The Man of Feeling

by Javier Marías

A story of love and memory.
 
On a train journey from Paris to Madrid a young opera singer becomes fascinated by those in his compartment: a middle-aged businessman, his alluring wife and their male traveling companion. Soon his life of constant travel, luxury hotels, rehearsal and performance will become entangled with these three people, and the singer will find himself fatefully consumed by Natalia's beauty. The Man of Feeling is the haunting story of the birth and death of a passion, told in retrospect. Intricately interweaving desire and memory, it explores the nature of love, and asks whether we can ever truly recall something that no longer exists.

Genres: Fiction, Spain, Spanish Literature, Novels, Literature, Literary Fiction, Contemporary

194 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1986

About the author

Javier Marías was a Spanish novelist, translator, and columnist. His work has been translated into 42 languages. Born in Madrid, his father was the philosopher Julián Marías, who was briefly imprisoned and then banned from teaching for opposing Franco. Parts of his childhood were spent in the United States, where his father taught at various institutions, including Yale University and Wellesley College. His mother died when Javier was 26 years old. He was educated at the Colegio Estudio in Madrid.

Marías began writing in earnest at an early age. "The Life and Death of Marcelino Iturriaga", one of the short stories in While the Women are Sleeping (2010), was written when he was just 14. He wrote his first novel, "Los dominios del lobo" (The Dominions of the Wolf), at age 17, after running away to Paris.

Marías operated a small publishing house under the name of Reino de Redonda. He also wrote a weekly column in El País. An English version of his column "La Zona Fantasma" is published in the monthly magazine The Believer.

In 1997 Marías won the Nelly Sachs Prize.

Reviews

[Guille · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Llevo 15 años esperando ser amado por Natalia Monte, mi mujer; usted en cambio es un advenedizo, señor"

Marías, hablando de su método de escritura, afirma que "No sólo no sé lo que quiero escribir, ni a dónde quiero llegar, ni tengo un proyecto narrativo que yo pueda enunciar antes ni después de que mis novelas existan, sino que ni siquiera sé, cuando empiezo una, de qué va a tratar, o lo que va a ocurrir en ella, o quiénes y cuántos serán sus personajes, no digamos cómo terminará.” Y aun así no es esto lo más curioso del método, no es la inexistencia de un proyecto previo que guíe los esfuerzos iniciales, ni que sea una simple imagen, tal y como el autor confesó en un prólogo a una de las ediciones de la novela, lo que pueda desencadenar el impulso sin dirección de su escritura.

De hecho, no me es nada difícil suponerlo en un viejo vagón de tren, de aquellos en los que varios pasajeros compartían un habitáculo al que se accedía por una puerta lateral, aburrido ya de la lectura elegida para hacer más llevadero el trayecto, exhalando el humo de un cigarrillo y entretenido en imaginar una historia para sus tres desconocidos acompañantes que por pura casualidad han coincidido con él en aquel compartimento: una preciosa mujer dormida entre dos hombres de presencia dispar. Lo que pasó a continuación y el autor descubrió a medida que lo imaginaba, y escribía después, lo harán ustedes si deciden emprender su lectura, lo cual aconsejo.

Pero, como les decía, no es esto lo que más me llamó la atención de su método, sino lo que sucede a continuación, una vez empezada la escritura de la novela, si es que este comentario en ella recogido se le puede aplicar a él mismo:

“… un hombre que escribe puede empezar a entender lo que escribe a partir de una frase casual que le hace saber –no de golpe, sino paulatinamente– por qué todas las anteriores fueron así, por qué fueron escritas de aquella manera.”

De lo que no puedo informales, por más que quisiera, es de cuál puede ser esa frase, ese momento del texto a partir del cual todo encajó, lo anterior y lo posterior, lo ya escrito y lo que quedaba por escribir, pues bien es cierto que la novela tiene una larga parte inicial en la que el narrador vaga por Madrid con la misma falta de propósito que parece tener el autor al describir aspectos de la vida errante de su personaje o los detalles que resalta de las gentes y las calles de esa ciudad que, por ser la de la adolescencia de su protagonista, hacía más profunda su soledad. Quizá la existencia de este inicio, hasta cierto punto inane, venga a representar su vida anterior al encuentro en el tren, en la que, según nos dice su narrador, solo…

“Temía y aguardaba y pensaba… pensaba tanto por entonces que llegué a estar harto de mí mismo. Era, además, un pensamiento irreflexivo, no guiado, fluctuante, sin meta ni punto de arranque, insoportable.”

Bien, pues ya les digo yo que insoportable tampoco, más bien todo lo contrario. Siempre es interesante perderse entre las muchas lucubraciones que el autor tiene por costumbre intercalar en su discurso, más si son tan divertidas como las aquí referidas —la novela es de las más proustianas y la más cómica que de él he leído—. Me refiero a esos comentarios acerca de los viajantes de comercio, con una vida tan parecida a la de los cantantes de ópera, oficio del protagonista, que a causa de su errante soledad no faltaba nunca alguno que en el hotel se abriera las venas o acuchillara a un botones o exhibiera sus partes por los pasillos o sofaldara en el ascensor a alguna mujer estupefacta; o el caso de la soprano que tenía sus más y sus menos con el violinista de la orquesta y que tras aliviar una de sus urgencias entre bambalinas salió al escenario del ensayo general con un pecho todavía fuera; o el caso maravilloso del tenor que no soportaba la visión de un asiento vacío en la platea, por lo que los huecos debían ser ocupados por falsos aficionados o, si aún no fuera suficiente, por “los propios acomodadores, porteros, encargadas del guardarropa, mujeres de la limpieza y aún taquilleras”, y que, en el paroxismo de su locura, llegó él mismo a ocupar ese asiento vacío chillando indignado por la tardanza en empezar la función que él mismo debía representar.

Y todo esto sin hablar de la ironía que supone el que la obra que se está representando en el Teatro de la Zarzuela con la participación de nuestro tenor El león de Nápoles, apodo que también tiene lo suyo, sea Otelo, porque lo que aquí se nos termina contando una vez encauzado el relato es el recuerdo que su protagonista tiene de unos hechos ocurridos años antes, y vueltos a vivir en sueños la noche anterior al inicio de su relato, por los que se vio envuelto en un triángulo amoroso de trágico final. Y para colmo, este entrelazamiento de narración en primera persona, siempre sospechosa y parcial, recuerdos y sueños configuran una narración plagada de huecos que el lector querrá tapar con la misma obsesión que el tenor su platea, incluido un final no totalmente rematado.

No hay queja que valga. El autor, por boca de su narrador, empezó la novela pidiendo disculpas por la falta de conclusión y enseñanza, tal y como viene pasando en los sueños, de los que uno se suele despertar justo antes de conocer el desenlace…

“…como si el impulso onírico quedara agotado en la representación de los pormenores y se desentendiese del resultado, como si la actividad de soñar fuese la única aún ideal y sin objetivo.”

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Man of Feeling, my sixth Marías, is in essence a love story, but it's one that resonates stronger in the head, rather than the heart. There was a foggy distant feel it, as the love, which evolved during a stay in a Madrid hotel between an opera singer, who travels from city to city performing (this time it's Cassio in Verdi's Otello), and a woman, Natalia Manur, travelling with both businessman husband, and companion Dato, is never seen nor experienced, but instead announced and remembered. It is also one of the more complex Marías novels I have read, as the narrative is made up of the narrator's deep thoughts and feelings from this love, when it didn't yet exist, and when it no longer existed, and also these same memories that were dreamed about. The story reads less with an air of presence and consummation, and focuses more on anticipation, recollection, and imagination. We would learn the narrator is actually writing this story over the course of a day, as he relates the events that occurred four years previously, and, putting them on paper, interprets them, searching for a self-understanding that has been eluding him over this time.

Like others I have previously read, Marías utilizes his highbrow prose to full effect, which is encased in an equally graceful tone of nostalgia, he is also one to linger over a thought for page after page after page. Most of the time, like a mind voyeur, it's in imagining and describing the body, and/or the life of a particular woman (in this case Natalia), almost to the point of - how often does she shave her legs? what did she have for breakfast? does she bath or shower? did she have sex with her husband at night with the lights on or off?. Sometimes (even as a Marías fan) it can be infuriating, and you start to wonder just when are we going back to the nuts and bolts of the story. He reminds me of a film director, who would only work on their own terms, and not just churn out a movie to please the masses. This would certainly qualify as a novel appreciated most by the intellectual type and Marías connoisseur more so than the casual reader looking for something to digest whilst the radio is on in the background.

What I found most intriguing here is the gap between the narrator's actions and his thoughts concerning these actions, fused with an interspersion of reality and dream fragments that show a numbed weariness within the central character. As contemporary writers go, he is now emerging as my favourite, and this is a work, albeit a slim one, of unusual beauty, intelligent prowess, and imaginative power, that would probably benefit reading again sooner rather than further down the line. It's not the best Marías I have read, and was only translated into English because of the success of 'A Heart So White'. Marías again, like in other novels, sets out his foundations in a skilful manner that never stops playing around with the readers expectations, or tempting us in to reach for simple explanations, thus forcing us to dig deeper, and hopefully, come out at the end with a feeling of literary satisfaction.

[Kalliope · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book is a gift.

A few days ago, showing the center of Madrid to a visiting friend, we stopped at the bookshop patronized by Javier Marías. In Librería Méndez they are usually well stocked on his books. Because of its connections with Opera, I had wanted to read this particular one, but as it is an early work it is less easy to find. But there it was, and my friend very kindly offered it to me.

The opera link is with Verdi’s Otello. This is another sample of Marías’ interest in Shakespeare. In most of his works there is at some point a reference to the English bard. In this novel, though, as the link is operatic it is removed by one further step. The narrator in the novel is an opera singer who has arrived in Madrid to sing the role of Cassio at the Teatro de la Zarzuela. At the time Marías wrote this, the Madrid Opera was still under restoration. This particularity helps to date the novel. It was published in 1986.

The novel, like play and opera, is also about a love triangle, but this one seems a dislocated Othello. The viewpoint, the angle and the way the components move are modified by Marías. The variations themselves give additional dynamism to the plot.

My edition contains an Afterword by Marías. Authors and artists are often cryptic when they are asked to elucidate their work. Their utterances become yet another creation, another representation. That is not the case here.

Marías explains his method of writing. He claims that he sets off out of a lived image or single memory that has stuck in his mind and from this starting point his literary imagination meanders and projects, and the work gradually takes shape. Writing for him is a voyage of discovery. He trails the characters as they flow out of his pen. I was somewhat bewildered by this, since his books seem to be marked by a steady pace of someone who is not in the least hurried and who enjoys delaying his march but who knows very well where he is going.

In this Afterword, Marías also states, clearly, that his aim was to compose the temporal space of love, for love lives out of anticipation and of memory. Love is the feeling that requires most imagination; it only exists in the realm of the possible – past and future. For Marías, then, the sentimental man, or man of feeling (the English version is The Man of Feeling), is he who realizes that if love is no longer possible, he will feel compelled to step out of the domain of fortuity – of life.

Marías is very skilful in disorienting our sense of time in our in pursuit of that sensation of love, a sensation that cannot live in the present. A linear development of the story, understood as a fast succession of the “Nows” similarly to the way a film is composed of a rapid succession of still photos, would just not work.

Instead the narrator keeps jumping backwards and forwards from the moment in which he is telling his story. And to add to the disorientation, the “sueño” element is introduced as well. Indeed, the novel begins with a reference to a dream, a recent dream that repeats something that had happened a few years before, even if in a somewhat different order and in somewhat different tempi to the real version. And from there proceeds to tell us the dream, and what had happened, even if they are the same. Meanwhile the present continues, with further visits to a more distant past. But the dream returns.

Marías plays with the two senses of the word sueño, for in Spanish it means both “sleep” and “dream”. And this double value is consciously spelled out in the novel. If Marías is constricted by the conflated meanings into one single word, he also plays and exploits its ambiguity. Rejecting Freudian ideas, he however acknowledges the revelatory power of dreams. But while dreaming one is also asleep, or living as if dead. Lovers are separated when they are sleeping, even if they are sleeping together. And for dreaming together, they have to be awake.

This is my third Marías. As the other two were from 1992 A Heart So White and 2011 Los enamoramientos my reaction to my familiarity with Marías writing is being formed following an inverted chronology.

His stamp is recognized in his circular writing. And in this novel this contributes to the synthetic understanding of the story. Marías literary techniques make me think of music structures. There are expositions, repeating themes, ritornellos, anticipations, subthemes, modulations etc. Although I admit that I felt this most clearly when I read "A Heart so White".

What is very constant, though, is the narrating voice. I feel as if I were always listening to that same voice.

[Kris · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is yet another brilliant novel by Javier Marías. I'm not going to pretend to any kind of objectivity; he has become one of my favorite writers in a very short time. In this short, intricately crafted novel, Marías explores the intersection between love and dreams. Is the true experience of love something a person experiences actively and with intention, or is its essence made up of recollection and imagination? And what happens when a person's best chance of happiness seems to come while dreaming?

In this early novel, the protagonist is a rising young tenor who is traveling to Madrid to sing the role of Cassio in Verdi's Otello. With scenes of the landscape rushing by the train windows, he observes a trio of fellow travelers, two men and a mysterious and melancholy sleeping woman. As the protagonist becomes acquainted with Natalia Manur, her controlling husband, and her paid companion Dato, he quickly falls under Natalia's spell. Throughout the rest of the novel, he explores the depth of his feelings, wrestles with the gap between anticipation and reality, and struggles with a series of memories, sometimes of dreams, that he hopes will lead him to love.

At the beginning of the novel, the protagonist expresses some ambivalence about his focus on his dreams, "I don't know whether I should tell you my dreams.... They are dreams that become somewhat tedious after a while because the person dreaming them always wakes before the end, as if the dream impulse had worn itself out in the representations of all those details and lost interest in the final result, as if dreaming were the only true ideal and aimless activity left." In spite of these concerns, he moves back and forth between dreams and lived experience, between imagination and memory.

The world of opera provides the perfect setting for these explorations, and not only because of the resonances between the young tenor's dilemma and Otello. Marías provides some funny, and sometimes poignant, descriptions of the follies and foibles of opera stars. The many different roles they play on and off stage, and the projection of feeling during performances, raise some of Marías's questions regarding the relationships among recollection, anticipation, and any true feelings, especially love. The characterization of Natalia also bears some resemblance to female protagonists in opera, as Marías admits in his Afterword. She seems ethereal throughout, more an imagined ideal than a flesh and blood character. This representation works perfectly, given Marías's themes of interest in the novel.

Highly recommended for Marías's beautiful, dreamlike writing style, his masterful exploration of his key themes, and the surprises he threads into his narrative along the way.

[Ian "Marvin" Graye · Rating 4 out of 5]

CRITIQUE:

Love Both Possible and Opposed

I don’t know whether I should tell you my judgement or just my impressions.

Marias captures your attention from the very first moment he opens his mouth or puts pen to paper (or rather, presses the first key on his Olympia Carrera de Luxe typewriter). It’s like being at a dinner table and discovering that an infinitely more interesting guest is also in attendance, or sitting down in a cinema and realizing that this could be the best film you will see all year.

Another man of feeling has only one decision to make: whether or not to remain present, enjoy the experience and learn from it. A woman of feeling can only hope that she is the object of desire, whether obscure or discreet or obvious.

The relationship between the characters is essentially triangular (although one additional man, Dato, plays the role of companion). The narrator is an up and coming tenor singer, the future "Lion of Naples", who first observes Natalia and her husband, Heironimo Manur, a wealthy banker, on a train. No words are exchanged, but the narrator closely scrutinizes and judges them as they sleep.

The great talent of Marias’ first person narrators is that they see, study, analyse, define, judge everything around them minutely, precisely, exactly, then they return to dream about it, and all of this occurs in exquisite, word-perfect language. They miss none of the richness of experience around them and, as a result, neither do we. Despite all of the beauty on evidence, nothing is presented to us as superficial. Marias offers us both breadth and depth of vision.

The two men quickly become rivals for the love of Natalia. We learn little about her, except through the judgment of the men. She is portrayed “in a very diffuse way, as if through a veil”. She is beautiful, but melancholy, because she has become an object of subjugation. If she changes her status, will she escape subjection or replicate it?

The narrator’s only dilemma is whether to destroy his rival or merely supplant him. The husband wants to perpetuate what he has, the narrator wants to violently cancel it. He wants to stage a coup, or mount a revolution.

For the latter, love is tiring. He is always striving, planning, longing. The former, the husband, draws a line, digs in and perseveres. Heironimo wants to maintain the old order, to keep what he believes he has "bought" and what therefore "belongs" to him. The narrator wants to usurp his position. As in business, one man’s gain is another man’s loss. They are like two competitors fighting over the one market.

Sometimes, it’s questionable whether either of them even loves Natalia. It’s become a man thing. It's a competition, a game, in which they contemplate trading places. Still, regardless of who "wins", Natalia might be trapped in melancholy dissolution. It’s not a clear choice between submission and adulation.

Marias shows us a love that is either anticipated or remembered, but is not experienced in the present tense.

Marias asks whether for these characters at least, apart from memory, love can only exist in the realm of possibility and the imagination. Is it only the fact that our wishes are not yet fulfilled that continues to drive us? Do we stop trying when we think we've acquired the object of our desire? Do we cease to cultivate love when we believe that we have it?

What then is the measure of a man of feeling when he loses his sense of perseverance? Even if we are fortunate enough to gain love now, for how long will we possess it? And how will we deal with its loss?

To paraphrase Bob Dylan, the winner now will be later to lose. The present now will later be past. For the times, they are a’changin'.

[Nood-Lesse · Rating 3 out of 5]

Il riciclaggio dei pensieri macerati

La lunga descrizione iniziale sembra rappresentare tre statue di marmo, impedisce di andare oltre la superficie dei personaggi a cui è riferita. È una descrizione dettagliata ma statica. Lui è Marías, non Michelangelo, il risultato è abbastanza deludente, il marmo è un materiale pesante da trasportare anche quando viaggia su rotaia. Siamo all’intero di uno scompartimento ferroviario, il narratore che scopriremo essere un tenore catalano, indugia sui suoi dirimpettai come credo sia capitato di fare a molti viaggiatori. La differenza è che (lui è Marías e apre spesso le parentesi perché niente di ciò che ha scritto vada perso, dà l’impressione di voler utilizzare tutto ciò che ha scarabocchiato sul foglio, anche se appesantisce, anche se cir-con-lo-cu-zio-na) lui è Marías e non si accontenta di descrivere i dirimpettai ma li doppia alternandoli al sogno vivido che ha fatto al mattino e che riguarda proprio gli stessi tre individui con i quali aveva viaggiato verso Madrid quattro anni prima. Le statue di marmo con lo scorrere delle pagine diventano più leggere, si scopre che in realtà sono di gesso, si scopre che sono calchi di gesso, si assiste al momento in cui i calchi verranno rimossi, in cui i personaggi si animeranno, perché chi scrive non è Michelangelo, ma Marías, a modo suo un altro artista.

A fine anni ’90 Javier diventò il re indiscusso della macerazione interiore dividendo equamente i suoi lettori in ammiratori entusiasti e detrattori accaniti. Lo fece squadernando i processi mentali dei suoi personaggi e non limitandosi a quelli funzionali alla trama ma spaziando nel campo del possibile, vagliando gli scarti con la stessa cura del prodotto finito, rallentando la narrazione come farebbe una safety car. Potrà mai piacere uno scrittore del genere ad un thrillerista? ad un postmodernista? ad un tifoso del Boavista? Tutti i personaggi di Marías sono deduzioni e controdeduzioni di un uomo che ha saputo trovare un utilizzo proficuo della sua tendenza alla macerazione infruttifera. I Maceratesi (e non mi riferisco ai marchigiani) sono molti, Marías però è uno solo, è colui che ha trovato la formula per riciclare i pensieri macerati e farli diventare letteratura. L’uomo sentimentale ha un inizio stentato, un corpo centrale coinvolgente e un finale latitante. A lettura terminata ci si trova al cospetto di un capitoletto intitolato “Epilogo” dove Javier spiega i suoi personaggi come quei fumettisti che son costretti a mettere delle didascalie sotto le loro caricature, ma che ancora una volta (mi era già successo In “Domani nella battaglia pensa a me”) mi fa riflettere sul processo creativo che c’è dietro la scrittura, su come questo processo mi sia del tutto estraneo e su come debba esserlo anche per tanti scrittori che tentano di padroneggiarlo senza averne i mezzi. Fra i viventi secondo me nessuno scrive come il Mariachi Maceratese de Madrid che ne “L’uomo sentimentale” si fa chiamare “il Leone di Napoli”

(È il romanzo di Javier Marías più breve che abbia letto, mi pare ideale per tutti coloro che non hanno mai letto lo scrittore spagnolo e vorrebbero provarlo. In versione mignon c’è il meglio e il peggio di ciò che troverete esteso nei suoi romanzi più famosi.)

[Mary · Rating 5 out of 5]

I read this book on a mattress in an empty apartment while on the cusp of making a cross country move and a complete life change. I read this book while being in love. Perhaps this is why the dreamy and emotive tone of Marias' strange novel resonated so much with me.

This is a curious and short tale of reminiscence. Of dreams vs. reality. Of longing.

Very little was happening in the story, just as nothing much was happening in my empty apartment with the whirling ceiling fan and the occasional vibration from my phone. Yet, each page dripped with suspense. What would happen next? Where was the story going? Where was my life heading?

As the protagonist recollected memories past, I lay there looking back on my life and what had brought me to this juncture. The afternoon turned into dusk. The protagonist recalled his love, his obsession. I turned on a lamp and kept reading. The deep melancholy, the softness of thighs. Did it really happen, or was it all a dream?

Beautiful.

[Emilio Berra · Rating 4 out of 5]

Primo libro dell'autore che leggo.
Protagonista è un cantante d'opera noto in tutto il mondo.
Di fronte a lui, in uno scompartimento di treno, due uomini inquietanti e una donna addormentata.

E' il narratore stesso a dirci che, viaggiando in treno verso Venezia, ha avuto di fronte, "per tre ore, una donna che corrispondeva esattamente alla descrizione fisica e morale" del principale personaggio femminile.
Un modo molto interessante di procedere, senza poter immaginare quanto poi accadrà, dando la sensazione di un libro in cui è la storia a condurre l'autore e non viceversa.
Quando si dice 'un libro non scritto a tavolino'!

Un uomo che ama una donna "afflitta (...) da dissoluzioni malinconiche". "Una storia d'amore in cui l'amore non si vede e non si vive, ma si annuncia e si ricorda".
Una struttura del libro particolare e non cronologica, coerente all'essenza del romanzo. Se questo può creare qualche difficoltà a chi legge, si è comunque compensati da una scrittura veramente bella e dalla qualità complessiva del testo.
In fondo, quando una 'storia d'amore' non è sostenuta da un progetto di vita, quello che si definisce 'amore' non è di fatto frutto di immaginazione?

[Cláudia Azevedo · Rating 4 out of 5]

"O Homem Sentimental é uma história de amor em que o amor não se vê nem vive, antes se anuncia e recorda. Pode isto acontecer?"
Javier Marías mostra-nos, neste livro, que o amor existe muito aquém e muito além da sua dita consumação. Longe de ser um fósforo que arde, o amor será tudo o que vem antes e depois, o que precede e o que sucede a ignição e o fogo que lavra, é antes da chama e é a memória dessa chama. E será também amor o que se imagina que acontecerá sem que aconteça e o que se lembra sem nunca ter acontecido.
"No que acredito é que o amor se funda em grande medida na sua antecipação e na sua memória. É o sentimento que exige maiores doses de imaginação."
Apaixono-me por Javier Marías de cada vez que o leio, apesar de ele já ter morrido ou ainda mais por isso, por saber que serão mais escassas as vezes em que a sua obra me dará de mim um reflexo que me agrada, o de alguém que pensa o amor à distância.

[Malacorda · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un librino che si poteva/doveva leggere in due giorni, me lo son tirato dietro per un mese: è blocco del lettore conclamato. Me lo sono tirato dietro per così tanto tempo che il volume ha finito per riempirsi di fiori come un erbario, e di etichette di candele fino a profumare in maniera spropositata come l'armadio di mia nonna. D'altro canto la scrittura di Marías è talmente densa che non rappresenta proprio l'ideale per il blocco del lettore. All'inizio risultava respingente, da tanto il periodare è ingarbugliato. Faticoso sotto tutti i punti di vista eppure non mi decidevo a mollarlo. Una volta entrata in sintonia con questa scrittura logorroica, ha iniziato a piacermi per davvero e mi sono fortemente pentita di non aver prestato più attenzione alle prime pagine.
Anche l'ironia con cui l'autore si diverte a scherzare, qua e là, nei più disparati frangenti: non è facile, non è immediata, ma una volta che ci si è fatto l'orecchio non può non piacere.
Invero, la trama non è nulla di emozionante e nemmeno particolarmente significativa: tutto il piacere sta solo nel seguire il monologo del protagonista, oltre che nel crogiolarsi nell'ambientazione dell'hotel di lusso, con le sue moquettes e i suoi tendaggi e tappezzerie pesanti e i tramonti visti dalla camera e il servizio in camera e tutta la vita di una gran macchinone che è un mondo a parte rispetto il resto della città. La ciliegina sulla torta, poi, quella che mi fa accendere senza troppi dubbi la quinta stella, è la digressione che racconta il finale della storia dell'esimio Hörbiger: è un puro lampo di genio.

[Fuchsia Groan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Uno de los personajes de “Los enamoramientos” dice que lo que pasa en las novelas es lo de menos, que lo que ocurre en ellas da lo mismo y se olvida, una vez terminadas, que lo interesante son las posibilidades e ideas que nos inoculan. Aunque su argumento podría contarse en poco más de un párrafo, en “El hombre sentimental” suceden muchas cosas, pero está claro, tarde o temprano terminaré olvidando qué es lo que pasó. Podrán hacerse comparaciones con el “Otelo” de Shakespeare (no yo, que todavía no lo he leído). Se podrá hablar de las muchas ideas que la novela trata. Se podrá alabar, y no es para menos, la excelente escritura del autor. Pero a mí lo que me da vueltas en la cabeza cuando pienso en esta novela es la idea de “los sueños” y cómo, y por qué, los contraponemos a la idea de “la realidad”.

El narrador de “El hombre sentimental” despierta un día y decide contarnos parte de su historia. Comienza a hacerlo con una frase muy ambigua: No sé si contaros mis sueños. RAE: “sueño”: Del lat. somnus:
3. Acto de representarse en la fantasía de alguien, mientras duerme, sucesos o imágenes.
5. Cosa que carece de realidad o fundamento, y, en especial, proyecto, deseo, esperanza sin probabilidad de realizarse.
Poco importa, creo, cuál de estas dos acepciones decidamos que casa mejor con la frase en concreto. En todo caso contar los sueños es abrir una puerta a algo muy íntimo, mucho más que contar los hechos concretos que nos sucedieron, mucho más que eso que llamamos “realidad” y que probablemente sea la parte menos “real” de nosotros mismos (y por eso, supongo, mucho más fácil de relatar). El sueño, en todo caso, es una puerta, es pasado y futuro, anhelo y renuncia, victoria y derrota, y poco importa si lo que soñamos lo soñamos despiertos o dormidos.

Leí una vez en un libro de un alemán que las personas que no desayunan desean evitar el contacto del día y no entrar en él, porque en realidad es sólo a través del segundo despertar, el del estómago, como se logra salir del todo de la penumbra y la esfera nocturna, y es sólo después de haber llegado sano y salvo a la otra orilla cuando puede uno permitirse relatar lo soñado sin que ello traiga calamidades consigo, ya que, si lo relata en ayunas, todavía se encuentra uno bajo el dominio del sueño y lo traiciona con sus palabras, exponiéndose así a su venganza. Y lo cuenta como si hablara dormido. Esta idea de raíces inconfundiblemente populares esconde, al igual que las que manejan los psiquiatras, psicólogos, psicoanalistas, psicoterapeutas y demás usurpadores de la palabra psique, un desprecio infinito hacia el sueño bajo su pretensión de tomárselo muy en serio, pues parte de la base de que hay dos mundos separados, el del sueño y el de la vigilia, o, lo que es peor, dos mundos enemistados, contrarios, recelosos el uno del otro, dispuestos a ocultarse sus riquezas y sus conocimientos y a no compartirlos ni aunarlos más que tras la toma violenta, la conversión forzada, la interpretación invasora de uno de los territorios, con la particularidad de que el único que padece esa ansia de sometimiento, el único al que alcanza ese ánimo de conquista, es el campo diurno.

Así, el León de Nápoles nos cuenta quizás algo tremendamente íntimo, aunque el lector no pueda saber hasta qué punto lo es, pues no puede conocer los hechos. No sabe cuánto de “real” hay ni cuánto de “sueño”. Probablemente, pienso, al contrario de lo que puede parecer , cuanto más tenga de sueño, más real será esta historia... Y esta es la idea que a mí me ha inoculado “El hombre sentimental”: la realidad suprema del sueño, su importancia última. Algo que el narrador expone cuando recuerda cómo, observando a la persona que duerme a su lado ...intentaba hacerme a la idea de que con mi propio pensamiento dormido debía comprender su sueño, es decir, comprenderla dormida. Quizás, la única manera de comprender, a través de los sueños y mientras nosotros mismos soñamos, traspasando ese umbral, ¿en qué otro lugar somos?

Como bien dijo Gérard de Nerval, El sueño es una segunda vida. La vida misma.

[Marc Lamot · Rating 3 out of 5]

Shadowy and diffuse, these are the key words of this novel. It is an early work by Marias, published in 1986, long before the works with which he broke through internationally. You can perhaps call it a master's thesis, in which a number of techniques and themes are already present that he would fine-tune in his later novels.

The story itself is rather thin, and that is already a first recurring characteristic of Marias’ work: an up coming opera singer looks back on an episode in his life, 4 years before, where he came into contact with 3 people: the Flemish banker Hieronymo Manur, his wife Natalia and her 'supervisor' Dato. His first meeting with them is in a train compartment on the way to Madrid. Not a word is said, but our opera singer tries to gauge his fellow travellers. That is also typical Marias: the looking at and gauging of others, making appraisals that later on mostly turn out to be wrong. Once in Madrid they (accidentally or not) get back together, and our singer falls in love with the woman. We learn in between that the relationship between Natalia and the banker is very unusual, as is the function of her 'supervisor' Dato. Marias here plays with a combination of triangle relationships. It doesn't end so well, but I'm not going to tell the outcome.

This seems like a coherent story, which intrigues and excites. But nothing could be further from the truth. In his monologue, our opera singer gives a glimpse into the events, jumps back and forth through time, and above all sprays a lot of mist. Striking is the emphasis he puts on the dreams that he still has after 4 years about what happened to him. So much so that you start to doubt the reality of what he says: maybe it's all just dreamed. For instance, Natalia, the woman around which everything revolves, remains a shadow: she never speaks, and she hardly takes any action; but indirectly, through her husband Hieronymo, we learn something essential (and quite shocking) about her. Natalia hardly seems of flesh-and-blood, perhaps she is just the product of our storyteller's imagination and desire. Marias here suggests that love mainly moves in the field of the imaginary; it only exists in the past and the future, not in the present.

The title of this work, “a man of feeling” is also quite misleading: what is meant by this? And who is it referring to? Because our narrative opera singer, for example, has isn't really an attractive person, you can safely call him an amoral, narcissistic and vane person and by no means a sensitive one.

In short, Marias has done everything to disorient us. Only with a lot of effort can you put the puzzle pieces together, by using casual comments the story teller makes. And even then, mostly shadow and fog lingers. The fact that our opera singer is a characteristicly unreliable narrator does not help, of course: in his tale dream and reality seem mixed and he sometimes gives contradictory information.

And then there is the ingenious temporality aspect of this novel: while he tells the story, our opera singer plays with different temporalities: he looks back in time, then jumps forward and back again, analyses what happens, reinterprets certain scenes and revisits everything. If you think about it, that's what we all do. In this sense, this technique is a wonderful approach to the complex, human reality, a reality that you barely get a grip on.

In other words, this 'master's thesis' by Marias is a very ambitious piece of work, no more or no less than an attempt to bring to life the chaos and complexity of reality, with all the fog and shadow that comes with it. And that too is a theme that Marias will ponder upon in his later, great novels.

Stylistically Marias is already experimenting here with his long, circular sentences, which contribute to the disorienting feeling. However, his technique is not yet fully developed. For people that struggle with this mesmerizing style that may be a relief; I had the feeling that this book from a literary point of view was not yet fully developed.

In short, this is an intriguing, early work by Marias, which is very ingeniously composed, but may seem too constructed, speaks more to the brain than to the heart. But you can already clearly see the hand of the great master here!

[Jonfaith · Rating 5 out of 5]

The Man of Feeling is a reinvention of Othello, one both wicked and wicked-smart. An opera singer reflects on a visit to Madrid to perform in Verdi's Otello. He encounters three people: a married couple and their (paid) companion. The Shakespearean roles are all twisted and dislocated. The matters are more mercenary here than the Bard's tale. Madrid is both home to the itinerant singer as well as some blurred noir, teeming with after-hour temptations and the ubiquity of garbage trucks. Marias offers a duality in the afterward: there are those who accept a fictive purpose and those who aspire to a reality, even if that tangibility destroys. Marias finds favor with the latter, especially those who are consequently consigned to memory's lens.

I fled through this novel, inhaling each sentence and marveling. An entire afternoon slipped between the pages. I find the Marias of this and Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me to be narcotic. The long form Javier of the trilogy doesn't have quite the same effect.

[Stephen P(who no longer can participate due to illness) · Rating 4 out of 5]

Marias writes as the master of realism. It is faithless to believe it is about the realistic, detailed rendering of events and objects. The Man Of Feeling instead searches out, in elegant prose, the portrayal of inner reality, its speculation as both strength and defense, or the need to discard it as cumbersome to the enjoyment of life lived within the boundaries of a life.

The first person narrator, a budding opera singer on the cusp of stardom, who must travel frequently for professional reasons, lives also on the cusp of speculative reality, amidst its fascinating but thinning process. Others in his life, as himself, are outlines to be filled in. At times it wasn't clear to me if what I was reading was a dream of his or what was actually unfolding, if there was a difference, if it mattered, if I cared.

Marias writes as an aesthetician never altering the purity of his style which calmness heightens the occasional shattering surprise, never breaking stride. The experience of reading such precise leveled prose while stepping across the Marias tightrope is eloquently disturbing, unsettling. It remained unclear if the characters were as described, reported or would prove to be other.

The story begins with our opera singer noticing the two men and a woman sitting across from him on a train traveling to his home city of Madrid. He remembers this journey and dreams obsessively about these three for the next four years. His accounts of their arrival and the first night at the hotel where all four are staying, at the hotel bar having a drink with one of the men. He works for the other whose speculation by the narrator observes his characteristics as, ambitious, greedy, an exploiter. The man at the bar, Dato, is the personal companion of the pale, sad woman married to our wealthy businessman. The opera singer, Dato and the woman will spend the majority of the remainder of the book together. Our narrator relieves Dato of the anxiety of having to entertain this woman which has become naturally increasing difficult over the years. Each relationship bends, becomes strained, resolves only to alter. These are not people who have an interest-ability-to participate in the sweat, odors, vulnerabilities of the intertwinings of a true human relationship. Living at a periphery appearing situated on a stable ground they raise the question of the worth of speculating about life or wouldn't it be easier to… Whether these accounts take place within the narrator's obsessive dreams from over the past years, in a recent dream, or have we slipped into the present seems outside of the aesthetic concerns and not noticed. Marias' train slides smoothly along the track. No jolts, jags, are present to disturb our ride. Yet, we notice these people, care about them because shyly admitted there is a little in each we find in ourselves.

As with any and all works by Marias a thanks must be given out to Mike Puma for introducing this great author to myself and the GR community.

[Gumble's Yard - Golden Reviewer · Rating 5 out of 5]

The novel is narrated by an opera singer who has awoken from a dream recalling events of four years ago when he met the women who became his lover for four years (and who we later learn seems to have left him on the day of the narration). He first observes her on a train with two companions and is then approached by one of them (her chaperone) to be a temporary diversion for her. When his relations with her start to turn serious he is warned off by her husband – who reveals that he has married her for love but that she has married him out of her families economic needs and that he hopes one day she will return his love provided she is not loved by any other. She seems to choose this meeting to finally break her 15 year old unhappy marriage and goes off with the singer. Shortly after her husband commits suicide – the singer at the end of the book is clear that, abandoned in turn, he won’t.

Beautifully crafted in plot, concept and in its language and writing. The relatively short nature of the book (almost a novella) is critical as it means that Marias’s complex prose which often turns in on itself into self-indulgence, does not cross over the line into being unreadable.

The key themes (as pointed out by Marias in a helpful postscript) are: love – anticipated and recollected rather than experienced; pointedly the book is set before and after the four years of actual relationship; real devotion and feeling – as exhibited by the (at first seemingly cold and business like) husband who is prepared to wait forever for some requited feeling and loses his will to live when the (however unlikely) possibility is taken away but not by the singer who simply takes what he wants and accepts its ending; stories/dreams/imagination including striking meditations on how the very act of writing a story eventually gives it a logic and makes it seem inevitable (something the singer discusses in his narration as he recounts his tale but also that Marias says reflects his way of writing which is to let a story emerge naturally from fragmentary ideas) and on the fact that dreams don’t need a logic or justification of plot they simply are taken as they are (and in some ways can be more represent reality than an attempt to provide causation/intention).

[David · Rating 4 out of 5]

Two men and a woman are observed on a train, Milan to Venice.

A Catalan opera singer, el León de Nápoles. A Belgian banker, Manur. His wife, Natalia. A seedy side kick, Dato. He protects the wife. The famed love triangle.

An opera at el Teatro de la Zarzuela. Otello. A famed love triangle. Jealousy, betrayal, power and deception. And we know how this ends.

Past, present, future. Oneric. Dream-like. A distraction. Is it an illusion? Reality? How does one start and where does it end.

Ah señor Marías, you know how to tell a story. Such evocative words. Such illicit behaviours. Que palabras maravillosas.

[Hakan · Rating 3 out of 5]

Biraz gecikmeyle keşfettiğim ve yazdıklarını yavaş yavaş okumakta olduğum Marias'ın erken dönem romanlarından olan Duygusal Adam, okuduğum diğer iki kitabının (Karasevdalılar ve Beyaz Kalp) biraz daha gerisinde. Yine de ilgiyle okudum, ama zaman zaman gösterişçi, yüksekten atan tarzı rahatsız etmedi değil. Yine bir aşk üçgeni var. Baş kahramanının ünlenmekte olan genç bir opera şarkıcısı olması, üslubunun biraz Proust'u andırması, fonda Madrid'in olması, bu konulara ilgi duyanlar açısından bu kısa romanı daha dikkat çekici kılabilir. Marias'ı okumaya devam edeceğim.

[Elina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ένα ρομαντικό, παθιασμένο μυθιστόρημα. Ένα όνειρο αναπαριστά μια πραγματικότητα και 3 ζωές μπλέκονται με απρόβλεπτες συνέπειες και για τις ίδιες αλλά και με παράπλευρες απώλειες.
Συστήνεται ανεπιφύλακτα!

[Nora Barnacle · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sentimentalni čovek mi deluje kao nekakva skica ili kolokvijum pred „Sutra u boju misli na mene“, a Havijer Marijas je tim romanom kod mene položio i dobro se pozicionirao na „Obrati pažnju“ listi. Ima podudarnosti koje su, ispostavlja se, neizostavni elementi ovog autora: žena sasvim nenadno umire u snu, polugola; ljubavnik se suočava sa mužem u ekstremno napetoj atmosferi (da čitalac prosto svisne od neprijatnosti na tuđ račun); bogatom i naizgled dominantnom alfa mužjaku se ubrzo razotkriju staklene noge; skupi hoteli, elegancija građanske klase, malo umetnost... i neki posrednik, epizodna četvrta tačka ljubavnog trougla koja predstavlja zamenu za deus ex machina, boga, slučajnost, splet okolnosti ili druge fantastičnosti koje pisac radije izbegava. Ipak, ovo nije restl od uspelog dela, niti samoponavljanje: ovde skoro da i nema kontemplacija i filozofskih tirada, a svako skretanje sa pravca je u službi fabule. Prosto, dve knjige istog autora - jedna tanja, a jedna deblja.
Reč je, pre svega, o uzbudljivoj, kratkoj i korektno napisanoj priči koja se bavi ozbiljnim temama, ali dalje od „I nek’ Svemir čuje nemir“ ne ide. Ili bar ne eksplicitno. Kod Marijasa ni ranije pa ni ovde nisam primetila demonski talenat (kao što je talentovan Selin, na primer), ne vidim ni lucidnost i mimo-svetost (kakvom isijava Bolanjo), niti ima izmišljanja kojekavih rupa na saksiji (da mi je znati ko ga je i zašto povezao sa Markesom). Svaka prilika za patetisanje je kulturno prebojena ironijom, nema nikakvog razmahivanja, pretencioznosti niti nametanja, sve je pristojno ukrojeno i može da pristane svakom čitalačkom ukusu (osim onima koji očekuju da će im neka knjiga promeniti život).
Kao što rekoh, kao Bajaga (fin mladić): niko nije u fazonu „daj, isključi to drndanje“, ali će malo ko i gladovati da bi kupio karte za fan pit.
Ili kao Kišlovski.
Relna ocena je 3, ali ne „aj’ trojka“ nego „Dobar. Tri.“, a ja ću ostaviti 4 zvezdice koje je, prosečno, dobio i od ostalih čitalaca, odgovarajući pristojnošću na odmerenost.
Odavno mi je jasno da jedan pisac ne može sve knjige da napiše dobro, ali se nadam da Havijer Marijas neće još mnogo spuštati nivo. Davnih dana sam na sličan način cenila Nabokova (posle „Dara“), a onda me je („Lužinovom odbranom“) toliko iznervirao da sad skuplja prašinu knjigama koje su, kažu, uspelije. Iako je Nabokov manje odmeren, a bolji stilista, među njima dvojicom ima neke sličnosti, makar što se tiče onog opšteg utiska po kome se knjiga pamti i koji ostaje kad sve pojedinosti iščile.

[LW · Rating 3 out of 5]

L'amore che si annuncia e si ricorda

Marías con L'uomo sentimentale ci conduce in una dimensione dell'amore particolare, quella dell'immaginazione,o proiettiva, quella intravista, della possibilità
La voce narrante racconta qualcosa che è accaduto realmente, ma che è anche un sogno, vivido
lento anche se molto colorato
La storia ha i contorni sfumati ,quasi fosse un quadro dai colori pastello , però, qua e là , sono ben riconoscibili le pennellate d'autore di affascinante capacità descrittiva

La calvizie che doveva essere stata prematura non era riuscita ad indebolire la sua soddisfazione di sé e neppure la convinzione della sua sete di dominio, né aveva stemperato- tanto meno offuscato- l'espressione pungente di quegli occhi abituati a passare rapidamente attraverso le cose del mondo- abituati ad essere carezzati dalle cose del mondo- e che erano del colore del cognac .

Due elementi mi hanno convinto poco di questo Marías dell'87 ...ho avuto perplessità sulla parte iniziale ,troppo aleatoria ,e soprattutto mi ha irritato l'apatia e l'opacità di Natalia, che pur essendo la protagonista femminile, centrale nella vicenda, resta sfocata, sfuggente, confinata sullo sfondo.
e poi dov'è el hombre sentimental? Gli uomini sono 2 ! :)
Uno è cinico, prepotente ,non ama ma possiede e controlla e l'altro ,il tenore , è un solitario, un uomo freddo, narciso, ambizioso ,dei due temo nessuno lo sia ...
3 stelle e mezzo

per estimatori di Marías non di primo pelo :)

[Lucia · Rating 4 out of 5]

Voy a transcribir aquí las palabras del propio autor que tan bien describen el amor, y por tanto su obra:
“Es una historia de amor, en la que el amor no se ve ni se vive, sino que se anuncia y se recuerda...
El amor está fundamentado en gran medida en su anticipación y en su memoria. Es el sentimiento que exige mayores dosis de imaginación, no sólo cuando se lo intuye, cuando se lo ve venir, y no sólo cuando quien lo ha experimentado y lo ha perdido tienen la necesidad de explicárselo, sino también mientras el propio amor se desarrolla y tiene plena vigencia. Es un sentimiento que exige algo ficticio además de lo que le procura la realidad.

El amor siempre tiene una proyección imaginaria.

[Carmo · Rating 4 out of 5]

A história deste livro parte de uma dessas situações banais que acontecem todos os dias e que à primeira vista não trazem nada de novo. Um homem - um cantor de ópera que passa a vida em viagem por cidades diferentes e que fica sempre hospedado em hotéis de luxo, conhece numa dessas viagens, um casal que viaja acompanhado por outro homem. É aqui que a situação começa a ficar estranha, pois o terceiro elemento exerce a função de "cão de guarda". Aquele casamento foi um negócio e o marido - homem rico e deveras ocupado sem tempo disponível para dedicar à esposa - tudo faz para impedir assaltos indesejados ao seu investimento.
Desta vez foi diferente e deu origem a um triângulo amoroso que poderia ter tido vários desfechos mais ou menos felizes - seria sempre infeliz para um deles - e que acaba por se desenvolver de uma forma que não é lá muito surpreendente, com consequências, essas sim, inesperadas, e um final um tanto amargo.
O fascínio da leitura prende-se mais na escrita do que propriamente no enredo. Javier Marías é licenciado em Filosofia e usa toda a sua capacidade de retórica e poder argumentativo na narrativa. As descrições dos ambientes, das pessoas à volta e, especialmente, das personagens principais são feitas à lupa: as roupas, os gestos,os hábitos, permitem adivinhar o seu interior e descobrir as suas inquietações e manias.
A narrativa feita pela voz do "intruso" - o cantor de ópera - é minuciosa sem descurar o minimo pormenor. Primeiro é feita com o sabor da expectativa do que irá acontecer, acompanhando o dia a dia do grupo em Madrid, que culmina com um dos melhores diálogos do livro - quando o marido desconfiado confronta o potencial rival - e posteriormente, já após o desenlace da história, numa espécie de rememorar dos acontecimentos. É assim; uma história que se prevê, se recorda, mas não se conhece quando acontece. Extremamente bem escrito(percebe-se a inteligência do autor em cada linha) merece uma leitura calma e atenta.

[Tom the Teacher · Rating 3 out of 5]

Talk about an unreliable narrator!

I picked up this slim tome among a few others by Marías to bring with me on a trip to Madrid. While it doesn't really do a great job of evoking the city - in fact, the narrator seems to actively dislike it! - it was still an absorbing narrative.

It almost read like a stream-of-consciousness, jumping around chronologically at times with the unnamed narrator recalling his two loves, Natalia and Berta, and questioning the nature of love.

The title of the novel was interesting to me, as I found the narrator for the most part arrogant, self-absorbed, and lacking real sentiment (especially when it comes to Berta). Still, there's enough semblance of a plot to carry this through, and the narrator's thoughts and musings sometimes veer into almost omniscient territory, allowing gaps to be filled in plausible ways.

Marías also writes in exceptionally long paragraphs - sometimes taking entire pages - and boy oh boy does he love his brackets. There's not much in the way of beautiful metaphors and similes, however what Marías does exceptionally is get into the head of this character and create a person who is wholly convincing, flaws and all. Despite the pages of solid text and the lack of flowery devices, the flow of the writing worked and, despite my reservations when flicking through this in Waterstones, I never felt that it dragged.

In terms of who this reads like...perhaps Elena Ferrante, but with the thoughts of the narrator portrayed in a more frank and less lyrical manner?

Overall, a good read to start the year, and I'll definitely be checking out more by Marías.

3.5* rounded down to three, as the formatting did get rather tedious at times.

[Hugh · Rating 4 out of 5]

An intriguing and haunting meditation on the nature of love, loss and the space between dreams and memories.

[Solistas · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5/5

15 χρονιά μετά το ντεμπούτο του που διάβασα το περασμένο καλοκαίρι, ο Μαρίας την εποχή που κυκλοφορεί αυτό το σύντομο μυθιστόρημα είναι ένας τελείως διαφορετικός συγγραφέας. Στοχεύει σε άλλα πράγματα πια κ έχει γίνει ένας φοβερός στυλίστας που με δεξιοτεχνία κινεί τα νήματα της ιστορίας πηγαίνοντας μπρος πίσω στο χρόνο με μεγάλη άνεση κ διατηρεί αμείωτο το ενδιαφέρον του αναγνώστη καθώς η πραγματικότητα μπλέκεται με ή παραμορφώνεται από το όνειρο.

Είναι κάπως δύσκολο να μιλήσεις για το βιβλίο χωρίς να προδώσεις μέρος της πλοκής που έχει στηθεί με μεγάλη προσοχή. Ο αφηγητής, διάσημος τραγουδιστής της όπερας που πλέον φέρει το παρατσούκλι ο Λέων της Νάπολης, βλέπει στο όνειρο του όσα συνέβησαν πριν από 4 χρόνια στη Μαδρίτη όταν προετοιμαζόταν για να ερμηνεύσει τον Κάσσιο απ'τον Οθέλλο του Σαίξπηρ. Με αυτό το τέχνασμα ο Λέων γίνεται αυτόματα ένας αναξιόπιστος αφηγητής αφού η αλήθεια των γεγονοτών θολώνει απ'το σύμφωνα με την πραγματικότητα όνειρο που βλέπει κ καταγράφει στο χαρτί το ίδιο πρωι παραμένοντας νηστικός γιατί πιστεύει πως μόνο έτσι θα παραμείνει στη μνήμη του κ δεν θα εξαφανιστεί (είναι πιο κατανοητό στο βιβλίο απ'ότι δείχνει η παραπάνω πρόταση).

Όπως στον Οθέλλο έτσι κ εδώ δημιουργείται ένα πολύ ιδιαίτερο ερωτικό τρίγωνο που ο συγγραφέας σκιαγραφεί με μεγάλη προσοχή κ βάθος. Η μοναξιά των ανθρώπων που είναι σε μόνιμη κίνηση κ μένουν χωρίς δικό τους τόπο, η επιμονή του ερωτευμένου ανθρώπου, οι ανεπιθύμητες επιλογές που αναγκάζονται να πάρουν τα μέλη μιας οικογένειας για να την σώσουν, ο θάνατος κ φυσικά τα όνειρα, μακριά από τα φροϋδικά πιστεύω, είναι μόνο κάποια απ'τα θέματα που καθορίζουν αυτό το αρκετά πλούσιο κείμενο.

Είναι μάλλον ένα-δυο σκαλιά κάτω απ'το Αύριο στη Μάχη να με σκεφτείς, κ λέω μάλλον γιατί δεν θυμάμαι κ πολλά πέρα απ'το ότι μου άρεσε πάρα πολύ όταν το είχα διαβάσει (θα το ξαναπιάσω, ελπίζω μέσα στη χρονιά), κ ανυπομονώ να προχωρήσω παρακάτω στην βιβλιογραφία του. Είναι απ'τα παράδοξα της εγχώριας βιβλιοφιλικής πραγματικότητας που ο Μαρίας δεν έχει τους αναγνώστες που αναλογούν στη θέση του στα ευρωπαϊκά γράμματα αλλά δεν είναι ούτε ο πρώτος ούτε ο τελευταίος. Την άνοιξη περιμένουμε κ το καινούργιο του βιβλίο απ'τον Πατάκη.

Τέλος, η μέτρια μετάφραση (όπως φαίνεται ήδη απ'τον τίτλο) κ κυρίως η ανύπαρκτη επιμέλεια ευτυχώς δεν χαλάνε το κείμενο που έχει υπέροχη ροή αν κ ζητάει αρκετές παύσεις για να το απολαύσεις. Σύμφωνα με τη φτωχή μου, ακόμα, εμπειρία με τον συγγραφέα, ο (συν)αισθηματικός άντρας είναι ιδανικό σημείο εκκίνησης για όσους ενδιαφέρονται να γνωρίσουν έναν τόσο καλό συγγραφέα.

[Oscar · Rating 3 out of 5]

La historia comienza cuando el narrador pone por escrito (y al mismo tiempo nos cuenta) el sueño que acaba de tener. Los hechos que nos narra (y que ha soñado) empezaron hace cuatro años, cuando el protagonista, tenor de profesión, viaja a Madrid en tren para una actuación. Será durante este viaje en tren donde se fije en tres personas, que le llaman poderosamente la atención, dos hombres y una mujer. La afilada percepción del protagonista (y de Marías) nos describe detalladamente como son estas personas. Pero lo que podría pasar por mero pasatiempo o curiosidad, se convierte en mucho más cuando se encuentre de nuevo con ellos, esta vez en Madrid.

Esta novela nos retrata el clásico triángulo amoroso, pero sin caer en los típicos estereotipos, ya que Marías aprovecha para divagar sobre diversos temas de ámbito humano y artístico. La prosa de Marías es como un río, con sus remansos y sus rápidos, y cuando te habituas a ella, te arrastra en su corriente. Buena novela, aunque la historia no termina de cuajar como debería.

[Naim · Rating 5 out of 5]

Its a joy reading Javier Marias. He has a talent for beautifully forming characters and resonating with passages and phrases throughout his novel. Becoming one of my favourite contemporary writers.
"love always has an imaginary side to it, however tangible or real we believe it to be at any given moment." The realm.

[Álvaro Curia]

DNF

[Ade Bailey · Rating 5 out of 5]

Joy upon joy. Halfway through. Getting to know Marias. There's the woman on the bed sitting with her thighs showing. Here are six imagined scenarios of a woman undressing for bed as imagined by her absurd lover who's singing Cassio in Otello. Metonym after metonym of gnarled fingers, gleaming teeth, the space between breasts setting off a cataclysm, thighs that feel like scar tissue. Oh, and the poor fat boy, most ridiculous of all prisoners forced to wear short trousers until he was 16 by his cruel guardian. It was five stars after five pages. I'll do the rest if there is anything to be done shortly, although this short novel really does say it all for itself. Brilliant.

I hadn't known that there is an author's afterword, fascinating in itself on the subject of the writing process.

As I now expect from Maria, his fictions revel in fiction itself. There's a delightful irony about 'feeling'. For instance, there is a sort of throw away line that men don't have feelings; rather that they have all the wrong feelings. Feelings which are valorised positively involve sensitivity, care, empathy and so on (you can find a list in your local night class prospectus or counselling course). This particular work of fiction is set in the grand theatre of operatic feelings, of tragedy, Otello providing an uncomplicated and appropriate orientation within the story. Love, jealousy, intrigue on a grand scale. But opera is about acting, techniques, the mechanics of keeping the voice healthy, much exercising. Outside the acting, only one character in this book is in the grip of 'authentic' feeling, and even that follows a sort of narrative, an acting out. (Marias leaves an open verdict on the cumulation of the man of feeling's feeling). The minor characters (sleazy Dato or jealous musicians and singers, or one randy couple, or destroyed travelling salesmen) have transitory, minor feelings, although it should be pointed out that the narrator sees that his own end may induce the horror of madness typified by some of the salesmen at the end of the road, so there is a nagging minor chord of dread; the central female character, novelty seeking, grand passion seeking, searching for an opera to star in, collapses into Madam Bovary like moral dissipation, slumped on a bed (a centre stage for Marias) watching televison.

As I also expect now, the narrator is not attractive. His 'love' is no doubt felt (negatively) yet his own seeking to take part in the oldest narrative of all means that he, unlike the true man of feeling will be free to enjoy the possibilities of anticipation, fulfilment and catastrophe.

[Nicko D · Rating 4 out of 5]

В любовния триъгълник винаги някой е излишен, винаги. И в повечето случаи краят на подобни любовни каламбури е фатален, обикновено за най-невинния и най-обичащият. „Сантименталният мъж“ на Хавиер Мариас е посветен именно на отношенията в двойките, когато помежду им се появява трети. Книгата е част от каталога на издателство „Колибри“, в превод на Теодора Цанкова.

Хавиер Мариас е сред най-знаковите имена на съвременната испанска литература. Творбите му са отличителни не толкова заради сюжета сам по себе си, колкото заради стиловото писане на Мариас. В романите си испанецът разглежда познати тематики, но по изключителни описателен и сладкодумен начин. Не случайно турският нобелов лауреат Орхан Памук казва за Хавиер, че е „един от писателите, достойни за Нобелова награда“. Досущ като колегата си турчин, Мариас пише монотонно, напоително и многословно, но съдържателно.

„Защото много добре знам, че няма по-ефикасно, нито по-продължително покорство от онова, което се гради върху измисленото или дори върху никога несъществувалото“.

„Сантименталният мъж“ е любовна история, в която обаче любовта не се изживява, а се предвещава и спомня. Повествованието се води от първо лице – гласът на един успял оперен певец, чиито сънища се смесват с реалността и в получения делириум са образите на главните герои в книгата. Романът започва във влак, където оперният певец е на път за поредната премиера, когато в купето среща странно трио – жена, съпруга й и неговия секретар, неин компаньон. Съдбата обаче ги среща отново, когато всички те се озовават в един и същи хотел. Страница след страница Хавиер надига булото на героите си, всеки потопен в собственото си нещастие, докато накрая всичките не се оказват замесени в омагьосан многоъгълник.

„Но твоята смърт би била и моята“

„Сантименталният мъж“ е творба, която се чете бавно и се отличава от обичайните книги на пазара с литературното майсторство, с което Мариас подхожда към темата за изневярата, привързаността и взаимните ангажименти. Писан преди 30 години, романът не се отклонява от класическата линия на жанра, а качествата му го превръщат в модерна класика.

Хавиер Мариас, роден през 1951 г., най-емблематичният съвременен испански писател, публикува първия си роман, когато е едва 19-годишен. Днес книгите му са преведени на 35 езика, а той е носител на множество престижни литературни награди. Романът „За мен спомни си в утрешната битка“, един от знаковите за писателя, е отличен с наградата „Фастенрат“ на Испанската кралска академия, наградата на Венесуела за испаноезична проза „Ромуло Галиегос“, френската „Фемина” за чуждестранна литература, италианската „Мондело“ и др. Наградени са и много от преводите му от английски. Хавиер Мариас е преподавал испанска литература и теория на превода в Оксфордския университет и теория на превода в университета „Комплутенсе“ в Мадрид. От 2006 г. е член на Испанската кралска академия. За него бостънският „Глоуб“ пише: „Най-нюансираният и надарен писател на съвременната испанска литература“.