabe transmitir con una escritura tan poderosa que te deja sin aliento. Pero hay más, mucho más.
Está el humor y la ironía en sus descripciones, para nada reñidos con la serenidad del recorrido:
Como la autoridad inconmovible, el profesor Meili caminaba con paso grave, solemne y soberano; en la mano llevaba un inflexible y científico bastón de paseo, que me inspiró espanto, reverencia y respeto.
Es divinamente hermoso y bueno, y sencillo y antiquísimo, ir a pie. Suponiendo que zapatos y botas estén en condiciones.
Pero quizá lo más importante, el hilo conductor de todo el paseo, son las reflexiones sobre la vida y las cosas que dan sentido a la existencia:
Un hombre no se siente orgulloso de las alegrías y del placer. En el fondo lo único que da orgullo y alegría al espíritu son los esfuerzos superados con bravura y los sufrimientos soportados con paciencia.
Como en una metáfora de la vida, al principio del paseo todo es optimismo y fuerza:
Donde creía tener que sufrir muchas cosas feas, duras e inquietantes, encuentro el encanto y la bondad y lo hallo todo tranquilo, familiar y bueno.
Pero poco a poco la melancolía va ganando espacio, como el día que se consume:
Intuía ya algo de comienzo de suave pendiente vespertina. Algo como un dorado goce nostálgico y dulce magia melancólica flotaba como un alto y silencioso dios.
Creo que tengo que parar, porque transcribiría el texto entero, ya que no tiene desperdicio; es un libro para leer y releer y siempre se pueden encontrar significados nuevos. Me quedo con esta reivindicación de la monotonía y la vida cotidiana, que tan devaluadas están en nuestro tiempo de novedad constante:
Quizá se hayan dado repeticiones aquí y allá. Pero he de confesar que veo la Naturaleza y la vida humana como una serie tan hermosa como encantadora de repeticiones, y además quisiera confesar que contemplo esa misma manifestación como belleza y como bendición.
Está el humor y la ironía en sus descripciones, para nada reñidos con la serenidad del recorrido:
Como la autoridad inconmovible, el profesor Meili caminaba con paso grave, solemne y soberano; en la mano llevaba un inflexible y científico bastón de paseo, que me inspiró espanto, reverencia y respeto.
Es divinamente hermoso y bueno, y sencillo y antiquísimo, ir a pie. Suponiendo que zapatos y botas estén en condiciones.
Pero quizá lo más importante, el hilo conductor de todo el paseo, son las reflexiones sobre la vida y las cosas que dan sentido a la existencia:
Un hombre no se siente orgulloso de las alegrías y del placer. En el fondo lo único que da orgullo y alegría al espíritu son los esfuerzos superados con bravura y los sufrimientos soportados con paciencia.
Como en una metáfora de la vida, al principio del paseo todo es optimismo y fuerza:
Donde creía tener que sufrir muchas cosas feas, duras e inquietantes, encuentro el encanto y la bondad y lo hallo todo tranquilo, familiar y bueno.
Pero poco a poco la melancolía va ganando espacio, como el día que se consume:
Intuía ya algo de comienzo de suave pendiente vespertina. Algo como un dorado goce nostálgico y dulce magia melancólica flotaba como un alto y silencioso dios.
Creo que tengo que parar, porque transcribiría el texto entero, ya que no tiene desperdicio; es un libro para leer y releer y siempre se pueden encontrar significados nuevos. Me quedo con esta reivindicación de la monotonía y la vida cotidiana, que tan devaluadas están en nuestro tiempo de novedad constante:
Quizá se hayan dado repeticiones aquí y allá. Pero he de confesar que veo la Naturaleza y la vida humana como una serie tan hermosa como encantadora de repeticiones, y además quisiera confesar que contemplo esa misma manifestación como belleza y como bendición.
May 4, 2022
No sé si es mi idea, o Walser ya demuestra en El paseo algo delirante en sus divagaciones. Y señalo esto porque tristemente el destino del autor era una enfermedad mental hereditaria. No he podido evitar relacionar esta condición (en ese momento aún futura) con la narración, sobre todo en la última parte. Aunque ello podría ser producto de la fina ironía con la que pinta el texto, y que hace constantes guiños al lector. Dicho esto, El paseo es una novela vanguardista, se dice que fue la pionera de las novelas cuya trama sucede en un solo día, aunque se trata más de un relato largo o una novelina; no obstante, tiene un gran mérito estilístico, tomando en cuenta que fue escrita en 1917, aunque por momentos no haya disfrutado tanto del exceso de adjetivos, sin embargo, la fluidez del paseo, como su nombre lo indica, es remarcable y de una belleza innegable.
Las observaciones que realiza en su largo caminar por la ciudad son singulares, cristalinas y paradójicas, cosa que el propio narrador lo quiere hacer notar. Él ve lo vil y lo bueno de las gentes y sus construcciones (arquitectónicas y sociales) y esa capacidad de verse a sí mismo a través de su relación con los otros y con su entorno, es lo que le da gran valor a la narración. Una novelina de lectura rápida pero de reflexiones pausadas y afiladas que me ha recordado a una de mis películas favoritas de todos los tiempos: Cléo de 5 a 7, cuya trama transcurre en dos horas de la vida de la protagonista, que tal como en El paseo, recorre varios lugares en los que debe hacer algo, hasta terninar en un paseíllo por un parque. Ahora estoy segura que la directora Agnés Varda debió haber leído esta obra de Walser, una grata sorpresa.
Las observaciones que realiza en su largo caminar por la ciudad son singulares, cristalinas y paradójicas, cosa que el propio narrador lo quiere hacer notar. Él ve lo vil y lo bueno de las gentes y sus construcciones (arquitectónicas y sociales) y esa capacidad de verse a sí mismo a través de su relación con los otros y con su entorno, es lo que le da gran valor a la narración. Una novelina de lectura rápida pero de reflexiones pausadas y afiladas que me ha recordado a una de mis películas favoritas de todos los tiempos: Cléo de 5 a 7, cuya trama transcurre en dos horas de la vida de la protagonista, que tal como en El paseo, recorre varios lugares en los que debe hacer algo, hasta terninar en un paseíllo por un parque. Ahora estoy segura que la directora Agnés Varda debió haber leído esta obra de Walser, una grata sorpresa.
February 4, 2013
I have read too many good books around the same time. Now I have no idea how to organize what, or what to review when. I will ask the book gods and hopefully they will deliver to me what is needed. This book certainly deserves a full review
It is finally time.
A sad tale. The sadness is etched beneath the eyes peeking out from the covering of a spoofed whimsy. The writer in this short novel wants to get out into the world. Beyond his office, on his walk around the town and adjoining countryside, he finds no angle within which he can enter and participate. He finds himself as less-than, overwhelmed, or fawning, his responses unpredictable , inappropriate. Lingering just beyond the antics and reverie is the slow-burn understanding that his world will only be in that writing room searching a sheet of blank white paper. Then the last 2-3 pages is the precious stone we have been stepping toward, the unbearable, moving writing, the true sadness almost unspoken.
When finished I had no idea the book would continue. But here I am and it shows no sign of leaving.
It is finally time.
A sad tale. The sadness is etched beneath the eyes peeking out from the covering of a spoofed whimsy. The writer in this short novel wants to get out into the world. Beyond his office, on his walk around the town and adjoining countryside, he finds no angle within which he can enter and participate. He finds himself as less-than, overwhelmed, or fawning, his responses unpredictable , inappropriate. Lingering just beyond the antics and reverie is the slow-burn understanding that his world will only be in that writing room searching a sheet of blank white paper. Then the last 2-3 pages is the precious stone we have been stepping toward, the unbearable, moving writing, the true sadness almost unspoken.
When finished I had no idea the book would continue. But here I am and it shows no sign of leaving.
April 28, 2022
Un joyita que no he podido parar de leer hasta terminarla. Que precisión y delicadeza muestra Walser, rozando la hipersensibilidad, pero que va perfecta para la narración.
Me llama la atención la grandeza de la traducción de Carlos Fortea, creo debe ser un texto difícil de traducir logrando darle fidelidad, poniendo de manifiesto lo florido y a la vez contenido del original.
Es grandiosa la parte central del diálogo-monólogo del protagonista con el funcionario, al respeto de la difícil condición de los poetas y la conveniencia del paseo (que no gandulería) para el desarrollo de sus textos.
R. Walser creo que a la mayoría nos ha llegado a través de V. Matas, la admiración que muestra por él en casi todos sus libros y la piedad por lo duro de su vida con una enfermedad mental que lo llevó a pasar muchos años en un psiquiátrico. Bien merecida se tiene esa admiración, gran micronovela.
Me llama la atención la grandeza de la traducción de Carlos Fortea, creo debe ser un texto difícil de traducir logrando darle fidelidad, poniendo de manifiesto lo florido y a la vez contenido del original.
Es grandiosa la parte central del diálogo-monólogo del protagonista con el funcionario, al respeto de la difícil condición de los poetas y la conveniencia del paseo (que no gandulería) para el desarrollo de sus textos.
R. Walser creo que a la mayoría nos ha llegado a través de V. Matas, la admiración que muestra por él en casi todos sus libros y la piedad por lo duro de su vida con una enfermedad mental que lo llevó a pasar muchos años en un psiquiátrico. Bien merecida se tiene esa admiración, gran micronovela.
April 22, 2018
I started reading this little book after a friend told me my novel "A Noiva do Tradutor/ The Translator's Bride" reminded her, in part, of this "The Walk", by Walser. My readings of Walser were pratically non-existent, so I got curious to know if this one another of those cases in which there are similarities between my work and an author or a book I had never read.
There are, in fact, some similarities. In "The Walk", an impoverished writer walks around the town and encounters several people, from bank clerks to tailors, with whom he has refined-language conversations full of irony and insults and, in the end, one discovers he is missing someone. A good, slow and funny reading, though the style and language might frighten some readers.
There are, in fact, some similarities. In "The Walk", an impoverished writer walks around the town and encounters several people, from bank clerks to tailors, with whom he has refined-language conversations full of irony and insults and, in the end, one discovers he is missing someone. A good, slow and funny reading, though the style and language might frighten some readers.
October 5, 2019
con la levità di un jacques tati nella svizzera d’inizio ‘900, robert walser racconta la passeggiata del suo monsieur hulot. gli incontri surreali che la scandiscono e l’entusiasmo per l’idea alta e nobile del passeggiare. «lei non crederà assolutamente possibile che in una placida passeggiata del genere io m’imbatta in giganti, abbia l’onore di incontrare professori, visiti di passata librai e funzionari di banca, discorra con cantanti e con attrici, pranzi con signore intellettuali, vada per boschi, imposti lettere pericolose e mi azzuffi fieramente con sarti perfidi e ironici. eppure ciò può avvenire, e io credo che in realtà sia avvenuto».
dietro (e sotto e sopra) l’ironia acuta di walser, una malinconia costantemente sottotraccia.
dietro (e sotto e sopra) l’ironia acuta di walser, una malinconia costantemente sottotraccia.
December 26, 2016
Wonderful book published in 1917. Don Quixote went for a walk. Don Quixote became a Swiss flâneur, talked to everyone and described his impressions on the road. Walser’s Spaziergang is poetry in prose. His fluent phrases systematically cross the boundaries of language, society, philosophy, and literature itself. This character reminds some Chesterton’s characters like those of Manalive (1912), who live in a windy asylum. A healthy twist on our daily impressions suggest that our regular daily impressions are twisted and probably ill. This short book is a beautiful insight, the rediscovery of a better human experience.
August 5, 2013
Think of Knut Hamsun. Now think of him drinking and being a pacifist. The Walk explores modernity's challenges to a quiet life. The bookseller, the tax office and the tailor are among the riptides encountered by our humble man of letters, out to fill his lungs and prime his mind for poetic fomentation. There is an ache among the laughter. The rumble of not-so-distant war perists. Students are thrashed by zealous teachers. Our protagonist carries unrequited love in his breast and eventually ponders madness and suicide.
September 9, 2019
ربما بالنسبة له كان أكثر من مشوار للمشي... كانت تمشية أو رحلة قصيرة للهروب من عتمة الأفكار إلى ضوء الشمس، ليكتشف خلالها من جديد نفسه والأشياء من حولها، يراها كأنه يراها لأول مرة، ويحاسب نفسه، ويتذكر أشياء كان يظن أن الزمن طواها تحت سجادة النسيان.أما بالنسبة لي فكانت أكثر من تمشية في صحبة حنونة وودودة على الورق... كانت محاولة للتنفس بهدوء... أحببتها.
13.01.2019
13.01.2019
June 6, 2019
Пренебрегвам умишлено помпозния стил, който на моменти караше погледа ми да се свлича по страницата без да съм прочел нищо. Тази книжка учтиво и деликатно, с маниера на изискан и възпитан господин обръща внимението ти на това, че медитацията е нашата същност.
Издигането в култ на разхождащия се и съзерцаващ човек - как само напомня на "Платеро и Аз" на Хименес! Същото! Дай едно магаренце на Валзер в неговата разходка и става точно това!
Разхождащ се, мотащ се, съзерцаващ, наблюдаващ, мечтаещ, фантазиращ - що е то?! Ами, човекът! Това е то! Винаги съм издигал в култ разходката, тя винаги е била нещо много важно. Въобще не става дума за нейната "спортна" страна. "Разходката" започва от прохождането и свършва някъде там - примерното горе... Недочетох послеслова на Джорджо Агамбен (ще го направя по-късно), припряно затворих книгата, моето мнение по същество съвпадаше с неговото по отношение антропологическия характер на това произведение.
Е, докато има писатели които дръзнат да "не им дреме" и не се съобразяват с "тайните правила" и "холивудски принципи" на т.нар. "творческо писане" ще има и истински КНИГИ. Защото истинската книга не се "плаши" и "съобразява" да се изрази. Малко писатели биха се осмелили да пишат за магията на разходката.
ПП. Моята бройка на "Разходката" я дадох на възрастен приятел - професор плакатист. Той всеки ден, методично, извършва своята разходка из квартала. Как да не му я дам. Но вече не си спомня, че съм му я дал. Това е животът, и Разходката.
Издигането в култ на разхождащия се и съзерцаващ човек - как само напомня на "Платеро и Аз" на Хименес! Същото! Дай едно магаренце на Валзер в неговата разходка и става точно това!
Разхождащ се, мотащ се, съзерцаващ, наблюдаващ, мечтаещ, фантазиращ - що е то?! Ами, човекът! Това е то! Винаги съм издигал в култ разходката, тя винаги е била нещо много важно. Въобще не става дума за нейната "спортна" страна. "Разходката" започва от прохождането и свършва някъде там - примерното горе... Недочетох послеслова на Джорджо Агамбен (ще го направя по-късно), припряно затворих книгата, моето мнение по същество съвпадаше с неговото по отношение антропологическия характер на това произведение.
Е, докато има писатели които дръзнат да "не им дреме" и не се съобразяват с "тайните правила" и "холивудски принципи" на т.нар. "творческо писане" ще има и истински КНИГИ. Защото истинската книга не се "плаши" и "съобразява" да се изрази. Малко писатели биха се осмелили да пишат за магията на разходката.
ПП. Моята бройка на "Разходката" я дадох на възрастен приятел - професор плакатист. Той всеки ден, методично, извършва своята разходка из квартала. Как да не му я дам. Но вече не си спомня, че съм му я дал. Това е животът, и Разходката.
October 11, 2017
Después de leer este libro me atrevo a decir que Robert Walser no solamente es el gran autor olvidado por la historia, sino que también puede ser uno de los grandes innovadores del modernismo literario. Si confrontamos las fechas de publicación de sus obras quedaremos impresionados, pues algunas de sus ideas se anticipan a las de otros grandes escritores. Su novela corta “El paseo” (1919), parece ser un humilde -pero brillante- primer paso en torno al concepto literario de “Un día en la vida de…” que culminarían Virginia Woolf y el propio James Joyce. La diferencia radica en que Walser ofrece una obra mucho más corta, sin la profundidad intelectual de los autores citados, pero a cambio, despliega una belleza literaria notable y un extraordinario valor poético, cualidades que podrían compararse con las de Rainer Maria Rilke e incluso con las de Marcel Proust.
La novela trata sobre una de las largas caminatas por la ciudad que nuestro escritor acostumbraba hacer en busca de inspiración para sus escritos. Enemigo de los automóviles, Walser caminaba durante todo el día registrando los acontecimientos que iba encontrando en su recorrido. Los biógrafos dicen que la vida del escritor fue un “constante vagabundeo”, pero contradiciendo tal presunción cosmopolita, la ciudad a la que “El paseo” se refiere, no es otra sino su ciudad natal, Biel, Suiza. Y ése es todo el argumento... Más que una historia vertiginosa, esta novela ofrecerá fugaces y hermosas impresiones; reflexiones llenas de sabiduría, prosa poética y un ligero comentario social. Sin embargo, con eso basta y sobra para convencernos.
El excelente personaje principal (en realidad el único) se muestra dotado de un excelente humor, siendo capaz de observar todos los detalles que le rodean y transformarlos en poesía. Con frecuencia recurre al humor, como si quisiera demostrar que también el ser humano es capaz de burlarse de las circunstancias que el destino le va presentando. Nuestro caminante derrocha el entusiasmo sarcástico de quién se sabe conocedor de la vida y sus reveses. Por consiguiente, posee el criterio suficiente para brindarle a cada quién un trato a su medida; Walser era un poeta generoso, pero también un ciudadano dotado de solemne dignidad, capaz de expresar desprecio a quién lo merecía.
En esta dinámica el narrador se muestra obsequioso con las personas comunes que no tienen necesidad de ocultar su sencillez; en cambio, se vuelve severo con aquellos seres que se ubican en una posición de poder o en un entorno de falsedad (por ejemplo un vendedor, un banquero o un funcionario). Hay dos pasajes verdaderamente memorables: el categórico texto del anuncio para un restaurante y la epístola que nuestro personaje termina de redactar en la oficina de correos; tan sólo por leer esa “carta a un funcionario desconocido” vale la pena adquirir el libro. Por otro lado, el incidente con la Señora Aebi me parece una sutil y divertida metáfora de índole sexual.
En otro destacado episodio, el autor sucumbe gozosamente al bosque, fundiéndose con la naturaleza, y ese entusiasmo parece profetizar su propia muerte. Recordemos que el escritor suizo fue hallado muerto a los 78 años, tras no regresar de una de sus caminatas. Sobre aquel fatal evento, el escritor español Enrique Vila-Matas dice: “Me fascina la muerte de Robert Walser. Ocurrió un día de Navidad que salió a caminar por los alrededores del sanatorio y murió sobre la nieve. Fue encontrado por dos niñas que pasaban por allí y colocaron una flor al lado del cadáver. No pudo ser una muerte más metafórica sobre la pureza de su estilo y de su vida.”
Hablando de lo técnico, el narrador en primera persona resulta tan personal que su estilo se asemeja al de un diario íntimo. No obstante, los enormes párrafos repletos de adjetivos y florituras, nos indican que nos encontramos frente a una verdadera obra literaria de ficción. Además, los diálogos no son representativos de una conversación mundana, sino más bien el resultado de una exaltación poética (Si hoy en día existiese una persona que hablara como este personaje, no sería comprendida por nadie). Walser es el amo de la floritura y su mundo no es el mundo real, sino el mundo de las letras, la poesía y el pensamiento. Sólo el lenguaje escrito tiene la capacidad de expresar tales honduras.
El texto no ofrece pausas; no hay capítulos ni espacios significativos. Los párrafos son largos y recargados. Aún así, la novela no resulta tan difícil de leer. Sin duda existen fragmentos más pesados (principalmente aquel párrafo en que el personaje justifica su tendencia a pasear en horas hábiles), aún así el lector promedio debería salir avante en la lectura de este libro. Por ultimo, el narrador se permite constantes muestras de simpatía hacia nosotros los lectores; un aprecio que asumimos genuino, pues armoniza perfectamente con el carácter del personaje.
“El paseo” es una obra experimental de gran belleza llena de recursos literarios. Al igual que “Ulises” y “La señora Dalloway” todas las incidencias narradas en la novela ocurren en un sólo día. Fuera de eso no caben demasiadas comparaciones, puesto que la obra de Walser carece de la pesadez intelectual y el profundo entramado psicológico de las novelas mencionadas. Empero, la capacidad poética, el generoso humor y el ostentoso dominio del lenguaje nos permite considerarle también entre las grandes obras de la época. Aquellos que afirman que Robert Walser es la gran revelación de los lectores de libros clásicos, tienen algo de razón.
La novela trata sobre una de las largas caminatas por la ciudad que nuestro escritor acostumbraba hacer en busca de inspiración para sus escritos. Enemigo de los automóviles, Walser caminaba durante todo el día registrando los acontecimientos que iba encontrando en su recorrido. Los biógrafos dicen que la vida del escritor fue un “constante vagabundeo”, pero contradiciendo tal presunción cosmopolita, la ciudad a la que “El paseo” se refiere, no es otra sino su ciudad natal, Biel, Suiza. Y ése es todo el argumento... Más que una historia vertiginosa, esta novela ofrecerá fugaces y hermosas impresiones; reflexiones llenas de sabiduría, prosa poética y un ligero comentario social. Sin embargo, con eso basta y sobra para convencernos.
El excelente personaje principal (en realidad el único) se muestra dotado de un excelente humor, siendo capaz de observar todos los detalles que le rodean y transformarlos en poesía. Con frecuencia recurre al humor, como si quisiera demostrar que también el ser humano es capaz de burlarse de las circunstancias que el destino le va presentando. Nuestro caminante derrocha el entusiasmo sarcástico de quién se sabe conocedor de la vida y sus reveses. Por consiguiente, posee el criterio suficiente para brindarle a cada quién un trato a su medida; Walser era un poeta generoso, pero también un ciudadano dotado de solemne dignidad, capaz de expresar desprecio a quién lo merecía.
En esta dinámica el narrador se muestra obsequioso con las personas comunes que no tienen necesidad de ocultar su sencillez; en cambio, se vuelve severo con aquellos seres que se ubican en una posición de poder o en un entorno de falsedad (por ejemplo un vendedor, un banquero o un funcionario). Hay dos pasajes verdaderamente memorables: el categórico texto del anuncio para un restaurante y la epístola que nuestro personaje termina de redactar en la oficina de correos; tan sólo por leer esa “carta a un funcionario desconocido” vale la pena adquirir el libro. Por otro lado, el incidente con la Señora Aebi me parece una sutil y divertida metáfora de índole sexual.
En otro destacado episodio, el autor sucumbe gozosamente al bosque, fundiéndose con la naturaleza, y ese entusiasmo parece profetizar su propia muerte. Recordemos que el escritor suizo fue hallado muerto a los 78 años, tras no regresar de una de sus caminatas. Sobre aquel fatal evento, el escritor español Enrique Vila-Matas dice: “Me fascina la muerte de Robert Walser. Ocurrió un día de Navidad que salió a caminar por los alrededores del sanatorio y murió sobre la nieve. Fue encontrado por dos niñas que pasaban por allí y colocaron una flor al lado del cadáver. No pudo ser una muerte más metafórica sobre la pureza de su estilo y de su vida.”
Hablando de lo técnico, el narrador en primera persona resulta tan personal que su estilo se asemeja al de un diario íntimo. No obstante, los enormes párrafos repletos de adjetivos y florituras, nos indican que nos encontramos frente a una verdadera obra literaria de ficción. Además, los diálogos no son representativos de una conversación mundana, sino más bien el resultado de una exaltación poética (Si hoy en día existiese una persona que hablara como este personaje, no sería comprendida por nadie). Walser es el amo de la floritura y su mundo no es el mundo real, sino el mundo de las letras, la poesía y el pensamiento. Sólo el lenguaje escrito tiene la capacidad de expresar tales honduras.
El texto no ofrece pausas; no hay capítulos ni espacios significativos. Los párrafos son largos y recargados. Aún así, la novela no resulta tan difícil de leer. Sin duda existen fragmentos más pesados (principalmente aquel párrafo en que el personaje justifica su tendencia a pasear en horas hábiles), aún así el lector promedio debería salir avante en la lectura de este libro. Por ultimo, el narrador se permite constantes muestras de simpatía hacia nosotros los lectores; un aprecio que asumimos genuino, pues armoniza perfectamente con el carácter del personaje.
“El paseo” es una obra experimental de gran belleza llena de recursos literarios. Al igual que “Ulises” y “La señora Dalloway” todas las incidencias narradas en la novela ocurren en un sólo día. Fuera de eso no caben demasiadas comparaciones, puesto que la obra de Walser carece de la pesadez intelectual y el profundo entramado psicológico de las novelas mencionadas. Empero, la capacidad poética, el generoso humor y el ostentoso dominio del lenguaje nos permite considerarle también entre las grandes obras de la época. Aquellos que afirman que Robert Walser es la gran revelación de los lectores de libros clásicos, tienen algo de razón.
August 9, 2016
http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/1487116...
Of late, in my independent reading study, I have subjected myself to numerous mundane and verbose works. Because of my slightly depressing literary summer boredom I decided to pull from my cabin shelf a title I had previously read at least two times. The Walk by Robert Walser was first translated into English by Christopher Middleton in 1957. In 2012 New Directions published a contemporary translation by Susan Bernofsky which included Walser’s significant revisions and added text made after its initial publication. It is a charming tale and Walser spares no punches in his relating of it. Near the end of the book the main character, a struggling writer, is required to meet with a revenue official regarding his failure to pay income taxes and explain why it appears to most he does not have to work due to his leisurely lifestyle of walking and daydreaming everyday.
Do you realize that I am working obstinately and tenaciously with my brain, and am often perhaps in the best sense active when I present the appearance of a simultaneously heedless and out-of-work, negligent, dreamy, idle pickpocket, lost out in the blue, or in the green, making a bad impression, apparently devoid of any sense of responsibility?
For those of us who take long walks or ride our bicycles extensively it comes as no surprise the comforts and delights Walser describes available to the enchanted lover of invigorating lore found in nature and country. It is quite obvious that Walser himself believes his craft is not enough respected, and shoddy reviewers and hacks can cause great harm to any serious writer already impoverished and living frugally. He pleads to this official that his taxes be reduced to the lowest rate possible.
There accompanies the walker always something remarkable, something fantastic, and he would be foolish if he wished to let this spiritual side go unnoticed; by no means, however, does he do this, but rather cordially welcomes all peculiar phenomena, becomes their friend, their brother; he makes them into formed and substantial bodies, gives them soul and structure just as they too for their part instruct and inspire him.
It is both soothing and fantastical to allow the mind to run free on a walk through an easy forest or sandy coastline where Walser writes chaos begins and the orders vanish. His instruction insists there is a sweet song of departure among these solid technicians.
As the walk nears its end and darkness overcomes him, his thoughts turned lamentable and filled him with regret. He was alone now with self-reproof, his heart a burden to him as rain rustled gently down the leaves. With what seemed to him now tears, the drama of his former life opened, and all his miserable failures occurred to him. He knew he had been remiss in expressing his honest devotion to her, and regretted now he never said, “I love you.”
I thought of a beautiful girl…and a poor, forsaken man…and nausea took hold of me.
Of late, in my independent reading study, I have subjected myself to numerous mundane and verbose works. Because of my slightly depressing literary summer boredom I decided to pull from my cabin shelf a title I had previously read at least two times. The Walk by Robert Walser was first translated into English by Christopher Middleton in 1957. In 2012 New Directions published a contemporary translation by Susan Bernofsky which included Walser’s significant revisions and added text made after its initial publication. It is a charming tale and Walser spares no punches in his relating of it. Near the end of the book the main character, a struggling writer, is required to meet with a revenue official regarding his failure to pay income taxes and explain why it appears to most he does not have to work due to his leisurely lifestyle of walking and daydreaming everyday.
Do you realize that I am working obstinately and tenaciously with my brain, and am often perhaps in the best sense active when I present the appearance of a simultaneously heedless and out-of-work, negligent, dreamy, idle pickpocket, lost out in the blue, or in the green, making a bad impression, apparently devoid of any sense of responsibility?
For those of us who take long walks or ride our bicycles extensively it comes as no surprise the comforts and delights Walser describes available to the enchanted lover of invigorating lore found in nature and country. It is quite obvious that Walser himself believes his craft is not enough respected, and shoddy reviewers and hacks can cause great harm to any serious writer already impoverished and living frugally. He pleads to this official that his taxes be reduced to the lowest rate possible.
There accompanies the walker always something remarkable, something fantastic, and he would be foolish if he wished to let this spiritual side go unnoticed; by no means, however, does he do this, but rather cordially welcomes all peculiar phenomena, becomes their friend, their brother; he makes them into formed and substantial bodies, gives them soul and structure just as they too for their part instruct and inspire him.
It is both soothing and fantastical to allow the mind to run free on a walk through an easy forest or sandy coastline where Walser writes chaos begins and the orders vanish. His instruction insists there is a sweet song of departure among these solid technicians.
As the walk nears its end and darkness overcomes him, his thoughts turned lamentable and filled him with regret. He was alone now with self-reproof, his heart a burden to him as rain rustled gently down the leaves. With what seemed to him now tears, the drama of his former life opened, and all his miserable failures occurred to him. He knew he had been remiss in expressing his honest devotion to her, and regretted now he never said, “I love you.”
I thought of a beautiful girl…and a poor, forsaken man…and nausea took hold of me.
August 14, 2021
«El continuo escribir cansa como el trabajo de la tierra».
May 17, 2022
Vorrei morire anche io come Walser, nel mentre di qualcosa che considero essere al pari della mia stessa vita.
February 27, 2016
Slight yet cosmic, comedic yet serious, classic yet postmodern, finely attuned to details external and internal, Walser's novella is almost boldly frivolous (the writer, bored, departs for a walk, and relates all he sees in an often excessive descriptive effusion) yet surprisingly brushed with philosophical detail (as seems to be his frequent modus operandi -- so summarized on the jacket by Sebald: "A clairvoyant of the the small"). This stylistic and interrogatory excess applied to such non-story seems almost a kind of self-lampooning: the writer with too many words and thoughts to contain. This is especially noticeable when our narrator addresses a shot keeper for multiple pages of overwrought pleasantries or complaints, only to receive a succinct one-line reply. It's part of Walsers continual drawing attention to himself, to the writer, to the act of writing, to the act of thought. The three stars is because this is a deliberately minor work in many ways, but not because it's not very very worth its meager demands upon your time.
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