Cemitério de Pianos

by José Luís Peixoto

Cemitério de Pianos é o quarto romance de José Luís Peixoto. Os narradores, pai e filho, desvendam a história da família, que vive em Lisboa, e falam da a morte como destino irremediável, ciclo ininterrupto, renovação e elo entre gerações.

Excerto
"na terra do quintal. Empilhava tábuas que eram restos de madeira que o meu pai trazia da oficina e fazia casinhas. A cadela passava devagar, com os olhos castanhos perdidos no chão. Debaixo de uma laranjeira, meio enterrado, estava um pedaço comprido de arame enferrujado. Acredito que consigo lembrar-me do momento em que o meu corpo de quatro anos se levantou para, com as duas mãos, puxar o arame da terra. Vejo esse instante com a mesma falta de nitidez com que, agora, olho para o lado e distingo copas de árvores, misturas de folhas, a sucederem-se à minha passagem. Como uma imagem de cores líquidas a dissolverem-se umas sobre as outras. Naquele dia, voltei a sentar-me junto das tábuas empilhadas, que eram as casas que tinha construído. Segurava o arame e comecei a encontrar-lhe formas desajeitadas. Na minhas mãos, havia riscos de terra e ferrugem. Ouvi os movimentos da porta da rua a abrir-se. Era o meu irmão a sorrir. Tinha as roupas sujas de serradura porque era aprendiz do nosso pai e estava a voltar do trabalho. Disse-me qualquer cumprimento antes de reparar que eu tinha o arame na mão. Os canteiros que a minha mãe tratava com um sacho floriam atrás dele. O Simão tinha dez anos e era um rapaz. Às vezes, punha as mãos nos bolsos e ria-se. Quando me lembro dele nos dias que passaram antes daquele dia, a primeira imagem que me surge é ele de mãos nos bolsos, a rir-se. Naquela tarde, trazia a camisa fora das calças. Quando me viu com o arame na mão, deu três passos rápidos na minha direcção. A partir daqui, foi tudo rápido, mas agora, ao recordar-me, é tudo muito lento. As mãos do Simão eram maiores do que as minhas e tentavam tirar-me o arame. Não sei quais foram as palavras que escolheu para me dizer que não devia brincar com arames porque, antes de poder entendê-las, talvez por reflexo, talvez porque naquele momento me pareceu que devia ser assim, talvez porque achava que eu também sabia aquilo que devia fazer, talvez por nenhum motivo, por nenhum motivo, não larguei logo o arame. Continuei a segurá-lo com as duas mãos. Sentia a força do meu irmão no arame ferrugento que apertava com toda a força na palma das minhas mãos. E foi muito rápido, sei que foi um momento, mas agora parece-me que foi uma hora parada. Todos os movimentos divididos. Tudo muito devagar. A ponta do arame avançou na direcção da cara do meu irmão. Como se existisse uma linha recta a mostrar-lhe o caminho. A ponta enferrujada do arame avançou. O seu rosto. Num só movimento, a ponta do arame tocou-lhe na parte branca e húmida do olho direito, premiu-a ligeiramente e afundou-se definitiva num rasgão. O meu irmão largou o arame, afastou a cara e levou as duas mãos ao olho direito. Esse foi um momento de silêncio absoluto. Eu tinha quatro anos e sabia que tinha acontecido algo terrível. O meu irmão estava agarrado à cara e fazia sons de dor como eu nunca tinha ouvido. Não eram gritos. Eram sons de uma dor que o destruía devagar. Eu tinha quatro anos e segurava ainda o arame. Esse foi o momento em que a nossa mãe nos viu através do vidro da janela da cozinha. Esse momento terminou quando a nossa mãe saiu a correr pela porta, a o que é que aconteceu?, o que é que aconteceu? Eu não conseguia dizer nada. O meu irmão segurava a cara e, atrás das suas mãos, nasciam fios de sangue que lhe escorriam pelo braço e pela face e pelo pescoço. Eram fios de sangue muito vivo que lhe desciam pelos pulsos, lhe atravessavam a pele lisa e clara do interior dos braços e lhe pingavam pelo bico do cotovelo. A nossa mãe, que não imaginava, aproximou-se dele, e tem calma, tem calma. Sem imaginar, a tentar uma voz serena de mãe, deixa lá ver o que é que aconteceu. O Simão, ainda a querer acreditar que podia haver uma possibilidade de não ter acontecido o que aconteceu, afastou as mãos lentamente. No seu rosto ensanguentado, eu e a minha mãe vimos a maneira como o lado direito da sua cara era um buraco de sangue onde estava a pele branca e vazia do olho, com o desenho circular e espalmado da íris, e que, entre o sangue, lhe escorria sobre o rosto a matéria espessa e viscosa, como a clara de um ovo, que estava antes no interior do olho. No lado esquerdo da cara do Simão, o outro olho, magoado e inocente, esperava a reacção da minha mãe. Eu tinha quatro anos e segurava ainda o arame. Larguei-o quando a minha mãe não conseguiu parar o grito amargurado que a rasgou. O meu irmão voltou a tapar o rosto. E as minhas irmãs entraram no quintal a correr pela porta da cozinha. E entraram vizinhos a correr pela porta da rua. A minha mãe gritava com toda a força da sua garganta. Alguém foi chamar o meu pai à oficina. Alguém me agarrou pela cintura, me levantou da terra do quintal e me l...

Genres: Portugal, Fiction, Portuguese Literature, Romance, Music, Literature, Unfinished

315 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2006

Reviews

[BlackOxford · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Communion of Sometime Sinners

I find myself enthralled by the literature of small countries - Portugal, Ireland, The Netherlands in particular. This is a fact but certainly unintended and unplanned. What is it I ask myself that is so captivating? I suspect it has to do with the emphasis many writers from these countries seem to place on what might be called the magnificence of the quotidian, the celebration of things at hand, making the otherwise trivial into objects and events to be appreciated. Perhaps I’m projecting. In any case, Peixoto is a master of the beauty of the everyday and the mundane and the mis-shaped. How else to judge this poetically revealing prose?

The morning light doesn’t feel the clean window panes as it passes through them, coming to rest on the notes of the piano that emerge from the wireless and float in the kitchen air.

…or this?

...the telephone screams. Strong as iron, it stretches out with a persistent urgency, which stops to catch its breath, then carries on again with the same panic and the same authority.

The Piano Cemetery is a sort of multi-temporal inter-generational meditation about love and family life, both of which subjects hinge on the prosaic and often trivial being raised to the dramatic. There are some unusual devices that Peixoto uses to energise the drama. Dead men talking, because dead men have no time and can see everything. Death can be liberating in that way: Father can then be son who can then be grandfather. An Olympic marathon runner whose life, and a large part of his father’s and his son's, maintains him on pace during a race in Stockholm, presumably in the 1912 Games (at which the legendary Jim Thorpe also competed).

The usual assortment of ‘distressed types’ which populate much of Peixoto’s work are here: the grotesquely fat sister, the half-blind uncle who tells endless incomprehensible tales, the Italian piano player on the razzle, the frequently abusive men, women both dark eyed and fair-haired, all of whom are long-suffering, and of course the eccentric carpenters, Francisco grand-pere, pere et fils, who are the interchangeable protagonists: "We are perpetual in one another."

The race is the trajectory along (within?) which the runner's “reflections constructed out of guilt” ramify in a sort of segmented stream of consciousness kilometre by kilometre from generation to generation. Augustine may be right. Sin and guilt are somehow genetic. "My memory is me distorted by time and mixed up with myself - with my fear, with my guilt, with my repentance," he says as he interleaves time and space. Guilt and repentance not just for things done intentionally but most passionately for those incidental accidents that shape a life; ultimately guilt and repentance for simply being and reality is "the same truth in different illusions."

This is powerful existential stuff in which the question of who is it that exists is made central by the technique. Peixoto knows a great deal about children and old people, particularly about their peculiar sense of time and sense of connection with others. His use of ambiguity of narrator very effectively captures this other way of seeing. Perhaps small countries more than others do indeed promote these kinds of thoughts.

[Sawsan · Rating 3 out of 5]

رواية عن الحياة والموت ولغة سرد شاعرية للروائي والشاعر البرتغالي جوزيه لويس بايشوتو
حكاية عائلة يرويها اثنين من الرواة, أب بعد موته وأصغر أبناؤه
الحكي متداخل جدا ينتقل بينهم في أزمنة وأمكنة مختلفة
سرد يهتم بالتفاصيل ويسري فيه ضوء الشمس ونغمات البيانو
تفاصيل حياتية تشعر معها بالدفء والحب وأحيانا بالحزن والمعاناة
الكاتب مزج بين الخيال والحقيقة بجزء صغير من سيرته الذاتية
واحياء ذكرى فرانسيسكو لازارو في أحد شخصيات الرواية
وفرانسيسكو لازارو أول عداء برتغالي في الأوليمبياد, وتوفي خلال الماراثون
يقول الكاتب انها رواية عن الحب الذي يبقى
لكنها أيضا عن الحياة التي تمر سريعا وعن المعاناة التي نتسبب بها للآخرين بدون قصد أو بدون اهتمام

[Cheryl · Rating 5 out of 5]

Could it be I'm falling in love with Portuguese men? First, Pessoa, then Saramago, and now Peixoto. All I have of my own... are the tatters of my abandoned soul, Fernando Pessoa writes in A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems, and when I read the soft, sensual prose from this novel, I see the kind of sensuality I learned to love from Pessoa. I was walking around at dusk in Lisbon, when a Portuguese student at a book van introduced me to Peixoto's work, an author he considered one of his favorites. Now, he's one of mine.

In the world I was not I. I was a reflection that someone vaguely remembered. I was a reflection that someone was dreaming without believing.

Peixoto is deliciously confusing, partly because he writes in fragmented bursts of lyricism. One of his narrators is a dead man; the other, a runner in Lisbon, and the dead man's son. Their stories are parallel, crisscrossed, and linked. One has to pay special attention to the switches, because one could be lured by the romance and graceful sexual scenes and the heartbreak and sorrow and family saga and birth and death, yes death especially--a big theme--and oh, did I mention the piano music?

Every time I could not help thinking that my life, diminished by those afternoons, was exactly like the suspended mechanism of a piano - the fragile silence of the aligned strings, the perfect geometry of its almost death, able to be resuscitated at any moment that never came, a simple moment like so many others would be enough, a moment which would arrive, but which never arrived.

Piano music is encompassing; its delicate rhythm takes one through the psychological tension both narrators exude. Here, a dead father views his family after his death, giving an intimate view of them from his perspective, and one can see the pain of nostalgia and remorse. Here, a family love is strong, yet so many secrets are kept: a wife who fears the toll of death, but must deal with its consequences frequently; a daughter whose husband does the unthinkable, so she gains weight until she becomes unrecognizable; a sister who betrays her sister because her husband constantly betrays and belittles her; a son who runs marathons to escape it all, and yet he repeats the mistakes of the father.

Like blood I ran through the veins of Lisbon, touched its heart, penetrated its heart, and then, more slowly, extracted myself, undid myself and came out. A secret from myself.

The words are as elusive and as penetrating as poetry, their structure arranged into poetic forms. They center around a dream, anyone's dream, but specifically, the dream of the Lazaro family. The men in this family make a living as carpenters, but piano-making is the art that consumes them. Around the piano, in Lisbon, the narrative centers around these dreamers and heartbreakers who forget all sorrow and poverty and heartache once the notes from the piano fill the air and douce their senses. Like piano music, words pierce the senses and help one drift deeper and deeper into this solitary world of dreamers and lovers.

[Guille · Rating 4 out of 5]

En casi toda actividad humana que se prolongue en el tiempo vamos necesitamos cada vez dosis mayores de aquello que apreciamos para mantener nuestra cuota de placer. También ocurre con las lecturas. Como lector ya muy maleado que soy, busco mayormente (aunque hay excepciones nada desdeñables) experiencias lectoras duras, exigentes en el estilo, pero también relatos ásperos que muestren la fragilidad, la debilidad, las miserias del ser humano.

De Peixoto había leído «Nadie nos mira», una novela que transita por esos espacios que menciono, una historia de realismo mágico que obliga al lector a poner mucho de su parte. Sin embargo, en las primeras páginas de esta novela me encontré una narración muy sencilla sobre una familia unida en la que todos sus miembros se amaban tiernamente. Bien es verdad que la situación que vivían era difícil, la muerte inminente del padre, pero aun así me costaba avanzar justamente por lo fácil que era hacerlo. La dejé reposar unos días.

“Los días volvieron a ser la superficie sobre la cual soñamos”

Afortunadamente, la retomé y la calma que dio paso a la tormenta, no pequeña, se pasó animadamente con la historia contada a dos voces por Francisco padre y Francisco hijo, alternándose y confundiendose en el relato de una vida que, como una maldición, parecen heredar el uno del otro, como también las hijas toman el triste relevo de la madre, lo que les convierte en una “familia infinita”, según palabras del propio autor.

"Miraba los pianos muertos, recordaba cómo había piezas que resucitaban dentro de otros pianos y creía que toda la vida podría ser reconstruida de aquella manera. Todavía no estaba enfermo, mis hijos crecían y se convertían en los muchachos que, muy poco tiempo atrás, yo mismo había sido. El tiempo pasaba. Y tenía la seguridad de que una parte de mí, como las piezas de pianos muertos, seguiría funcionando dentro de ellos. Entonces, me acordaba de mi padre: su rostro en la fotografía, la caja de medallas, sus historias contadas por la voz de mi tía o por la voz de mi tío: y tenía la seguridad de que una parte de él seguía viva en mí, la resucitaba todos los días en mis gestos, en mis palabras y en mis pensamientos. Una parte de mi padre resucitaba cuando me veía en el espejo, cuando existía y cuando mis manos seguían construyendo todo aquello que él, en secreto, tan próximo y tan distante, había comenzado. Entonces, pensaba que había una parte de mi padre que permanecía en mí y que les entregaba a mis hijos para que permaneciese en ellos hasta que un día empezasen a entregársela a mis nietos. Lo mismo sucedía con aquello que era solamente mío, con aquello que era solamente de mis hijos y con aquello que era solamente de mis nietos. Nos repetíamos y nos separábamos y nos acercábamos. Éramos perpetuos los unos en los otros"

Un paralelismo de existencias que se entreteje con un continuo y enredado flujo de flashbacks en párrafos que no tienen inicio o son continuación de otros párrafos que en otras páginas se quedaron sin acabar, mezclado con un presente en el que Francisco hijo, carpintero y deportista como su abuelo, corre un maratón en los juegos olímpicos de Estocolmo como homenaje a otro Francisco Lázaro real que participó en las olimpiadas de 1912 (no lean su biografía si no quieren spoilers).

“Mi memoria soy yo distorsionado por el tiempo y mezclado conmigo mismo: con mi miedo, con mi culpa, con mi arrepentimiento”

No obstante, durante muchas páginas —la infancia del padre, el encuentro con su mujer y los primeros años de matrimonio—, y aunque la puntuación fuera muy particular y la no linealidad exigiera máxima concentración, se mantenía el relato de una apacible vida familiar, contada, eso sí, de una forma bella e interesante, solo enturbiada por las misteriosas idas y venidas de un tío tuerto y el accidente en un ojo que tiene uno de los hijos mientras jugaban los hermanos, otro paralelismo más. Hasta que Peixoto, sin avisos ni amagos previos, te da el primer puñetazo en la boca del estómago, el primero de muchos, un parrafito que envilece un aire donde, por lo demás, siguen flotando las notas de un piano.

[Dalia Nourelden · Rating 2 out of 5]

انا بقالى فترة بحاول اكتب رفيو وحقيقي مش عارفة أكتب ايه !! وكنت هضيف الكتاب مع التقييم وبدون اى تعليق بس انا مضايقة بصراحة وعايزة اطلع الطاقة السلبية اللى جوايا 😂
نبدأ انى اقول الحمد لله ان الرواية خلصت وانها مش اكبر من كده ، الرواية دى كان ممكن اخلصها امبارح كان باقي فيها حوالى ١٥ صفحة مثلا بس حسيت انى تعبت ومش قادرة اقرأ سطر واحد زيادة . 😭😭

الرواية بتبتدى بمشهد الاب وهو مريض وبيموت وبتتنقل الرواية في الاحداث ما بين احداث قديمة من بداية تعارفه على زوجته لأحداث حصلت بعد وفاته....
من المفترض وجود ٢ من الرواة في الرواية هم الأب والابن بس في وقت ما من الرواية حسيت ان في صوت الحفيد كمان !! ويمكن يكون العائلة بتكرر الاسماء مثلا واسم الاخت وبنتها هو نفس اسم العمة وبنتها برضه!! كل شئ جايز ومحتمل 😂.
مش مهم مش قضيتنا .. في كل الأحوال هتفهم قصة العائلة.

بس الرواية مكتوبة حقيقى بطريقة مربكة ومش بتكلم بس عن التنقل في الزمن الماضى والحاضر من فقرة للى بعدها بدون اى فواصل لان دى حاجة اتعودت عليها ومعنديش مشاكل معاها . ولا حتى عن اللخبطة اللى حصلت معايا عشان مش متأكدة فعلا مين اللى بيتكلم بس اسلوب الكتابة نفسه ��ش مظبوط ، مكنتش حاسة انى بقرأ رواية . يمكن لأن الكاتب طبقا للتعريف عنه فهو شاعر وروائي فكان طاغي على أسلوب الكتاب اسلوبه الشعري بس للأسف كان بالنسبالى أتقدم بشكل سئ جدا . الجمل قصيرة جدا ، كنت حاسة انى بقرأ بطريقة غريبة كأني بقرأ نصوص نثرية جنب بعض مثلا عشان تكون فقرة متكاملة .

وبعيدا عن الأسلوب الرواية مملة جدا ، مندمجتش ولا حسيت اى شخصية .ومايين الابن الخاين اللى بيحب اتنين في نفس الوقت ، للأب اللى كل شوية يضرب الأم وبيعامل ابنه التانى بشكل سئ ويضربه وطرده لانه دافع عن امه ، وزوج الأخت الأولى بيخونها وزوج التانية بيضربها !!!

والكاتب جاى يقولى في الآخر هى رواية عن الحب!! حب ايه بس !؟ ( حب ايه اللى جاى تقول عليه وبصوت اللمبي)
الا اذا كنت حضرتك تقصد الحب اللى في البدايات !! ده حتى الابن كان بيحب اتنين ولولا حمل واحدة منهم كان استمر على هذا المنوال عادى جدا . وخان مراته برضه عادى جدا !!! .
‏الشخصية الوحيدة اللى كانت نوعا ما كويسة ويمكن لانه ظهر قليل اصلا كان الابن التانى ، الوحيد اللى وقف يمنع ابوه من ضرب امه .واللى مش عارفه هو نفسه العم السكران ولا لأ 😂 بس مش مهم .

يمكن الكاتب زى ماقال في خاتمة الطبعة العربية انه كان عايز يتكلم عن وفاة والده وعن شخصية "فرانسيسكو لازارو"، وهو أول عدَّاء برتغالي ينضم لبطولات الأولمبياد، لكنه لم يكمل مشوار ومات شابًا . فجاء اسم بطل الرواية على اسم هذا العداء وكان هو ايضا يمارس رياضة العدو لكن باقي الاحداث كانت متخيلة .


٢٢ / ٤ / ٢٠٢٢

[João Carlos · Rating 4 out of 5]

”Cemitério de Pianos” (2006) é o terceiro romance que li do escritor alentejano José Luís Peixoto (n. 1974).

”Cemitério de Pianos” é um livro:

1 - Que utiliza uma narrativa fragmentada;

2 – Com múltiplos narradores, múltiplas vozes e múltiplos tempos;

3 – Que tem em Francisco Lázaro – maratonista português que participou nos Jogos Olímpicos de Estocolmo, Suécia em 1912 – o centro da narrativa;

4 - Sobre a história de três gerações da mesma família;

5 – Com alguns excertos impregnados de violência – física e moral - para com algumas personagens (mulher e filhos);

6 – Que apresenta modelos comportamentais que se reproduzem, sobretudo, nas relações conjugais;

7 – Que possui retalhos narrativos, que vão surgindo de tal modo desagregados, com o leitor a acabar por ter a sensação de relatos independentes, mas marcadamente complementares;

8 – Em que não existe ordem cronológica na narrativa;

9 – Com uma dicotomia muito relevante entre a morte e a vida, num ciclo que nunca termina;

10 – Que utiliza a memória e os espaços físicos de uma forma admirável;

11 – Experimental;

12 – Com muitos silêncios que permitem observar os comportamentos das personagens;

13 – De leitura desgastante e ambígua;

14 - "Ao regressar à oficina, os meus pés caminhavam no passeio, os meus movimentos contornavam pessoas que se paravam à minha frente ou que vinham na minha direcção, mas, dentro de mim, havia uma sombra que contornava ainda mais obstáculos, que caminhava ainda mais depressa. Não percebia se ela tinha saído para me ver, ou se tinha voltado a entrar por me ter visto. À distância, o seu rosto não tinha respostas. E os meus pés caminhavam no passeio, E, ao contornar o medo, contornava a esperança." (Pág. 70);

15 - “O tempo desloca-se dentro de si próprio movido pela angústia e pelo desejo. O tempo não tem vontade, tem instinto. O tempo é menos do que um animal a correr. Não pensa para onde vai. Quando pára, é a angústia ou o desejo que o obrigam a parar” (Pág. 86);

16 - "E corro

o mais depressa que consigo, como se fugisse daquilo que mais me assusta, como se fosse possível fugir daquilo que levo no interior da minha pele e vai comigo para todos os lugares, corro

o mais depressa que consigo, como se pudesse deixar-me para trás, como se pudesse correr tão depressa que, num momento, me soltasse de mim e me deixasse a mim próprio para trás, como se avançasse para fora do meu corpo e, através da velocidade, me purificasse, corro

o mais depressa que consigo, corro " (Pág. 108 a 110);

17 - Que tem um cemitério de pianos que funciona como uma espécie de refúgio, de isolamento, de possibilidade de solidão, indispensável para uma imensa reflexão;

18 - Com uma fascinante meditação sobre o passado e o presente; sobre o que é visível e o que se torna invisível, sobre a vida e sobre a morte;

19 - "Cemitério de Pianos" é um romance intenso, que necessita da cumplicidade e da disponibilidade do leitor para usufruir e ampliar as múltiplas interpretações de uma obra heterogénea na linguagem e na narrativa.


Nota: a ordem das alíneas é arbitrária.

[Tânia Tanocas · Rating 5 out of 5]

Terminei esta leitura há mais de uma semana e continuo tão perdida, como nos dias em que li este livro e até nos dias que se seguiram…

Tenho um carinho muito especial por este escritor, conheci a sua escrita, nomeadamente “Uma casa na escuridão”, quando passava por um período difícil da minha vida… Devido à profissão do meu pai tinha acabado de deixar o Alentejo com 16 anos, para ir viver para uma região diferente e para uma cidade…

Por isso quando leio um livro do autor, tudo me soa familiar, tudo me transporta para uma época maravilhosa na minha vida, talvez porque ele próprio consegue tão bem retratar essa vida Alentejana…

Este livro não retrata propriamente uma família de aldeia, mas existem apontamentos que inegavelmente me transportam para esse mundo tão bem guardado no meu coração…
Ao longo do livro vamos acompanhando os quilómetros de um maratonista, estória essa que vai sendo narrada por pai e filho, os laços familiares são de tal forma fortes que mesmo atravessando a escuridão da morte, conseguimos vislumbrar muito amor, amizade, carinho e a renovação das gerações seguintes…

Não é um livro fácil, a meu ver nenhum livro de Peixoto é fácil, a quantidade de metáforas que o autor usa, a muita penumbra dos seus textos, obriga-nos a desacelera, quando na verdade queremos chegar ao fim rapidamente, porque estamos ávidos de saber como vai terminar aquela corrida…

“…já estava sentado ao lume havia um bom bocado de tempo, quando a minha mãe me pediu para ir chamar o meu pai à taberna. Olhei para a minha mãe iluminada pelo candeeiro de petróleo. Não disse nada. Vesti o meu casaco e saí. Era de noite, era frio, era fevereiro. Caminhei em muitas noites iguais a essa. Sabia o que me esperava: entraria na taberna, o olhar de todos os homens, e algum deles a dizer: olha, já te veio buscar. E o meu pai a não poder deixar que tivessem razão. Quando eu era mais pequeno, puxava-o pelo braço e dizia: a mãe mandou-o chamar. E os outros homens riam-se e ele ria-se também. Depois, deixei de dizer isso. Não queria que a palavra mãe fosse dita ali. Não queria que a minha mãe, iluminada pelo candeeiro de petróleo, fosse nomeada ali. Por isso, entrava apenas. O meu pai e todos os homens sabiam porque tinha entrado, sem dizer boa noite, sem olhar nos olhos de ninguém, a caminhar na direcção do meu pai. Não precisava de dizer nada. Riam-se, ofereciam-me vinho e eu não aceitava. Uma vez, um dos homens, por graça, encostou-me um copo de vinho aos lábios. O meu pai deu-lhe um empurrão no braço e o copo partiu-se no chão. O meu pai ficou a olhar para ele muito sério. Ele desviou o olhar amedrontado. Houve silêncio até que um dos homens disse: oh, mal-empregado vinho. E todos se riram. Depois de um compasso, o meu pai também se riu. Às vezes, a minha presença apressava-o. Outras vezes, parecia que só se ia embora quando queria. Outras vezes, éramos os últimos a sair e tinha de carregar um dos seus braços por cima dos meus ombros, ou tinha de o agarrar pelo cotovelo, ou tinha de andar atrás dele para impedir que caísse. E tinha de o ouvir. Tinha de lhe responder. Tinha de esperá-lo se quisesse vomitar...”

Parece patético, mas nem imaginam, quantas viagens fiz há taberna para chamar o meu pai a pedido da minha mãe, as bocas que ouvia, o escárnio que sentia por aqueles comentários, e é a partir de textos assim que o meu carinho aumenta a cada livro lido do Peixoto, parece que o autor entra nas minhas memórias e transcreveu-as para a imortalidades das palavras…

"na hora de pôr a mesa éramos cinco:
o meu pai, a minha mãe, as minhas irmãs

e eu. depois, a minha irmã mais velha
casou-se. depois a minha irmã mais nova

casou-se. depois, o meu pai morreu. hoje
na hora de pôr a mesa, somos cinco,

menos a minha irmã mais velha que está
na casa dela, menos a minha irmã mais

nova que está na casa dela, menos o meu
pai, menos a minha mãe viúva, cada um

deles é um lugar vazio nesta mesa onde
como sozinho, mas irão estar sempre aqui

na hora de pôr a mesa, seremos sempre cinco.
enquanto um de nós estiver vivo, seremos
sempre cinco".

Lá em casa, éramos quatro e felizmente ainda hoje o somos… ;) :)

[Deea · Rating 5 out of 5]

We say “now”, but what do we mean exactly by “now”? It means right now, it meant yesterday or a year ago, it meant 10 years ago, it will mean in 15 years or tomorrow or next year. Time is a “constant combustion”, “a flame ablaze inside of us”.

“well defined in time. Now. Now is a demarcation implanted in the surface of time, but it could as well be a demarcation implanted in the ground. All the ropes of time are leaning on this point and it could hold a tent as gigantic as the sky itself. The gardens around the entrance of the sports arena were left behind long ago, or not so long ago, or long ago or not so long ago. A different now with every step. I am running and I am carrying the time with me. I am making a step right now, I am making another step, another now and I go on: now, now, now. I don’t feel afraid anymore. I am enlightened by my certitudes. I naturally accept that now, my dad has just died; just like now my sister Maria has fallen from her bike while we were having a picnic in Montsanto; just like now, my niece Elisa has just been born; just like now, I am here, stuck in this moment, making this step and then the next one, and the next one. Anywhere my wife is right now, this moment exists. It’s so different, but it’s exactly the same, exactly the same. Anywhere my mother is right now, this moment exists, which for her, lasts a lot more or a lot less. Anywhere I would be. Here on this road. Here where I could be if I closed my eyes. All the time, years and tens of years that I have lived, that I haven’t lived, that I will live, that I will not live exist in just this present moment.”

(my translation).

I do apologize for the long quote, but I couldn’t have expressed better than the author himself the quintessence of this book. Told from multiple perspectives (the perspective of the father, the perspective of the runner Francisco Lazaro while running for the marathon in Sweden and the perspective of his son), this is the story of a family and all its members living their life in Portugal. They have all been kids, they have fallen in love and out of love, they have played and joked, they have been happy and suffered immensely and they all fell the heaviness of time on their shoulders. Not only does the author jump from a perspective to another, separating them only through blank spaces between the paragraphs, but he also jumps from a temporal moment to another in each paragraph: Maria is now married, she is now a child reading love novels in the piano cemetery, Francisco is now a child, he runs for the marathon now, he falls in love now, his father falls in love with his mother now, he comes home drunk and makes a scandal now, Marta is now thin, now she is very fat, she is now old and dying, she is about to give birth to Elisa now and so on. Now is not a moment in time anymore, it’s just a point from a line that coexists with the others: it does not flow continuously, it just exists in its wholeness in the memory and the minds of the characters.

The second part of the story, retelling the thoughts that Francisco Lazaro has while running each of the 30 kilometres for the marathon intermingled with his memories about his family and his feelings in different moments from his life is nicely framed by his father’s (who is about to die/has just died) perspective and Francisco's (his son) perspective. They all get a sense of omniscience and are able to retell moments by getting in the skin of the other characters. This book is a challenge. You have to figure out with each paragraph what moment in time the narrative voice is talking about as the jumps in time don’t follow any logic, they are random. The author has a style of writing which suggests that he is in a hurry, like a runner for the marathon, so this has a very wonderful effect on creating the picture of a person who is running while having random thoughts about his life.

There are some flaws in this book, but I could not help but rate it 5 stars. I rate the books I read subjectively, taking into account their impact on me and this one has had a great impact on me. The author has a promising voice and I will certainly want to explore his imagined worlds further. His images are very plastic, his associations are extraordinary and unprecedented, his voice is original and vivid. I have enjoyed every little paragraph I read as each one seems to have a life of its own. All this book is overflowing with eloquence and I have to agree with Saramago’s words regarding Peixoto:

“Peixoto is one of the most surprising revelations of the recent Portuguese literature. I am convinced that he will be a great writer”.

[Iulia · Rating 5 out of 5]

Cimitirul de piane = azi și pentru totdeauna. Viața scãldatã de lumina puternicã a soarelui. Timpul nu e liniar, perspectivele se adulmecã ṣi se înlãnțuie tandru ṣi senzual. "Nu este nici o diferență între ceea ce s-a întâmplat cu adevărat și ceea ce am deformat treptat cu imaginația mea, în mod repetat, de-a lungul anilor. Nu e nici o diferență între imaginile tulburi pe care mi le amintesc și vorbele crude, pline de cruzime, pe care cred că mi le amintesc, dar care sunt doar reflexe pe care le formează vina. Timpul, ca un zid, ca un turn, face să dispară diferențele dintre adev��r și minciună. Ceea ce s-a întâmplat s-a amestecat cu ceea ce as fi vrut eu să se întâmple și cu ceea ce mi s-a povestit că s-a întâmplat. Memoria mea nu e a mea, memoria mea sunt eu distorsionat cu mine însumi: cu frica mea, cu vina mea, cu remușcarea mea. " - pag. 129. Sublim!

[Célia Loureiro · Rating 3 out of 5]

Achei a escrita - alinhamento - dos momentos muito complicada. Tão complicada, que a beleza literária dos trechos do autor competia fortemente com a atenção simples e lógica que um leitor atribui a um evento corrido. Contudo, se se tratasse de uma obra arquitectónica, este «Cemitério de Pianos» seria a Sagrada Família, não por estar inacabado ou por parecer interminável, mas porque o conjunto de planos é tão complexo - quase inacessível - que só a poucas páginas do fim compreendi quem tinha falado para mim, na condição de narrador, desde o ínicio. Tive alguns vislumbres de beleza, contudo, no romance, derivados da escrita rica do autor.

[Théo d'Or]

" When I got sick, I knew right away that I was going to die ".

This is how Peixoto's novel begins.You might think that the story will end with a death, but you do not anticipate that it will begin with one.
Peixoto convinces me to let go of my skepticism for a few hours, and listen to the story as it is ; told of beyond time, of death, and of the thousands of life- forming moments.
It is very difficult to synthesize
the narrative thread, because , on the one hand - it forces you to make a hierarchy of facts - and on the other hand, because it doesn't really matter what happens.

The novel is built of moments, smells, and colors : family images, moving furniture, repairing pianos...
History repeats itself - he explains - and people live and die, then live and die again, always in the shadow of their parents, for them and against them, alike.

But, beyond the philosophical message, are dozens of family scenes that hurt you, especially when they are interspersed with horrors, which jump out of your page, like monsters out of a box, even you least expect it.
And what's more painful is that they carry the same nostalgia, as the beautiful scenes, and - by this - they are of a frightening nature.

Peixoto is wrong in only two points : the fact that it interrupts the dreaming in a few moments where it shocks, and by the fact that it creates characters that you can't sympathize with.
It puts you in front of people who do nothing to deal with their weaknesses, whether we are talking about alcohol, abuse, adultery, or simply inability to say something when the moment demands it.

Beyond all that, the book is worth a few hours of your life, and - as you read it - you will realize that you are alive, without realizing it.

[Ana · Rating 4 out of 5]

Já percebi que os livros do JLP dificilmente me desapontam. Este senhor escreve mesmo muito bem.

A história, ou, melhor dizendo, as histórias deste Cemitério de Pianos não me cativaram particularmente, mas as vidas e os sentimentos destas várias gerações estão tão bem contadas, que se torna um prazer lê-las. O livro está estruturado sob a forma de memórias de vários elementos de uma família, pertencentes a gerações diferentes, que se vão alternando, dando-nos visões diferentes, que abarcam um grande intervalo de tempo, da história familiar.

Só não gostei da forma pouco usual que foi escolhida para intercalar estas memórias. Frequentemente, há frases interrompidas a meio, que só são retomadas dois ou três blocos de texto mais adiante. Outras nunca são retomadas. Outras vezes as frases vão até ao fim no mesmo bloco. Consigo entender a ideia – memórias que se cruzam, que por vezes descrevem as mesmas realidades sob pontos de vista distintos, etc. Mas a certa altura, dei comigo a saltar blocos de texto à procura do fim de uma frase, e depois a ter que voltar atrás, à procura to texto que tinha saltado, para finalmente chegar outra vez àquele pedaço que já tinha lido, mas entretanto havia outras frases quebradas que havia que procurar… arrgh! Não me dei nada bem com isto! Felizmente, a escrita irrepreensível de JLP teve o poder de prevenir um ataque de nervos e de, apesar de tudo, me ter deixado uma impressão muito boa ao terminar este livro.

[João Barradas · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sob a alçada de um espírito olímpico, aceita-se sem grandes questões, que a vida é na realidade uma prova de fundo: uma maratona, por entre montes e vales, que fadigando todos os músculos do nosso organismo (inclusive o utilizado para pensar), nos brinda, em dados momentos (nunca os mais oportunos), com provas de sprint para debelar determinados desafios. Por isso, não se estranha a opção em descrever a vida de uma família portuguesa que acolhe, entre os seus membros, um atleta do século XX, o qual participou na maratona dos jogos olímpicos de Estocolmo.
Com a referência a um lugar no título, o destaque conferido ao “Cemitério de pianos” pode levar o leitor a considera-lo como a personagem principal. De facto, esse espaço de conserto de instrumentos líricos, cujas notas colocam um travão em qualquer ponto mais negro da acção, fornece um pouco de ar fresco e musicado para os intervenientes. É nele que pai, irmão e/ou filho comungam de uma mesma vontade de reparar os estragos encontrados, não apenas nos pianos mas também nas suas relações, à deriva pelo dilúvio do álcool. Para além disso, serve também de ninho de amor, para afogar as mágoas de uma vida em ebulição. Como o local de culto dos mortos, onde eles aproveitam o seu merecido descanso eterno, também este anexo da casa principal é um altar de veneração, com direito igualmente a fotografias identificadoras daqueles que aí se perderam.
Posteriormente, vislumbra-se que as regalias do púlpito irão para a família desestruturada, que vive a vida de todos e cada um que a compõe. Retrato, a papel químico, da sociedade autoritária e assente em regras, são descritos episódios de amor, tristeza e dor. Há uma espiral de violência, misógina e etária, tão intimamente introduzida no âmago do “ser português”, justificada por uma qualquer imposição de respeito irrisório, mesmo após as traições descobertas em casamentos já de si fragmentados. Mas também existem as lembranças dos almoços em família, com todos os pratos colocados porque “enquanto um de nós viver continuaremos a ser cinco a mesa”, com o prévio depenar da galinha a ser confeccionada para o repasto, ou as manhãs de domingo, quando as crianças acordam mais cedo que o habitual, sem a ronha característica, para aproveitar melhor o tempo de brincar. Vão pois surgindo pensamentos que, de forma sucessiva, catapultam os erros cometidos não apenas na vida própria mas, qual espelho, os reflectidos em todas as existências abençoadas pelo toque alheio. E, numa tentativa de apartar o pecado da pele, unta-se o corpo com graxa para que assim ele possa escorregar e a vida consiga fluir entre um braço que vai e outro que vem, mesmo que os passos não sejam certos e as quedas tendam a acontecer.
No entanto, com o aproximar da meta, o deleite pela obra torna claro que quem merece a coroação derradeira será o tempo, a cadência dos de segundos, minutos e anos já vividos, entre amores e mortes, que nesta obra teima em não decorrer de forma habitual – ora avançado, ora recuando para, qual fita de Moebius, regressar aos mesmos locais. Numa clarividência brutal, é revelado todo o enleio desta dimensão ainda por descobrir no mundo físico mas perfeitamente resolvido no reino das memórias, onde os pensamentos do passado se envolvem nos projectos do futuro, para fonecer uma guia de marcha para o presente. Por vezes, porém, as dúvidas do passado embatem no presente vago e apenas fornecem um futuro que não existe. Facilmente, surge então a decisão de experimentar as corridas para fugir desses interregnos de existência, até porque “enquanto corro fico parado dentro de mim e espero”, presenteando quem se esforça com momentos raros de introspecção, no meio de uma asfixiante multidão.
Assim, esta é uma obra que garante, a quem queira mergulhar entre as suas linhas, um oceano profundo onde o afogamento pode surgir, pela falta de bóia salva-vidas, ou até mesmo a hipotermia, pela retorno de memórias cristalizadas, entre as frias vagas de água escura de um tempestade promissora. Enquanto isso, há uma sucessão contrastante de vidas em espera, garantidas por vírgulas e dois pontos, colocados artisticamente sem cumprir as regras gramaticais tais como as primeiras não cumpre as normas pré-concebidas. Nem terminam perante a lei do ponto final. Ao invés, fragmentam-se em múltiplas personalidades., ao sabor de um tempo que toma as decisões sobre o que veio e virá. Enquanto isso, para que o pensamento foque em algo menos complexo, o imperativo é correr até a exaustão não permitir destrinçar sobre quem habita o nosso ser.

[gam s (Haveyouread.bkk) · Rating 4 out of 5]

★★★☆ 3.5 อยู่อย่างนั้น อาจจะปัดลงเพราะคงไม่อ่านซ้ำ

เขียนรีวิวยากมาก และคิดว่ารีวิวเราอ่านแล้วมันก็คงไม่ค่อยเม้คเซ้นส์หรอกเพราะประเด็นมันใหญ่เกินกว่าจะกร่อนลงมาเป็นคำพูดได้ เป็นประสบการณ์การอ่านที่คิดว่านักอ่านต้องประเสบพบเจอด้วยตัวเองค่ะ เล่มนี้เป็นเหมือนอนุสรณ์สถานแห่งความล่มสลายของสถาบันครอบครัว เหมือนได้เห็นคนที่ตกนรกทั้งเป็น เป็นความระทมของคนที่ต้องมารับบทเป็นสักขีพยานของความล่มจมที่เกินเยียวยา in other words, จะบอกว่ามันทุเรศทุรังทรมานใจคนอ่านงี้หรอ 55555 เออ ก็ใช่ 555555

.....ระหว่างสิ่งที่ปรารถนาอยู่เช่นกัน เวลาหมุนเวียนผ่านอยู่ในวังวนของมันเอง เพราะความวิตกกังวลและความปรารถนา เวลาไร้ซึ่งความต้องการ มีเพียงสัญชาติญาณ เวลานั้นต่างจากสัตว์ที่กำลังวิ่ง เพราะมันไม่ได้คิดว่าจะไปยังทิศทางใด เมื่อใดที่หยุดเดิน ก็หยุดเพราะความวิตกกังวลหรือไม่ก็ความปรารถนา.....

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การอ่านเล่มนี้ใช้พลังสมองเยอะพอๆกับตอนดูซีรีส์เรื่อง Dark การวนลูปไม่ใช่เรื่องสนุกสำหรับคนอ่านฉันใด เราเชื่อว่ามันก็ไม่ได้บันเทิงเริงใจสำหรับคนบ้านลาซารูฉันนั้น เล่มนี้บอกเล่าผ่านมุมมองของคน สองสามคนสี่คน ของครอบครัวลาซารูซึ่งเป็นตระกูลช่างไม้ เรื่องเริ่มจากการที่ patriarch (ชายแทร่ใหญ่สุดในบ้าน) คือปู่เนี่ยตุย กลายเป็นผีมาคอยส่องดูความล้มเหลวที่ตัวเองบ่มเพาะเมล็ดพันธุ์ไว้ตั้งแต่แรกเริ่ม แต่พืชผลของสิ่งที่เขาริเริ่มไว้ เติบโตขมวดเป็นวังวน เป็นวัฏจักรอันไม่มีที่สิ้นสุด มีคนตั้งข้อสังเกตว่ามันคือคำสาปที่ทำให้เขาต้องมารับกรรมทนดูแบบทรมานชั่วกัปชั่วกัลป์ (เราก็คิดว่าแบบนี้ดีแล้วนี่ ตอนทำเลวไม่รู้จักคิด สมน้ำหน้า 555555555)

เรื่องเล่าสลับมุมมองระหว่างตัวละครผี กับเกร็ดความคิดบ่นก้าววิ่ง (ล้อชื่อหนังสือลุงมู) ของฟรังซิสกูผู้เป็นตัวแทนนักวิ่งมาราธอนที่กำลังจะไปแข่งโอลิมปิกที่สวีเดน ระหว่างวิ่งก็รำเพ้อรำพันรักร้าวรานระทมทรวงห่าเหวไรไม่รู้ ส่วนใหญ่ก็เรื่องที่บ้านกับเรื่องลูกแล้วก็เรื่องตัดใจจากชู้ไม่ได้ 😮‍💨 แต่ก็ทำให้ได้เห็นภาพสะท้อนที่บาปของพ่อมันซึมลงมาสู่คนรุ��นลูก ซึ่งในส่วนนี้ก็อาจจะมีความเป็นอภิปรัชญาทั้งในเรื่องของกาลเวลา ความเป็นมนุษย์ มิติของกระแสสำนึกต่างๆ ซึ่งจะไปสิ้นสุดที่ไหนนั้นอาจจะแล้วแต่การตีความ ส่วนตัวเราตีความว่าทุกคนในเรื่องจะติดอยู่ในความกรรมเวรนี้ต่อไปแบบตลอดกาล (เวอร์ป่ะ 555 แต่คิดงั้นแล้วสะใจดี ตอนทำร้ายคนอื่นไม่รู้จักคิด เป็นไงล่ะมึง สมน้ำหน้า)

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พระเอกคือใครไม่รู้ แต่ประเอกของเราคือ "มิติเวลา" ที่ดูจะเป็นส่วนประกอบที่สำคัญมากๆของเรื่องนี้ เรามองแบบเป็นนิยายเหนือจริงมากกว่าจะมองในมุมศาสนาเรื่องการเวียนว่ายตายเกิดนะ คืออาจจะเป็นเรื่องของ a glitch in the time loop หรือไม่ก็เป็นมัลติเวิร์สอะไรไปเลยมากกว่า โดยมีโรงเก็บเศษไม้หรือสุสานเปียโนหลังบ้านเป็นประตูมิติเชื่อม จริงๆอ่านๆไปเรานึกถึงประโยคเด็ดจาก True Detective ที่ว่า time is a flat circle สิ่งที่เกิดขึ้นแล้วย่อมเกิดขึ้นซ้ำเสมอตลอดไป



แค่สำนึกผิดบางทีมันไม่พอ มันต้องมีการเยียวยาคนรุ่นต่อไปร่วมด้วย ไม่งั้นความทรมานมันก็ไม่มีจุดสิ้นสุด หรือไม่งั้นต้องมีการปลดแอกจากใครคนใดคนนึงที่อยู่ในลูปเวลา (aka วัฏสงสาร ตามวิถีพุทธ) อะแก



เช่นเดียวกับบาปของฟรังซิสกู ที่ก็เกิดขึ้นวนไปแบบนั้นจนกว่าจะมีใครสักคนที่พร้อมจะสละแล้วซึ่งความเป็นคนตระกูลนี้ถึงจะหลุดพ้นจากวงจรอุบาทว์นี้ได้ คีย์สำคัญอาจจะอยู่ที่ตัวละครซีเมา ลุงตาบอดที่ขมวดหลายๆฉากเข้าไว้ด้วยกัน บางจุดเราถึงกับเชื่อว่าซีเมายอมเสียสละตัวเองเพื่อให้ time loop มันสมบูรณ์ ไม่ให้เกิดจุดเว้าแหว่งในกาลเวลาเลยด้วยซ้ำ (ล้ำปะ)

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ใดๆทั้งหมดทั้งมวลอาจจะเป็นแค่กลวิธีในการที่ผู้เขียนพยายามจะแสดงให้เห็นว่า domestic violence หรือเรื่องราวดราม่าใดเอยในครอบครัวนั้นมันไม่จบแค่ที่ผู้กระทำ แต่มันทำให้เกิดความเว้าแหว่ง เป็นแรงกระเพื่อน เป็นอิมแพคที่ส่งต่อไปได้อีกหลายเจนเนอเรชั่น และแม้แต่คนทำเองก็อาจจะหนีไม่พ้นสิ่งที่ตัวเองได้กระทำไว้แม้จะหลอกตัวเองว่าเป็นคนดีคนเด่นจนตัวเองตายไปแล้วก็ตาม คือพี่แบบว่าจีเนียสมากๆ ไม่เคยอ่านอะไรแบบนี้มาก่อนนะ เหมือนเป็นนิยายเมต้าฟิสิกส์ข้ามเวลาแต่เอามาเล่าในเชิง literary fiction อิงประวัติศาสตร์ ประสบการณ์การอ่านเล่มนี้เหมือนได้ไขปริศนาหาเส้นแบ่งของกาลเวลาไปเรื่อย ๆ มันแยบยล ซับซ้อนซ่อนเงื่อนแบบ อว็องการ์ด ผสมๆความ postmodernism ที่ยังคงไว้ซึ่งความสวยงามละเมียดละไมในการบรรยายฉาก สิ่งอัน และเรื่องราว ที่ว้าวที่สุดเลยคือเขาได้แรงบันดาลใจจากคนที่มีตัวตนอยู่จริงๆ ฟรังซิสกู ลาซารู เป็นนักวิ่งโอลิมปิกที่มีตัวตนจริงๆ แล้วเขาก็เอาชีวิตไปทิ้งที่โอลิมปิกที่สวีเดนจริงๆ เพราะการทาไอ้ขี้ผึ้งสูตรพิเศษอันนั้นนั่นแหละ

เล่มนี้อ่านแล้วคุยกับเพื่อนสนุกมาก ดีใจที่สำนักพิมพ์เอามาแปล แล้วก็บุ๊คคลับเลือกที่จะเอามาอ่านด้วยกัน เพราะคุยวงใหญ่เสร็จก็ยังมีวงเล็กต่อ คือคุยกันถึงสองรอบเพื่อแลกเปลี่ยนความเข้าใจว่าสรุปมันเป็นไงมาไงกันแน่ เรียกได้ว่าเป็นหนังสือที่อัดแน่นไปด้วยสัญญะ เป็นเพื่อนรักนักตีความจริงๆจังๆเลย

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Update 28/4/2024 โน้ตไว้ก่อนว่าพยายามจะ deconstruct POV นานมากว่าสรุปใครเป็นใคร (พยายามหารีวิวแล้วแต่ที่คิดไว้มันไม่เหมือนใครเลยอะ) ระหว่างไขรหัสใกล้แตกละก็สมการมันไม่ลงตัว ก็เลยทำให้นึกถึงซีรีส์ true detectives ซีซั่นแรกตอนที่พระเอกมันบอกว่า "time is a flat circle" (อิงจากแนวคิดของนีตเช่) สิ่งที่เราเคยทำหรือกำลังจะทำ จะเกิดขึ้นอีกซ้ำแล้วซ้ำเล่า วนลูปตลอดไป คงเป็นชีวิตของไอ้คนพวกนี้ จบ พอใจกับคำอธิบายนี้แหละ หัวระเบิดค่ะไอ้ควาย

[Makmild · Rating 4 out of 5]

ถ้าจะมีหนังสือสักเล่มส่งความรู้สึกพร่าเลือน สับสน หลงทางและตกอยู่ในวงวันของความสัมพันธ์และความรู้สึกผิดบาปได้อย่างงดงามราวกับการแข่งขันวิ่งมาราทอนในวันที่แดดจัด (คือมันดีแหละแต่แม่งเหนื่อยแน่ๆ) เล่มนี้ก็จะถูกจัดอยู่บนชั้นหนังสือหมวดนั้น

แต่ถ้าพูดอีกนิดคือ มันเป็นเล่มที่เปี่ยมไปด้วยความรู้สึกแบบล้นๆ อารมณ์แบบ no plot just vibe ที่ถ้าอ่านถูกจังหวะไอเลิปมาก (เช่น เล่มนี้เป็นต้น) แต่ถ้าอ่านผิดจังหวะจะกลายเป็นสาป (เหมือนที่ด่าแซลลี รูนี่ย์ทุกเล่ม) พออ่าน no plot just vibe มาสักพักจะพบว่า คนเขียนแม่งเก่งทุกคน เพราะถ้าเขียนไม่เก่ง no plot just vibe จะกลายเป็นหนังสือ “ไม่เห็นมีอะไรเลย ทำไมมันดังวะ” 555555555555555555555

ตอนที่ต้องเขียน genre ของสุสานเปียโนก็นั่งคิดนานเลยว่าต้องเขียนอะไร contemp มั้ย อืม ก็พูดยาก history fiction อืม ก็ไม่น่าใช่ มาลงเอยที่ family saga เพราะมันว่าด้วยเรื่องราวของครอบครัวหนึ่งตั้งแต่รุ่นปู่ พ่อ(ฟรังซิสกู) และหลาน ที่เป็นช่างไม้ เป็นนักวิ่ง เป็นพ่อ เป็นลูก เป็นหลาน เป็นน้อง เป็นพี่ เป็นคนรักของใครสักคน เป็นชู้ของใครอีกคน แต่ทั้งหมดทั้งมวลนั้นเราเป็นครอบครัวเดียวกัน (เสียงแบบดอม)

ด้วยความที่อ่านกันเป็นหมู่คณะ (บุ้คคลับ แต่ตอนนี้ทั้งคลับยังไม่มีใครเริ่ม 🥲) มันเลยได้อ่านไปคิดไปตั้งคำถามกับหนังสือเล่มนี้ไปด้วย มันทำให้เราสนุกและอยากที่จะหาคำตอบในเล่มไปด้วย เช่น ทำไมถึงใช้สรรพนามบุรุษที่ 1 (ผม) แต่วิธีการเล่าคือให้คนที่ตายแล้วเป็นคนเล่าเหตุการณ์ เหตุการณ์ที่เล่าก็ไม่เรียงตามลำดับเวลาอีก เล่าๆ ไปก็สลับ POV เล่าไปอีกก็เป็นฉากคนวิ่ง นี่จดอินเด็กซ์ไว้หลายจุดมากในช่วงต้นว่าใครเป็นคนเล่าเพราะงงจริง จนมากลางเล่มถึงเข้าใจว่าใครกำลังเล่าอะไรอยู่ และเกิดอะไรขึ้นมั่ง ซึ่งเทคนิคการเล่ามันทำให้เรื่องราวของครอบครัวหนึ่งสามเจเนเรชั่น (แถมมีแต่เรื่องรักๆ ชู้ๆ ตบตีคนในครอบครัว 🥲🤦🏻‍♀️) ที่น่าจะไม่มีอะไรก็กลายเป็นยากและมีเรื่องราวเล็กๆ น้อยๆ ที่เปี่ยมความรู้สึกใส่มาเต็ม มันเปี่ยมความรู้สึกแบบอึดอัดทับถมอะ ไม่มีใครยอมพูดอะไร และใช้ชีวิตด้วยกันมาเรื่อยๆ

แล้วสุสานเปียโนจะเป็นอะไรได้อีกหากไม่ใช่อนุสรณ์แห่งความรักความผุพังของคนในครอบครัว เปียโนที่เล่นไม่ได้ เปียโนที่ไม่มีเสียง ไม่ได้ต่างจากครอบครัวที่ไม่ได้พูดคุยกัน มันยังเป็นครอบครัวอยู่มั้ย แล้วเปียโนที่กดไปไม่มีเสียงละ ยังเป็นเปียโนอยู่หรือเปล่า นอกจากจะเปรียบเปรยในแง่นี้แล้ว สุสานเปียโนยังเป็นอนุสรณ์สถานของความผิดหวัง ของความผิดซ้ำซากจำเจของคนในครอบครัวนี้อีก เป็นอนุสรณ์ของความฝันที่ไม่เป็นจริง แต่ทุกคนในครอบครัวล้วนอาศัยสุสานนี้เป็นที่พึ่งพิงเสมอ ครอบครัวเป็นสิ่งที่ตัดไม่ขาด แม้กระทั่งความตายและเวลาก็ไม่อาจพรากสายสัมพันธ์นี้ได้ การเล่าแบบใช��� "ผี" จึงยิ่งย้ำเตือนตรงนี้อีกครั้ง

แต่แน่นอนว่านี่เป็นการตีความข้างเดียวของเรา เขียนเอาไว้ก่อนเพราะกว่าจะได้คุยกับบุ๊คคลับก็ลืมแน่ 5555555 ไว้คุยกับมิตรสหายแล้วจะมาเขียนเพิ่มนะ

[Carla · Rating 4 out of 5]

Escrita belíssima. Forma narrativa peculiar e exigente. Um autor para continuar a ler.

[Pedro · Rating 4 out of 5]

4,5 ⭐

Modelo para armar

"Cuándo empecé a enfermar pronto supe que iba a morir"

Así comienza a narrar esta historia el pater familae, y su narración continuará más allá de su muerte; en algún momento se integrará a la narración su hijo Francisco, y más adelante un tercer narrador (que descubrí releyendo diversos párrafos de la novela, ya que había aspectos que no terminaba de integrar).

Los distintos episodios son contados sin respetar necesariamente un orden cronológico, aunque se puede inferir tomando en cuenta los personajes incluidos y su edad aproximada en ese momento. En ese sentido, puede ser de ayuda ir armando un árbol genealógico, y el orden de los nacimientos de los hijos y los nietos, como una especie de Macondo, pero distinto.

Profundizando en el juego estilístico, la segunda parte está formada por párrafos que arrancan con oraciones ya comenzadas, y suele finalizar con oraciones inconclusas, sin que interfiera en el seguimiento de la historia; en varios casos una oración es la continuación de otra dejada inconclusa anteriormente.

Una historia de una familia que abarca a tres generaciones, en las que percibe, por una parte cierta orfandad, y por otra la tendencia a replicar las conductas de las generaciones anteriores que se constituyen en un modelo para seguir o para repudiar, atrapados en una comunión; se destacan los enamoramientos a primera vista, los episodios de ira y violencia doméstica (y la presencia del tío tuerto).

Una novela muy buena y desafiante, en la que el autor entrega un modelo para armar que atrapa al lector, y lo obliga a terminar de construirla. En mi caso, me gustó mucho, la tarea de integración me resultó muy satisfactoria y me quedó grabada y dando vueltas. Y no descarto que haya otros trucos escondidos que no he descubierto; probablemente en los próximos días, en la vigilia o en el sueño se revele un interrogante o aparente contradicción que inicie una nueva búsqueda. O no.

[Rita · Rating 5 out of 5]

Nunca tinha lido nada de José Luís Peixoto e este livro foi como se tivesse levado com um piano na cabeça. Maravilhoso!
A história é simples, triste, bela, profunda, dolorosa, nostálgica.
A escrita é acessível mas carregada de riqueza. A mudança de narradores dá-nos uma ideia de algo eterno.
As personagens são bem desenvolvidas, por ex: Maria procura nos livros que lê, no Cemitério de Pianos, um sonho para viver sem saber que esse sonho não existe e que a música nunca sairá dos pianos.
Há um cuidado especial com os detalhes na descrição dos espaços. Há momentos em que fechando os olhos conseguimos ver-nos na oficina onde “Simão falava, contava histórias, inventava futuros” ou então a entrar silenciosamente no cemitério de pianos onde os poucos raios de luz que entram mostram que o pó deixa marca da sua passagem.
A morte é uma presença constante em todo o livro. A tristeza da morte, a morte dando lugar à vida e a morte na sua simplicidade dão a toda a narrativa um toque sombrio.
Deve ser lido devagar para saborear nas entrelinhas a profundidade e beleza das citações.
É daqueles livros que só fazem sentido ler com banda sonora, de preferência com peças de piano. Saltitei entre os Nocturnos de Chopin e algumas sonatas de Beethoven, Mozart e terminei com Ludovico Einaudi.

[Joana · Rating 4 out of 5]

É labiríntico, no mínimo. Às vezes bate como um murro no estômago, outras enerva ao ponto de o quereres por de lado, mas vale a pena. Lembra que todas as famílias têm telhados de vidro e que não há excepções para os limites do amor, do ódio e do perdão.

[Morgan · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book. I can't. I can't even. The mirroring, the language. If I were to pull out quotes that I loved I'd end up writing out the whole book.

[Leninha · Rating 5 out of 5]

O ar fresco do cemitério de pianos entrava nos pulmões e trazia o toque úmido do pó pastoso que era da única cor: o cheiro de um tempo que todos quiseram esquecer, mas que existia ainda. O silêncio desprendia-se dessa cor clara e antiga. A luz atravessava o silêncio.

[diario_de_um_leitor_pjv · Rating 5 out of 5]

No "caos" denso desta narrativa Peixoto encanta o leitor criando uma teia de enamoramento.

[Lisa · Rating 4 out of 5]

I loved reading The Piano Cemetery, but I’m not going to pretend for one moment that I understand what it was about. And I don’t feel the least little bit embarrassed about that, because Ursula Le Guin was baffled too. Some reviewers were overtly hostile to the difficulty of reading this book, while others found it frustrating. Perhaps I was more tolerant because it was not until quite late in the book that I became confused, and by then I was so intrigued, it didn’t matter…

The story has two narrators, and I must be circumspect in this review because part of what I enjoyed was hope that the second narrator Francisco Lazaro would transcend his ostensible heritage. The book is a very loose fictionalisation of the story of the Olympic athlete who died at the 1912 Stockholm Olympics in the marathon when he reached the 30 kilometre mark. Named for his father, the Francisco of the novel wants to make his name his own. Naming is significant in this novel.

The Piano Cemetery isn’t the first book to use the same name for father and son. Such naming was, after all, very common indeed in Britain and Europe for centuries. And the naming’s not the source of the confusion because the voices in the novel are entirely distinct: Francisco the Father narrates his story in ordinary paragraphs in a coherent way, despite not being in chronological order. Oh yes, I nearly forgot, and despite being dead…

To read the rest of my review please visit http://anzlitlovers.com/2014/09/26/th...

[Nelson Zagalo · Rating 5 out of 5]

Romance experimentalista, no qual Peixoto vai "brincando" com a arte literária para produzir no papel aquilo que lhe vai nas ideias. Se houvesse dúvidas quanto ao interesse na não-linearidade que vivemos neste início de século e milénio nas artes narrativas, esta é uma obra que não só dá conta da sua relevância, como a trabalha de um modo extremamente elaborado e audaz. Peixoto não se poupa em recursos literários para cruzar três gerações como se de uma apenas se tratasse, dando assim conta da essência da família portuguesa do início do século passado.

O mundo criado é dado a sentir de forma bastante impressiva, criando em nós toda uma refrescante experiência que dificilmente se esquece.

[Héctor Genta · Rating 4 out of 5]

Guardavo i pianoforti morti, mi ricordavo che c'erano pezzi che risuscitavano dentro ad altri pianoforti e credevo che anche la vita potesse essere ricostruita allo stesso modo.

Un libro che prende le mosse dalla tragica vicenda di Francisco Lázaro, morto per collasso durante la maratona olimpica di Stoccolma del 1912, per raccontare la storia di due generazioni di una famiglia portoghese.
Il cimitero dei pianoforti è il nome della stanza dove sono sistemati gli strumenti non più funzionanti all'interno della bottega di falegnameria nella quale lavorano padre e figlio protagonisti del romanzo e il riferimento ai pianoforti è sottolineato anche da una scrittura "musicale", la consueta prosa poetica di Peixoto che qui è ulteriormente aggraziata, spingendosi ad accarezzare le parole per farle risuonare come note di una sinfonia.
Il Portogallo del quale si racconta è un paese con un piede ancora nell'Ottocento, l'autore descrive i riti delle famiglie patriarcali dell'epoca, con il corollario di tradimenti, violenze domestiche, vizio del bere e difficoltà di comunicare. Le voci dei due protagonisti si alternano nel descrivere la loro storia in prima persona: uno parla dopo essere già morto e l'altro mentre corre la maratona che non riuscirà a portare a termine. Particolarmente difficile risulta seguire la narrazione del maratoneta, che spesso intreccia due o tre pensieri o momenti diversi, costringendo il lettore a tornare indietro per riprendere il filo di un discorso lasciato in sospeso a volte pagine prima. È un artificio stilistico che probabilmente serve per rendere al meglio l'impressione di come i pensieri si accavallino nella mente di un uomo che sta correndo ma che alla lunga potrebbe risultare una forzatura strutturale; peccato veniale che si perdona volentieri a una penna originale come quella di Peixoto, capace di muovere le parole in maniera armoniosa ed evocativa.
Ancora un romanzo nel quale lo scrittore portoghese approfondisce i temi della memoria e del legame vita/morte, ancora un romanzo di suggestioni, raffinato equilibrio e costante ricerca stilistica.

Oggi e per sempre. Non c'è differenza tra quello che è veramente accaduto e quello che ho distorto con l'immaginazione, ripetutamente, ripetutamente, nel corso degli anni. Non c'è differenza tra le immagini sbiadite che ricordo e le parole crude, crudeli, che credo di ricordare, ma che sono soltanto riflessi costruiti dalla colpa. Il tempo, come un muro, una torre, una costruzione qualunque, fa sì che non ci sia più distinzione tra verità e menzogna. Il tempo mescola la verità con la menzogna. Quello che è accaduto si mescola con quello che vorrei fosse accaduto e con quello che mi hanno detto sia accaduto. La mia memoria non è mia. La mia memoria sono io distorto dal tempo e mescolato a me stesso: alla mia paura, alla mia colpa, al mio pentimento.

[سيد السيد · Rating 4 out of 5]

تفاصيل الحياة بلا ترتيب ولا منطق ، العالم الذي يحيا فينا، البشر الذين نسمع عنهم وهم أقاربنا الذين لم نرهم ، الحب والألم والفقد واللهث الذي يدفعنا في طريق متصل بمجد يستقبل صيحات الجماهير التي لا تعرفنا ، الموسيقى ، سر التواصل ، المفاتيح التي تلمس أوتار النفس التواقة للقاء يفض أغلفة الصمت والسطحية والضياع ، نص جميل تتداخل فيه الأصوات ، من يروي؟ أهو الاب الذي رحل في سباق العدو القديم أم أن الابن يتمثله؟ أهو الأخ الذي فقد عينه أم هو الرجل ذاته لكنه لم يعد شابا وإنما أصبح كما يراه ابن الأخ وليس الأخ؟! أي الأزمان نعيش الذي مر أم الذي ننتظر؟! إن الزمن يجري في ماراثون مخيلتنا الممتد على بساط الإدراك ونحن نبحث عن حقيقتنا بين ركام الوقت الضائع

[Gaby · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un librazo, Peixoto es un excelente narrador que a través un bello lenguaje poético cuenta la singular historia de una familia portuguesa .
El tema central se dirige hacia la herencia transgeneracional y con gran dominio de una narrativa que juega magistralmente con los tiempos,nos hace ver que la vida es circular, que a través de los eslabones inconscientes que unen a las generaciones se repiten las mismas escenas con otros personajes, haciendo “que unos sean perpetuos en los otros”...

[panatda · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5

[Pawarut Jongsirirag · Rating 4 out of 5]

ความเจ็บปวดต่อส่งความเจ็บปวด ความพังทลายส่��ต่อความพังทลาย วงจรที่เดินหน้าแล้วครั้งหนึ่ง จะสิ้นสุดลงได้อย่างไร และความตายคือจุดสิ้นลงนั้นหรือไม่ หรือเป็นเพียงจุดพักเพียงชั่วครู่ของวงจรอันเป็นนิรันดร์

การพูดถึงหนังสือเล่มนี้ ผมคิดว่าพูดถึงยาก ไม่ว่าจะเผยส่วนไหนออกมาก็รู้สึกว่าเป็นการสปอย์ไปเสียหมด ด้วยความที่นิยายเรื่องนี้มีความโดดเด่นในวิธีการที่ใช้เล่าซึ่งจะส่งผลในการตีความเรื่องรางทั้งหมดที่ได้อ่านมา การตีความที่แตกต่างกันย่อมทำให้ภาพที่เกิดขึ้นแตกต่างกันด้วย

สุสานเปียโน เล่าถึงชีวิตครอบครัวหนึ่งที่เริ่มต้นด้วยความตายของหัวหน้าครอบครัว เรื่องราวดำเนินต่อไปด้วยมุมมองของผีหัวหน้าครอบครัวตนนั้นที่เล่าถึงสิ่งที่เขาเห็น สิ่งที่เขาคิดภายหลังจากวันที่เขาจากไป แต่เมื่อเรื่องราวดำเนินต่อไปซักพัก ความสงสัยจะเริ่มเกากุมคนอ่านว่าสิ่งที่เรากำลังอ่านอยู่นั้น คือ มุมมองของผีตนนี้จริงหรือเปล่า เรากำลังอ่านผ่านสายตาของใคร ท้ายที่สุดเรื่องราวทั้งหมดนี้คือเรื่องราวของใครกันแน่

วิธีที่ Peixoto ใช้เป็นหัวใจหลักในการเล่าเรื่อง คือ การมองเวลาเป็นวงกลม การเล่นกับมุมมอง narrative ที่ตัดสลับแตกต่างกันแบบไม่ปราณีคนอ่านเพื่อสร้างเรื่องราวที่เหมือนวงจรความล่มสลายของความรักอันเป็นเหมือนคำสาปนิรันดร์ของครอบครัวฟรังซิสกู

เนื้อเรื่องดำเนินไปแบบไร้ซึงช่วงเวลา Peixoto ตัดทิ้งจุดอ้างอิงของเวลา เราไม่รู้ด้วยซ้ำว่าวันเดือนปีเดินหน้าไปแค่ไหน ระยะเวลาที่ทุกอย่างเกิดขึ้นมันใช้ไปเพียงใด เรื่องราวของเขาเหมือนพาคนอ่านเข้าสู่วงจรหรือพื้นที่ปิดตายที่นำเสนอความล่มสลายที่ปิดตายเช่นเดียวกันของครอบครัวนี้

การไม่ปรากฎนามของตัวละครบางตัว การไม่อธิบายเหตุผลของการกระทำบางอย่าง ความพลพิการที่ปรากฎแบบแปลกๆ ก็เป็นวิธีการที่ Peixoto แทรกควาไม่ปกติ ชนวนเหตุของความสงสัย ที่จะบอกแก่นักอ่านว่ามันยังมีอะไรอีกหรือเปล่าที่ยังไม่เผยออกมา มันไม่ได้มีเพียงพื้นที่เพียงเท่าที่เขาแสดงให้เห็น เป็นนักอ่านเองที่จะรับไม้ต่อของเขาหรือไม่ เพราะเอาเข้าจริงการอ่านเพียงเฉพาะสิ่งที่เขาเผยให้เห็นก็ทำให้เรื่องราวทั้งหมดสมบูรณ์อยู่แล้ว แต่หากนักอ่านอยากขุดให้ลึกลงไปอีก ค้นหาสิ่งที่อยู่ระหว่างบรรทัดเพื่อหลุดออกจากพื้นที่ปิดตายที่ Peixoto วางไว้ ออกไปสู่พื้นที่อื่นที่ลึกลงไป ไม่ใช่เพียงผิวหน้าของเรื่องราวที่ปรากฎ

การขุดลึกลงไป หาสิ่งที่อยู่ระหว่างบรรทัดนี่เองครับ ที่ทำให้เรื่องนี้มีความสนุก (แบบเหนื่อยสัสๆ) มีพื้นที่การตีความว่าเราในฐานะนักอ่านอยากให้เรื่องทั้งหมดนี้เป็นไปในทิศทางใด แม้มันจะมีแกนเรื่องที่ชัดเจนคือ ความรุนแรง ความล่มสลายของความรักในครอบครัวอันเป็นวงจรที่ไม่สิ้นสุด และการพยายามหนีออกจากวงจรที่เกิดขึ้น แต่ยังมีอะไรอีกมากให้นักอ่านลองค้นหา

สัญลักษณ์มากมายที่ Peixoto โยนเข้าใส่นักอ่าน อยู่ที่ว่าจะจับยึดสิ่งไหนได้ และหากคว้าเอาสิ่งใดได้ เราคิดว่ามันคืออะไรและทำงานอย่างไรในวงจรเรื่องเล่าอันนี้

สุสานเปียโนแห่งนี้กำลังบอกอะไรเรา วงจรแห่งความรุนแรงและการหักหลังสามารถยุติลงได้หรือไม่ คำตอบอยู่ในชะตาชีวิตของครอบครัวฟรังซิสกูที่นำมาสู่คำถามแรกที่ผมขอทิ้งท้ายเอาไว้เล่นๆว่า

ครอบครัวฟรังซิสกูนี้ที่ปรากฎในเรื่อง มีกี่คนกันแน่ครับ ....

ขอให้สนุกกับสุสานแห่งเสียงเล่มนี้ครับ

[Inês | Livros e Papel · Rating 3 out of 5]

Apesar de ter gostado da história, achei o livro confuso, uma vez que há constantes mudanças de narrador e de tempo da ação. Frases deixadas a meio, intercaladas com outras que começam a meio...
Tive pena de não me ter sentido agarrada ao livro.
Foi a minha leitura do autor, ainda fiquei com vontade de ler Dentro do Segredo, sobre a sua viagem à Coreia do Norte.