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Çatı Katı
Ayıp, benim için her türlü anlamını yitirmiş, üstü çizilmiş, yok olmuş bir sözcüktü alt tarafı. Artık insanlardan korkacak bir şeyimin olmadığını, hakkımda ne düşündüklerine aldırmadığımı bilmek büyük bir keyifti.
Sessiz bir evde kendi sesini arayan bir kadın. Dış dünyanın beklentileri, evin gündelik düzeni, kocasının gölgesi arasında yavaşça silinen bir benlik… Ve o, bir gün çatı katına çekilir.
Orası onun sığınağı olur: Düşünme, yazma ve hayal etme mekânı. İç özgürlüğünün kalesidir çatı katı. Oraya çekildiğinde artık kimsenin karısı, annesi, komşusu değildir. Yalnızca kendisidir.
Çatı katının sessizliğinde düşünüp yazdıkları hem bir itiraf hem de direniştir. Ama bu sessizlik giderek derinleşir — dış sesler uzaklaşır, hatta bir gün tamamen kaybolur. Kadın duymamayı seçerek dünyayı susturur; çünkü ilk kez kendi iç sesini duymaktadır.
Marlen Haushofer’in Çatı Katı, kadınlığın bastırılmış yankılarını sessizlikte arayan unutulmaz bir roman. Kısık sesli ama sarsıcı bir iç konuşma: Bir kadının kendi varlığını yeniden yazma hikâyesi.
Haushofer’in metni bir basitlik ve vecizlik modeli, fakat cümlelerinin çizdiği resimler muamma dolu… Kitapları feminizm, varoluşçuluk yahut psikanaliz bağlamında değerlendirilebilir veya bunları sadece düşler ya da gerilim romanları olarak okuyabiliriz.
London Review of Books
Sessiz bir evde kendi sesini arayan bir kadın. Dış dünyanın beklentileri, evin gündelik düzeni, kocasının gölgesi arasında yavaşça silinen bir benlik… Ve o, bir gün çatı katına çekilir.
Orası onun sığınağı olur: Düşünme, yazma ve hayal etme mekânı. İç özgürlüğünün kalesidir çatı katı. Oraya çekildiğinde artık kimsenin karısı, annesi, komşusu değildir. Yalnızca kendisidir.
Çatı katının sessizliğinde düşünüp yazdıkları hem bir itiraf hem de direniştir. Ama bu sessizlik giderek derinleşir — dış sesler uzaklaşır, hatta bir gün tamamen kaybolur. Kadın duymamayı seçerek dünyayı susturur; çünkü ilk kez kendi iç sesini duymaktadır.
Marlen Haushofer’in Çatı Katı, kadınlığın bastırılmış yankılarını sessizlikte arayan unutulmaz bir roman. Kısık sesli ama sarsıcı bir iç konuşma: Bir kadının kendi varlığını yeniden yazma hikâyesi.
Haushofer’in metni bir basitlik ve vecizlik modeli, fakat cümlelerinin çizdiği resimler muamma dolu… Kitapları feminizm, varoluşçuluk yahut psikanaliz bağlamında değerlendirilebilir veya bunları sadece düşler ya da gerilim romanları olarak okuyabiliriz.
London Review of Books
152 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1969
55 people are currently reading
1378 people want to read
About the author
Marlen Haushofer
35 books326 followersMarlen Haushofer was born in Frauenstein, Molln, Austria on April the 11th, 1920. She went to a Catholic gymnasium that was turned in a public school under the Nazi regime. She started her studies on German Language and Literature, in 1940 in Vienna and later on in Graz. She married the dentist Manfred Haushofer in 1941, they divorced in 1950 but reunited in 1957. They had a son together, in addition to the one son she had brought to their “second” marriage.
Although Marlen Haushofer won prizes for her work and gained critics laud, she was an almost forgotten author until the Women's Movement rediscovered her, with special attention of the role of women in the male-dominated society themes in her work.
Die Wand (The Wall) can be seen as her main-work. It was published 1963, and it's a novel about a woman cut off from society that made her living on her own in the woods. Not only because of the open ending, the novel allows a big variety of interpretations.
Marlen Haushofer came down with bone cancer and died on March the 21st 1970, she was only 49 years old.
Although Marlen Haushofer won prizes for her work and gained critics laud, she was an almost forgotten author until the Women's Movement rediscovered her, with special attention of the role of women in the male-dominated society themes in her work.
Die Wand (The Wall) can be seen as her main-work. It was published 1963, and it's a novel about a woman cut off from society that made her living on her own in the woods. Not only because of the open ending, the novel allows a big variety of interpretations.
Marlen Haushofer came down with bone cancer and died on March the 21st 1970, she was only 49 years old.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 110 reviews
August 25, 2024
Tive então uma revelação, como se fosse um relâmpago: sou um monstro, um monstro que quer vaguear livre e solitário pelos bosques e que não suporta que um galho lhe toque levemente na testa. Isso não seria muito grave. Mas este monstro deseja de tempos a tempos ser amado e acariciado e rasteja gemendo para a companhia dos homens.
Como é que um livro pode ser tão bom e causar tanto mal-estar? Como é que a claustrofobia causada pela mente desta mulher pode ser tão libertadora? “A Mansarda” é um livro paradoxal relatado por uma narradora emocionalmente reprimida que não inspira confiança, que de tão franca que é me faz pensar se é somente crua devido aos traumas que vivenciou, ou se já passou para a esfera da loucura, como por vezes ela mesma insinua.
Sem muito estardalhaço, eles conseguiram morrer de tuberculose. Desembaraçavam-se de mim sempre que lhes era possível e nunca me beijavam e mal me tocavam. (...) Em criança era muito carente de amor, acariciava então todos os cães e todos gatos, e se não houvesse nenhum ali perto, até beijava árvores e pedras.
A protagonista desta obra é uma dona de casa burguesa de 47 anos, casada e com dois filhos de que parece gostar mas sem efusões de afecto.
Às vezes provoco um bocadinho Ilse e ela reage normalmente e berra comigo ou até é um pouco malcriada. Isso alegra-me, e tenho de me dominar para não a louvar. Grita, minha filha, penso eu, grita e defende-te quando te atacam. Com a nossa indiferente amabilidade o que queremos é matar-te, isso não pode acontecer. (...) Não sirvo para educar, é óbvio. Para que é que eu sirvo, isso é que eu não sei, porque até na mansarda, ao pintar e desenhar, não consigo chegar nunca ao objectivo que me pus.
É precisamente nessas águas-furtadas que se liberta da vidinha rotineira, da modorra do dia-a-dia, de um casamento estagnado que não passa de uma formalidade, quando na realidade tem uma vida mental incansável e acutilante, por vezes, cruel, cheia de reflexões que tenta reprimir porque são “pensamentos da mansarda”. É também lá que retoma a pintura, com a qual, simbolicamente, tem “como meta desenhar uma ave que não seja a única ave do mundo”.
E é para lá que, durante seis dias seguidos, leva em segredo os envelopes que recebe anonimamente pelo correio, os quais a fazem voltar 17 anos atrás, a uma altura em que, sem razão aparente, ao ouvir a sirene dos bombeiros, tão semelhante às sirenes que soavam durante a guerra, ficou surda, motivo pelo qual o marido a mandou para as montanhas. Durante mais de um ano aí permanece, isolada, como uma proscrita, longe do marido e do pequeno filho, a ler, a fazer ilustrações para uma editora, a caminhar e a passar para um diário as suas inquietações e o pouco que lhe acontece, até poder voltar para casa.
Estou contente por ter passado o Verão. Um verão de silêncio mortal. Tempestades que só posso ver, pancadas de água que não penetram nos meus ouvidos, vento que silenciosamente rasga por entre os meus cabelos, um concerto de aves que não é cantado para mim (…). Como o mundo mudo num quadro antigo. Será melhor para mim acocorar-me no Inverno no cadeirão de couro para ler e desenhar. Não magoa tanto, de certeza.
“A Mansarda” é um livro muito inquietante protagonizado por uma mulher que imagino com um rosto impassível que, com frases como esta, me fez gelar o sangue:
Podia de igual modo embriagar-me ou tomar comprimidos ou pedir a uma alma compassiva que me batesse com o martelo na cabeça todos os dias.
Quem procura leituras de que não se sai incólume, atreva-se por sua conta e risco a ler Marlen Haushofer.
Também eu já não durmo tão bem como antigamente. Acordo pelas 4 horas e sou uma pessoa completamente diferente do que de dia. Tenho medo, porque o meu Eu-das-quatro-horas é um ser estranho e destruidor que tem a intenção de me destruir.
[Obrigada, Celeste!]
Como é que um livro pode ser tão bom e causar tanto mal-estar? Como é que a claustrofobia causada pela mente desta mulher pode ser tão libertadora? “A Mansarda” é um livro paradoxal relatado por uma narradora emocionalmente reprimida que não inspira confiança, que de tão franca que é me faz pensar se é somente crua devido aos traumas que vivenciou, ou se já passou para a esfera da loucura, como por vezes ela mesma insinua.
Sem muito estardalhaço, eles conseguiram morrer de tuberculose. Desembaraçavam-se de mim sempre que lhes era possível e nunca me beijavam e mal me tocavam. (...) Em criança era muito carente de amor, acariciava então todos os cães e todos gatos, e se não houvesse nenhum ali perto, até beijava árvores e pedras.
A protagonista desta obra é uma dona de casa burguesa de 47 anos, casada e com dois filhos de que parece gostar mas sem efusões de afecto.
Às vezes provoco um bocadinho Ilse e ela reage normalmente e berra comigo ou até é um pouco malcriada. Isso alegra-me, e tenho de me dominar para não a louvar. Grita, minha filha, penso eu, grita e defende-te quando te atacam. Com a nossa indiferente amabilidade o que queremos é matar-te, isso não pode acontecer. (...) Não sirvo para educar, é óbvio. Para que é que eu sirvo, isso é que eu não sei, porque até na mansarda, ao pintar e desenhar, não consigo chegar nunca ao objectivo que me pus.
É precisamente nessas águas-furtadas que se liberta da vidinha rotineira, da modorra do dia-a-dia, de um casamento estagnado que não passa de uma formalidade, quando na realidade tem uma vida mental incansável e acutilante, por vezes, cruel, cheia de reflexões que tenta reprimir porque são “pensamentos da mansarda”. É também lá que retoma a pintura, com a qual, simbolicamente, tem “como meta desenhar uma ave que não seja a única ave do mundo”.
E é para lá que, durante seis dias seguidos, leva em segredo os envelopes que recebe anonimamente pelo correio, os quais a fazem voltar 17 anos atrás, a uma altura em que, sem razão aparente, ao ouvir a sirene dos bombeiros, tão semelhante às sirenes que soavam durante a guerra, ficou surda, motivo pelo qual o marido a mandou para as montanhas. Durante mais de um ano aí permanece, isolada, como uma proscrita, longe do marido e do pequeno filho, a ler, a fazer ilustrações para uma editora, a caminhar e a passar para um diário as suas inquietações e o pouco que lhe acontece, até poder voltar para casa.
Estou contente por ter passado o Verão. Um verão de silêncio mortal. Tempestades que só posso ver, pancadas de água que não penetram nos meus ouvidos, vento que silenciosamente rasga por entre os meus cabelos, um concerto de aves que não é cantado para mim (…). Como o mundo mudo num quadro antigo. Será melhor para mim acocorar-me no Inverno no cadeirão de couro para ler e desenhar. Não magoa tanto, de certeza.
“A Mansarda” é um livro muito inquietante protagonizado por uma mulher que imagino com um rosto impassível que, com frases como esta, me fez gelar o sangue:
Podia de igual modo embriagar-me ou tomar comprimidos ou pedir a uma alma compassiva que me batesse com o martelo na cabeça todos os dias.
Quem procura leituras de que não se sai incólume, atreva-se por sua conta e risco a ler Marlen Haushofer.
Também eu já não durmo tão bem como antigamente. Acordo pelas 4 horas e sou uma pessoa completamente diferente do que de dia. Tenho medo, porque o meu Eu-das-quatro-horas é um ser estranho e destruidor que tem a intenção de me destruir.
[Obrigada, Celeste!]
May 18, 2025
Our unnamed narrator is 47 and lives a quiet life with her husband Hubert in Austria. She is a housewife, she works hard to make Hubert’s life as easy as possible, spending her free time in the loft of their house where she draws birds and insects, though many a time they fail to meet her satisfaction and are confined to a drawer. The loft is her place of retreat, of peace from her somewhat dull, silent and distant husband whose horizons are very narrow. It’s a release from the monotony of her days and the mundane repetitiveness, where she aims to keep busy to keep her thoughts under control. One day her uncertain equilibrium is disturbed when an unexpected package in a yellow envelope arrives and so she bundles it away so it cannot have its intended impact. However, read it she must as it’s her old diary. This 1969 work centres around the anatomy of a marriage which can best be described as shrivelled on the vine and the guilt that lies at the heart of it all. It examines how being solitary can be rewarding in the quest for survival.
This novel is beautifully written, it’s lyrical at times with apt phrases and images. Each scene is written with careful clarity so they can easily be seen with the minds eye. I can picture Hubert, reading his historical tomes of epic battles and her carefully drawing swallows or whatever the focus is and the dissatisfaction when what’s in her head doesn’t always translate to how she imagines. It’s very revealing on her background, her parents and extended family and how this leads to keeping herself so buttoned up. Despite the bleakness of it, the spotlight on her marriage is revealing and immersive reading and as for Hubert, it’s no wonder she takes herself off to the loft so frequently!
I really like the author’s style of writing, she seems to be able to make the most ordinary interesting by her tone, her occasional humour, her incisive and often amusing phrases or descriptions of people. This means that our narrators encounters are always fascinating as you see these people through her eyes.
There’s a real mystery attached to the yellow envelopes and it’s never fully resolved. You never truly find out what trauma precipitates the sequence of events. Despite the darkness and the depressing nature of her life, our narrator is very likeable, she’s honest and good company. A lot of what happens to her seems to be self imposed, but it all demonstrates her isolation from life in general. You become part of inner turmoil but by sticking to a strict routine it helps to keep her going.
This is a very different and unusual novel, it’s insightful and I’m glad to have been offered the opportunity to read it.
Marlen Haushofer 1920-70
An Austrian author, her most famous work is The Wall, published in 1963. The Loft was published in 1969 shortly before her death from cancer and has an excellent translation from the original German by Amanda Prantera. I’m intrigued enough to want to read The Wall.
With thanks to NetGalley and especially to Vintage for the much appreciated copy in return for an honest review.
This novel is beautifully written, it’s lyrical at times with apt phrases and images. Each scene is written with careful clarity so they can easily be seen with the minds eye. I can picture Hubert, reading his historical tomes of epic battles and her carefully drawing swallows or whatever the focus is and the dissatisfaction when what’s in her head doesn’t always translate to how she imagines. It’s very revealing on her background, her parents and extended family and how this leads to keeping herself so buttoned up. Despite the bleakness of it, the spotlight on her marriage is revealing and immersive reading and as for Hubert, it’s no wonder she takes herself off to the loft so frequently!
I really like the author’s style of writing, she seems to be able to make the most ordinary interesting by her tone, her occasional humour, her incisive and often amusing phrases or descriptions of people. This means that our narrators encounters are always fascinating as you see these people through her eyes.
There’s a real mystery attached to the yellow envelopes and it’s never fully resolved. You never truly find out what trauma precipitates the sequence of events. Despite the darkness and the depressing nature of her life, our narrator is very likeable, she’s honest and good company. A lot of what happens to her seems to be self imposed, but it all demonstrates her isolation from life in general. You become part of inner turmoil but by sticking to a strict routine it helps to keep her going.
This is a very different and unusual novel, it’s insightful and I’m glad to have been offered the opportunity to read it.
Marlen Haushofer 1920-70
An Austrian author, her most famous work is The Wall, published in 1963. The Loft was published in 1969 shortly before her death from cancer and has an excellent translation from the original German by Amanda Prantera. I’m intrigued enough to want to read The Wall.
With thanks to NetGalley and especially to Vintage for the much appreciated copy in return for an honest review.
June 2, 2020
Bizarre, eerily unsettling, lyrical. Alluring and disturbing at the same time. I was captivated right from the start but at the very end, it became too dense, too creepy for my liking. The scene with kittens crossed my emotional security line and made me furious. As a result, I felt relieved when ’The Loft’ ended.
On the other hand, the astonishing originality of Marlene Haushofer’s writing style and uniqueness of her vision of the world, framed into a fluid, pulsating narrative form, took my breath away. I can imagine how transfixed the readers must have been in 1969, when the novel was published. It still feels fresh.
I have a feeling that I have been more affected and touched by ’The Loft’ than I realize now.
Review to come.
On the other hand, the astonishing originality of Marlene Haushofer’s writing style and uniqueness of her vision of the world, framed into a fluid, pulsating narrative form, took my breath away. I can imagine how transfixed the readers must have been in 1969, when the novel was published. It still feels fresh.
I have a feeling that I have been more affected and touched by ’The Loft’ than I realize now.
Review to come.
September 4, 2013
After I read Marlen Haushofer’s ‘The Wall’ sometime back (and which I totally loved – it is one of my alltime favourites now), I thought I should read other books by her. If possible, all of them. When I searched for her works, I discovered that only two other works of hers have been translated into English, and that too only in the last couple of years. I felt sad when I discovered that, because I think all her works should be available in translation so that the rest of us can have the opportunity to discover what German readers have known all along for many decades – that Haushofer is one of the greats and her works are beautiful and profound. The first of Haushofer’s works which were translated recently was ‘The Loft’ and the second one was ‘Nowhere Ending Sky’. I got both of them and decided to read ‘The Loft’ first. I finished reading it yesterday. Here is what I think.
‘The Loft’ is the story of a 47 year old Austrian housewife, who is also the narrator of the story. (I somehow felt that her name was revealed in the story, but now when I think about it, I think we probably don’t know her name till the end. Another of those vintage Marlen Haushofer tricks – reveal the heart of the heroine without revealing her name :)) Our heroine describes one week of her life. She describes the everyday things that she does – making breakfast and lunch and having them with her husband,
“Hubert comes home to eat whenever he can because he prefers sitting in silence by my side to sitting in silence anywhere else. I suppose you could look on it as a declaration of love.”
cleaning the windows, beating the carpet, dusting the bookshelves,
“We have too many books. No one will ever read them…Nothing is so bitter as the dust from old books…When the books are set out in orderly rows you hardly notice them, but the moment you start taking them down they turn into a mountain you can barely see over.”
receiving guests, meeting people whom she is obligated to meet (like her mother-in-law’s former maid who is in the nursing home or an old acquaintance with whom she has nothing in common but whom she meets because they spent some time together during the war), having conversations with her son when he visits them, having conversations with her daughter whenever she is at home, going grocery shopping, going to the hairdresser, listening to her husband while he shares stuff that happened at work, spending time in the evening watching TV with her husband because her husband likes her company, though she herself doesn’t enjoy that programme. Every chapter talks about a different aspect of everyday life. While reading it, we slowly sink into the everyday rhythm of our heroine and we become part of the story and we feel the warmth and the soothing quality of everyday routine.
During the course of this predictable, safe and calm week, there are, of course, a couple of surprises. (If there weren’t, then reading the story would be like listening to the chant of monks in a Buddhist temple. What is a story without some dissonance?) The first surprise is a nice one. We learn that our heroine is also an artist. So whenever she has time after she has completed her household tasks – either after finishing lunch and cleaning the kitchen or after dinner when her husband is not watching TV but is reading and she has some time before going to bed – our heroine goes to the loft, which is her sanctuary. Even her husband cannot come there without her permission. In the loft, our heroine practises her secret art. She paints. She likes drawing insects, reptiles and birds. She is good at it. When she was younger, she used to draw illustrations for books. She doesn’t do that anymore, but she paints for her own satisfaction. Her dream is to one day paint the perfect bird. In her own words,
There is still one thing for me to cling to : namely, the hope that one day I will draw a bird that is not completely alone in the world. This will show clearly by the way it holds its head, or the way its little claws are placed, or simply by the colour of its feathers. This bird is asleep somewhere inside me, and all I have to do is wake it up. It is a task I must accomplish on my own…
So far so good. Life is boring and beautiful. But then something happens. On a Monday (the second day of the story), our heroine receives a yellow coloured package. Inside it are papers which look like journal entries. There is no accompanying letter or note. We, the readers, are puzzled and wonder whose journal entries they are. We also wonder who sent it and why. Our heroine doesn’t keep us in suspense for long. She reveals that they are from her own journal from her younger days. A journal she thought that she had lost. A journal she wrote when she was separated from her husband for a couple of years. But even she is not able to tell us who sent the package and why. We start wondering why our heroine was separated from her husband. There seems to be a secret there. Something which is probably not so nice. Our heroine reveals what that is. After this point the story keeps shifting alternately between the present and the past, while a new yellow package arrives everyday carrying more pages containing more journal entries from the past. The present story is narrated by our heroine, while the past is revealed through the journal entries.
(Note : The next two paragraphs might be a little spoiler-ish and so please be forewarned.)
While reading the journal entries, we learn that during her younger days, a few years after her marriage, when her son was still young and her daughter was not yet born, our heroine suddenly becomes deaf. The doctors say that it is a psychological thing and cannot be treated with medicines. Our heroine’s happy life is suddenly disrupted in a rude way. For some reason, our heroine and her husband decide that she will live in a cottage in the mountains until she recovers her hearing. A gamekeeper who lives nearby will take care of her everyday needs like buying provisions. While living in the mountains, our heroine takes long walks in the evening. One day she discovers a strange cottage and a strange man sitting in front of it. He tries talking to her, but she tells him that she is deaf. They have a brief conversation by writing notes to each other. The strange man is very happy to see our heroine. After they meet up for a few times, during which time they have coffee or lemonade together and are quiet or exchange a few words through their notes, one day the strange man asks our heroine (through notes) whether she can come everyday and he would like to talk to her aloud and he would pay her for that. It looks clearly that he wants to talk about something deep in his heart, something he can’t tell anyone. Maybe it is about a crime or atrocity he committed. Maybe it is about strong feelings he has on something which he can’t really share with anyone else. The fact that our heroine is deaf makes him realize that he can open his heart out to her without her judging him. He probably thinks that speaking aloud will make him feel better by lightening the burden in his heart. Our heroine takes pity on him and agrees to his request. She refuses to take his money though. These two solitary characters start meeting everyday. The strange man seems to talk loudly. Half of the time it looks like he is screaming. His face reddens with emotion when he speaks and his hands move in violent gestures. After a while it is difficult for our heroine to watch his hands – they look terrible. She can’t hear what the man says and what terrible truths he is revealing. Then one day the man tells her that he wants to leave the place and asks her if she wants to come with him. By that time, our heroine has lost all hope of regaining her hearing.
What does our heroine do? Does she say ‘Yes’ to this strange man? Given the fact that our heroine is back with her family, what happened in the meanwhile? It also looks like our heroine can hear well now. What traumatic event happened which helped her gain her hearing? Is she finally able to paint the perfect bird that she dreams about? The answers to these questions form the rest of the story.
I liked ‘The Loft’ very much. It is vintage Marlen Haushofer and has all the elements which Haushofer fans have come to expect of her – a forty-something year old unnamed heroine who narrates the story, heartwarming prose enveloping the reader in its warmth, dialogue being mostly absent, descriptions of everyday activities revealing the beauty in them, insightful passages sneaked into these everyday scenes. The book captivated me with its first lines :
"From our bedroom window we can see a tree that we never seem to be able to agree about. Hubert says it's an acacia...In old fashioned novels, where words are given their just currency, their scent is described as sweet and intoxicating, and so it is - sweet and intoxicating - only it is no longer possible to say so using these words. But never mind, it’ll go on being sweet and intoxicating so long as there’s one nose left in the world able to smell it."
and refused to let go off me till its last. It revealed the beauty of everyday things and also showed how it all can change in the blink of an eye. It also showed how we can find joy sometimes in everyday things and at other times in the strangest of places.
I can’t resist comparing ‘The Loft’ with ‘The Wall’, of course. It is a hard thing to do. Because ‘The Wall’ is a masterpiece. Every writer dreams of writing one book like that. Most aren’t able to pull it off, though they get critical acclaim and win fame and fortune and glory. But when they are able to pull it off and create a masterpiece like that, the rest of their work pales in comparison. It is a case of ‘Be careful what you wish for’. It is sad. Having said that, I should also say that ‘The Loft’ doesn’t pale in comparison. It is able to hold its own. It has all the vintage Haushoferian elements, but it is also different from ‘The Wall’. There are more characters here, the world the story is set in is our own, the main characters look like us and do everyday things like us and our dear Marlen uses everyday elements and scenes to create beauty and art. If you like ‘The Wall’ and enjoyed Haushofer’s style, you will like this too.
I have just one complaint about the book, though. I wish there was an introduction – by the translator or by someone well versed in Austrian literature and Marlen Haushofer’s works – which talked about Marlen Haushofer’s life and her work and her place in Austrian literature. That essay would have been very informative and enlightening and I would have loved reading it. If this was not possible, maybe the publishers could have got an essay on this topic written by an Austrian / German critic translated into English. I think that will enrich the reading experience. I hope they do it in a future edition.
I have to say one more thing. The description of the book on the back cover has this sentence – “‘The Loft’…explores…the discord of Austrian society in the aftermath of Nazism.” When I read that first, before I read the book, I didn’t think too much about it. After finishing the book, I read that again, and I couldn’t help laughing. The reason was this. There are places in the story where there are some hints. For example the heroine tells us that her husband was in the army during the war (the war probably being the Second World War and the army being the Austrian army and hence there is a Nazi connection there). Also, we don’t know what the strange man shouts about angrily when he talks to the heroine. It could be about war atrocities he had committed. It could also be about unspeakable personal things he had done. It could also be just his anger towards the world. I am not going to tell you what it is – you should read the story to find out. But beyond some minor references, the story is clearly not about the aftermath of Nazism in Austria. The story is about the everyday life of a normal housewife who has a secret past and how that past suddenly sneaks into her present life and disturbs her harmony. Sometimes a rose is just a rose and the colour blue is just the colour blue. I don’t know why every novel written in German set in a particular period should be about the aftermath of Nazism (or about Nazism or about the advent of Nazism). There are beautiful contemplative novels on everyday life written in German. There are also love stories, crime fiction, YA fiction and fiction of every other variety and hue written in German. Please, publishers and critics, don’t reduce German literature (and by this I mean books written in German, which includes German, Austrian, Swiss books and books written in German by writers from other countries) to just one thing. It is a much vaster ocean than that.
I will leave you with some of my favourite passages from the book.
Why the idea of natural causes should reassure us, when the things they cause are either evil or painful or senseless or all three, I fail to understand. What is there to be reassured about? A friendly ghost scares us far worse than a horrible live person, and that is absurd. This yearning for natural explanations must spring from our own profound human stupidity.
Gradually the Baroness’s voice transformed itself into the murmuring of the sea with an occasional breaking of a wave against the shore.
I hate that alarm...I am convinced this wretched thing is slowly killing us - a fraction every day. Merely waiting for it to start ringing is in itself a torment...Before the day can slip noiselessly into the room it is shattered to pieces by this vulgar rattling noise.
When she dies, where will all the hatred go, I wonder? Will it die with her? I doubt it; most likely it will stay in the room and then slowly filter through the chinks in the windowpanes to join the big cloud of hatred that hangs over the city permanently.
A mole cricket is not wicked, nor is it nightmarish. Its brown colouring isn’t ugly, it is the colour of the earth. It is a poor little plump insect that is hated and persecuted because it happens to feed off roots and unwittingly gets in mankind’s way. It looked lost and bewildered – a creature that cannot understand why it is hated and persecuted.
Nothing is so difficult as probing one’s own intentions. I get sudden insights now and again but introspection gets me nowhere. I either know or I don’t. My thoughts are like a flock of birds, winging around all over the place. Sometimes a wing grazes me lightly and awakens things inside me that until then have been deep asleep – pictures that I can’t summon up myself but that are suddenly there, blazing with colour. In that instant I know things I’ve never known before. And then I forget them again.
Every time I cough or blow my nose he gives a faint, defeated sigh. There is nothing worse than having to be discreet about blowing your nose – as a method it simply doesn’t work. After each sigh I hate him for a couple of minutes. Why on earth doesn’t he just let me go up to the loft on my own and do to my nose whatever I like? At the very least, he should omit the sighing. These sighs are illogical, worse, they are blackmail; they make me feel guilty when there is no cause for guilt whatsoever.
The laurel is flowering. I don’t pick any because I’m afraid the plant might cry out in pain and I wouldn’t hear it. True, I don’t remember ever hearing laurel cry out, but everything is possible, and every sound is possible to a person who cannot hear.
Have you read Marlen Haushofer’s ‘The Loft’ or other books by her? What do you think about them?
‘The Loft’ is the story of a 47 year old Austrian housewife, who is also the narrator of the story. (I somehow felt that her name was revealed in the story, but now when I think about it, I think we probably don’t know her name till the end. Another of those vintage Marlen Haushofer tricks – reveal the heart of the heroine without revealing her name :)) Our heroine describes one week of her life. She describes the everyday things that she does – making breakfast and lunch and having them with her husband,
“Hubert comes home to eat whenever he can because he prefers sitting in silence by my side to sitting in silence anywhere else. I suppose you could look on it as a declaration of love.”
cleaning the windows, beating the carpet, dusting the bookshelves,
“We have too many books. No one will ever read them…Nothing is so bitter as the dust from old books…When the books are set out in orderly rows you hardly notice them, but the moment you start taking them down they turn into a mountain you can barely see over.”
receiving guests, meeting people whom she is obligated to meet (like her mother-in-law’s former maid who is in the nursing home or an old acquaintance with whom she has nothing in common but whom she meets because they spent some time together during the war), having conversations with her son when he visits them, having conversations with her daughter whenever she is at home, going grocery shopping, going to the hairdresser, listening to her husband while he shares stuff that happened at work, spending time in the evening watching TV with her husband because her husband likes her company, though she herself doesn’t enjoy that programme. Every chapter talks about a different aspect of everyday life. While reading it, we slowly sink into the everyday rhythm of our heroine and we become part of the story and we feel the warmth and the soothing quality of everyday routine.
During the course of this predictable, safe and calm week, there are, of course, a couple of surprises. (If there weren’t, then reading the story would be like listening to the chant of monks in a Buddhist temple. What is a story without some dissonance?) The first surprise is a nice one. We learn that our heroine is also an artist. So whenever she has time after she has completed her household tasks – either after finishing lunch and cleaning the kitchen or after dinner when her husband is not watching TV but is reading and she has some time before going to bed – our heroine goes to the loft, which is her sanctuary. Even her husband cannot come there without her permission. In the loft, our heroine practises her secret art. She paints. She likes drawing insects, reptiles and birds. She is good at it. When she was younger, she used to draw illustrations for books. She doesn’t do that anymore, but she paints for her own satisfaction. Her dream is to one day paint the perfect bird. In her own words,
There is still one thing for me to cling to : namely, the hope that one day I will draw a bird that is not completely alone in the world. This will show clearly by the way it holds its head, or the way its little claws are placed, or simply by the colour of its feathers. This bird is asleep somewhere inside me, and all I have to do is wake it up. It is a task I must accomplish on my own…
So far so good. Life is boring and beautiful. But then something happens. On a Monday (the second day of the story), our heroine receives a yellow coloured package. Inside it are papers which look like journal entries. There is no accompanying letter or note. We, the readers, are puzzled and wonder whose journal entries they are. We also wonder who sent it and why. Our heroine doesn’t keep us in suspense for long. She reveals that they are from her own journal from her younger days. A journal she thought that she had lost. A journal she wrote when she was separated from her husband for a couple of years. But even she is not able to tell us who sent the package and why. We start wondering why our heroine was separated from her husband. There seems to be a secret there. Something which is probably not so nice. Our heroine reveals what that is. After this point the story keeps shifting alternately between the present and the past, while a new yellow package arrives everyday carrying more pages containing more journal entries from the past. The present story is narrated by our heroine, while the past is revealed through the journal entries.
(Note : The next two paragraphs might be a little spoiler-ish and so please be forewarned.)
While reading the journal entries, we learn that during her younger days, a few years after her marriage, when her son was still young and her daughter was not yet born, our heroine suddenly becomes deaf. The doctors say that it is a psychological thing and cannot be treated with medicines. Our heroine’s happy life is suddenly disrupted in a rude way. For some reason, our heroine and her husband decide that she will live in a cottage in the mountains until she recovers her hearing. A gamekeeper who lives nearby will take care of her everyday needs like buying provisions. While living in the mountains, our heroine takes long walks in the evening. One day she discovers a strange cottage and a strange man sitting in front of it. He tries talking to her, but she tells him that she is deaf. They have a brief conversation by writing notes to each other. The strange man is very happy to see our heroine. After they meet up for a few times, during which time they have coffee or lemonade together and are quiet or exchange a few words through their notes, one day the strange man asks our heroine (through notes) whether she can come everyday and he would like to talk to her aloud and he would pay her for that. It looks clearly that he wants to talk about something deep in his heart, something he can’t tell anyone. Maybe it is about a crime or atrocity he committed. Maybe it is about strong feelings he has on something which he can’t really share with anyone else. The fact that our heroine is deaf makes him realize that he can open his heart out to her without her judging him. He probably thinks that speaking aloud will make him feel better by lightening the burden in his heart. Our heroine takes pity on him and agrees to his request. She refuses to take his money though. These two solitary characters start meeting everyday. The strange man seems to talk loudly. Half of the time it looks like he is screaming. His face reddens with emotion when he speaks and his hands move in violent gestures. After a while it is difficult for our heroine to watch his hands – they look terrible. She can’t hear what the man says and what terrible truths he is revealing. Then one day the man tells her that he wants to leave the place and asks her if she wants to come with him. By that time, our heroine has lost all hope of regaining her hearing.
What does our heroine do? Does she say ‘Yes’ to this strange man? Given the fact that our heroine is back with her family, what happened in the meanwhile? It also looks like our heroine can hear well now. What traumatic event happened which helped her gain her hearing? Is she finally able to paint the perfect bird that she dreams about? The answers to these questions form the rest of the story.
I liked ‘The Loft’ very much. It is vintage Marlen Haushofer and has all the elements which Haushofer fans have come to expect of her – a forty-something year old unnamed heroine who narrates the story, heartwarming prose enveloping the reader in its warmth, dialogue being mostly absent, descriptions of everyday activities revealing the beauty in them, insightful passages sneaked into these everyday scenes. The book captivated me with its first lines :
"From our bedroom window we can see a tree that we never seem to be able to agree about. Hubert says it's an acacia...In old fashioned novels, where words are given their just currency, their scent is described as sweet and intoxicating, and so it is - sweet and intoxicating - only it is no longer possible to say so using these words. But never mind, it’ll go on being sweet and intoxicating so long as there’s one nose left in the world able to smell it."
and refused to let go off me till its last. It revealed the beauty of everyday things and also showed how it all can change in the blink of an eye. It also showed how we can find joy sometimes in everyday things and at other times in the strangest of places.
I can’t resist comparing ‘The Loft’ with ‘The Wall’, of course. It is a hard thing to do. Because ‘The Wall’ is a masterpiece. Every writer dreams of writing one book like that. Most aren’t able to pull it off, though they get critical acclaim and win fame and fortune and glory. But when they are able to pull it off and create a masterpiece like that, the rest of their work pales in comparison. It is a case of ‘Be careful what you wish for’. It is sad. Having said that, I should also say that ‘The Loft’ doesn’t pale in comparison. It is able to hold its own. It has all the vintage Haushoferian elements, but it is also different from ‘The Wall’. There are more characters here, the world the story is set in is our own, the main characters look like us and do everyday things like us and our dear Marlen uses everyday elements and scenes to create beauty and art. If you like ‘The Wall’ and enjoyed Haushofer’s style, you will like this too.
I have just one complaint about the book, though. I wish there was an introduction – by the translator or by someone well versed in Austrian literature and Marlen Haushofer’s works – which talked about Marlen Haushofer’s life and her work and her place in Austrian literature. That essay would have been very informative and enlightening and I would have loved reading it. If this was not possible, maybe the publishers could have got an essay on this topic written by an Austrian / German critic translated into English. I think that will enrich the reading experience. I hope they do it in a future edition.
I have to say one more thing. The description of the book on the back cover has this sentence – “‘The Loft’…explores…the discord of Austrian society in the aftermath of Nazism.” When I read that first, before I read the book, I didn’t think too much about it. After finishing the book, I read that again, and I couldn’t help laughing. The reason was this. There are places in the story where there are some hints. For example the heroine tells us that her husband was in the army during the war (the war probably being the Second World War and the army being the Austrian army and hence there is a Nazi connection there). Also, we don’t know what the strange man shouts about angrily when he talks to the heroine. It could be about war atrocities he had committed. It could also be about unspeakable personal things he had done. It could also be just his anger towards the world. I am not going to tell you what it is – you should read the story to find out. But beyond some minor references, the story is clearly not about the aftermath of Nazism in Austria. The story is about the everyday life of a normal housewife who has a secret past and how that past suddenly sneaks into her present life and disturbs her harmony. Sometimes a rose is just a rose and the colour blue is just the colour blue. I don’t know why every novel written in German set in a particular period should be about the aftermath of Nazism (or about Nazism or about the advent of Nazism). There are beautiful contemplative novels on everyday life written in German. There are also love stories, crime fiction, YA fiction and fiction of every other variety and hue written in German. Please, publishers and critics, don’t reduce German literature (and by this I mean books written in German, which includes German, Austrian, Swiss books and books written in German by writers from other countries) to just one thing. It is a much vaster ocean than that.
I will leave you with some of my favourite passages from the book.
Why the idea of natural causes should reassure us, when the things they cause are either evil or painful or senseless or all three, I fail to understand. What is there to be reassured about? A friendly ghost scares us far worse than a horrible live person, and that is absurd. This yearning for natural explanations must spring from our own profound human stupidity.
Gradually the Baroness’s voice transformed itself into the murmuring of the sea with an occasional breaking of a wave against the shore.
I hate that alarm...I am convinced this wretched thing is slowly killing us - a fraction every day. Merely waiting for it to start ringing is in itself a torment...Before the day can slip noiselessly into the room it is shattered to pieces by this vulgar rattling noise.
When she dies, where will all the hatred go, I wonder? Will it die with her? I doubt it; most likely it will stay in the room and then slowly filter through the chinks in the windowpanes to join the big cloud of hatred that hangs over the city permanently.
A mole cricket is not wicked, nor is it nightmarish. Its brown colouring isn’t ugly, it is the colour of the earth. It is a poor little plump insect that is hated and persecuted because it happens to feed off roots and unwittingly gets in mankind’s way. It looked lost and bewildered – a creature that cannot understand why it is hated and persecuted.
Nothing is so difficult as probing one’s own intentions. I get sudden insights now and again but introspection gets me nowhere. I either know or I don’t. My thoughts are like a flock of birds, winging around all over the place. Sometimes a wing grazes me lightly and awakens things inside me that until then have been deep asleep – pictures that I can’t summon up myself but that are suddenly there, blazing with colour. In that instant I know things I’ve never known before. And then I forget them again.
Every time I cough or blow my nose he gives a faint, defeated sigh. There is nothing worse than having to be discreet about blowing your nose – as a method it simply doesn’t work. After each sigh I hate him for a couple of minutes. Why on earth doesn’t he just let me go up to the loft on my own and do to my nose whatever I like? At the very least, he should omit the sighing. These sighs are illogical, worse, they are blackmail; they make me feel guilty when there is no cause for guilt whatsoever.
The laurel is flowering. I don’t pick any because I’m afraid the plant might cry out in pain and I wouldn’t hear it. True, I don’t remember ever hearing laurel cry out, but everything is possible, and every sound is possible to a person who cannot hear.
Have you read Marlen Haushofer’s ‘The Loft’ or other books by her? What do you think about them?
December 7, 2025
"Genç olmanın en iyi yanı gergin cilt değil, umut. İnsan her gün yeni bir şey yaşama umuduyla uyanır, hayal edemediği ama gerçekleşmesi gereken o büyük olay her saat, her dakika gerçekleşebilir. Bende bu umudun öldüğü günü anımsayamıyorum artık, yoksa hâlâ tam olarak ölmedi mi? Hâlâ tutunduğum bir şey var ya işte: Yalnız olmayan bir kuş çizmeyi günün birinde başaracağım."
Duvar'ını okuyup vurulduğum Marlen Haushofer'in bir başka romanı nihayet dilimize çevrilince hemen başladım okumaya, zira bu kadını daha yakından tanıma konusunda güçlü bir arzu duyuyorum. Yazarın 1969'da yayımlanan son kitabı Çatı Katı, Duvar'a benzer bir zihin ve duygu dünyasında geçen, bir anlamda kardeş metni diyebileceğim bir kitap.
47 yaşında bir kadının bir haftasını okuyoruz metinde. Annesi ve babasını erken yaşta kaybetmiş ve vaktiyle kocasına onu kurtaracak bir halat gibi tutunmuş bir kadın bu. Ancak hayatlarının bir noktasında bir kırılma olmuş, bunu metni okudukça öğreniyoruz, spoiler vermeyeyim şimdi ve o kırılmadan sonra her şey bambaşka bir surete bürünmüş. Olaysız, sakin, biraz da hissiz hayatları akıp giderken kadın her gün birtakım mektuplar almaya başlıyor; mektupların içindeyse kendisinin seneler önce tuttuğu ve kaybolduğunu sandığı günlükler var. Bu gizemli mektupların hatırlattıklarıyla beraber biz de kadının öyküsünü öğreniyoruz yavaş yavaş.
İçinde insanı meraklandıran bir gizem olduğu için metin sürükleyici, ama alışık olduğumuz türden, sırtını olaylara yaslayan bir sürükleyicilik değil bu, onu söyleyeyim. Zihninin içinde gezindiğimiz anlatıcımız insanda acıma-şefkat-hayranlık karışımı bir duygu yaratan, fena halde kafa karıştırıcı bir kadın ve iç sesi bir yanıyla çok tekinsiz, bir yanıyla çok çocuksu.
Duvar kadar çarpılmadım ama Haushofer'in sahiden çok özgün bir sesi olduğuna ikna olmamı sağladı bu kitap. Kadınlık deneyimi konusundaki kavrayışı ve bunu aynı anda hem rahatsız edici hem poetik biçimde anlatabilmesi bence çok, çok etkileyici.
Duvar'ını okuyup vurulduğum Marlen Haushofer'in bir başka romanı nihayet dilimize çevrilince hemen başladım okumaya, zira bu kadını daha yakından tanıma konusunda güçlü bir arzu duyuyorum. Yazarın 1969'da yayımlanan son kitabı Çatı Katı, Duvar'a benzer bir zihin ve duygu dünyasında geçen, bir anlamda kardeş metni diyebileceğim bir kitap.
47 yaşında bir kadının bir haftasını okuyoruz metinde. Annesi ve babasını erken yaşta kaybetmiş ve vaktiyle kocasına onu kurtaracak bir halat gibi tutunmuş bir kadın bu. Ancak hayatlarının bir noktasında bir kırılma olmuş, bunu metni okudukça öğreniyoruz, spoiler vermeyeyim şimdi ve o kırılmadan sonra her şey bambaşka bir surete bürünmüş. Olaysız, sakin, biraz da hissiz hayatları akıp giderken kadın her gün birtakım mektuplar almaya başlıyor; mektupların içindeyse kendisinin seneler önce tuttuğu ve kaybolduğunu sandığı günlükler var. Bu gizemli mektupların hatırlattıklarıyla beraber biz de kadının öyküsünü öğreniyoruz yavaş yavaş.
İçinde insanı meraklandıran bir gizem olduğu için metin sürükleyici, ama alışık olduğumuz türden, sırtını olaylara yaslayan bir sürükleyicilik değil bu, onu söyleyeyim. Zihninin içinde gezindiğimiz anlatıcımız insanda acıma-şefkat-hayranlık karışımı bir duygu yaratan, fena halde kafa karıştırıcı bir kadın ve iç sesi bir yanıyla çok tekinsiz, bir yanıyla çok çocuksu.
Duvar kadar çarpılmadım ama Haushofer'in sahiden çok özgün bir sesi olduğuna ikna olmamı sağladı bu kitap. Kadınlık deneyimi konusundaki kavrayışı ve bunu aynı anda hem rahatsız edici hem poetik biçimde anlatabilmesi bence çok, çok etkileyici.
July 12, 2016
http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/1472626...
The jacket blurb claims the book explores the anatomy of a desiccated marriage, the power of solitude, and the discord of Austrian society in the aftermath of Nazism. With less than a fifth of the book remaining for me to read there is yet no indication for any examination of Nazism aftermath or Austrian societal discord, which has become a given in all literature pertaining to that horrendous historical event. But solitude, and relationships of every stripe including marriage, are being explored almost savagely and with a hunger yet to be assuaged.
The talent that lies behind the work of Marlen Haushofer is in her ability to write with a voice of reason and affinity for her reader. She is easy to like. It is comforting being with her. Her first-person narrator feels trustworthy and kind, even in light of possible indiscretions or violences looming portentously in the foreground. Because of this honesty in her writing, unseemly behaviors, threatened or otherwise, feel appropriate and okay, even though in hindsight proper society deems them deplorable. But I respect Haushofer as she refuses to mince words and remains steadfast in her attempts at mining the truth from our everyday fictions. Almost any activity the narrator persists in feels unconnected to her. She is simply going through the motions of being a housewife, mother, friend, and caring acquaintance. She is really none of these things with any certainty and commitment. All that matters to her spiritually is her sketching of birds upstairs in the loft, a room she has made of her own in a house that was never meant for her to live in. Her husband remains emotionally distant, but guilt-ridden and shamed enough by his past abandonment of her to fervently provide the monetary means necessary for the household to survive. Herbert considers their nightly television viewing as their sacred time together, and the Saturday afternoon visits to the war museum a shared cultural activity sure to enrich their marriage.
Again, for me, the theme of non-communication and deception in relationships rears its ugly head. And I appreciate Marlen Haushofer bringing it to our attention. Failure to talk about the matters that upset us, that get in our way, or our checkered past threatening to derail everything thought important in our daily life is nothing less than cowardly. For example, in my own recovery from addiction I was told I was only as sick as my secrets. And I still believe this to be true. But how many of us cling to a strict privacy in these shameful matters that keep the very ghosts that threaten our existence alive and thriving? We do ourselves great harm in harboring this dis-ease, and it ultimately ruins the lives of those we so much wanted to love. Including our own.
The Loft is a most definitely an additional Haushofer title worth reading and passing along.
The jacket blurb claims the book explores the anatomy of a desiccated marriage, the power of solitude, and the discord of Austrian society in the aftermath of Nazism. With less than a fifth of the book remaining for me to read there is yet no indication for any examination of Nazism aftermath or Austrian societal discord, which has become a given in all literature pertaining to that horrendous historical event. But solitude, and relationships of every stripe including marriage, are being explored almost savagely and with a hunger yet to be assuaged.
The talent that lies behind the work of Marlen Haushofer is in her ability to write with a voice of reason and affinity for her reader. She is easy to like. It is comforting being with her. Her first-person narrator feels trustworthy and kind, even in light of possible indiscretions or violences looming portentously in the foreground. Because of this honesty in her writing, unseemly behaviors, threatened or otherwise, feel appropriate and okay, even though in hindsight proper society deems them deplorable. But I respect Haushofer as she refuses to mince words and remains steadfast in her attempts at mining the truth from our everyday fictions. Almost any activity the narrator persists in feels unconnected to her. She is simply going through the motions of being a housewife, mother, friend, and caring acquaintance. She is really none of these things with any certainty and commitment. All that matters to her spiritually is her sketching of birds upstairs in the loft, a room she has made of her own in a house that was never meant for her to live in. Her husband remains emotionally distant, but guilt-ridden and shamed enough by his past abandonment of her to fervently provide the monetary means necessary for the household to survive. Herbert considers their nightly television viewing as their sacred time together, and the Saturday afternoon visits to the war museum a shared cultural activity sure to enrich their marriage.
Again, for me, the theme of non-communication and deception in relationships rears its ugly head. And I appreciate Marlen Haushofer bringing it to our attention. Failure to talk about the matters that upset us, that get in our way, or our checkered past threatening to derail everything thought important in our daily life is nothing less than cowardly. For example, in my own recovery from addiction I was told I was only as sick as my secrets. And I still believe this to be true. But how many of us cling to a strict privacy in these shameful matters that keep the very ghosts that threaten our existence alive and thriving? We do ourselves great harm in harboring this dis-ease, and it ultimately ruins the lives of those we so much wanted to love. Including our own.
The Loft is a most definitely an additional Haushofer title worth reading and passing along.
August 22, 2022
La buhardilla de Marlen Haushofer es una novela que acierta a retratar en muy pocas páginas la rutina de una mujer que podríamos ser tu o yo. Una mujer sin nombre, con un marido que si lo tiene y que llegó a hacerla reír en el pasado, un hijo tuvo que recuperar cuando pasó lo que pasó, una hija que no la necesita y unas amistades que se han convertido en obligaciones.
También tiene esta mujer una casa, por supuesto. Una casa que no siente como suya, a excepción de la buhardilla, pero cuya limpieza ha convertido en su trabajo, ahora que ya no trabaja como ilustradora. La buhardilla es su refugio, allí donde sigue dibujando y donde guarda las cartas que recibe anónimamente en el buzón y que le devuelven a una época concreta de su vida en la que estuvo aislada de su familia.
A través de un monólogo interior conocemos las sensaciones y los pensamientos de esta mujer a lo largo de una semana, de domingo a domingo, al mismo tiempo que se intercalan, en forma de diario, retazos de ese pasado que vivió en una cabaña en medio de la nada. Es difícil no sentirse identificada con muchos de estos pensamientos. Algunos, me han arrancado a veces una sonrisa; la mayoría, sin embargo, me han hecho reflexionar con cierta tristeza.
Nunca es sencillo ver hasta que punto nos resignamos a nuestra propia vida aunque no nos guste y esta novela lo pone en evidencia. Lo hace con una estructura sencilla, aunque original, y con una prosa fluida que hace que sus 213 páginas se lean en un suspiro.
Si hay un pero es que la parte del bosque, aquella en la que vivió aislada, resulta un tanto difícil de creer aunque su autora lo haga, creo, con intención. Un pequeño pero que no cambia el que me haya gustado mucho.
También tiene esta mujer una casa, por supuesto. Una casa que no siente como suya, a excepción de la buhardilla, pero cuya limpieza ha convertido en su trabajo, ahora que ya no trabaja como ilustradora. La buhardilla es su refugio, allí donde sigue dibujando y donde guarda las cartas que recibe anónimamente en el buzón y que le devuelven a una época concreta de su vida en la que estuvo aislada de su familia.
A través de un monólogo interior conocemos las sensaciones y los pensamientos de esta mujer a lo largo de una semana, de domingo a domingo, al mismo tiempo que se intercalan, en forma de diario, retazos de ese pasado que vivió en una cabaña en medio de la nada. Es difícil no sentirse identificada con muchos de estos pensamientos. Algunos, me han arrancado a veces una sonrisa; la mayoría, sin embargo, me han hecho reflexionar con cierta tristeza.
Nunca es sencillo ver hasta que punto nos resignamos a nuestra propia vida aunque no nos guste y esta novela lo pone en evidencia. Lo hace con una estructura sencilla, aunque original, y con una prosa fluida que hace que sus 213 páginas se lean en un suspiro.
Si hay un pero es que la parte del bosque, aquella en la que vivió aislada, resulta un tanto difícil de creer aunque su autora lo haga, creo, con intención. Un pequeño pero que no cambia el que me haya gustado mucho.
August 6, 2021
“No hay nada más difícil que descubrir los propios manejos. De vez en cuando tengo iluminaciones súbitas. Jamás he avanzado por medio de la reflexión. Lo sé o no lo sé. Mis pensamientos son como una bandada de pájaros que se dispersa en todas las direcciones”.
Leyendo la lucidez con la que la protagonista de ‘La buhardilla’ disecciona su anodina vida familiar en la Viena de los años 60 pareciera que ese método irracional es el más adecuado para captar el horror de lo cotidiano. Es en esa buhardilla propia donde se refugia a dibujar precisamente pájaros y es allí también donde relee su propio diario, que va recibiendo dosificadamente, de cuando siendo joven y recién casada perdió el oído por motivos psicológicos. Este especie de recurso al manuscrito encontrado es otra novela en sí misma, una novela de convalecencia, tan centroeuropea, pero profundamente turbadora, en la que la sordera es algo más que un problema físico: una protección del mundo y su monstruosidad personificada en X, una especie de enfermo mental que vive cerca. El infierno son los otros y es el pasado y, digámoslo ya, se llama nazismo. Leed a Haushofer ya.
“El infierno no es un cuento infantil. X vive en el infierno y quiere arrastrarme también a mí hacia él. No quiere estar solo en el infierno. Esta noche he soñado que los dos nos gritábamos a través de una pared de cristal negro, las caras apretadas contra el cristal, con las bocas abiertas”.
Leyendo la lucidez con la que la protagonista de ‘La buhardilla’ disecciona su anodina vida familiar en la Viena de los años 60 pareciera que ese método irracional es el más adecuado para captar el horror de lo cotidiano. Es en esa buhardilla propia donde se refugia a dibujar precisamente pájaros y es allí también donde relee su propio diario, que va recibiendo dosificadamente, de cuando siendo joven y recién casada perdió el oído por motivos psicológicos. Este especie de recurso al manuscrito encontrado es otra novela en sí misma, una novela de convalecencia, tan centroeuropea, pero profundamente turbadora, en la que la sordera es algo más que un problema físico: una protección del mundo y su monstruosidad personificada en X, una especie de enfermo mental que vive cerca. El infierno son los otros y es el pasado y, digámoslo ya, se llama nazismo. Leed a Haushofer ya.
“El infierno no es un cuento infantil. X vive en el infierno y quiere arrastrarme también a mí hacia él. No quiere estar solo en el infierno. Esta noche he soñado que los dos nos gritábamos a través de una pared de cristal negro, las caras apretadas contra el cristal, con las bocas abiertas”.
December 30, 2021
Alguno puede estar pensando ¿vas a despellejarla? Pues es que es tan aburrida, tan poco interesante, tan más de lo mismo que no da ni para despelleje. Es otra de esas novelas, puede que uno de las primeras de ESAS novelas porque se publicó en 1969, en que la protagonista no tiene nombre y se dedica a deambular por si vida que le horroriza y le parece aburridísima (Querida, a ver si la aburrida vas a ser tú) pensando muchísimo y muy fuerte. La novela se estructura en los siete días de la semana y la protagonista nos va contando sus rutinas diarias y como, en esa semana en particular, su ir y venir por la vida sin sentido se ve transformado por la llegada de unos misteriosos sobres llenos de cuartillas escritas por ella muchos años antes. En esas cuartillas ella contaba como era su vida cuando estaba en una cabaña, en medio del bosque, custodiada por "El cazador" y separada de su familia porque le había pasado "algo" (nunca sabemos qué) que le había provocado una sordera momentánea. ¿No se entiende nada? Exacto. He leído página tras página esperando una explicación, una resolución a este ir y venir de pensamientos muy poco interesantes pero llegué al domingo final y nada. Sopor.
Cuando he dicho que es uno de ESAS novelas, lo he dicho porque me ha recordado muchísimo a otro chasco de este año: Yo, mentira de Silvia Hidalgo en la que ocurría exactamente lo mismo: nada interesante.
Cuando he dicho que es uno de ESAS novelas, lo he dicho porque me ha recordado muchísimo a otro chasco de este año: Yo, mentira de Silvia Hidalgo en la que ocurría exactamente lo mismo: nada interesante.
February 26, 2025
Mein fünftes Buch von Marlen Haushofer und wieder bin ich beeindruckt, wie einzigartig plastisch sie
die Gefühlswelten ihrer Protagonistinnen darstellt.
In „Die Mansarde“ fällt diese besonders düster aus. Die namenlose Ich-Erzählerin schildert eine Woche in ihrem Leben als Hausfrau (Österreich, 60er Jahre): Sie putzt, kocht und stattet Bekannten Pflichtbesuche ab. Egal, was sie tut, sie fühlt sich fremd - gegenüber ihrem Ehemann, ihren Kindern, dem Haus, sich selbst. Ihr Rückzugsort ist die Mansarde, in der sie Zeichnungen von einsamen Vögeln anfertigt. In dieser Woche wird sie von der Vergangenheit eingeholt. Denn sie findet in der Post ihre eigenen Tagebucheinträge aus einer Zeit, in der sie psychosomatisch an Taubheit erkrankt war und von der Familie getrennt in den Bergen lebte.
Die Gegenwart wie auch Vergangenheit ihrer Depression wird sehr eindrücklich und mit einer bildreichen Sprache erzählt, die mich trotz der wenigen Handlung von der ersten bis zur letzten Seite in ihren Bann gezogen hat.
die Gefühlswelten ihrer Protagonistinnen darstellt.
In „Die Mansarde“ fällt diese besonders düster aus. Die namenlose Ich-Erzählerin schildert eine Woche in ihrem Leben als Hausfrau (Österreich, 60er Jahre): Sie putzt, kocht und stattet Bekannten Pflichtbesuche ab. Egal, was sie tut, sie fühlt sich fremd - gegenüber ihrem Ehemann, ihren Kindern, dem Haus, sich selbst. Ihr Rückzugsort ist die Mansarde, in der sie Zeichnungen von einsamen Vögeln anfertigt. In dieser Woche wird sie von der Vergangenheit eingeholt. Denn sie findet in der Post ihre eigenen Tagebucheinträge aus einer Zeit, in der sie psychosomatisch an Taubheit erkrankt war und von der Familie getrennt in den Bergen lebte.
Die Gegenwart wie auch Vergangenheit ihrer Depression wird sehr eindrücklich und mit einer bildreichen Sprache erzählt, die mich trotz der wenigen Handlung von der ersten bis zur letzten Seite in ihren Bann gezogen hat.
April 11, 2021
Nach der Lektüre von "Die Wand", die mich emotional an eben solche geklatscht hatte, wusste und weiß ich, dass ich weitere Werke von Haushofer lesen mag.
"Die Mansarde" war nun leider weit weniger mein Fall.
Das liegt auch an der Diskrepanz zwischen der eigentlich recht kurzen möglichen Inhaltszusammenfassung: Eine nicht mehr junge Haus- und Ehefrau ist enttäuscht von ihren Aufgaben und sozialen Beziehungen und reflektiert über eine zurückliegende Phase der Gehörlosigkeit
und der wiederholten, in mäandernden Schleifen ablaufenden Behandlung eben dieser Themen. Dabei kann ich zwar die bildreichen Übertragungen psychischer Vorgänge und Verwüstungen erkennen (Ein einsamer Raum, die Einsamkeit eigentlich geselliger Vögel, verstaubte Bücher, umarmungsgehemmte Eltern, ein stummer Mann, ein tötender Jäger...), aber in der Vielzahl der verschiedenen Übertragungsfelder wird das eigentliche Kernsegment - so wie ich es verstehe - nämlich die unterbliebene/unterdrückte Selbstverwirklichung der Frau eher in isolierte, literarisch vielleicht ambitionierte, aber wenig nachvollziehbare Bilder transformiert.
Falls Haushofer also gerade diese fehlende Verständlichmachung psychischer Belastung und Enttäuschung im Leben einer Frau in den späten 60er Jahren anstrebte, ist es ihr gut gelungen. Ehemann, Kinder und diverse Bekannte dieser Frau waren mir tatsächlich unsympathisch. Das gleiche gilt aber auch für einige pauschale Anklagen der Frau ala: Früher hatten die Menschen noch Werte, heute ist die Gesellschaft scheußlich. Diese Art von Zeitkritik, verschiedentlich variiert und ernst gemeint, verleidet mir eigentlich jedes Buch.
Leider nicht mein nächster Haushofer-Liebling. Aber ich bin sicher, dass ich die österreichische Autorin weiterhin belesen werde.
"Die Mansarde" war nun leider weit weniger mein Fall.
Das liegt auch an der Diskrepanz zwischen der eigentlich recht kurzen möglichen Inhaltszusammenfassung: Eine nicht mehr junge Haus- und Ehefrau ist enttäuscht von ihren Aufgaben und sozialen Beziehungen und reflektiert über eine zurückliegende Phase der Gehörlosigkeit
und der wiederholten, in mäandernden Schleifen ablaufenden Behandlung eben dieser Themen. Dabei kann ich zwar die bildreichen Übertragungen psychischer Vorgänge und Verwüstungen erkennen (Ein einsamer Raum, die Einsamkeit eigentlich geselliger Vögel, verstaubte Bücher, umarmungsgehemmte Eltern, ein stummer Mann, ein tötender Jäger...), aber in der Vielzahl der verschiedenen Übertragungsfelder wird das eigentliche Kernsegment - so wie ich es verstehe - nämlich die unterbliebene/unterdrückte Selbstverwirklichung der Frau eher in isolierte, literarisch vielleicht ambitionierte, aber wenig nachvollziehbare Bilder transformiert.
Falls Haushofer also gerade diese fehlende Verständlichmachung psychischer Belastung und Enttäuschung im Leben einer Frau in den späten 60er Jahren anstrebte, ist es ihr gut gelungen. Ehemann, Kinder und diverse Bekannte dieser Frau waren mir tatsächlich unsympathisch. Das gleiche gilt aber auch für einige pauschale Anklagen der Frau ala: Früher hatten die Menschen noch Werte, heute ist die Gesellschaft scheußlich. Diese Art von Zeitkritik, verschiedentlich variiert und ernst gemeint, verleidet mir eigentlich jedes Buch.
Leider nicht mein nächster Haushofer-Liebling. Aber ich bin sicher, dass ich die österreichische Autorin weiterhin belesen werde.
October 5, 2021
"Nichts ist schwieriger, als sich selber auf die Schliche zu kommen."
January 26, 2023
Nadat De Wand vorig jaar met stip mijn lijst van favoriete boeken aller tijden in denderde, besloot ik alles van Haushofer te gaan lezen.
De mansarde is mijn tweede Haushofer. Dit boek had iets meer tijd nodig om me te grijpen, maar ik denk dat deze me ook nog wel even gaat bezighouden. De relatie van de hoofdpersoon met haar naasten is ook in dit boek weer zo ongemakkelijk. Het maakt me nieuwsgierig naar hoe Haushofer zelf was.
De scènes met meneer X vond ik zó goed.
Speciaal voor iedereen met onvervulde wensen en met een verlangen naar een ‘room of one’s own’.
De mansarde is mijn tweede Haushofer. Dit boek had iets meer tijd nodig om me te grijpen, maar ik denk dat deze me ook nog wel even gaat bezighouden. De relatie van de hoofdpersoon met haar naasten is ook in dit boek weer zo ongemakkelijk. Het maakt me nieuwsgierig naar hoe Haushofer zelf was.
De scènes met meneer X vond ik zó goed.
Speciaal voor iedereen met onvervulde wensen en met een verlangen naar een ‘room of one’s own’.
November 23, 2025
Marlen Haushofer'ın Duvar romanını seneler evvel hakkında hiçbir fikrim yokken Can Yayınları'nın yaz kampanyasıyla alıp okumuştum. (Yaşlılar bilir eskiden her yaz 5, 10 lira kampanyası olurdu :')) Buraya duygularımı yazmamış olsam da kitabı korkunç bir klostrofobi hissiyle okuduğumu hatırlıyorum. Yazar haklarının Yapı Kredi'ye geçmesiyle birlikte Duvar'a ek olarak Çatı romanı da ilk kez okurlarla buluştu. Ben de yıllar sonra bu kez hakkında fikir sahibi olarak Haushofer'ın (bizim için) yeni romanını okudum.
Çatı romanı yazarın Duvar'dan altı yıl sonra kaleme aldığı aynı zamanda kendisinin son romanı. Kitabı spoiler vermeden anlatmak biraz zor olsa da deneyeceğim. Sessiz bir evde eşi Hubert ile yaşayan, kitaplara çizimler yapan bir kadın anlatıcımız var. Evin rutinleri içinde, sıradan ve sakin bir hayat süren anlatıcımızın hayatı bir gün kapısına gelen mektupla farklılaşıyor. Sürprizi kaçırmadan sanırım ancak böyle anlatabilirim. Çatıda kendine ait bir odası olan anlatıcımızın zihninden geçenleri okuyoruz. Geçmişini, hislerini, gününün nasıl geçtiğini. Bana biraz yakın zamanda okuduğum Sarı Defter günlüklerini hatırlattı. Zira Çatı romanı her ne kadar bir kurgu olsa da Pazar gününden diğer pazar gününe doğru giden yedi günlük bir çizgide ilerliyor.
Kadınlık, eş, kendine ait bir alan ve zaman konularını işleyen iyi romanlardan biriydi benim için. Olaysız ve durağan romanlardan hoşlanmayan okurları zorlayabilir ancak benim gibi karakterin zihninde dolaşmayı seviyorsanız bence keyif alarak okursunuz. Yazarın diğer eserleri de dilerim hızla dilimize kazandırılır biz de yeterince övülmediğini düşündüğüm Marlen hanımı keyifle okuruz.
Çatı romanı yazarın Duvar'dan altı yıl sonra kaleme aldığı aynı zamanda kendisinin son romanı. Kitabı spoiler vermeden anlatmak biraz zor olsa da deneyeceğim. Sessiz bir evde eşi Hubert ile yaşayan, kitaplara çizimler yapan bir kadın anlatıcımız var. Evin rutinleri içinde, sıradan ve sakin bir hayat süren anlatıcımızın hayatı bir gün kapısına gelen mektupla farklılaşıyor. Sürprizi kaçırmadan sanırım ancak böyle anlatabilirim. Çatıda kendine ait bir odası olan anlatıcımızın zihninden geçenleri okuyoruz. Geçmişini, hislerini, gününün nasıl geçtiğini. Bana biraz yakın zamanda okuduğum Sarı Defter günlüklerini hatırlattı. Zira Çatı romanı her ne kadar bir kurgu olsa da Pazar gününden diğer pazar gününe doğru giden yedi günlük bir çizgide ilerliyor.
Kadınlık, eş, kendine ait bir alan ve zaman konularını işleyen iyi romanlardan biriydi benim için. Olaysız ve durağan romanlardan hoşlanmayan okurları zorlayabilir ancak benim gibi karakterin zihninde dolaşmayı seviyorsanız bence keyif alarak okursunuz. Yazarın diğer eserleri de dilerim hızla dilimize kazandırılır biz de yeterince övülmediğini düşündüğüm Marlen hanımı keyifle okuruz.
September 1, 2021
“Se non potevo più volare, che mi uccidessero pure”.
L’ultimo libro (ora introvabile) di Marlen Haushofer è anche una sorta di testamento spirituale e di concentrazione dei temi che hanno caratterizzato la produzione letteraria di questa originale autrice austriaca, prematuramente scomparsa.
Come nel più noto “La parete”, anche qui c’è una donna sola a fronteggiare l’oppressione di una società perbenista e ipocrita, alla quale riesce a sottrarsi soltanto attraverso il disegno e il sogno e la cui inevitabile sottomissione produce “l’evento”, una menomazione psicosomatica che per un certo periodo allontana la donna dal suo contesto familiare e sociale.
Isolata e reietta in una casa di montagna, incapace di intraprendere delle relazioni banali con le cosiddette persone normali, la narratrice si rifugia nell’interiorità stravagante del proprio mondo e nell’osservazione creativa del mondo naturale da cui si generano sogni intraprendenti e vitali.
L’inquietudine di sentirsi diversa da tutti e l’angoscia di non potersi riconoscere in una norma, in un ruolo, in un modello codificato, pur continuando a rivestirne le sembianze, produce tutte le descrizioni e le riflessioni che costituiscono la materia di questo racconto.
L’estraneità vissuta e raccontata ci tocca profondamente, proprio quando il contenuto possente e rivoluzionario sembra stridere con la pacatezza e l’equilibrio della narrazione.
Il periodo vissuto nella costrizione dell’ “evento” ritornerà alla sua memoria forzatamente, nella forma di stralci di diario che le giungono misteriosamente dal passato. E così il racconto percorre lentamente i giorni presenti e ripercorre quelli lontani, arricchendo via via il quadro magmatico della vita quotidiana.
La mansarda è rifugio e fuga, è solitudine e amicizia con se stessa.
È il luogo del pensiero e del sentimento, ma anche del dubbio e della lacerazione.
Nella mansarda lei cerca di mettere a frutto quello che sembra essere il suo unico talento: disegnare gli animali. Nel momento presente a incantarla sono quasi esclusivamente gli esseri alati. E adesso le sue prove hanno uno scopo: disegnare un uccello che sappia di non essere l’unico sulla terra. Ma l’armadio si riempie di esemplari solitari.
Così è anche lei: sola al mondo, nonostante la famiglia, i figli, i conoscenti che si pretendono amici. La sua diversità è lontana dall’essere percepita e vissuta come un dono. Ma forse l’obiettivo finale del viaggio di autoconsapevolezza è proprio questo: essere portatori sani della propria differenza.
L’ultimo libro (ora introvabile) di Marlen Haushofer è anche una sorta di testamento spirituale e di concentrazione dei temi che hanno caratterizzato la produzione letteraria di questa originale autrice austriaca, prematuramente scomparsa.
Come nel più noto “La parete”, anche qui c’è una donna sola a fronteggiare l’oppressione di una società perbenista e ipocrita, alla quale riesce a sottrarsi soltanto attraverso il disegno e il sogno e la cui inevitabile sottomissione produce “l’evento”, una menomazione psicosomatica che per un certo periodo allontana la donna dal suo contesto familiare e sociale.
Isolata e reietta in una casa di montagna, incapace di intraprendere delle relazioni banali con le cosiddette persone normali, la narratrice si rifugia nell’interiorità stravagante del proprio mondo e nell’osservazione creativa del mondo naturale da cui si generano sogni intraprendenti e vitali.
L’inquietudine di sentirsi diversa da tutti e l’angoscia di non potersi riconoscere in una norma, in un ruolo, in un modello codificato, pur continuando a rivestirne le sembianze, produce tutte le descrizioni e le riflessioni che costituiscono la materia di questo racconto.
L’estraneità vissuta e raccontata ci tocca profondamente, proprio quando il contenuto possente e rivoluzionario sembra stridere con la pacatezza e l’equilibrio della narrazione.
Il periodo vissuto nella costrizione dell’ “evento” ritornerà alla sua memoria forzatamente, nella forma di stralci di diario che le giungono misteriosamente dal passato. E così il racconto percorre lentamente i giorni presenti e ripercorre quelli lontani, arricchendo via via il quadro magmatico della vita quotidiana.
La mansarda è rifugio e fuga, è solitudine e amicizia con se stessa.
È il luogo del pensiero e del sentimento, ma anche del dubbio e della lacerazione.
Nella mansarda lei cerca di mettere a frutto quello che sembra essere il suo unico talento: disegnare gli animali. Nel momento presente a incantarla sono quasi esclusivamente gli esseri alati. E adesso le sue prove hanno uno scopo: disegnare un uccello che sappia di non essere l’unico sulla terra. Ma l’armadio si riempie di esemplari solitari.
Così è anche lei: sola al mondo, nonostante la famiglia, i figli, i conoscenti che si pretendono amici. La sua diversità è lontana dall’essere percepita e vissuta come un dono. Ma forse l’obiettivo finale del viaggio di autoconsapevolezza è proprio questo: essere portatori sani della propria differenza.
November 23, 2025
Duvar çok etkileyici bir kitaptı, bir haftadan fazla bir süre etkisinden kurtulamamıştım. Kendimi dünyadan kopmuş o ıssızlıkta, yağmurla, rüzgarlarla, doğanın vahşiliğinin korkutuculuğu ve güzelliğinde hissetmeye devam ettim. Hala da peşimi bırakmadı.
Çatı Katında da aynı hapsolmuşluk, yalıtılmışlık duygusu ve içsel varoluş çok yoğun. Bu sefer bir Çatı katında ve kendi düşüncelerinde, özgürlüğüne uçan bir kadınla. Birçok kitapta karakterin psikolojisinin yazar taraf��ndan kurulan bir şey olduğu bilinci hep beni bulur. Ama Marlen'de karaktere ait her düşünce ve davranış çok doğal ve canlı. Bu kadınlar nefes alıyorlar, içlerine üflenen şey bir kurgunun çok ötesinde.
Marlen'i, gerçekten büyük bir yazarı çok geç keşfettiğimizi düşünüyorum, ama hiç olmamasından iyidir.
Çatı Katında da aynı hapsolmuşluk, yalıtılmışlık duygusu ve içsel varoluş çok yoğun. Bu sefer bir Çatı katında ve kendi düşüncelerinde, özgürlüğüne uçan bir kadınla. Birçok kitapta karakterin psikolojisinin yazar taraf��ndan kurulan bir şey olduğu bilinci hep beni bulur. Ama Marlen'de karaktere ait her düşünce ve davranış çok doğal ve canlı. Bu kadınlar nefes alıyorlar, içlerine üflenen şey bir kurgunun çok ötesinde.
Marlen'i, gerçekten büyük bir yazarı çok geç keşfettiğimizi düşünüyorum, ama hiç olmamasından iyidir.
June 26, 2011
I'm not sure I could say I enjoyed this book: it was quite dark, and I was left feel frustrated at the end wanting to know more and indeed read more (although that is of course a good sign).
But it was interesting, and I most definitely enjoyed getting right inside the head of the main character, and following the way her mind worked.
It's quite rare to read insights from those who don't see or partake of reality the way we're 'supposed' to and I found it refreshing to see things from a different and more honest perspective than you normally get, even if the places taken were unsettling and sometimes disturbing.
But it was interesting, and I most definitely enjoyed getting right inside the head of the main character, and following the way her mind worked.
It's quite rare to read insights from those who don't see or partake of reality the way we're 'supposed' to and I found it refreshing to see things from a different and more honest perspective than you normally get, even if the places taken were unsettling and sometimes disturbing.
October 28, 2022
Diese schlichte Sprache ist so schön, in der Selbstbeschreibung der Ich-Erzählerin steckt so viel Nachvollziehbares. Ein scheinbar einfaches und durchschnittliches Frauenleben der 1930er-1960er, nur dass es sonst in der Literatur nicht vorkommt.
January 2, 2025
Marlen Haushofer. ❤️
Nachdem „Die Wand“ eins meiner liebsten Bücher wurde, bin ich jetzt endlich auf die Idee gekommen, andere Bücher dieser wunderbaren Autorin zu lesen und dies hier ist tatsächlich ihr finaler Roman, der auch als ziemlich autobiografisch angesehen wird. Unabhängig davon ist es wie schon „die Wand“ ein Buch, das durch Eintönigkeit eine faszinierende Beklemmung erzeugt, und speziell in diesem Buch ist die Beklemmung meiner Meinung nach die enge und ausweglose Rolle der „Hausfrauen“ nach dem zweiten Weltkrieg in Österreich und der BRD und sicherlich auch vielen anderen Ländern.
Hinzu kommen Tagebucheinträge aus einer Zeit, in der sie nach dem Krieg psychosomatisch (?) ertaubt war und eineinhalb Jahre quasi ins Exil fernab der jungen eigenen Familie abgeschoben wurde und dort einen von seiner Schuld geplagten Mann trifft, der bei der tauben Frau beichten möchte. Hier entsteht also eine ganz andere Art von Beklemmung, eine interessante Art, die Nachkriegszeit aufzuarbeiten.
Long Story short, wir sollten alle viel mehr Marlen Haushofer lesen.
Nachdem „Die Wand“ eins meiner liebsten Bücher wurde, bin ich jetzt endlich auf die Idee gekommen, andere Bücher dieser wunderbaren Autorin zu lesen und dies hier ist tatsächlich ihr finaler Roman, der auch als ziemlich autobiografisch angesehen wird. Unabhängig davon ist es wie schon „die Wand“ ein Buch, das durch Eintönigkeit eine faszinierende Beklemmung erzeugt, und speziell in diesem Buch ist die Beklemmung meiner Meinung nach die enge und ausweglose Rolle der „Hausfrauen“ nach dem zweiten Weltkrieg in Österreich und der BRD und sicherlich auch vielen anderen Ländern.
Hinzu kommen Tagebucheinträge aus einer Zeit, in der sie nach dem Krieg psychosomatisch (?) ertaubt war und eineinhalb Jahre quasi ins Exil fernab der jungen eigenen Familie abgeschoben wurde und dort einen von seiner Schuld geplagten Mann trifft, der bei der tauben Frau beichten möchte. Hier entsteht also eine ganz andere Art von Beklemmung, eine interessante Art, die Nachkriegszeit aufzuarbeiten.
Long Story short, wir sollten alle viel mehr Marlen Haushofer lesen.
September 8, 2025
much like The Wall, Haushofer keeps to many of the same ideas in this story, albeit in a much less direct way. the theme of isolation is perhaps more heartbreaking in this novel, as the main character is isolated through her own domestic choices and expectations, rather than by some divine miracle as in The Wall.
she loves her husband, but it can hardly be said that they are happy together. it is all so routine, as if they both have fallen into what society deems fit with little resistance or ambition. the narrator fills her time with housework and errands, waiting until the very end of each day to retire to her loft where her true passion lies; drawing lifelike depictions of birds, insects, and reptiles.
I won't say much to the plot of the story, much of it is, like The Wall, mundane tasks narrated with surprising complexity as the character unravels the course of her life and existence in a mild stream of consciousness.
I think this novel is just as important as Haushofer's other works I have read, perhaps it is her best work, although nowhere near as poignant as The Wall was to me. in The Loft, she weaves a fascinating tale of domesticity and boredom, creating shocking revelations that are never fully revealed, and leaves more to guess at than to ever truly know.
this book isn't the only one in the world, but it feels like it could be.
she loves her husband, but it can hardly be said that they are happy together. it is all so routine, as if they both have fallen into what society deems fit with little resistance or ambition. the narrator fills her time with housework and errands, waiting until the very end of each day to retire to her loft where her true passion lies; drawing lifelike depictions of birds, insects, and reptiles.
I won't say much to the plot of the story, much of it is, like The Wall, mundane tasks narrated with surprising complexity as the character unravels the course of her life and existence in a mild stream of consciousness.
I think this novel is just as important as Haushofer's other works I have read, perhaps it is her best work, although nowhere near as poignant as The Wall was to me. in The Loft, she weaves a fascinating tale of domesticity and boredom, creating shocking revelations that are never fully revealed, and leaves more to guess at than to ever truly know.
this book isn't the only one in the world, but it feels like it could be.
January 22, 2024
„Moje sekrety są malutkie i bez znaczenia, przeważnie rysunki gadów lub ptaków, ale w nic innego nie mogę go wtajemniczyć. A że i poufne zwierzenia Huberta też są całkowicie nieważkie, więc wszystko jest w porządku i równowaga zostaje przywrócona.
W mansardzie mogę rysować lub malować, albo, jeśli akurat mam ochotę, po prostu spacerować tam i z powrotem, nawyk, który zdenerwowałby Huberta. Otrzymałam w darze jeden jedyny talent, z którym nie bardzo wiem, co począć. Kiedyś ilustrowałam książki. Ale to już dawno temu. Hubert nie chciał, żebym tym.”
„Mansarda” to druga powieść Haushofer, z którą się zetknęłam. W tytułowej mansardzie narratorka chowa swoje prawdziwe myśli oraz pasje i zamyka swoje wewnętrzne życie. To miejsce, do którego nikt nie ma wstępu. Podobnie jak w „Sekretnych drzwiach” powieść kładzie nacisk na skrywane życie swych narratorek, które często są niezrozumiane przez swoje otoczenie. Jak powyższy fragment obrazuje, „Mansarda” skupia się też na relacjach małżeńskich pozornie udanego małżeństwa. Dwoje ludzi, którzy ostatecznie nie mają za wiele ze sobą wspólnego.
Narratorka żyje w odosobnieniu, kiedy z niewiadomych przyczyn traci słuch, co staje się punktem wyjściowym jej własnej banicji. Stroni od ludzi, własnych dzieci oraz małżeństwa. Dojmującym jest fakt, że wydaje się, że nikomu jej nie brak. Usuwa się z planu, unika każdej ważnej uroczystości typu Wigilia. Narratorkę „Mansardy” wydaje się, że spotykają mniejsze tragedię niż bohaterkę „Sekretnych drzwi”, co nie znaczy, że jej przemyślenia przedstawione piórem Haushofer są mniej ważne. Z pewnością będzie to lektura dla każdego czytelnika chcącego prześledzić postępy literackie i rozwoj pióra autorki.
W mansardzie mogę rysować lub malować, albo, jeśli akurat mam ochotę, po prostu spacerować tam i z powrotem, nawyk, który zdenerwowałby Huberta. Otrzymałam w darze jeden jedyny talent, z którym nie bardzo wiem, co począć. Kiedyś ilustrowałam książki. Ale to już dawno temu. Hubert nie chciał, żebym tym.”
„Mansarda” to druga powieść Haushofer, z którą się zetknęłam. W tytułowej mansardzie narratorka chowa swoje prawdziwe myśli oraz pasje i zamyka swoje wewnętrzne życie. To miejsce, do którego nikt nie ma wstępu. Podobnie jak w „Sekretnych drzwiach” powieść kładzie nacisk na skrywane życie swych narratorek, które często są niezrozumiane przez swoje otoczenie. Jak powyższy fragment obrazuje, „Mansarda” skupia się też na relacjach małżeńskich pozornie udanego małżeństwa. Dwoje ludzi, którzy ostatecznie nie mają za wiele ze sobą wspólnego.
Narratorka żyje w odosobnieniu, kiedy z niewiadomych przyczyn traci słuch, co staje się punktem wyjściowym jej własnej banicji. Stroni od ludzi, własnych dzieci oraz małżeństwa. Dojmującym jest fakt, że wydaje się, że nikomu jej nie brak. Usuwa się z planu, unika każdej ważnej uroczystości typu Wigilia. Narratorkę „Mansardy” wydaje się, że spotykają mniejsze tragedię niż bohaterkę „Sekretnych drzwi”, co nie znaczy, że jej przemyślenia przedstawione piórem Haushofer są mniej ważne. Z pewnością będzie to lektura dla każdego czytelnika chcącego prześledzić postępy literackie i rozwoj pióra autorki.
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April 9, 2023Schön geschrieben, aber sehr deprimierend und hoffnungslos.
July 23, 2025
Love reading this. Reminds me of Mrs Dalloway by Woolf or The Hole by Oyamada.
May 8, 2021
Unerträglich ist der Protagonistin nicht nur die Last ihres eigenen Körpers, sondern auch ihr ganzes Dasein mitsamt ihrer Wünsche und Gedanken. Darüber hinaus sind ihr die meisten anderen Menschen unerträglich. Ständig geht es ihr darum, "sich die Leute vom Halse zu halten" und dennoch verbringt sie ihre Zeit gegen ihren Willen mit Menschen, die sie nicht leiden kann. Warum? Um Erwartungen zu erfüllen und Gewohnheiten zu pflegen. Das meiste, was sie tut, tut sie aus Gewohnheit ("Es ist ein gutes Gefühl, nachzugeben und sich zu fügen."). Ihren häuslichen Pflichten geht sie hingegen fast mit Hingabe nach, scheinbar wie zur Ablenkung von ihrem Denken. Mit ihrer Umwelt und ihren Mitmenschen verbindet sie nichts, selbst mit ihrer engsten Familie nicht. Als sie als junge, zeitweise taube Frau allein und abgeschottet in den Bergen lebt, geht es ihr noch am besten und sie hadert nicht damit, sich fern der Menschen so wohl zu fühlen, selbst nach ihrem Mann und ihrem kleinen Sohn keine Sehnsucht zu empfinden. Hier taten sich viele Ähnlichkeiten zu Haushofers "Die Wand" auf und der Verdacht, dass diese selige Abgeschiedenheit wahrscheinlich Haushofers Hauptidee war - ihr Ideal vielleicht sogar? Das ganze Buch hindurch bleibt die Protagonistin ein Opfer ihrer Umstände, ihrer Ängste, bleibt hinter jeglichen Verwirklichungsmöglichkeiten zurück. Bleibt passiv, träge, zu pauschal auch in ihren Ansichten ("Er hätte gut für ich gesorgt und mich fleißig betrogen, wie sich eben ein normaler Mann in einem solchen Fall benimmt"), ohne Selbstwertgefühl ("Aber es hätte mich auch umbringen können. Das wäre nicht schade um mich gewesen."; "Wozu ich wirklich tauge, weiß ich nicht [...]"). All dies, ihre eigene Abneigung gegen sich und ihr Umfeld machte es mir schwer, mit ihr zu sympathisieren oder mich gar mit ihr zu identifizieren. Wenngleich sich in den 220 Seiten immer mal wieder interessante Gedankengänge fanden und die Idee der Mansarde als ganz privater Rückzugsort zum Malen und Denken eine wirklich sehr schöne ist, empfand ich diese Lektüre insgesamt als zu dunkel, zu hoffnungslos, zu unaufgeregt und in der Tat unerträglich.
May 29, 2025
The Loft
By Marlen Haushofer
Translared from the German by Amanda Prantera
Originally published in 1969, this must have been considered quite subversive in it's day. Told over 8 days through a stream of consciousness narrative, it's the story of an Austrian housewife, an empty nester, who appears on the surface to live in service of her bland and dull husband, attending to her household chores and minimising inconveniences in his life. Her only outlet is her daily escape to the loft where she sketches birds and insects.
Unexpectedly, she begins to receive packages through the post, containing some of her old journals, and she is drawn backwards to a time when she experienced a period of deafness and had a dalliance which we must read between the lines about.
This is one of those stories where the voice is the hook. In the first sentence, Haushofer sets up everything we need to know about the state of the marriage, and questions start to arise, many of which are never truly resolved.
Through hint and allusion, it becomes clear that the narrator has a rich parallel life. In the 1960s, especially in rural and traditional locations, married women had little scope for anything other than domesticity. Women were still ancillary characters in literature and media. As chance would have it, I'm also currently reading Deborah Levy's "Real Estate", and the exact same themes are the subject of her early chapters. I laughed out loud when I read it within minutes of finishing this one.
Between her "deafness", her unarticulated affair, her snarky parallel inner discourses and her dragon in the attic, she may be the slipperiest anarchist of a little wifey I have read about in a while.
Publication date: 5th June 2025
Thanks to #Netgalley for sending me the ARC, these are my honest opinions
By Marlen Haushofer
Translared from the German by Amanda Prantera
Originally published in 1969, this must have been considered quite subversive in it's day. Told over 8 days through a stream of consciousness narrative, it's the story of an Austrian housewife, an empty nester, who appears on the surface to live in service of her bland and dull husband, attending to her household chores and minimising inconveniences in his life. Her only outlet is her daily escape to the loft where she sketches birds and insects.
Unexpectedly, she begins to receive packages through the post, containing some of her old journals, and she is drawn backwards to a time when she experienced a period of deafness and had a dalliance which we must read between the lines about.
This is one of those stories where the voice is the hook. In the first sentence, Haushofer sets up everything we need to know about the state of the marriage, and questions start to arise, many of which are never truly resolved.
Through hint and allusion, it becomes clear that the narrator has a rich parallel life. In the 1960s, especially in rural and traditional locations, married women had little scope for anything other than domesticity. Women were still ancillary characters in literature and media. As chance would have it, I'm also currently reading Deborah Levy's "Real Estate", and the exact same themes are the subject of her early chapters. I laughed out loud when I read it within minutes of finishing this one.
Between her "deafness", her unarticulated affair, her snarky parallel inner discourses and her dragon in the attic, she may be the slipperiest anarchist of a little wifey I have read about in a while.
Publication date: 5th June 2025
Thanks to #Netgalley for sending me the ARC, these are my honest opinions
September 12, 2023
Je repense beaucoup à ce livre, et à la façon dont "Le Mur" serait une suite, une fuite, une solution, à la dépression des femmes aux foyers, fléau moderne des femmes bourgeoises.
J'aime beaucoup la façon dont la dépression est abordée sans être nommée, et surtout que cette femme a "une chambre à soi", me fait espérer qu'elle n'est pas totalement perdue.
J'aime beaucoup la façon dont la dépression est abordée sans être nommée, et surtout que cette femme a "une chambre à soi", me fait espérer qu'elle n'est pas totalement perdue.
January 4, 2022
Es sorprendente, porque no me deja de sorprender, que mirando en las estanterías de una gran cadena encuentre este libro que me ha convocado. Un gran rescate de esta editorial a la que voy a seguir desde ahora.
March 3, 2022
Douceur de l'écriture, ironie à peine dissimulée, puissance des symboliques, cadre en bouleversement perpétuel dans un essaim de pensées et de souvenirs : encore et toujours un plaisir sans nom que de lire du Haushofer (même si la lecture est ardue)
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