Love

by Péter Nádas, Imre Goldstein (Translator)

The hallucinatory, unforgettable account of a moment - or an eternity - in an uncertain love affair

The man has actually come to tell his lover that he wants to leave her, but as soon as he walks in he realizes he won't be able to tell her. The woman rolls a joint. They smoke it. And as they drift into another state of mind, he approaches the border zones between being and nonbeing, between living and imagining, or is it between life and death?

From the acclaimed author of A Book of Memories we now have this unsettling and strangely beautiful exploration of the impossibility of love. The mysterious musicality and physical intensity of the narration will be familiar to readers of Nadas's other fiction, but Love is a radical new departure.

Genres: Fiction, Hungarian Literature, Novella, Literary Fiction, 20th Century

128 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1979

About the author

Hungarian novelist, essayist, and dramatist, a major central European literary figure. Nádas made his international breakthrough with the monumental novel A Book of Memories (1986), a psychological novel following the tradition of Proust, Thomas Mann, and magic realism.

Péter Nádas was born in Budapest, as the son of a high-ranking party functionary. Nádas's grandfather, Moritz Grünfeld, changed his name into Hungarian, which was considered a scandal in the family. Nádas's youth was shadowed by the loss of his parents. Nádas's mother died of cancer when he was young and his father committed suicide. At the age of 16 his uncle gave him a camera, and after dropping out of school Nádas turned to photojournalism. During the late 1960s and early 1970s, he worked as an editor, reader, and drama consultant. After the Soviet-led invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, Nádas quit his job as a journalist and devoted himself to literature. "I resigned, walked out, and turned my back on the system to save my soul," he later said.

Reviews

[Jim Fonseca · Rating 3 out of 5]

Warning: I’m giving away the entire plot without putting in a “spoiler alert!”

Here it is:

A naked man and woman smoke a joint. He wanted to break up with her but now he forgets why he came. He has a bad trip. He feels that time has stopped and that he is going crazy and that he might jump off the balcony. She brings him a glass of water; they search for cigarettes and they discuss should they put on the light and play music or should she call an ambulance for him?

That’s it.

Meanwhile the main character goes through sophomoric philosophical mental gymnastics about: Am I real? Is she real? Is she really talking to me or am I just imagining that she is talking to me? Here’s a typical passage:

“This hand, my hand, is grasping the glass, and from the faucet water is dripping. This is the bathroom. But if this is the bathroom, how did I get here? And if this glass is in my hand, when and where did I pick it up? And if I am really standing here in this bathroom with the glass in my hand, and I’m not only imagining it, because I’m thirsty, as I do in my dreams when I’m thirsty, and if imagination is not reality, then it seems there are times that are beyond my control. Periods of time that occur outside my consciousness. On the other hand…”

I think we've seen enough on the first hand, so I’ll stop there. Fortunately it’s more of a novella than a novel. For what it’s worth, this book has a very low rating on GR – about a 2.8 and it has twice as many 1-stars as 5-stars. Maybe it lost something in the translation from the Hungarian. It has some literary value and it’s Nadas, author of The Book of Memories, so I’ll give it a 3, but I don’t recommend it.

[LW · Rating 4 out of 5]

Un trip stonato e disturbante

Un flusso di coscienza che fa continue spirali ,ossessivo ,
oscuro , claustrofobico ,angosciante .
Un libro che ti stordisce e ti spiazza
Nonostante (o per ) questo, è stata una buona lettura ****
PS.1. Leggendolo mi è tornato in mente
Cortázar :) lo stesso tema l'ha espresso in qualche riga

La lenta macchina del disamore
gli ingranaggi del riflusso
i corpi che abbandonano i cuscini
le lenzuola i baci
e in piedi davanti allo specchio si domandano
ognuno a se stesso
e senza guardarsi
non nudi l’uno per l’altra
io non ti amo,
amore mio.

PS.2.È controindicato se si è da poco "ex" e può dare interazioni con altre sostanze psicotrope :)

L'attesa è una dimensione favorevole: al suo interno convivono l'inesistente e il possibile, l'inimmaginabile e l'immaginabile.

[Mariel · Rating 2 out of 5]

I didn't care about this book. This guy gets high instead of breaking up with his girlfriend. It reminded me of watching someone else play a video game. Or reading a pamphlet about the effects of hallucinogenic drugs. Or reading a pamphlet about a man who doesn't know what he wants. If he had it he'd stare at it in his hands and say to the waitress, whose phone number sits forgotten in his pocket from just five minutes before, "I didn't order this." I didn't care. If you tried to define the word love out of a dictionary. You come up with strong feelings as the meaning you're supposed to say. "I love this pizza!" "I love my new mini skirt." "I love my mother?" Strong feelings? For this book? Um.... My ambivalence would give birth to love children of ambivalence. Love in this case meaning ambivalence. The drugs stole my brain cells. I guess there should be some surgeon general's warning about killing off the heart. Didn't. Care. At. All. Also, slurred speech. (I guess it's called "stream of consciousness in fancy book review talk.)

I bought LOVE used online. I noticed when I opened up the back flap that the list price is $20. I hoped that no one paid that much before I'd read a page. I bet that website has mysteriously changed servers... My local public library has Parallel Stories and Book of Memories. (It's a factory now. Or another Starbucks.)(My tax dollars didn't pay for LOVE, at least.) These were written later than LOVE and maybe they are much better? Maybe LOVE is like when people think everything they say when drunk is super deep or hilarious? (Drunk and high people love me! Why didn't LOVE love me? Because it's an impostor! He got it all out of a brochure and showed up under cover.) (Don't tell lies, Mariel. No one loves you.)

I know that I get more out of sitting in the dark when I can't sleep yet again. All kinds of shit runs through my brain (another contributor to my insomnia). I hope the fraction of it that I attempt to translate into book reviews is less void feeling than LOVE. Maybe I'm the guy you watch losing level two of his video game... (By the way, it took me ages to finish LOVE. I suck at video games unless they are puzzles. I'm freaking awesome at puzzles.) Leaf through a mail order thing and see the issues of today.

Péter Nádas. I avoided writing his name until now because I'm finally not too lazy to cut and paste. (This book make me high! Will these side effects never cease?) I'm tired of running around in mental circles. Please give this dog a bone (don't make a joke about munchies, Mariel. Textbook. At least it was short).

I kinda hated this book because it shines a generic glossy camera on the blankness of my own thoughts and interactions. Who the hell are these people, anyway? So boring.

[Huy · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hungary là một đất nước có diện tích chỉ bằng 1/3 Việt Nam với số dân vỏn vẹn chỉ bằng Thành Phố Hồ Chí Minh nhưng lại sản sinh quá nhiều nhân vật kiệt xuất. Dù so với László Krasznahorkai thì tên tuổi của Péter Nádas không nổi tiếng bằng nhưng sách của ông vẫn luôn được đánh giá rất cao.
Tôi chọn "Love" là cuốn đầu tiên để bắt đầu với Péter Nádas vì nó ngắn nhất (nếu so với Parallel Stories tận 1200 trang và A Book of Memories tận 750 trang) và cái tựa đề có cảm giác đây sẽ là một cuốn sách lãng mạn dễ đọc.
Nhưng mà cuốn tiểu thuyết ngắn này không hề nói về "tình yêu" hoặc giả như nếu có thì cũng chẳng phải là tình yêu nam nữ mà ta mong đợi, nếu bảo tôi tóm tắt nội dung của nó thì tôi cũng chẳng biết viết sao cho đúng: một người đang ông hút cần, phê pha, định nói lời chia tay với người yêu của mình nhưng không thể, cảm giác thời gian đang dừng lại và thấy mất định hướng của bản thân về sự tồn tại, về thế giới và những thứ xung quanh.
Khoảng 40 trang đầu của cuốn sách thật sự khó đọc, dù những câu văn rất ngắn gọn, đơn giản nhưng chúng khiến tôi cảm giác khá hoang mang (à, nếu nói vậy thì Péter Nádas đã khá thành công rồi, vì nhân vật chính cũng đang hoang mang vô cùng tận mà) vì những suy nghĩ lan man không đâu vào đâu của người kể chuyện, nhưng từ từ tôi lại cảm giác như thể bị thôi miên và đang lọt vào trong một tâm trí rất nhiều suy nghĩ cuồn cuộn (ôi trời, chỉ những ai đã từng phê cần mới hiểu cái cảm giác này) và bắt đầu thấy phục cách kể chuyện của Péter Nádas. Làm sao thể hiện được những cảm xúc và suy nghĩ của một người đang "phê cần" nhưng vẫn đầy chất triết học và dày đặc những nhận định về bản ngã và nỗi suy tư về sự tồn tại của bản thân giữa một thế giới nhiều bất ổn, không có gì là chắc chắn hay vững vàng.

Nhưng nếu có ai đó nói rằng cuốn này thật sự đáng chán, tôi cũng sẽ cảm thấy cực đồng cảm.

[Charlotte · Rating 2 out of 5]

Labiel pseudofilosofisch geraaskal van een man die een jointje te veel heeft gerookt. Ik wil mijn geld terug

[Kerryvaughan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Happy Valentine’s Day, freaks and tweaks.

8. Love by Peter Nadas. When I learned my order of this book was gonna arrive on Valentine’s Day, I resolved to read it same-day. And now I have.

A man is at a girl’s place to dump her but first they smoke joints and get really, really high. And he descends (soars?) into a head space of recursive contemplation of place, time, reality, and yes, a little bit of love, and of madness. “But after some time, the insane go nuts.”

I immediately had a soft spot for this short book because if you’ve ever been really, really, really out of your gourd on booze or drugs (which I have of course never), then this will make you (not me of course) say “same, bro, same” (which I of course did not say).

And along the way, it IS sweet and he DOES love her. At least in the moment. Which he can’t seem to get out of.

I also got this bc it only had 4 reviews on Amazon and 3 of them were 1-star hate bombs, which cracked me up. Next slide please. #2025books

[Brandon Prince · Rating 4 out of 5]

An interesting experiment that convincingly recreates an experience of getting too high. The narrator smokes weed with his girlfriend and freaks out, gets trapped in his mind, and experiences near-hallucinogenic paranoid delusions. Being an intellectual, he attempts to extricate himself from his 'bad trip' by trying to explain his experience of disembodied consciousness. In vain, he embarks on a series of phenomenological musings on time, body and consciousness -- each attempt plunging him further into paranoia and anxiety.

Clearly the subject matter of this book makes it an easy target for ridicule: a full grown man getting high and taking it WAY too seriously. However, the sincerity in Nadas's approach, the musicality of his style, and the substance of the narrator's philosophical dilemmas serve to ground the narrative in a sense of purpose. The seriousness both offsets and brings into relief the ridiculousness of the scenario. Indeed, much like a Gaspar Noé film, the book frequently alternates between creating an illusion of complete embodiment and descending into utter silliness.

[Kathryn · Rating 2 out of 5]

While it had a few good ideas, mostly it felt like a "you had to be there" story. (And by "you had to be there," I mean, "you had to be high.")

The plot stands thus: man goes to girlfriend's to break up. He gets high. He leaves the next morning, still alive.

Everything to him was intense, but for the sober reader, apart from a few interesting notions, it was repetitive and rather worthless.

::Wait, is this happening? No. Yes? No. What time is it? 12:30. Nipples! Wait, is this happening? Nipples! What time is it? 12:30. Is this happening? No. ::

Pretend existentialism… and nipples, just in case you forgot they existed and/or were getting bored.

From my experience, reading about drug use never really works. It didn't work well for De Quincey nor for anybody since. I understand that their experiences with drugs seemed amazing… to them. Not the case for most of us who have to read about it.

[Dominick · Rating 2 out of 5]

hungarian guy plans to break up with his girlfriend then gets so high that he forgets he exists and spends the entire novel asking for water

[Armin · Rating 1 out of 5]

Hatte schon mal Anfang und Schluss gelesen und erst gleich wieder einen Haken drunter gemacht, die Parallelgeschichten mit der tödlichen Vergleichsgröße das fast 100 Stunden dauernden langen Ficks mit seiner Kombination von jedem Außenreiz bis zum Luftzug über das Rektum Agosts über zwei SOCs eines Paares, das nicht wirklich zusammen kommen kann, degradierte diese frühe absolut gegenwartsbezogene Arbeit ohne Vorgeschichten zur absoluten Lachnummer. Die fehlende Vorgeschichte des Paares und null Gründe mit ihr Schluss zu machen, setzen den Leser in einem absoluten Niemandsland aus, in dem sich nichts als die Paranoia des Erzählers austobt. In Sachen Leserquälerei ist dieser krasse Realismus eher so etwas wie der Zwillingsbruder des mystischen Minotaurus, der immerhin der Phantasie des Lesers noch ab und an einen Brocken hinwirft.
Es erfordert sicher eine irrsinnnige Disziplin so ein Protokoll eines schlechten Trips zu schreiben und die komplette Ausgeliefertheit und allerlei Zustände zwischen brillantem Aberwitz und quälendem Zweifel in Worte zu fassen. Aus Respekt vor dieser Leistung habe ich zumindest keine Seite dieses repetitiven Werkchens ausgelassen, dessen zweite Hälfte sich mehr oder weniger darum dreht, ob es nun halb eins ist oder nicht, ob sie ihm gerade schon Wasser gebracht hat oder auch nicht. Der Subtext dieses vollkommen missratenen Anlaufs zu einer Trennung ist natürlich die Frage, ob die von ihr präparierten Joints von vorn herein darauf angelegt waren, neue Abhängigkeiten zu generieren und sein ursprüngliches Vorhaben zu sabotieren. Antworten gibt es keine nur eine Vision der Rettung durch eine hölzerne Christusstatue aus der Kirche gegenüber.
Bei einem der zahlreichen phantasierten Versuche des Erzählers über die niedrige Brüstung des Balkons zu springen.
Für mich ist das Buch furchtlose Leserquälerei, die besser in der Schublade geblieben wäre, selbst wenn es sich um eine Pionierleistung in Sachen Tripschilderung in Ungarn handeln sollte.
Ohne bestimmte Erkenntnisinteressen, - in meinem Fall die Entwicklung eines Autors -, sollte die Finger davon lassen.

[Wojciech Szot · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bardzo bym chciał, żeby jakiś facet napisał taką książkę o miłości do mnie.

Po wypaleniu z Evą jointa, narrator “Miłości” Petera Nadasa opisuje wizje, które towarzyszą “upaleniu”. Odurzony trawą i miłością bohater wkracza na pole ostatnio bardzo nam bliskie - prozy poetyckiej. Prozy wyjątkowo udanej, wciągającej, poetyzującej i ujmującej. Piękny spacer pomiędzy dosłownością a metaforą. Bardzo dobre.

Kilka dni temu napisałem w jednym z komentarzy, że pewna beznadziejna polska powieść współczesna nie uwzględnia czytelników waginosceptycznych. Nadas również nie, z tym że Nadas jest mistrzem słowa i to mistrzostwo mnie bierze. Niezależnie od sceptycyzmu.

Ostrzegam - “Miłość” może się wydawać odrobinę zbyt poetycka. Ale to już zależy od osobistego sceptycyzmu wobec poezji. Nie bądźcie sceptyczni, wsiąknijcie w “Miłość”. Proszę.

[Adam · Rating 3 out of 5]

A novel mimesis of the intoxicating repetitions known as making (as opposed to being in) love. Not always a pleasurable read, but that is far truer to form than the mindnumbing myth of perfect happiness.

[James · Rating 2 out of 5]

Having read dozens and dozens of Hungarian novels in English translation (what do you mean, pretentious, me?), this is the only one that wasn't actually much good. Which says a lot for Hungarian literature, but not a lot for Nadas's tedious, self-indulgent book. But at least it's short.

[Marcin · Rating 3 out of 5]

PL: recenzja trójjęzyczna (wersja angielska i węgierska pod wersją polską)
ENG: trilingual review (English and Hungarian versions under Polish version)
HUN: háromnyelvű felülvizsgálat (angol és magyar változat a lengyel változat alatt)

Zaczyna się zwyczajnie, można nawet rzec, że banalnie. Dwójka kochanków spotyka się wieczorem w mieszkaniu i na spółkę wypalają dwa jointy. Na Évie - kochance narratora - te dwa gibony nie robią w zasadzie żadnego wrażenia. Co innego jest z naszym narratorem. Jeśli zamysłem pisarza było oddanie odurzenia narkotycznego w narracji powieści, to efekt jest godny pozazdroszczenia i duża w tym zasługa również tytanicznej pracy, jaką oddała w tłumaczeniu Elżbieta Sobolewska. Dwa razy musiałem przerywać lekturę, gdyż nie nadążałem za gonitwą myśli i plątaniną wątków myślowych głównego bohatera. W początkowej fazie odurzenia - nazwijmy ją euforyczną - jego myśli kierują się ku leżącej obok niego nagiej kochance. Upaja się on jej ponętnym ciałem i pragnie się z nią kochać. Faza euforyczna trwa jednak krótko. Narrator błyskawicznie traci dobry humor i wpada w przygnębienie. Opis uczuć, jakie nim targają w drugiej fazie odurzenia narkotycznego - nazwijmy ją depresyjną - uważam za największy walor powieści Nádasa.

Poeci epoki romantyzmu wierzyli, że osoba szalona jest obdarzona bożą łaską, gdyż obłęd pozwala jej widzieć szerzej, dostrzegać więcej, rozumieć bardziej. To samo staje się udziałem narratora, tyle że w jego przypadku to szersze postrzeganie nie jest wynikiem szaleństwa, lecz odurzenia. Plątanina myśli ustępuje rzeczowemu, precyzyjnemu, logicznemu myśleniu. Trawka, która miała mu przynieść relaks, sprawia, że wszystko to, przed czym nasz bohater ucieka, uderza w niego ze zdwojoną siłą. Mimo że widzi, nic nie odczuwa, mimo że rozumie, popada w otępienie, mimo że stoi, traci grunt pod nogami. Ponura rzeczywistość, której stara się nie dostrzegać i wypierać z pamięci, niemal siłą wdziera mu się przed oczy. Jego kochanka stara się mu pomóc i czuwa przy nim, aby nie popełnił on żadnego głupstwa, włącznie z popełnieniem samobójstwa. Myśli głównego bohatera o jej ponętnym ciele szybko ulatują. Czuje się on przytłoczony jej miłością, że obwinia ją o zatrzymanie czasu. Można mieć wątpliwości, czy faktycznie kocha on Évę, czy tylko pożąda jej ciała. Mimo że niemal przez całą powieść kochankowie prowadzą ze sobą dialog, czytelnik ma poczucie, że w rzeczywistości to dwa monologi. Gdy wreszcie narrator dochodzi do siebie, pozostaje głuchy na prośby kochanki o pozostanie w jej mieszkaniu. Nie ma w nim ani krzty wdzięczności za poświęcenie, jakie mu okazała tej feralnej nocy. Nádas pokazuje, że we współczesnej miłości bardzo dużo jest miłości własnej.

Najsłabszym elementem tej powieści jest jej długość. Historia opowiedziana przez Nádasa miała wspaniały potencjał nawet na sporych rozmiarów opowiadanie. Mimo że sama książka nie liczy wiele stron, nie brak w niej powtórzeń i nieustannego wracania do tych samych schematów i wątków. Kilkakrotnie podczas lektury towarzyszyło mi przykre uczucie, że przez kilka stron czytam właściwie o tym samym, tyle że ubranym w inne słowa. "Miłość" wiele by zyskała, gdyby autor zdecydował się ją skrócić mniej więcej o połowę. Polemizowałbym również z okładkowymi recenzjami, dopatrującymi się w języku powieści prozy poetyckiej. Jak dla mnie, język powieści daleki jest od poetyckości. Nádas tą powieścią udowadnia, że umie jak mało kto pisać o uczuciach, dlatego z chęcią sięgnę po inne jego książki.

It starts as usual, you can even say that it's trivial. Two lovers meet in the evening in the apartment and burns two joints. On Éva - the lover of the narrator - a weed does not really make any impression. With our narrator - on the contrary. If the writer's intention was to textualise narcotic intoxication in the narrative of the novel, the effect is enviable and greatly due to the titanic work of Elżbieta Sobolewska gave in the Polish translation. Twice I had to stop reading because I could not keep up with tangled thoughts of the main character. In the initial phase of intoxication - let's call it euphoric - his thoughts go to a naked lover lying next to him. He becomes impatient with her alluring body and wants to make love with her. However, the euphoric phase lasts for a short time. The narrator instantly loses good humor and falls into depression. The description of the feelings that they make in the second phase of narcotic intoxication - let us call her depressive - I consider the greatest asset of Nádas's novel.

The poets of the Romantic era believed that a crazy person is gifted with God's grace, because insanity allows him or her to see more widely, to perceive more, to understand more. The same thing happens to the narrator, but in his case the wider perception is not the result of madness, but of intoxication. The tangle of thoughts gives way to thoughtful, precise, logical thinking. The weed, which was supposed to bring him relaxation, makes everything that our hero escapes from, hits him with redoubled strength. Although he sees, he does not feel anything, although he understands, falls into dementia, even though he is standing, he loses ground under his feet. The dreary reality, which he tries not to notice and displace from memory, almost invades his eyes. His lover tries to help him and watches over him so that he does not commit any foolishness, including committing suicide. The thoughts of the main character about her voluptuous body are quickly fading. He feels overwhelmed by her love that he blames her for stopping time. One can have doubts whether he actually loves Éva or just feels lust for her body. Although almost the entire novel lovers have a dialogue with each other, the reader has the feeling that they are actually two monologues. When the narrator finally recovers, he remains deaf to the lover's pleas to stay in her apartment. There is no gratitude in him for the sacrifice she showed him on this unlucky night. Nádas shows that in today's love there is a lot of self-love.

The weakest element of this novel is its length. The story told by Nádas had great potential even for a sizable short-story. Although the book does not count many pages, there is no lack of repetitions and constant return to the same patterns and threads. Several times during the reading I was accompanied by the unpleasant feeling that for several pages I read about the same, but dressed in different words. "Love" would have gained a lot if the author decided to cut it by about half. I would also discuss with cover reviews, looking in the language of the novel of poetic prose. As for me, the language of the novel is far from poetic. Nádas shows in this novel that he knows how to write about feelings, so I will gladly reach for his other books.

A szokásos módon indul, azt is mondhatjuk, hogy triviális. Két szerelmes találkozik este az apartmanban, és két joint-ot dohányzik. Éva - a narrátor szeretője - a fű nem igazán tesz benyomást. Elbeszélőnkkel - éppen ellenkezőleg. Ha az író szándéka az, hogy a regény narratívájában a kábítószeres mérgezést szövegesítse, a hatás irigylésre méltó, és nagyrészt az Elżbieta Sobolewska lengyel fordításban adott titán munkája miatt. Kétszer meg kellett állítanom az olvasást, mert nem tudtam lépést tartani a főszereplő kusza gondolataival. A mérgezés kezdeti szakaszában - nevezzük eufórikusnak - a gondolatai egy meztelen szeretőbe mennek, aki mellette fekszik. Tetszik a csábító testével, és akar szexelni vele. Az eufórikus fázis azonban rövid ideig tart. Az elbeszélő azonnal elveszi a jó humort, és depresszióba esik. A kábítószeres mérgezés második fázisában érezhető érzések leírása - nevezzük őt depresszívnek - a Nádas regényének legnagyobb értékét tekintem.

A romantikus korszak költői úgy vélték, hogy egy őrült ember tehetséges Isten kegyelmével, mert az őrület lehetővé teszi, hogy szélesebb körben, többet érzékeljen, jobban megértsék. Ugyanez történik az elbeszélővel, de abban az esetben a tágabb felfogás nem az őrület, hanem a mérgezés eredménye. A gondolatok kusza elgondolkodtató, pontos és logikus gondolkodást tesz lehetővé. A fű, aminek szándékában állt pihenni, mindent megtesz, amit a hősünk elhagy, megduplázódott erővel. Bár úgy látja, nem érez semmit, bár megérti, dementiába esik, még akkor is, ha ő áll, elveszti a lábát. A szörnyű valóság, melyet nem próbál meg észrevenni és elhagyni a memóriából, szinte megszállja a szemét. Szeretője megpróbálja segíteni neki, és figyeli őt, hogy ne csináljon bolondságot, beleértve az öngyilkosságot. A főszereplő gondolatai az érzéki testéről gyorsan elhalványulnak. Úgy érezte, túlságosan lenyűgözte a szeretetét, hogy megállítja a megállási időt. Kétségbe vonható, hogy tényleg szereti Évát, vagy csak úgy érzi, hogy a teste iránti vágyat. Bár szinte az egész regény szerelmesei párbeszédet folytatnak egymással, az olvasó úgy érzi, hogy valójában két monológ. Amikor az elbeszélő végül felépül, süket marad a szeretőnek a lakásában való tartózkodás joga miatt. Nincs hálája az áldozatért, amit ő mutatott neki ezen a szerencsétlen éjszakán. Nádas azt mutatja, hogy a mai szerelemben sok önszerelem van.

Ennek a regénynek a leggyengébb eleme a hossza. Bár a könyv nem számít sok oldalt, nincsenek ismétlések és állandó visszatérés ugyanazokra a mintákra és szálakra. Az olvasás során többször kísértem a kellemetlen érzést, hogy több oldalról ugyanazt olvastam, de különböző szavakkal öltöztem. A "Szerelem" sokat nyert volna, ha a szerző úgy döntött volna, hogy körülbelül felére vágja. Megvitatnám a borítói véleményeket is, a költői próza regényének nyelvén nézve. Ami engem illeti, a regény nyelve messze nem költői. Nádas ebben a regényben megmutatja, hogy tudja, hogyan kell írni az érzelmekről, így örömmel fogok elérni a többi könyvét.

[Hohlmes · Rating 3 out of 5]

zu realer fiebertraum

[a.g.e. montagner · Rating 2 out of 5]

Expressway to Yr. Skull

Péter Nádas (1942) è oggi annoverato tra i più importanti scrittori ungheresi contemporanei. Ha vinto numerosi premi, soprattutto in area mitteleuropea, e negli ultimi anni è stato costantemente sul punto di vincere il Nobel per la letteratura. Ma il riconoscimento internazionale è relativamente recente, e giunge dopo lunghi anni nei quali la sua produzione era ignorata in patria. All’inizio della sua carriera letteraria, d’altro canto, il rifiuto di collaborare con i servizi segreti del regime gli era costato l’impossibilità di pubblicare. Tanto che Amore, una novella completata dall’autore prima dei trent’anni, nel 1971, vide la luce solamente alla fine del decennio, nel 1979. L’opera viene ora pubblicata, nell’ottima traduzione di Andrea Rényi, dalla Zandonai di Rovereto, editrice ben nota ai cultori di lettere mitteleuropee. Dietro l’ennesima bella copertina si cela però un testo ostico, sperimentale, affatto accomodante.

I Love Her All the Time
Due giovani amanti, nella stanza di lei. Due rintocchi dal campanile della chiesa di fronte al palazzo. Lui è steso sul letto. Lei si riveste, esce in anticamera, torna con un cuscino per lui. Si risiede al tavolo e metodicamente svuota l’ennesima sigaretta, riempiendola poi di tabacco misto a erba. Si spoglia. I due fumano; lui esce sul terrazzo. Poco dopo la scena si ripete, punto per punto. Il libro si apre con un loop. Facile immaginare che i due giovani siano già alterati dalla droga ancor prima che la narrazione inizi. E l’uscita dal loop corrisponde alla discesa negli stati più profondi dell’alterazione.

Confusion Is Next
La vicenda è narrata in prima persona dal protagonista, e si tratta di una scelta programmatica. Nel breve volgere di qualche pagina veniamo trascinati in un flusso di coscienza travolgente, deragliato, apparentemente senza controllo. Mentre lei si crogiola nel senso di benessere indotto dalla marijuana, lui precipita in un trip claustrofobico e ossessivo. Il libro è quindi più vicino a Paura e disgusto a Las Vegas che non a Timothy Leary, citato dal New York Times nella recensione all’edizione anglosassone della novella. L’intento di Nádas non è tuttavia quello di disegnare un viaggio dai colori lisergici, né tantomeno rappresentare la fine dell’era psichedelica; la sua è invece una disamina meticolosa dei tortuosi processi mentali del protagonista. Il senso di scollamento dalla realtà è descritto con grande efficacia, in lunghi brani che continuamente si avvitano su se stessi, anche tipograficamente: ogni nuovo paragrafo inizia nel punto della riga in cui si era concluso il precedente, con una soluzione avanguardistica che restituisce il torrenziale rincorrersi dei pensieri. Le pagine si susseguono, mentre il tempo sembra essersi fermato (o forse è l’orologio a mentire?), portando il protagonista a credersi pazzo: “Sembra che la follia non sia altro che l’eterna inconciliabilità con il tempo. Inconciliabilità con la certezza e l’incertezza”.

Protect Me You
Nella notte che lo farà dubitare di tutto, dello spazio come del tempo oltre che del suo stesso corpo, l’unica certezza è data dalla sua compagna, Éva. Quando lei si rende conto del malessere psichico del compagno si prende cura di lui, cerca di rassicurarlo:

“Passerà sicuramente, caro. Non devi aver paura, prova soltanto a dormire. Tutto qui. Se invece provi a ricordare –ti dispiace se parlo? non ti dà fastidio?-, se provi a ricordare potrai renderti conto che non è successo nulla, abbiamo solo fumato, e quello che è successo dentro di te ne è solo la conseguenza, ma l’effetto passa, vedrai, e tornerai a vedere il mondo per quello che è. Ti dispiace se parlo?”

Kill Yr. Idols
L’esperimento di Nádas è perfettamente riuscito; ma proprio per questo il libro non è una lettura piacevole, e può risultare irritante anche nella sua brevità. Non preoccupatevi: per quanto possa essere angosciante, finirà presto.
E all’autore va reso merito di essere arrivato con una decina d’anni d’anticipo alla psichedelia compressa, ripetitiva, oscura, lancinante che avrebbe caratterizzato i primi dischi dei Sonic Youth. I titoli di alcune loro canzoni sembrano scritti appositamente per il libro : I Love Her All the Time, Confusion Is Next, I'm Insane, Shadow of a Doubt, Protect Me You. E, su tutte, il capolavoro: Expressway to Yr. Skull.

[paulina · Rating 2 out of 5]

a great example of male hysteria!

[Vel Veeter]

I can’t tell you much about Peter Nadas except that he is Hungarian and a contemporary writer and that he’s sometimes in the conversation for the Nobel. I can also tell you that this book was written in the late 1970s and is 130 pages, his other two famous published works translated into English run 700 pages and 1100 pages. So perhaps it’s strange to find that a man who had at least 1800 pages worth of novels in him (alongside several other novels) could find it in him to write such a short novel. And while at times I found some of this novel to be a little silly (while hoping that that silliness was a product of irony and not earnestness) I found this book to be a exercise in precision. This is a novel that takes place over the course of a late evening into the morning light in which nothing happens. Well, what does happen is that a man shows up at his lover’s house intending to end their affair, but then she get naked, rolls him a joint, and in the following hours of love-making and paranoid bliss he panics, he hallucinates (or really lets his mind wander) and he cannot for the life of him figure out what if anything his actual decision will be regarding their relationship.

What I found interesting about this is that the cross between the marijuana and his own sexual desire (which is entirely based on her availability to him) creates in him a kind of helplessness that even his own desire to be free of her for whatever reasons and so the resulting 80 or so pages of his “trip” is that kind of refusal to be decisive that most young men possess, where they want everything available to them and nothing that requires anything of them.

[Michael · Rating 4 out of 5]

A reflection from the inside of time withheld, suspended, frozen, like a photographer's image, in which my wife, jokingly, kept asking 'Eva' -- 'Yes, dear' -- 'What time is it?' -- 'It's half past twelve, dear'.

But this joke is not so far from the truth. The sheer interior monologue fills up pages and pages (about 100) in which time does not seem to move. Is he making fun of Proust or honouring him?

[Piotr]

Skończyłem..., Jezusie Nazareński, skończyłem.

[David · Rating 4 out of 5]

7.5 / 10

I kind of understand where the low reviews on GR are coming from, but I found this to be extremely engaging, more so than I had expected from a fairly sleight novella. Even though I think this could actually serve as a good introduction to Nádas, I feel like I was helped here by prior experience with his writing. A Book of Memories is a truly incredible, almost overwhelming piece of writing that I adored reading a few years ago. But it's also a book that, unusually for myself, I put down somewhere around 85% of the way through and just never picked up again. I don't blame the book, but I reached a point where its hyper-focus on minutiae across many hundreds of pages wore me down, and I wasn't feeling that urge to return (though I'd love to at some point).

I absolutely wouldn't claim that Love reaches the same heights as A Book of Memories, but I do think that it's a surprisingly effective distillation of what I enjoyed so much from that book at about 1/6 of the length. Pacing so slow that there's barely anything to pace, an incredibly self-serious focus on introspection, and constant philosophical meandering is going to put off many types of readers, and could easily be insufferable for any reader with a poor writer, but Nádas really does pull it off. The writing is excellent, managing to feel deeply anxiety ridden while achieving a gorgeous flow and momentum throughout.

I also think that the book isn't helped by its basic premise being extremely unappealing on a surface level for a lot of people. "Weed culture" has a pretty embarrassing reputation for many these days, and even though this obviously isn't that, a book written in a heady, postmodern style in which "man smokes too much weed and gets caught up in his own head for 130 pages; no hijinks ensue" is a tough sell.

But anyway, I reject the low ratings here. This is solid writing that shows off at least in part what Nádas is so good at, and if not for it being out of print, I'd happily recommend it to anyone curious about his writing without wanting to dive into his more massive tomes.

[Aviv Krengel · Rating 3 out of 5]

Not sure if I personally didn’t like it bc it just seems like something I would write in the midst of my own anxiety attack with my own lover,
Or bc it’s really written as this internal monologue that’s hard to follow and doesn’t seem to offer much to the story.
I think I both like it and dislike it for these reasons ☝️

[Tom · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is an entertaining read, like a stoner comedy by Samuel Beckett. It's early Nádas, has a student film quality to it, and a lighter, breezier tone than his later long-form stuff. Recommended for Nádas fans as a fun detour, but not a starting point or a major work by any means.

[Adrian Buck · Rating 1 out of 5]

Metaphysics and marijuana don't mix. Try mescaline instead.

[Franciszek Porayski-Pomsta · Rating 3 out of 5]

Dość trudna w odbiorze, ale interesująca. Narkotyczne rozmyślania, niedalekie od rzeczywistych, przedstawione w poetyckiej formie.

[Christopher Robinson · Rating 4 out of 5]

I vacillated between 3 and 4 stars on this, but ultimately landed on 4 because I actually had a good time reading this, something I wasn’t expecting based on all of the negative reviews here (and elsewhere).

Yes, clearly this novella is not on the level of Nádas’s later, longer, stronger works. Not much is, really. And so this begs the question: is it Love’s fault that it isn’t A Book of Memories or Parallel Stories or even Own Death?

No.

Can the young Nádas be blamed for not being as magnificent here as he was in his later, more mature works?

Certainly not. Even the most unreasonable, irritable reviewer must concede that this would be absurd, irrational, unfair and nonsensical.

So here I am, left to review this much-maligned text on its own terms. And you know what?

I liked it.

I read it over two fairly long sittings, late at night, under the influence of the same substance that the unnamed narrator has taken and is reacting so poorly to. I found myself swept along in the flood of existential paranoia and uncertainty, and I found it all fairly relatable, having been around my fair share of people that were reacting negatively to marijuana intoxication. This book does a pretty damn good job of depicting what it’s like for an intelligent, depressive person to be way, WAY too high. The language isn’t nearly as lush and polished as in his later works, but Nádas is clearly getting his voice down in this early text. The insights into the mysterious mechanisms of the (deeply) flawed (and in this case particularly unstable because uncomfortably intoxicated) human psyche are there, as is the relentless, borderline claustrophobic, distinctive style, embryonic though it is.

This would not make for a good starting place with Nádas, but for an already-rabid-fan/completist like me it was fascinating to get a glimpse into this presently-great author’s early artistic development. Don’t go into Love seeking a masterpiece. Instead, be realistic and read it for what it is: a flawed but compelling early experiment in interior voice by an author that came to be a master of this form.

Recommended with reserve. Read his other stuff first, but don’t skip it.

[Rebecca Cooper · Rating 3 out of 5]

This short book takes place over a single night, as a couple smoke hallucinogenic drugs, and the male narrator trips deeper and deeper into his own mind. His existential mental ramblings are a chore to keep up with at times, but it's also (what I would imagine to be) an incredibly realistic portrayal of a drug trip. At times I was with the narrator, with his fears of going insane and feeling on the brink of death and his philosophical realizations on the nature of love and reality. Other times the stunted writing and repetition lost me. But all in all, a very interesting and strange book - provocative in its own way, if a bit flawed in execution and conclusion.

[Gia ~ · Rating 4 out of 5]

"It would be nice to decide what belongs to imagination and what to reality."
"My story is stripped down to its bare essentials: between existence and nonexistence.
"I'd like to believe in wat i m seeing! But do I really see what I see, or merely imagine that I do?"
*interesting like a bad drug trip.

[Gijs Grob · Rating 1 out of 5]

Te lang durende bespiegelingen van een man onder invloed van wiet. Elke seconde wordt minitiuus beschreven. De angst van de hoofdpersoon om de werkelijkheid te verliezen is beklemmend, maar door het circulaire karakter van de stream of consciousness wordt het verhaal eerder saai dan spannend, en het einde is een sof.

[David · Rating 1 out of 5]

This book is like that time you were at a party and decided not to get high with everyone else and you had to sit there and watch as everyone giggled uncontrollably, looked at their hands, was mesmerized by their perception of time distortion, and waxed high-school-philosophical about the nature of being and just, like, what does it mean to be a person, man? Not recommended.