Der Fuchs war damals schon der Jäger

by Herta Müller

Rumänien in den letzten Tagen des Ceaucescu-Regimes: Es sind Bilder der allgegenwärtigen Bedrohung und der Angst, Bilder der Demütigung und der Aussichtslosigkeit, die das Fundament dieses so eindrucksvollen Romans bilden. Aus ihnen erheben sich zögernd die Figuren: Adina, die Lehrerin, und ihre Freundin Clara, Ingenieurin in einer Fabrik. Als Clara sich in einen Offizier des Geheimdienstes verliebt, der Adina und eine Gruppe junger Musiker beobachten soll, zerbricht die Freundschaft der Frauen. Ein Fuchsfell in Adinas Wohnung wird zum Symbol der Bedrohung. (Amazon)

Genres: Fiction, Historical Fiction, Romania, German Literature, Nobel Prize, Literature, Romanian Literature

285 pages, Paperback

First published August 14, 1992

About the author

Herta Müller was born in Niţchidorf, Timiş County, Romania, the daughter of Swabian farmers. Her family was part of Romania's German minority and her mother was deported to a labour camp in the Soviet Union after World War II.

She read German studies and Romanian literature at Timişoara University. In 1976, Müller began working as a translator for an engineering company, but in 1979 was dismissed for her refusal to cooperate with the Securitate, the Communist regime's secret police. Initially, she made a living by teaching kindergarten and giving private German lessons.

Her first book was published in Romania (in German) in 1982, and appeared only in a censored version, as with most publications of the time.

In 1987, Müller left for Germany with her husband, novelist Richard Wagner. Over the following years she received many lectureships at universities in Germany and abroad.

In 1995 Müller was awarded membership to the German Academy for Writing and Poetry, and other positions followed. In 1997 she withdrew from the PEN centre of Germany in protest of its merge with the former German Democratic Republic branch.

The Swedish Academy awarded the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature to Müller, "who, with the concentration of poetry and the frankness of prose, depicts the landscape of the dispossessed".

She currently resides in Berlin, Germany.

Reviews

[Seemita · Rating 4 out of 5]

Imagine your heart is a sheet of paper and Müller's words, the needle – and then, let the typewriter go berserk. Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang. The words hit you, one after another, and her ink doesn’t run dry. The angst, the rage, the lament, the despair takes on unstoppable force and goes pinging on your heart like a tireless hammer – only it is a needle and the prick seeps into your blood like it has found a home.

In the last years of Nicolae Ceaușescu, one of the most brutal dictators in history and the last to rule Romania, no one asks “how are you?” when they meet each other; they ask instead, “how are you getting along with life?”. Under this cold and intimidating clouds of the communist regime and acute surveillance, Adina, Clara, Paul and Pavel are common citizens trudging along life. They wear their normalcy during the light but one of them works for the ‘Securitate’, the secret police agency and functions with heightened reflexes in the dark.

How many veins get choked when a friend betrays you? How many heartbeats get silenced when your home is no longer safe? How many memories are crushed when all roads to your past are barricaded? What promise does tomorrow hold when you can’t get through today without losing hope? What sense does it make at all to live the gift called life in such noxious air?

Herta Müller is raw, unvarnished power. With her haunting, metaphoric attacks, she transported me to a Romania which death-danced to life and compelled me to fall on my knees, gasping for dear breath.

And I fed that thing milk through a straw for thirty days, says the gatewoman. And raised her myself since nobody wanted her. After a week, says the gentleman, the kitten was able to open its eyes. And I was shocked to see the image of the supervisor deep inside those eyes. And to this day, whenever the cat purrs, he says, the supervisor is right there in both of her eyes.

and this

The moon inside the kitchen window is so bloated it can’t stay there. By 6am, it has been gnawed by the morning and its face is bleary-eyed. The early buses go whooshing by, or perhaps that’s the moon trying to leave the city and its jagged edge is getting caught on the border of the night. Dogs yelp as if the darkness has been the large sheltering pelt and the deserted streets an untroubled brain. As if the dogs of the night were afraid of the daylight, when people are out and about, and when the hunger that seeks encounters the hunger that strays. When yawn meets yawn and speech meets bark with the same breath inside the mouth.”

I wanted to read an easy, light book to end this year. But life isn’t easy or difficult; it simply is. It goes on like the endless tide and it is for us to find the precious. One way is to be aware of the triumphs and vagaries our brethren has experienced across boundaries and taking up the right baton in whatever capacity we can. Drilling home the subjugation of not just the animate but the inanimate too with a spine-chilling precision, Nobel-laureate Müller throws her deeply charged voice behind the causes of freedom and dignity of life. And inspires me to do the same, in my own limited but definite capacity.

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Also on my blog.

[Ioana · Rating 2 out of 5]

Perhaps I was expecting a bit much of this book in imagining it would touch my soul in a most profound and resonating way. See, The Fox Was Ever the Hunter is the story of a teacher's life (1) during the last few year's of Ceausescu's communist regime (2; 1980s - place and decade of my birth), and moreover, it's written by a Romanian, also an emigre (3). Considering that's 3 for 3, I naively assumed this would somehow be the story of my life, the conundrum of my dual-identity explained, the nostalgia for a horrific yet clearer, more certain time expressed in all its contradictory complexity.

Alas, it was not to be. This book reminds me not at all of Romania, answered no questions for me, resonated not at all with anything I remember, and was written in a style I do not recognize as Romanian at all.

Perhaps the root of my incomprehension stemmed from the translation: of German into English. As any dual-language speaker can probably attest to, there are certain peculiarities of thought and experience that give language its meaning. An example: a quince. Do you know what that is? If you live in the US, most likely not. The word quince meant nothing to me in English, either; until recently I had no idea what this term even referred to (that was until the day I discovered this fruit at Whole Foods, in the bougie section). Of course, a gutuie - aah, that is something very different, a word that immediately conjures up tastes and fuzz and memories of summer and a tartness most unique. Also, of the country-side, of picking fruit from trees on the street in local villages - certainly not a $4.99/pound ritzy experience at the local Gourmet Grocery.

Another example: cotton wool. The stuff cotton balls are made out of. See, in 1980s Romania, there were no fancy bandages or tampons or cotton swabs or cotton balls. No - there was simply "vata" - huge bags of cotton-wool, sold like cotton-candy. You'd roll it around toothpicks to clean ears, fashion it into pads or bandages, multi-purpose style. So when I read "cotton wool" - that means nothing. In English, we don't speak of "cotton wool". In Romanian, however, the word "vata" is imbibed with meaning - meaning that Müller does not always explain.

Perpetually as I was reading this book, I kept trying to translate portions of it into Romanian - I just could not at all conjure the mood of Romania, the place, removed from the language.

BUT, my disconnect from this book arises not just from the translation, but from Müller's style. The entire book is a poem - in prose form, but still, poetry, of a vague, indirect, fuzzy, detached form, completely humorless. If there's ONE characteristic of Romania 1980s I deeply believe was our saving grace: dark, surreal, ironic humor was it- biting sarcasm, cynical deadpan, the view that even in the most dire situation, we could still choose to laugh, to escape. And more than that, I remember a culture of directness, of a very pragmatic romanticism, of a quite attuned/attached approach to life - not the nebulous cloud of uncertainty and pointlessness Müller's writing suggests.

This fearless, laugh-in-the-face-of-impending-death-sentence soul of communism is beautifully portrayed by writers like Bulgakov and by non-fiction studies of the period (such as a brilliant book I'm currently reading, Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets by Svetlana Alexievich). In contrast, Müller's work is about pathetic, paranoid, fearful people, who have no hope of salvation from the hopelessness and helplessness of their situation.

Perhaps my reading is biased by the language-gap I was not able to overcome; perhaps, it's that I remember city-life vs. country-life (Müller is the daughter of farmers); perhaps it has something to do with Müller's Romanian-German identity/lineage vs. my Bucuresti-Romanian one. Who am I to say another Romanian's reading is illegitimate? What I would really like is to (1) read a Romanian translation of this and (2) read other Romanian people's thoughts on this book/review.

In the meantime, I'm going with 2 stars because not only did I recognize nothing of myself/Romania in this (perhaps unfair, but hey this is my review), but I don't necessarily see the broad appeal of this work. Feel free to negate this in the comments. As you can tell, I'm quite conflicted about my feelings on this one and will gladly take any input.

[Vivian · Rating 5 out of 5]

The killing fields and the wheatgrass, the children playing and the smell.

The field has a sweet kind of stink, when you think about it GOD'S ACRE really ought to mean a wheat field. They say a good person is as good as a piece of bread, at least that's what the teachers teach the children.

The imagery is exquisite, ominous and omnipresent. Told from Adina's viewpoint we experience a series of vignettes that highlight the deprivation, the despair and deadly world around her. It highlights a callousness brought on by harsh conditions, get while the getting is good, for often you go without.

The style of writing is very different than what I'm familiar with. At first, I thought it was an oddity of the translation, but the further I read it became clear that it is more poetry than prose. The perspective and structure creates this surrealist slide show of disturbing realities and ominous intersections. It's like watching a Salvador Dali film, but it isn't fiction, this isn't an escape.

The book is stark realism in poetic form. A juxtaposition of beauty and unvarnished cruelty, and a dismissal. There is a brutal fetishizing of people in the Marxist sense; they are merely a conglomeration of parts and things and this makes it feel clinical in a dehumanizing way. And oddly enough or not, fits bizarrely into communist Romania just before the fall of Nicolae Ceaușescu.

There is an earthiness in the handling and description of the human body. It is the opposite of romanticizing, and feeds into the despondency and broken down nature to their lives. Even their bodies are broken. This is a verisimilitude that focuses less on realism and more on disenchantment, the lack of reverence.

And the most disturbing thing about the book is how mesmerizing the prose is, it somehow manages to turn the horrific and the base into these evocative images. But the images of the fields, the children and the bread as described here will stay with me forever. This is incredibly powerful, but quiet.

The bullet holes on the wall are as dense as black skipping stones.

Overall, stunning.



~~A copy was provided to me by NetGalley~

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I can't believe I got an ARC. I am so excited to read this. Part of me wishes I could read it in German, unfortunately my German is very, very poor, but I am thrilled to have a translation.

[Hanneke · Rating 5 out of 5]

Geheel onbevangen startte ik op de eerste bladzijde van dit boek. Bij bladzijde twee was ik al met stomheid geslagen. Wat? Waaaat? Wat bedoelt deze vrouw? Je gaat er als lezer als vanzelfsprekend vanuit dat een schrijver de bedoeling heeft jou haar/zijn verbeelde wereld en ideeën over te brengen. Dus je blijft proberen te begrijpen wat de eventuele symboliek moet zijn van die messcherpe populieren, die bijna op elke bladzijde voorkomen, en al die normale dagelijkse voorwerpen die opeens een ziel blijken te hebben en heel bedreigend zijn. En hoe moet je het duiden dat motten regelmatig uit kragen vliegen en lichaamsdelen onafhankelijk van de persoon plotsklaps een eigen leven lijken te leiden. Het klinkt surrealistisch, maar je voelt dat dit niet de bedoeling van Müller is en zo heb ik het ook niet opgepakt.

Bij mij groeide het gevoel dat Müller de wereld bekeek als door gebroken glas. Ik dacht opeens aan Picasso's schilderij Desmoiselles de Avignon. Zo'n beeld past bij dit boek. Pas toen ik besloot om het niet meer te willen begrijpen en gewoon te lezen wat Müller aan ons kwijt wilde, wat best wel moeite kostte, begon ik het boek in toenemende mate te waarderen. En op het einde zelfs zeer te waarderen. Een unieke leeservaring. Ik kan het aanbevelen aan iedereen die wel van een uitdaging houdt! Achteraf gezien had ik me beter wat meer in Herta Müller moeten verdiepen. Het enige wat ik wist was dat ze de Nobelprijs voor Literatuur had gekregen en dat ze een Roemeense dissidente was. Toch denk ik dat meer kennis over Müller me niet meer duidelijkheid had gegeven.

[Jan-Maat]

I am particularly grateful to Hanneke for comments which cracked open my thinking on this book and gave it a wow from me, my initial thought was that stylistically this was so similar to Der Mensch ist ein grosser Fasan auf der Welt that there was nothing much to say about this book that I have not already said about that one except maybe to suspect that a reader need read only one Herta Müller to know what she is about as an author, but after receiving various comments below I see that I was wrong.

In style yes it is similar to the aforementioned novel, also known as The Passport in English, in that it is a novel built of fragments gathered in short chapters. There are images that haunt the book like ghosts, here again the countryside itself becomes an indictment of the Ceausescu regime, not in a strictly ecological sense, but almost as in the story of the Fisher King, the story runs from about 1989 into early 1990 and so runs over the last months of the Ceausescu regime in Romania, the earlier and mid section seem stuck in a summer, a summer that is not ripe and fruitful but parched and withered. As a whole the novel first published in 1992 is a portrait of Romania, or Romanians collectively on the brink of a nervous breakdown, maybe one could say that the novel implies that the end of Ceausescu was exactly that a nervous breakdown, too many people were too stressed and so pushed over the edge into shouting him down. But the novel is concerned with the period just before then as the pressure is building up, just before everything explodes. In one image a regularly pregnant factory cat eats her kittens after birth and then enters a period of mourning until she is expecting again. The whole country is like that cat consuming its future and grief-stricken for doing so, locked into self-destructive behaviour.

Der Mensch ist ein grosser Fasan auf der Welt was set among Romania's German speaking community and the struggle to get a passport to leave for Germany, although itself stressful was at the same time a safety valve for that community, this novel was not specifically set among that community, there is no escape, not even among the the beneficiaries of the regime who maintain the hope that one day a certain old man will die of natural causes (although in the context of the novel that seems unlikely - and in case you feel that is too insane to entertain just remember Brezhnev, death is not necessarily as final as you might hope).

Within this situation we mostly follow school teach Adina, and her friend Clara, in the wire factory with the pregnant cat, who is in a relationship with Pavel who wears sunglasses a sinister sign, Adina was in a relationship with Paul who is a doctor and hopes that she still is in a relationship with llie who is serving time in the army for reasons that emerge, Pavel is also chasing after Adina, in a sinister way (he is also married, but that is by the by it is hardly a spoiler now to suggest that Pavel may not be the moral centre of the book, in fact he is, or is close to, it's heart of darkness), we follow these characters through their lives and through that last year or so before Ceausescu's end. And I was plunged into an almost insane state, the characteer's thoughts and reactions are fragmented by the author, like the cat they are alienated from themselves. There is a lot of sex in the novel, observed coolly not as passion or love but as a relentless search for a pressure valve by some, or as an exercise of power buy others and as you may guess, power of men over women - and what else might we expect, as the Russian saying goes - a fish rots from it's head an axiom that I have not smelt for myself, nor do I have the desire to make the experiment, curiously enough.

[Alexander Carmele · Rating 5 out of 5]

Eine erstarrte Welt in parataktischen Bildern. Der halsstarrige Klang des Unentkommbaren – die Welt in Scherben als Dichtung.

Inhalt: 5/5 Sterne (intensives Bedrohungsszenario)
Form: 5/5 Sterne (Sprache nahe am Schmerzlaut)
Komposition: 3/5 Sterne (schnelle, harte Kollagen-Schnitt-Technik)
Leseerlebnis: 5/5 Sterne (atemloses Widerstehen und Fliehen)

Ausführlicher, vielleicht begründeter auf kommunikativeslesen.com

Medusa wird laut antiken Sagen durch Perseus‘ List getötet. Statt ihr ins Angesicht zu schauen, was zu seiner sofortigen Versteinerung führen würde, blickt er sie nur über die spiegelnde Oberfläche seines Schildes an und enthauptet sie so. Herta Müller verfährt in „Der Fuchs war damals schon der Jäger“ ähnlich. Statt in die Leere und Apathie ihrer Figuren zu schauen, psychologisch die Endzeit von Ceausescus Diktatur zu beleuchten, lässt sie sich auf die Widerspiegelung des Faktischen ein und raubt ihr so jeden Sinn- und Bedeutungsanspruch:

Und vor dem Einsteigen liefen die Frauen. Sie hatten früh morgens zerdrücktes Haar und fliegende Taschen, sie hielten Schweißflecken unterm Arm. Die waren oft getrocknet und hatten weiße Ränder. An den Fingern der Frauen fraß Maschinenöl und Rost den Nagellack. Schon beim Laufen zur Straßenbahn stand zwischen Kinn und den Augen die Müdigkeit der Fabrik.

„Der Fuchs war damals schon der Jäger“ zeichnet vor allem das Leben von der Lehrerin Adina Ende der 1980er Jahre in Timișoara (Temeswar) nach. Der Ex-Freund von ihr, Paul, arbeitet als Arzt in einem Krankenhaus, dichtet und singt systemkritische Lieder, und ihre beste Freundin Clara, Ingenieurin in einer Drahtfabrik, bandelt mit dem verheirateten Anwalt Pavel an, der sich als Securitate-Mitarbeiter herausstellt und u.a. Pauls Musikgruppe bespitzelt. Das Zentrum des Romans bildet also der Konflikt zwischen Clara und Adina, die ihrer besten Freundin nicht verzeihen kann, dass sich diese mit einem vom staatlichen Geheimdienst vergnügt, zumal Adina selbst ein Opfer der Überwachung ist:

Und der Fuchs, sagt Adina [zu Clara], hat [Pavel] dir gesagt, warum sie den Fuchs zerschneiden. Der fickt dich im Auftrag, er wollte uns beide, sagt sie, die eine im Sommer, die andre im Winter, der hat, wenn er morgens aufwacht, zwei Wünsche im Kopf wie zwei Augen – für Männer wird seine Faust hart, für Frauen sein Schwanz.

Im Laufe des Romans dringen immer wieder Geheimdienstleute in Adinas Wohnung ein und schlitzen dort ihrem Bettvorleger, einem Fuchspelz, nach und nach die Beine ab als Warnzeichen und hinterlassen in der benutzten Toilette noch Zigarettenstummel. Das Bedrohungsszenario kulminiert, bis Adina und Paul fliehen müssen:

Sie schieben das Auto in die Scheune. Liviu bedeckt es mit Stroh und stellt Säcke vor die Räder. Die weißen Gänseflügel leuchten durch die Bretterritze, sie schnattern, ihre Schnäbel klopfen ans Holz. Das Lamm [Livius Frau] steht im Nachthemd, barfuß in zu großen Schuhen auf der Treppe und leuchtet mit der Taschenlampe einen Kreis in die Scheune. Doch der Kreis kommt nicht an, er bleibt in einer Pfütze stehen, weil er sich im Wasser selber sieht.

Müller rekonstruiert keine Zeitgeschichte. Sie zieht keine Begründungsmuster heran. Sie gibt wieder. Sie lässt die Welt auf sich wirken, und die Welt, die ihr synästhetisch erscheint, zersplittert in Millionen winziger Details und Fetzen, die keine Tiefenschärfe mehr besitzen. Wie in einer Kollage bleibt alles zweidimensional. Hüte schieben sich vor die Fenster, Beine stehen quer, und eine Locke fällt losgelöst über den Rahmen. Die Sprache unterminiert jedwede Bedeutungserheischung. Grundlosigkeit als freier Fall in den sinnentleerten Raum.

Wie Elfriede Jelinek in bspw. „Die Kinder der Toten“, nur weniger explizit allegorisch und Zeitgeist kommentierend, wie Olga Tokarczuk in „Empusion“, nur weniger mystisch und naturverbunden, wie vor allem Brigitte Reimann in „Franziska Linkerhand“, nur weniger aufbruchsbereit und energie- und utopiebeladen, unterwandert Herta Müller in „Der Fuchs war damals schon der Jäger“ die Ideologie mit dem Zerschlagen ihrer gestelzt-geschraubten faktischen Sprache. Keine Argumente, keine Erklärung, das Unterfangen gelingt irritierend: Die Welt in Scherben als Dichtung.

[Mike W · Rating 4 out of 5]

I had recently moved to Europe in 1989 and was celebrating my first Christmas there when Ceausescu was killed. I was in Western Europe, and so watched from afar, but still, the mood was different than it was in the states, with seemingly daily revolutions somewhere in Eastern Europe. I remember being shocked by the swiftness with which the trial and sentence of the dictator and his wife were carried out. As a fairly young man and an American, I had difficulty relating to such things. The footage was brutal, smoke filling the air, the video shot after the first bullets flew. I didn’t really have a sense of how many shots were fired (more than a hundred), but I distinctly remember the cameraman walking up to the two bodies. The woman laying on her side, a bullet through her forehead. But it was Nikolai that I most remember, having dropped to his knees and fallen backward, he appeared at first glance to have been totally obliterated from the waist up, just thighs, knees and feet.

Those were such interesting times in European history with everything happening so rapidly, but I never took the time to understand what really had gone on in Romania beyond the surface looks we took in school. Enter Nobel Prize winner Herta Muller’s The Fox Was Ever the Hunter, considered by many to be THE account of daily life under Ceausescu in communist Romania. Having recently been translated into English by Philip Boehm, this novel is now reaching an entirely new audience and I have gladly joined their ranks.

Muller focuses on a core group of friends from various backgrounds to paint a picture of daily Romanian life. A teacher, a musician, a factory worker and others are tracked by the narrator and their experiences slowly add up to an angst ridden sum of a startling lack of personal freedom and an ever present personal danger both mentally and physically.

An outsider begins dating Clara, a member of the core group, and she rather quickly realizes that her new lover is a member of the secret police, charged with the interrogation and torture of Romanian citizens who find themselves on the wrong side of an ever blurry line of conformity. Clara justifies her association with this man by assuming her friends will be protected by her relationship, but the opposite is true, and his presence means they are all being watched. As the last weeks of Ceausescu’s reign approach, everyone in the group finds themselves in grave danger, and each takes their own precautions with varying results.

Muller’s poetic prose is beautiful, but does take some getting used to. There is so much meaning in everything she writes, metaphor after metaphor sketching the constant level of fear and oppression. This is definitely a novel that lends itself to multiple readings and much contemplation. Perhaps the most used metaphor was that of seemingly ubiquitous poplars and the knife-like shade they cast. Having grown up near a poplar wind screen, this created in my mind a perfect image of an ever present force above, always able to look down and cast a shadow on the people, the knife like shadows indicative of watchers with the power to inflict pain. Time and again, Muller uses seemingly banal occurrences to demonstrate the difficulties of Romanian life under the regime and I found myself marveling at times that I was walking around in the Netherlands at the very same time, in perhaps the most free of societies, clueless to the experiences Muller portrays so vividly.

While The Fox Was Ever the Hunter is mostly very serious, there was an occasional bit of humor and some of these moments may well be what I remember most about the novel as time passes. A very funny test a wife administers to her husband each night he comes home from drinking, and a quite unorthodox method the women had of “binding themselves” to their men are two of the anecdotes I’m unlikely to forget.

I’m certainly not qualified to say whether or not a translation is a good one, but Boehm’s is so readable that I sense he must have delivered Muller’s message brilliantly. Muller makes tangible the 1989 Romanian Revolution and does so at the level of the common man, one of the novel’s many strengths. While it may well be true that nobody who did not live through it can completely understand it, Muller has ensured that the reader will feel some of the essence of those tumultuous times.

Note: ARC received free via NetGalley

[jo · Rating 4 out of 5]

i read this hot on the heels of The Land of Green Plums, which was written two years later, in 1994. Fox is being translated into english for the first time, by a different translator from the one who translated Plums. this makes it all the more striking that müller's language sounds, in english, so incredibly consistent. this woman thinks in poetry and imagery and, even though the imagery is bleak, the language is oh so beautiful. if you don't believe it, read her nobel lecture. sometimes i wonder how she speaks in daily life: do people understand her?

but people must, because, even though the language and the imagery are so very strange, by half-way through you understand pretty much everything. the story emerges from the language, in the language, with sudden clarity, and you wonder if it was there all along and you missed it, or if you had to get used to the telling, or if müller just needed to set it all up so that it would be earned.

the novel follows, first a village, then a small group of friends over the last few months/years (not clear to me) of the ceausescu regime. uncharacteristically, i believe, for müller, ceausescu is clearly alluded to, and, at one point, even named.

there is a passage in Primo Levi's If This Is a Man in which levi describes in astonishing terms what it means to be considered by another not a person but an intangible, invisible thing, and how this act of dehumanization is more powerful, more destructive, than overt violence. müller is masterful at explaining the ways in which a brutal dictatorship can chip away at the joy of living through the daily grind of fear. nothing extraordinarily horrible happens in this or the other novel i've read. no one is killed, raped, or beaten. what happens, instead, is that people's simple going about their day gets soaked in fear. there is some specifically targeted intimidation, some precise mind-fuckery, but most of all what gets to people is the bleakness, the lightlessness, the perennial scrutiny, the pervasiveness of petty exercises in authority. this is the particular dehumanization herta müller portrays.

the book starts with poplars and the particular prison-bars-like shading of trees. poplars are like knives. evil men eat sunflower seeds and spit them. the sunflower seeds are black and small. there is a striped cat and its stripes are the stripes of the bars made by the trees. it's either very cold or very hot, but even when it's very cold there is no snow so the cold is dry and dusty. the factory where most of the villagers work has spools of wire and the wire rusts and the rust leaks. people steal metal from the metal factory, bit and pieces, and they get caught by one of the many gatekeepers installed in the village, and when they get caught they have to leave the metal they have stolen with the gatekeeper. the regime creates little hierarchies that make neighbors be merciless and cruel to each other.

it's ordinary life but it's also scary life and hopeless life and people escape it by crossing the danube into hungary, except they often drown and when they drown no one mourns them because they are just corpses that don't mean anything.

there are many insects in this book. they follow people around.

herta müller has the imagination of a child. she sees the world through metaphors. she is struck by moles, birthmarks, warts, tall foreheads, wide-spaced eyes, thin temples, big heads, small hands. little things we regularly miss mean so much in this book. what would happen if we saw the world they way she does, so immensely pregnant with things to see, so immensely marvelous?

this is why, in spite of the bleakness, this is a lovely book. the language makes it so intolerably beautiful. it's beautiful in spite of itself but it's also beautiful intentionally, because maybe, just maybe, this beauty, all these moles and warts and wide-spaced eyes and insects and poplars and seeds, are the things that make life endurable, the way children make life endurable by telling themselves stories in the dark of their room, at night.

many thanks to netgalley for an ARC of this book

[Tahani · Rating 5 out of 5]

في اللوحة المكتوبة ثمة ما يمنعك من الهرب رغم الخوف الذي يثقبها ويتجه نحوك، تجد نفسك مقيدًا بجمال العبارة فتقف ساهمًا أمامها عاجزًا عن تحديد ما أنت بصدد القيام به حيث تستحيل القراءة إلى رقص ومحاولات الفهم تصبح تأملا وكل فقرة في النص هي بمثابة مسرح يعرض على متنه القلق الوجودي الذي ينتابك كلما ارتعشت أصابعك وارتعد قلبك جرّاء الظلم الذي ينال من الشعوب التي تم دهس كرامتها بعجلة طاغية انتهى عهده بانتفاضهم ضده بعد أن استنزفهم وسلبهم الحياة الكريمة واتحدوا على أن الخلاص منه هو الطريق الوحيدة إلى النجاة.

على مر السنين خلّد التاريخ قصصا لأولئك الساسة الذي ظنوا بأن الحكم بقبضة من حديد هو ما يضمن لهم طاعة مواطنيهم على أمل النهوض ببلادهم، وذلك ما تم إثبات نقيضه مرارًا إذ لا قوة يمكنها إخراس الشعوب الحرة ولا إرادة تعلو فوق إرادتهم مهما طال الزمان أو قصر.

(كان الثعلب يومها هو الصياد) واحدة من أهم روايات الكاتبة الألمانية الحائزة على جائزة نوبل 2009 هيرتا مولر. كُتبت هذه الرواية بشاعرية بالغة وبمهارة قل نظيرها. تستعرض الكاتبة الفترة الزمنية التي عاشتها رومانيا في عزلة عن باقي دول العالم تحت حكم آخر ديكتاتور شيوعي عرفته أوروبا (نيكولاي تشاوتشيسكو) الذي اكتسب شعبية هائلة إثر موقفه المناهض ومقاومته الشرسة للهجوم الروسي على تشيكوسلوفاكيا عام 1968. شعر المواطنون الرومانيون آنذاك بالقوة وبأن رومانيا أضحت واحدة من أهم القوى العالمية بعد أن كانت بلا أي قيمة تذكر.

ولكن ما قام به تشاوتشيسكو بعد ذلك جعل الحياة أمرًا مرهقًا لمواطنيه الذين حاصرهم الرعب والخوف وباتوا في عزلة عن العالم، يلعب كل فرد منهم دورا في المسرح الكبير المسمى رومانيا حيث لا نجم يسطع سوى الديكتاتور. حوّل الشعب لآلة وظيفتها الوحيدة هي تلميع صورته أمام العالم. فكانت تقام المهرجانات والاحتفالات الكبيرة لتمجيده وزوجته. وصُرفت مبالغ خيالية لبناء قصر له هو الأضخم على الإطلاق في وسط العاصمة بوخارست في حين كان يعاني الشعب فقرًا مدقعًا، إذ لا مياه نظيفة ولا طاقة أو كهرباء ولا خبز. وزرع المخبرين في كل مكان وامتلأت السجون بمن كان أكبر جرم اقترفوه هو أغنية.

"يقول الطفل: إن أمي قالت إنه حيث لا يوجد أحد، يمكن أن يكون أحد ما، مثلما توجد الظلال في الصيف بعض الأحيان، مع أنه لا شيء ولا بشر موجودون. وقد قالت أيضًا إنه توجد أدراج لا يراها الإنسان ولا يستطيع أن يفتحها. وهذه الأدراج موجودة في سيقان الأشجار وفي العشب وفي السياج وفي الجدران. رسم الولد بالطبشور يده اليسرى، بيده اليمنى على زجاج النافذة وقال إن أمه قالت إن في تلك الأدراج توجد أذن على الدوام. وعندما أبعد الطفل يده عن زجاج النافذة، ارتسمت على الزجاج الخطوط العريضة الخضراء ليد واضحة. والأذن تصغي، هكذا قالت أمي. وعندما يزورنا أحد، يضيف الطفل، تضع أمي جهاز الهاتف في الثلاجة، ثم يضحك. فتطير ضحكته بعيدًا عن وجهه، ثم يحني رأسه ويتكئ على يده التي يمسك بها الطباشير ويقول: أما أنا فلن أقوم بوضع جهاز الهاتف في الثلاجة."

وصفت هيرتا مولر ذلك الجو الخانق والباعث على الذعر في روايتها هذه ببلاغة عظيمة. فلم يكن الشتاء الذي كتبت عنه موسمًا عابرًا وإنما هو فصل خوف لا ينقضي:

"فالشتاء يحل في المدينة، فتتجمد الأفواه ويمسك الأيدي وهي ذاهلة ويسقطها على تلك الشاكلة أيضًا، دون أن يتحول الماء إلى جليد، ويضطر كبار السن إلى أن يرتدوا حياتهم الشخصية كالمعاطف. إنه شتاء يضطر الشباب فيه إلى أن يكرهوا أنفسهم عندما تلاحقهم شبهة السعادة، وهم يفتشون بعيون قاحلة في الوقت نفسه عن حياتهم. إنه شتاء يحوم حول النهر، حيث تتجمد الضحكات بدلاً من الماء، حيث يسود التلعثم ويتم الصراخ بأنصاف الكلمات. وحيث يصطدم كل سؤال بالحنجرة ثم يغدو صامتًا وأخرس فوق اللسان."

في هذه الرواية لمست هيرتا مولر جراح الشعب النازفة برقة جعلت من النص أغنية يندّى لها جبين الإنسانية لشدة ما تحمل من ألم وبؤس وأجواء مشحونة بالخوف، جعلت أنبل العلاقات البشرية كالحب والصداقة على المحكّ، ومثار شك وريبة على الدوام.

[Greg · Rating 3 out of 5]

Less a novel and more a very long prose poem, I can understand how some might love it. I’m not one of them but the final chapters gave me mixed feelings. Atmospherics and imagery about life behind the Iron Curtain dominate the story. It has promise. I get it. I just didn’t appreciate it as perhaps I should. Reading this was a chore—I don’t abandon books, but I came close.

Stylistically, the “plot” is dominated by illustrations of the day-to-day drudgery, double standards, and an ever present sense of discomfort that often leads to moments of terror in communist Romania. The abrupt end of Ceaucescu regime is mirrored in a corresponding conclusion.

The images and process Müller uses remind me of the Michelangelo Antonioni film Red Desert (Deserto Rosso). A collage of stark, random vignettes combined with sparse dialogue only become meaningful as the story proceeds. And even after that, most of the plot makes sense after a period of reflection—which is almost as important as the reading of the book itself. Indeed, reading this was, to me, more of a visual or a musical experience. What would have interested me was the possibility of Lou Reed having gotten his hands on this and interpreting it, much as he did in the misunderstood gem Berlin or the controversial Lulu.

After completing the book, I think I respected it more than I liked it. Thus the 2 ½ stars fell closer to the 2 star rating (after a day of thinking about it, probably more fair to give it 3). I’ve got two more of her novels in the on-deck circle. But it might be awhile until I get to them.

[Oana · Rating 5 out of 5]

Daca la inceput am urat felul in care este scrisa cartea, pe parcurs am fost atat de prinsa de imagini, simboluri si de cititul printre randuri incat am trecut peste. Herta Muller descrie foarte bine atmosfera comunista, foamea, frigul, si mai ales teama. Si la fel de bine reda si primele zile timisorene de libertate, greu de inteles pentru cei mai multi locuitori ai orasului.
Mi-a placut si subtilitatea cu care a descris orasUl, m-a "prins in capcana" bine de tot cu indiciile orasului nenumit si am asteptat confirmarea cu sufletul la gura.

[Cititoare Calatoare · Rating 2 out of 5]

Cartea transmite autentic frica si absurdul comunismului, dar nu ofera un fir narativ clar. Pentru mine, lectura a fost mai degraba un exercitiu de rabdare decat o experienta literara placuta.

gasiti recenzia completa pe pagina mea de instagram @reading_on_my_way

[Shawn Mooney (Shawn Breathes Books) · Rating 2 out of 5]

I’m glad I read half of it. I have no idea what I read. I cannot continue. I’m glad I read half of it.

[Roger Brunyate · Rating 3 out of 5]

A Poet of Despair

Looking back at my review the only other Herta Müller book I have read, The Land of Green Plums, I see that it made me resolve never to read anything by her again. But I had pretty much forgotten this when I saw The Fox… in the library; it was short, it looked attractive, and she did win the Nobel Prize; perhaps this one would be different. And indeed the opening seemed to answer my question; even in translation, Müller is a poet; this is from the second page:

Curses are cold. They have no need of dahlias or bread or apples or summer. Curses are not for smelling and not for eating. Only for churning up and laying down flat, for an instant of rage and a long time keeping still. Curses lower the throbbing of the temples into the wrist and hoist the dull heartbeat into the ear. Curses swell and choke on themselves. [tr. Philip Boehm]

And what is the cause of this curse? Simply that a young woman, Clara, sunbathing with her friend Adina, has pricked a finger while sewing. The language seems far in excess of the immediate cause. The novel proceeds in vignettes described in language much like this, often less surreal but occasionally more so. There is a powerful sense that Müller is describing more than she is ostensibly talking about, that the curses are caused less by the prick of a needle than the accumulated pressure of living under a totalitarian regime. (Though published in 2009, the novel is set under the dictatorship of Nicolae Ceausescu, who was deposed in 1989.)

But I had forgotten why I had been put off by that first Müller novel. That too had surreal, even poetic, writing, but I found it hard to sustain my interest to cover an entire novel. And so it is here. Adina is a teacher and Clara works in a factory; they are two of the maybe half-dozen recurrent characters in the book. But to speak of characters is to imagine significant interaction between them and a more or less normal plot. The plot, such as it is, is encroaching rather than linear. There are a few acts of violence—a foreman who impregnates his workers, a police raid on a concert—and an increasing sense of paranoia. It begins to seem that one of the group is informing on the others. But the first signs that any of the characters are being targeted is symbolic rather than actual: Adina keeps returning home to find that pieces are being severed from her fox-fur rug. Somewhat creepy, yes, but also a little absurd—but then I have heard life in Soviet Europe described that way too.

While I loved the writing in small doses, I had a real problem opening myself to the book as a novel, so would recommend it only for sampling, not reading complete.

[Come Musica · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sin dalle prime frasi di questo romanzo, sembra di essere immersi in un mondo fiabesco, ma così non è e lo si capisce da quasi subito. Immaginate di essere come Clara, una delle protagoniste, che ha in mano ago e filo e di essere alle prese con i tentativi di cucire qualcosa per voi. Immaginate che quell'ago e quel filo siano quelli usati da Herta Müller per imbastire assieme le vite dei vari personaggi e per mettere su l'intera storia. Senza che ve ne accorgiate, quell'ago e quel filo inizieranno a pungervi e dagli occhi del lettore cadrà il velo della fiaba, perché c'è del sangue che scorre: "La madre dell’ago è il punto che sanguina. La madre dell’ago è l’ago più vecchio del mondo, che ha partorito tutti gli aghi. Per ogni ago cerca un dito da pungere, su ogni mano che cuce nel mondo."

Non può essere diversamente. Il romanzo è ambientato in Romania, durante gli ultimi anni del regime di Nicolae Ceaușescu. Il clima è pesante, reso cupo dalle nuvole fredde e intimidatorie del regime comunista: “Ed è una contraddizione che normali uomini e donne si incontrino nelle strade della città e spaventino il figlio di un morto perché invece di COME VA chiedono E TU COME LA METTI CON LA VITA.”
E Adina, Clara, Paul e Pavel, alla luce del sole, sono, appunto, "normali uomini e donne", gente comune. Ma, una volta dismessi gli abiti della normalità, con l'avanzare del buio, si scopre che uno di loro lavora per il "Securitate", l'agenzia di polizia segreta.

E nell'oscurità della notte, i tradimenti degli amici prendono il sopravvento, le case non sono più sicure, i ricordi sono distrutti, non appena le strade del proprio passato sono sbarrate. Con il sopraggiungere delle tenebre, la fiamma della speranza si smorza e il respiro della vita è intossicato dai veleni della diffidenza e del regime.

"Il terrapieno dello stadio stringe più vicino a sé la sterpaglia spoglia. L’ultima pallottola volante è dimenticata, il canto proibito si è cantato in lungo e in largo nel paese, ora preme sul collo e quando cerca di diffondersi diventa muto. Perché in città i carrarmati sono ancora ovunque, e la coda per il pane davanti al negozio è lunga. In cima al terrapieno il fondista lascia pendere le gambe nude sopra la città, un cappotto si infila nell’altro."

Un romanzo intenso, che scuote:
"Volevo tenerla, dice Adina, ero seduta al tavolo, o in piedi davanti all’armadio, o distesa a letto, e non mi faceva più paura. Paul infila la candela nel buco, e adesso la testa, dice, la volpe è rimasta un cacciatore. La candela arde, Paul tiene la scatola sull’acqua. La lascia andare.

Poi solleva la testa verso il cielo, Abi è lassù disteso sulla pancia, e ci guarda. Non fa niente, dice Paul, non fa niente. Piange. La candela è luminosa come un dito. Forse Ilije ha ragione, dice. La notte si allarga, la scatola da scarpe galleggia."

[Pinar Celebi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bir sürü reading challenge bulup katılıyorum ya hep, ne zaman ki böyle şaşırtıcı metinlerle karşılaşıyorum, benden mutlusu olmuyor. Tilki Daha O Zaman Avcıydı kitabını 2018’de YouTube üzerinden katıldığım bir challangeda isminde tilki olan kitap kategorisi için almıştım. O zaman okuyamadım ve Herta Müller kalemiyle tanışamadım. Bu sene kitapoli sayesinde bu kitaba sıra tekrar geldi. Ben de bir kez daha pas geçmeyeceğim dedim ve okumaya başladım.

İlk 30-40 sayfadan sonra biraz afalladım. Nasıl bir anlatım bu dedim? Kesinlikle alışık olduğum türde değildi. Karman çorman ve kopuk kopuk geldi. Dedim Pınar derin bir nefes al, Herta Müller Nobel edebiyat ödülünü aldı 2009’da, istersen yazarı tanı biraz önce. Sonra kitabı kenara koydum ve İngilizcesi iyi olmayan Herta Müller’in Romence veya Almanca videolarından İngilizce altyazısı olanları izledim. Özellikle 2014’te Louisiana Literature Festival’daki bir saatlik söyleşisi ufkumu açtı. Hem yazarın kendi ağzından yaşam öyküsünü hem de Nikolai Chaushesku dönemi Romanyasını öğrenme fırsatım oldu. Üzerine Chaushesku videoları izledim. Toplamda belki 4-5 saat video izledim YouTube’da. Sonra bir baktım Müller beni bambaşka bir dünyaya çekmiş. Hazır o dünyadayken kitaba geri döndüm. Artık taşlar yerli yerine oturmuştu. Yazarın neyi, neden öyle yazdığını biliyor ve yazılanları arada sırada yazarın kendi yaşamıyla eşleştirebiliyordum. Bu da son derece keyifli bir hale çevirdi bir anda bu kitabı. Goodreads’de bir yorumda Herta Müller için edebiyatın Salvador Dalisi denmiş. Sanırım ne demek istediğimi çok güzel özetliyor bu benzetme.

Tilki Daha O Zaman Avcıydı kitabında dört karakterimiz var: Adina, Clara, Paul ve Pavel. Chaushesku’nun son yıllarının, tahminen 1987 veya 1988’in Romanyasındayız ve olayları bize şiirsel ve gerçekçi bir dille Adina anlatıyor. Herkesin birbirinden şüphelendiği, insanların tanıdıklarına “Nasılsın?” bile diyemedikleri, dönemin gizli servisi Securitate’ten herkesin çok korktuğu, insanların bir anda ortadan kaybolduğu, toplumun umutsuzluk içinde olduğu paranoyak bir dönem. Böylesine bir dönemde Adina bir gün eve geldiğinde evindeki tilki kürkünden yapılmış kilimindeki tilkinin kuyruğunun kesildiğini görüyor. Eve birisi girmiş ve bunu yapıp çıkmış. Giren gizli servis mi? Arkadaşlarından biri ajan mı yoksa? Birisi şaka mı yapmış? Ama neden? Başka bir gün tilkinin ayağı kesiliyor. Sonra başka bir ayağı. Bunlar hep Adina evde yokken oluyor. Kapı zorlanmadan açılıyor, eve girilip çıkılıyor. Peki gizli servise çalışan kim? Fabrika işçisi Clara mı? Clara’nın sevgilisi Pavel mi? Müzisyen Paul mü? Bu karakterlerin her birinin hayatından ve birbirleriyle olan ilişkilerinden kesitler veriyor bize yazar. Bunu okurun sürekli dikkatini isteyen lirik bir dille, okurun ağzını açık bırakan benzetmeler veya betimlemelerle yapıyor.

Herkese önerebileceğim bir metin değil bu. İlginizi çekebildiysem okuyunuz diyeceğim ama baskısı yok kitabın. Nadir Kitap’ta uygun fiyata bulabilirsiniz. Yazarın okunması çetrefilli bir dili olduğu için mi yok acaba yeni baskısı? Yazarın Keşke Bugün Kendimle Karşılaşmasaydım kitabı var elimde. Hazır Müller ilgim tavan yapmışken bu sene onu da okusam iyi olacak.

[Tamara Agha-Jaffar · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Fox Was Ever the Hunter by Herta Müller, the winner of the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature, is translated from the German by Philip Boehm. It takes us to late 1980s Rumania, just before the fall of the dictator, Nicolae Ceausescu. The focus is on four friends: Adina, a teacher; Paul, a physician; Clara, a factory worker; and Ilie, a soldier. Pavel, working for the secret police, infiltrates the group when he becomes Clara’s boyfriend.

The narrative consists of a series of staccato images designed to create an atmosphere of oppression, fear, and paranoia. The effect is cumulative as Müller builds layer upon layer of fragmented depictions of a population suffering from malnutrition, hunger, poverty, corruption, distrust, betrayal, and constant surveillance. The children are malnourished and disfigured, their hands covered with warts, their teeth black. They are taught to be cautious at a young age. One child tells Adina his mother warns him about the pervasive presence of drawers with listening ears to be found even in trees and fences. The natural environment assumes a quality of foreboding. The town’s poplar trees are variously described as menacing. Pollution and industrial waste run rampant. The animals are so hungry a cat will devour her own young.

The atmosphere throughout is surreal. There is no respite in sleep because even dreams are the stuff of nightmares. The characters speak in whispers, observe events in silence, and go through the motions of living. They are numb to suicides; to the sound of shots fired at someone trying to escape by swimming across the Danube; to the ever-watchful eye of the secret police; to disappearances and interrogations; to a man with a hatchet blade lodged in his skull; and to Ceausescu’s larger-than-life image leering at them from every corner.

The central image is the fox rug in Adina’s apartment. She comes home to find someone has severed the fox’s appendage. One day a tail is cut off; another day, it’s a hind leg; and then it’s a foreleg. The goal is to intimidate her by letting her know the security service has unfettered access to her apartment and that she and her friends are under surveillance. Big Brother is everywhere. And Big Brother is watching her.

This collage of fractured images, fragments, bits and pieces of daily life coalesce to form a haunting and terrifying portrayal of Romania under the Ceausescu. The constant shifts and disjointed narrative work to present life from all its splintered angles until a totality of the experience emerges. While the style and content make this a challenging read, the effort is worth it for those interested in understanding the spiritual, moral, and physical suffocation of life under a brutal dictatorship.

My book reviews are also available at www.tamaraaghajaffar.com

[Timi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Nyomasztó, fojtogató fekete-fehér képek a pokolból. Éltem benne.
Szaggatott a cselekménye, bár eleinte zavart, végére annyira természetes volt. Ezt nem is lehet másképpen megírni. Csak így. Lassan haladva. Egyik levágott rókaláb után a másik.

Minden egyes mondata egy vers.
… kopogó cipők a sötét utcákon…

[Claire · Rating 1 out of 5]

I diligently read the first 180 pages trying to wait for it all to gel together, but it never did. It took 120 pages before I recognised anything from the blurb, which gives the impression that this is a story with a bit of a suspenseful mystery, however, the more important but very last paragraph in the blurb which gives a truer insight into what this book really is was:

images of photographic precision combine to form a kaleidoscope of reflections, deflections and deceit

It takes a better mind than my own to join together this kaleidoscope of descriptive images to form a story or understanding of whatever this novel is meant to represent. I had to take some heart from one of the reviewers here who experienced living in the era this novel is said to describe and was equally unable to relate to anything of what was portrayed here, so it's not just a matter of history and experience, it's a writing style that I believe is only accessible to the few.

It was written by Herta Muller who in 2009 won the Nobel Prize for Literature.

[L.A. Starks · Rating 4 out of 5]

I am reading all of Herta Muller's books that have been translated into English, given her status as a displaced German originally living in Romania and, frankly, also as a Nobel Prize winner. (Nobel Prize committee as reviewers of the first order.) Though fiction, Muller's books provide unvarnished insights into the challenges of living in Eastern Europe during the Cold War.

The Hunger Angel is notable for how thoroughly it describes life in a prison camp, and yes, the feeling of being hungry all the time, for weeks and months.

The Fox Was Ever the Hunter has an interesting cast of characters set at a difficult time and in a place rarely described--Romania before the fall of Ceausescu. The book is much more than an ensemble portrayal: I encourage readers to read all the way through the end.

Then you will want to look up a bit of history.

[Reyer · Rating 3 out of 5]

Only after a hundred pages did I finally start to understand The Fox Was Ever the Hunter (1992) by German-Romanian Nobel Prize-winner Herta Müller. The novel is highly atmospheric, making it a gem to read, but it’s also filled with details that have little or no connection to the story. Since contextual information is scarce, it helps to do some background research in advance.

De krant is ruw maar de kuif van de dictator heeft op het papier een lichte glans. Er zit vet in en hij glimt. Hij is van platgedrukt haar. De kuif is groot, hij verdrijft kleinere lokken naar het achterhoofd van de dictator. Die worden opgeslokt door het papier. Op het ruwe papier staat: De meest geliefde zoon van het volk.

Set in an industrial town in Romania in 1989, during the final months of Nicolae Ceaușescu’s rule, the story revolves around Adina, a schoolteacher, and her friends, one of whom works for the secret service. There is a constant sense of distrust throughout the novel, although it is anything but plot-driven. Instead, Müller has an extraordinary eye for detail: in her world, objects come to life, and gestures carry a deep meaning.

Overall, I found the novel scenic, but it didn’t fully engage me. The town itself felt more alive to me than its habitants. I’m curious to see how Mircea Cărtărescu portrays his native Romania in Blinding .

Ilije telde alleen de roodbruine kakkerlakken, die kraakten.
Als ze volgroeid zijn worden ze rood, zei Ilije. Ze zullen alles overleven, steden en dorpen. Ook het eindeloos beploegde veld zonder weg of boom, ook de ellendige maïs, de Karpaten en de wind op de stenen, ook schapen en honden en mensen. Ze zullen dat socialisme hier opvreten, het met dikke buiken naar de Donau slepen. En daarginds aan de overkant zullen geschrokkenen staan, knipperend met hun ogen in de hitte. En over het water heen roepen, dat zijn de Roemenen, ze hebben het verdiend.

[Brian · Rating 4 out of 5]

Started slow, took about half the book for my addled brain to grasp the thread - but that's exactly how totalitarianism works, a slow simmer until we're cooked.

One day I'll re-read this but start in the middle, read through to the end and then onto the first half to catch all of the signs of desolation I should have seen coming.

[☕Laura · Rating 2 out of 5]

I generally love a good, lyrical narrative, but for me this one was lyrical at the expense of the narrative. The underlying story line was intriguing, but the elaborate descriptions of people and places and the florid language made it difficult for me to even follow the story line or feel at all connected to the characters. This is a Nobel-prize-winning author, so maybe I'm just not sophisticated enough for this one, but it was not for me.

Ratings (1 to 5)
Writing: 2
Story: 3
Characters: 2
Emotional impact: 2
Overall rating: 2.25

[Cris · Rating 2 out of 5]

N-am reușit s-o termin, în fapt, nici nu mi-am dorit, nu pentru că e grea, ci pentru că mi s-a părut o lectură fără miză.
Respect intenția, dar stilul mi s-a părut o formă rafinată de a pierde timpul.

Cartea nu se așază ca un fir narativ de urmat, ci se sparge în imagini, mișcări și gânduri. Nu știi dacă ești în realitate sau în amintirea Adinei. Totul e discontinuu, suspendat.

Cartea se mișcă lent, aproape hipnotic, punând accent pe atmosferă și detalii, foarteeeee multe detalii.

M-am uitat puțin la recenziile cărții pentru a înțelege ce subiect vrea să abordeze. Nicio secundă nu am simțit că sunt măcar pe aproape cu interpretarea. Ce fel de simbolism frustrant este acesta?!

[Philippe Malzieu · Rating 4 out of 5]

The books of Herta Muller always start like an opera of Janacek. We are in a village drama. We expect loves secret, with illegitimate births. But very early the tragedy is here. The tinman commits suicide by hanging. And then there is the underhand dictatorship. It penetrates everywhere and appears totally natural. Tyranny would be thus a native state and as nobody knows another thing, that appears normal.The break come fron an insignificant event : a fur fox schrink like Balzac « Peau de chagrin ». But here ; the fur is cut. And the paranoïa begin.

[Huy · Rating 4 out of 5]

Với những ai lần đầu đọc Herta Muller ắt hẳn sẽ rất khó chịu với không khí trong những cuốn sách của bà mà "The Fox Was Ever the Hunter" là ví dụ, bao phủ cuốn sách là một bầu không khí ngột ngạt, căng thẳng đến tận cuối cùng, mà trong cái thé giới quá nhiều cấm đoán ấy, con người ta luôn nhìn nhau bằng cặp mắt nghi ngờ.
Cuốn sách xoay quanh 4 nhân vật chính: Adina, một giáo viên, Clara, làm việc tại một nhà máy, Paul, một bác sĩ và Pavel, người tình của Clara mà ban đầu tự giới thiệu là một luật sư nhưng hóa ra anh ta là một cảnh sát ngầm. Herta Muller đã từng bị mất việc vì từ chối làm điệp viên khi Romania còn là một đất nước cộng sản, bà di cư qua Đức và trở thành nhà văn đoạt giải Nobel văn chương năm 2009 mà bà luôn nổi tiếng với sự đấu tranh không ngừng nghỉ của mình với chế độ độc đoán.
The Fox Was Ever the Hunter chứa rất nhiều những mẩu chuyện rời rạc, đôi lúc khó nắm bắt nhưng khi tấm màn được kéo lên, ván bài đã lật mở thì tất cả bỗng dưng liên kết với nhau lại theo cách không thể ngờ. Và còn một điều nữa, Herta Muller có lối viết lạnh lùng như băng, để ta thấy rằng, phụ nữ khi dịu dàng thì chẳng ai bằng nhưng lúc băng giá thì thật là khiến ta buốt hết cả người.

[Ellen IJzerman (Prowisorio) · Rating 5 out of 5]

De krant is ruw, maar de kuif van de dictator heeft op het papier een lichte glans. Er zit vet in en hij glimt. [...] Wat glimt dat ziet.
De kuif glimt. Hij kijkt elke dag het land in.

Nergens noemt Müller de dictator bij naam, maar het is duidelijk wie hier bedoeld wordt: Nicolae Ceausescu. Net zoals Ceausescu regelmatig als de kuif opduikt, worden ook in andere gevallen details van mensen opgevoerd als delen voor het geheel, met als enig verschil dat soms hun namen wel genoemd worden. De rode nagels van Clara, die een affaire heeft met Pavel met de moedervlek, de dwerg die zich voortbeweegt op afgebrokkelde bakstenen, de visser met de blootshoofdspet, die niet van meloenpitten houdt.
Het zijn echter niet alleen mensen die zo aangeduid worden. De kat verraadt door het beeld in zijn ogen de vrouwelijke slachtoffers van het machtsmisbruik van de directeur van de fabriek uit wiens hemdsboord een bruine mot vliegt; de rivier vertoont aan wie hij kent een rottende jicht; blinde lucht drukt zich tegen een raam, blinde muren kijken elkaar aan.

Zo schildert Herta Müller beeld voor beeld het laatste jaar onder Ceausescu. Beelden die soms echt onbegrijpelijk zijn en na drie keer lezen nog steeds onbegrijpelijk zijn, maar intussen wel 'iets' achterlaten. Nee, Müller speelt niet in op de emoties, hoewel een enkele keer de narigheid, de troosteloosheid op je valt of je bij de keel gepakt wordt door de spanning door de zonnebloempitten in het toilet en weer een afgesneden vossenpoot. Voor ontroering of regelrechte spanning en sensatie moet je niet bij Müller zijn. Ze schildert met woorden wat ze heeft meegemaakt en wat zij heeft gezien zonder medelijden op te wekken. Dit was Roemenië: onmenselijk. Te onmenselijk om in grote woorden te beschrijven.

De weg kent zichzelf, heeft geen afstand. De stappen bibberen en zijn altijd hetzelfde. Dan haasten je schoenen zich, je hoofd is leeg, ook al staat de vos in je hoofd. De vos staat altijd in je hoofd.

Deze vos, Müller's vos die de jager was, staat zeker in mijn hoofd. Nog een lange, lange tijd.

[Noah · Rating 4 out of 5]

1. I bought this first thousand of the first and small original Edition in pristine condition for a few Euros at my favorite used book store. For a Nobel price winner, Herta Müller certainly is not a collector's darling.

2. As with all her other books, 90% of the author's merit is her poetology, her style. The actual plot is simple and not all that original. However she masters to bring back to life the oppressive atmosphere of 1989 Romania, in vivid shades of communist-grey. I wonder to what extent this enjoyment of style survives translation. As far as I can see from the GR reviews, not many of the english language readers were all that exited.

3. Her style lives of similes and paraphrases, corroborating the coded language of those days. It takes a bit of patience - and ideally reading a few more easily accessible works from the German-Romanian sphere like Eginald Schlattner's wonderful semi-autobiographical works - to get used to it. Otherwise much of her code is lost on the reader.

[Anthony Hsiao · Rating 1 out of 5]

surely I am missing the point here as to why this book won the nobelprize for literature, but never has there been a book that I could connect with so little, that has such an unfavourable ration of story to babbles, and that is so unpleasant to read, as this one.

It us a bit like abstract modern art, but in the firm of a story, and I just couldn't get anything out of it

[Keriann]

There is a story in this book somewhere but I think the author forgot to tell it, this is the sort of writing in lit fic I hate!