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Hint Gece Müziği
Hint Gece Müziği, neler sunacağı bilinmeyen Hindistan'ın içlerine bir gece yolculuğu. Varsayımlar ve sanılar burgacına kapılarak serüvene sürüklenen bir gölgenin izini süren anlatıcının, tehlikeli yerler ve karşılaşmalarla dolu, tatlı ve sınırsız bir bilinçsizlikle kendini bıraktığı bir gezi, bir arayış. Bitimsiz bir bekleyişle yüklü, engin ve devinimsiz Hint toprakları ve bu topraklarda, gölgelerin arasında kaybolmuş dostunu arayan bir adam. Yerel renk basitliğine düşmeden çizilmiş gerçekdışı bir harita ve her biri farklı bir insan boyutu olan on iki bölümlük bir coğrafyada, kayıp dostun peşinde geçirilen günler, aslında anlatıcının kendi kimliğinin, gölgesinin, içsel gerçeğinin arayışı. Gölgenin karanlık gece yolculuğu, aynı zamanda varolmanın ürkütücü gizli yanı. Doğu esinlerinin fazlaca etkisinde kalmadan, en tuhaf, en gizemli yerlere sakınımla karışık bir merakla girip çıkabilen anlatıcı rolündeki yazar, bu serüveni, mesafeli yaklaşımıyla, sözcüklerden çok, düşünce oyunlarına dayana bir anlatımla yansıtıyor. Antonio Tabucchi, kitabının başında 'Bir kitap yalnızca bir uykusuzluk değil, aynı zamanda da bir yolculuktur.' diyor. 'Uykusuzluk kitabı yazana, yolculuk da gezene aittir.' O zaman: İyi yolculuklar!
112 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1984
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2513 people want to read
About the author
Antonio Tabucchi
149 books843 followersAntonio Tabucchi was an Italian writer and academic who taught Portuguese language and literature at the University of Siena, Italy.
Deeply in love with Portugal, he was an expert, critic and translator of the works of the writer Fernando Pessoa from whom he drew the conceptions of saudade, of fiction and of the heteronyms. Tabucchi was first introduced to Pessoa's works in the 1960s when attending the Sorbonne. He was so charmed that, back in Italy, he attended a course of Portuguese language for a better comprehension of the poet.
Deeply in love with Portugal, he was an expert, critic and translator of the works of the writer Fernando Pessoa from whom he drew the conceptions of saudade, of fiction and of the heteronyms. Tabucchi was first introduced to Pessoa's works in the 1960s when attending the Sorbonne. He was so charmed that, back in Italy, he attended a course of Portuguese language for a better comprehension of the poet.
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September 17, 2017
”As well as being an insomnia, this book is also a journey. The insomnia belongs to the writer of the book, the journey to the person who did the travelling. All the same, given that I too happen to have been through the same places as the protagonist of this story, it seems fitting to supply a brief index of the various locations. I don’t know whether this idea was prompted by the illusion that a topographical inventory, with the force that the real possesses, might throw some light on this Nocturne in which a Shadow is sought; or whether by the irrational conjecture that some lover of unlikely itineraries might one day use it as a guide”.
These enigmatic words figure Antonio Tabucchi’s prelude to his narrator’s journey to South India, ostensibly aimed at searching for a Portuguese friend ‘who lost his way in India’, Xavier, who disappeared a year ago. The narrator leads a dim existence on the fringes of an abstruse world, also travelling to India for ‘scouring through old archives, hunting for old chronicles’. Starting in Bombay (Mumbai), the narrator tries to piece together the traces Xavier left behind by travelling through the country by train and by bus, bringing him to Madras (Chennai), stopping over near to Mangalore to end up in Goa.
Each chapter draws a vignette of the narrator’s puzzling and fascinating successive encounters with a multitude of characters cross sectioning Indian society: a prostitute, a doctor, a thief, a Jain Prophet (arihant), a dying man on his way to Varanasi, the Secretary of the Theosophical Society Adyar, and finally a French woman.
The narrator ‘never stays anywhere for more than a night’, sometimes sleeping while on the road, roaming the country like a somnambulant, intangible to the reader, like India. Why is he so determined to find Xavier? Is he truly looking for his friend at all? Or is he essentially fleeing something, his own past perhaps, or himself? The oblique epigraph to the novella alludes to a tinge of guilt, of remorse, with a quote from the French writer, philosopher and literary theorist Maurice Blanchot:People who sleep badly always appear more or less guilty. What do they do? They make night present.
There is a certain similar anti-detective feel to this novella as found in Auster’s The New York Trilogy.
Gradually, the search for Xavier shifts into a search for the narrator’s identity, a search for his own soul, his ‘atman’. A fortune-teller deplores that he cannot enunciate the narrator’s fate, because ‘you are someone else’. His soul is missing. His personality seems to merge with Xavier’s, strengthening the bewilderment of the baffled reader.
The narrator’s dreams and nightmares intensify the dreamlike atmosphere of the novella, the blurring of what is real and what is not, unveiling distortedly the thoughts the narrator is hiding, his unconscious mind, like in the narrator’s horrendous encounter with an old man clad in a black cloak in a Jesuit library (*) in Goa, pretending to be ‘Afonso de Albuquerque, Viceroy of the Indies’’, echoing Borges’s universe:
He laughed cruelly and pointed his forefinger at me. ‘Xavier doesn’t exist,’ he said. ‘He’s nothing but a ghost.’ He made a gesture that took in the whole room. ‘We are all dead, haven’t you realised that yet? I am dead, and this city is dead, and the battles, the sweat, the blood, the glory and my power, all dead, all utterly in vain.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘there is always something survives.’
‘What?’ he demanded. ‘His memory? Your memory? These books?’
As a writer, where would you locate an ethereal allegory on a spiritual quest for one’s self? To most Westerners, like the narrator, India is ‘mysterious by definition’. In an interview Tabucchi referred to Jung’s essay ‘The dreamlike World of India’, to explain that India is the place in the world par excellence enabling to evoke a dreamlike landscape.
Why do so many Westerners travel to India or long to do so sooner or later? For some of these passengers, travelling to India is synonymous with a proverbial quest for the self, for personal growth. Some look for spiritual enlightenment, or have a long-standing mystical relationship with the country. ‘Experiencing difference’ is mentioned as the most common reason for coming to India, conjoined with the search for self-realisation.
Ages after the hippie trail, a whole bunch of friends decided to depart for a few months, returning frequently, alternating work and budget travel. Years later, having devoured what was at hand in the local library on the subcontinent, I quit work and found myself travelling the land too, joining my partner in a lifelong dream. From the moment we got off the plane in Bombay, I couldn’t deny I was overwhelmed by a coup de foudre, and the memories of these months trying to connect to the culture, the people, the matchless beauty, still are an inexhaustible source of inspiration and rapture in my life (and, discarding the clichés, no drugs or ashrams crossed my path).
In some respects, this novella, as a philosophical quest permeated with references to Portugal, recalled another philosophical travelogue on identity, Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier, about a Swiss teacher abandoning his old life to travel to Lisbon in order to retrace an obscure Portuguese author, culminating in a discovery of the self. As Tabucchi was deeply in love with Portugal, teaching Portuguese language and literature at the University of Siena, spending 6 months a year in Lisbon, one shouldn’t be oversurprised by the appearance of Pessoa in the novel, Tabucchi’s literary hero whom he translated into Italian and who altered his life forever after reading Pessoa’s poem ‘The Tobacco Shop”.
‘Pessoa said he was a gnostic,’ I said. ‘He was a Rosicrucian. He wrote a series of esoteric poems called Passos da Cruz.’
‘I’ve never read them,’ said my host, ‘but I know something of his life.’
‘Do you know what his last words were?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘What were they?’
‘Give me my glasses,’ I said. ‘He was very shortsighted and he wanted to enter the other world with his glasses on.’
My host smiled and said nothing.”
However as a reader one could prefer to keep wondering on alternative outcomes of the equivocal ending, I highly recommend the atmospheric film adaptation Nocturne Indien by the French director Alain Corneau (1989).
I am looking forward to read other work of this fascinating author.
This novella bringing back wonderful memories, I couldn’t resist inserting some of our slides photographed in India in 1994.
I loved this map on http://www.le-cartographe.net, , tracing the narrator’s journey.
-------------------------------------
(*) In Goa, there actually exists a Jesuit history research centre called ‘Xavier Centre of Historical Research’, referring to the co-founder of the Society of Jesus, Saint Francis Xavier, a namesake of the friend the narrator is searching.
January 21, 2021
INVITO AL VIAGGIO
La trama di questo breve romanzo è un invito al viaggio.
Viaggio, che come nella migliore tradizione, non è solo geografico, ma anche percorso esistenziale, non solo fisico, ma soprattutto interiore.
Il pretesto per andare in India è scoprire che fine abbia fatto un amico (spunto ampiamente sfruttato anche dal cinema), Xavier, scomparso ormai da un anno: il protagonista cerca, segue tracce, incontra gente, conosce nuovi aspetti del vivere e dell’esistere.
A prescindere dalla ricerca dell’amico sparito, l’India è il posto perfetto per cercare nuove vie, nuove prospettive, nuovi intrecci.
E, o, anche per fuggire. Perdersi. Ritrovarsi. O, trovarsi tout court.
In hotel, in autobus, in ospedale, per strada, di giorno, di sera, e soprattutto di notte, si sommano gli incontri, mentre scorre la ricerca dell’amico, del quale il protagonista senza nome possiede una foto che mostra in giro, ma ciò non toglie che cresce il sospetto Xavier non esista, oppure che sia proprio il protagonista, che cercatore e cercato abbiano la stessa identità: doppio, o riflesso di un io diviso?
Se poi Xavier è portoghese, Tabucchi va a nozze e può infilare nella narrazione il suo grande amore, Fernando Pessoa.
La prostituta, una ladra, un medico, mendicanti e viandanti, vagabondi e indovini, teosofi, monaci, una fotografa, un ex postino americano, il fratello maggiore che porta in spalle il minore, bambino deforme così brutto da somigliare più a una scimmia che a un essere umano…: sono gli incontri che condiscono il racconto, ciascuno occupa uno dei dodici capitoli.
Percorso, tragitto? Ricerca? Sogno? Antonio Tabucchi come sempre riesce a rendere tutto semplice grazie all’incanto del suo narrare.
Questo libro, oltre che un’insonnia, è un viaggio. L’insonnia appartiene a chi ha scritto il libro, il viaggio a chi lo fece. Tuttavia, dato che anche a me è capitato di percorrere gli stessi luoghi che il protagonista di questa vicenda ha percorso, mi è parso opportuno fornire di essi un breve indice. Non so bene se a ciò ha contribuito l’illusione che un repertorio topografico, con la forza che il reale possiede, potesse dare luce a questo Notturno in cui si cerca un’Ombra; oppure l’irragionevole congettura che un qualche amante di percorsi incongrui potesse un giorno utilizzarlo come guida.
Materia troppo sfuggente, impalpabile, più suggerita che descritta: e quindi, materia troppo difficile per il cinema, impresa ardua trasporre in immagini, con le regole più rigide e pragmatiche della settima arte quando si piega alle esigenze del mercato. Nonostante il buon nome in regia, Alain Corneau, il risultato è modesto, e molto datato.
La trama di questo breve romanzo è un invito al viaggio.
Viaggio, che come nella migliore tradizione, non è solo geografico, ma anche percorso esistenziale, non solo fisico, ma soprattutto interiore.
Il pretesto per andare in India è scoprire che fine abbia fatto un amico (spunto ampiamente sfruttato anche dal cinema), Xavier, scomparso ormai da un anno: il protagonista cerca, segue tracce, incontra gente, conosce nuovi aspetti del vivere e dell’esistere.
A prescindere dalla ricerca dell’amico sparito, l’India è il posto perfetto per cercare nuove vie, nuove prospettive, nuovi intrecci.
E, o, anche per fuggire. Perdersi. Ritrovarsi. O, trovarsi tout court.
In hotel, in autobus, in ospedale, per strada, di giorno, di sera, e soprattutto di notte, si sommano gli incontri, mentre scorre la ricerca dell’amico, del quale il protagonista senza nome possiede una foto che mostra in giro, ma ciò non toglie che cresce il sospetto Xavier non esista, oppure che sia proprio il protagonista, che cercatore e cercato abbiano la stessa identità: doppio, o riflesso di un io diviso?
Se poi Xavier è portoghese, Tabucchi va a nozze e può infilare nella narrazione il suo grande amore, Fernando Pessoa.
La prostituta, una ladra, un medico, mendicanti e viandanti, vagabondi e indovini, teosofi, monaci, una fotografa, un ex postino americano, il fratello maggiore che porta in spalle il minore, bambino deforme così brutto da somigliare più a una scimmia che a un essere umano…: sono gli incontri che condiscono il racconto, ciascuno occupa uno dei dodici capitoli.
Percorso, tragitto? Ricerca? Sogno? Antonio Tabucchi come sempre riesce a rendere tutto semplice grazie all’incanto del suo narrare.
Questo libro, oltre che un’insonnia, è un viaggio. L’insonnia appartiene a chi ha scritto il libro, il viaggio a chi lo fece. Tuttavia, dato che anche a me è capitato di percorrere gli stessi luoghi che il protagonista di questa vicenda ha percorso, mi è parso opportuno fornire di essi un breve indice. Non so bene se a ciò ha contribuito l’illusione che un repertorio topografico, con la forza che il reale possiede, potesse dare luce a questo Notturno in cui si cerca un’Ombra; oppure l’irragionevole congettura che un qualche amante di percorsi incongrui potesse un giorno utilizzarlo come guida.
Materia troppo sfuggente, impalpabile, più suggerita che descritta: e quindi, materia troppo difficile per il cinema, impresa ardua trasporre in immagini, con le regole più rigide e pragmatiche della settima arte quando si piega alle esigenze del mercato. Nonostante il buon nome in regia, Alain Corneau, il risultato è modesto, e molto datato.
November 22, 2020
رحلة بحث غامضة في الهند.. بحث عن الذات واقتفاء لأثر الذكريات
ليالي وأحاديث, تساؤلات ومشاهدات ترسم ملامح الحياة والناس
ينتقل الراوي بين الأماكن والبشر ويتوه لكنه لا يريد أن يعثر عليه أحد
ليالي وأحاديث, تساؤلات ومشاهدات ترسم ملامح الحياة والناس
ينتقل الراوي بين الأماكن والبشر ويتوه لكنه لا يريد أن يعثر عليه أحد
February 18, 2022
هذا النص يملك قوة سردية ناعمة مُحكمة...وقدرة توصيفية رصينة مُرهفة...أجل هى كذلك...
أحدهم يبحث عن صديق له فُقِد في الهند...يتتبع آثار باهتة..وعلامات غامضة مُلتبسة...يتنقل ما بين فنادق رديئة بسيطة وأخرى راقية مُترفة...يلتقي بأناس أثناء تجواله هنا وهناك ، تنصت لحكايات تبدو لك ناقصة مبتورة ، ومع ذلك يصلك جوهرها في لحظة ما...خاطفة صريحة...
تتوقف عند توصيف " تابوكي" للأصوات المسطحة القادمة من بعيد...وتلك القريبة جداً منك...
إنك في أشد الأماكن زخماً بالبشر ..الروائح...التوابل..الأصوات....
ولكن ما يستدعي التساؤل إنه لن يتناهى إلى مسامعك أيٌ من أجوائها الصاخبة ، بل ثمة حالة من الهدوء والارتياب ، هالة من السكون الليلي تفرض حضورها وسطوتها عليك...
عمن يبحث هذا الشاب ؟..أحقاً عن صديق ام عن ذاته ؟!!
طائر الليل الهندي...عندما يبتسم يبدو حزيناً...يبدو إنه مختبيء في مكان ما مجهول..غامض...
ربما كان حُلماً...ظلاً...
ولربما شيء ما أُفلِت من الماضي..أو إجابة مفقودة....
فلترتابوا في الأشياء التي تم اختيارها.....
أحدهم يبحث عن صديق له فُقِد في الهند...يتتبع آثار باهتة..وعلامات غامضة مُلتبسة...يتنقل ما بين فنادق رديئة بسيطة وأخرى راقية مُترفة...يلتقي بأناس أثناء تجواله هنا وهناك ، تنصت لحكايات تبدو لك ناقصة مبتورة ، ومع ذلك يصلك جوهرها في لحظة ما...خاطفة صريحة...
تتوقف عند توصيف " تابوكي" للأصوات المسطحة القادمة من بعيد...وتلك القريبة جداً منك...
إنك في أشد الأماكن زخماً بالبشر ..الروائح...التوابل..الأصوات....
ولكن ما يستدعي التساؤل إنه لن يتناهى إلى مسامعك أيٌ من أجوائها الصاخبة ، بل ثمة حالة من الهدوء والارتياب ، هالة من السكون الليلي تفرض حضورها وسطوتها عليك...
عمن يبحث هذا الشاب ؟..أحقاً عن صديق ام عن ذاته ؟!!
طائر الليل الهندي...عندما يبتسم يبدو حزيناً...يبدو إنه مختبيء في مكان ما مجهول..غامض...
ربما كان حُلماً...ظلاً...
ولربما شيء ما أُفلِت من الماضي..أو إجابة مفقودة....
فلترتابوا في الأشياء التي تم اختيارها.....
May 30, 2021
Sebbene sia un libro breve, la sua proposta è complessa, non tanto per ciò che fa vedere, ma per tutto ciò che nasconde.
Il narratore-protagonista viaggia in India con l'intenzione di trovare Xavier, un amico di cui ha perso le tracce. Lo stesso Tabucchi fa raccontare al suo io narrante la trama della storia con queste parole:
----
Già a questo punto del relato, molto prima al dire il vero, il romanzo si dissolve in preoccupazioni di ordine esistenziale, il cercato è chi lo cerca?. La realtà diventa strana come un sogno.
Il narratore-protagonista viaggia in India con l'intenzione di trovare Xavier, un amico di cui ha perso le tracce. Lo stesso Tabucchi fa raccontare al suo io narrante la trama della storia con queste parole:
"E allora me lo racconti un po' meglio!".
"Va bene", dissi io, "comincia così, che lui arriva a Bombay, ha l'indirizzo di un albergaccio dove io stavo una volta e si mette a cercare. E lì conosce una ragazza che un tempo mi ha conosciuto e costei gli fa sapere che io mi sono ammalato, che sono andato in ospedale, e poi che avevo dei contatti con della gente del Sud dell'India. Così lui va a cercarmi in ospedale, che si rivela una falsa pista, e poi parte da Bombay e comincia un viaggio, sempre con la scusa di cercarmi, ma in realtà viaggia per i fatti suoi, il libro è principalmente questo: il suo viaggio.
Fa tutta una serie di incontri, naturalmente, perché nei viaggi si incontrano persone. Arriva a Madras, gira per la città, per i templi dei dintorni, in una società di studi, trova qualche labile traccia mia. E infine arriva a Goa, dove però doveva andare comunque, per motivi suoi".
(...)
"Qui ci sono molti altri incontri", continuai, "lui vaga un po' qua e un po' là, e poi una sera arriva in una certa cittadina e lì capisce tutto".
"Tutto cosa?".
"Oh, beh", dissi io, "lui non mi trovava anche per un fatto molto semplice, perché io avevo preso un altro nome. E lui riesce a scoprirlo. In fondo non era poi impossibile scoprirlo, perché era un nome che aveva a che vedere con lui, un tempo. Solo che questo nome io lo avevo stravolto, camuffato. Non so come c'è arrivato, ma di fatto c'è arrivato, sarà stato un caso fortuito".
"E qual è questo nome?".
"Nightingale", dissi io.
"Bel nome", disse Christine, "vada avanti".
----
Già a questo punto del relato, molto prima al dire il vero, il romanzo si dissolve in preoccupazioni di ordine esistenziale, il cercato è chi lo cerca?. La realtà diventa strana come un sogno.
October 2, 2015
The tone is somber in this murky noir novel. As is Tabucchi’s yen it is the noir he hides behind. It is done so well that it provides excellent cover for the existential workings raveling and unraveling beneath.
In its essence it is a novel about sight. As the novel moves forward the narrator accumulates pieces of observations in his travels through India, an awakening travel or nightmarish, to find his friend Xavier. Why, is not made clear though hints are left along the dark inlets he must travel, a Dantesque voyage.
As in a Paul Auster novel it is as if he is staring out his upper floor apartment window at a window in the apartment building just across, to glimpse the person living there. When he finally does he sees the person at his window, binoculars in hand focused on him. Tabucchi’s narrator in his noir, articulate manner, is looking for Xavier to be able to see this old friend see him. Xavier is the one person chosen who can provide the narrator this, that by seeing the narrator, the narrator can locate his, self.
The voyage itself is a wonder of fascinating others, in a murky dreamlike chain of passages. This is a part of Tabucchi’s deft magic. The results are that I don’t realize what he was up to until I have put the book back up on the shelves and find myself for two days scratching my forearm for no reason. It is then that I start to get it, or begin to start to get it. There will be much more to arrive as time passes and therefore this review refuses to conclude…
10/2/15
Ah! As I expected he has not left. Tabucchi in his way continues to settle into his space. A small space requiring little. He does not flinch when I think of shutting the door and locking it tightly. There must be colored chalk since I find on the walls writing and listen to widening echoes of select thought.
Now whispering through the chalk dust he reveals with a wry smile that the book might also be read as a cautionary tale. He warns that life may reside in seeking and searching knowing in the end there is nothing to be found. Wise or unwise, he will continue to stay and I'm sure will have more to say.
In its essence it is a novel about sight. As the novel moves forward the narrator accumulates pieces of observations in his travels through India, an awakening travel or nightmarish, to find his friend Xavier. Why, is not made clear though hints are left along the dark inlets he must travel, a Dantesque voyage.
As in a Paul Auster novel it is as if he is staring out his upper floor apartment window at a window in the apartment building just across, to glimpse the person living there. When he finally does he sees the person at his window, binoculars in hand focused on him. Tabucchi’s narrator in his noir, articulate manner, is looking for Xavier to be able to see this old friend see him. Xavier is the one person chosen who can provide the narrator this, that by seeing the narrator, the narrator can locate his, self.
The voyage itself is a wonder of fascinating others, in a murky dreamlike chain of passages. This is a part of Tabucchi’s deft magic. The results are that I don’t realize what he was up to until I have put the book back up on the shelves and find myself for two days scratching my forearm for no reason. It is then that I start to get it, or begin to start to get it. There will be much more to arrive as time passes and therefore this review refuses to conclude…
10/2/15
Ah! As I expected he has not left. Tabucchi in his way continues to settle into his space. A small space requiring little. He does not flinch when I think of shutting the door and locking it tightly. There must be colored chalk since I find on the walls writing and listen to widening echoes of select thought.
Now whispering through the chalk dust he reveals with a wry smile that the book might also be read as a cautionary tale. He warns that life may reside in seeking and searching knowing in the end there is nothing to be found. Wise or unwise, he will continue to stay and I'm sure will have more to say.
August 4, 2017
پر از فضاهای جدید و قصههای جذاب، با پایانبندی خلاقانه!
متن کشش قشنگی داشت و تورو توی فضای هند غرق میکرد.
متن کشش قشنگی داشت و تورو توی فضای هند غرق میکرد.
June 4, 2024
Leaving Your Atma on the Plane
I wonder if Tabucchi realised that characters like myself would emerge out of the reading of his books. Characters who keep reading his books, going over them, the way his characters go over their own lives, seeking that which is as elusive as Xavier who the narrator is trying to find in Indian Nocturne.
If you wonder what a journey like this was like back in the author’s time of the 1970s or 1980s find a really old copy of India, a Travel Survival Kit by Lonely Planet, a book that also makes an appearance in another story of Tabucchi’s The Trains that Go to Madras , and the guide book plays the same character in both – it gives some useful advice – but not what we might expect – if it’s just a travel guide, it tells us not to have any expectations, which is good advice in a number of life circumstances.
For the most part of this novella we are guided to consider who Xavier is. But we should be wondering who the narrator is. He after all is taking the journey. He reaches dead ends wherever he goes, but saying that is not a spoiler, as the dead ends are the point. Or one of them.
From the opening scene, the taxi ride to the hotel, we encounter the narrator in European mode, experiencing the place through the European mind - the taxi driver provokes an altercation with his narrator customer over the place he wanted to go. The driver it seems was thinking that this European gentleman won’t like such a bad place as the Cage District. The narrator has his own reasons. So, of course reading a book by Tabucchi called Indian Nocturne is exactly like being taken on a taxi ride to a destination we did not ask for.
“I’d seen it (the Cage District) in the photographs of a famous photographer and thought I was prepared for human misery, but photographs enclose the visible in a rectangle.”
As do books.
Tabucchi has done something interesting here, he has engaged us in the Indian traveller’s first encounter story – the Indian taxi driver is always trying to take the fresh traveller somewhere other than where they want to go – I have a similar story. And the other stock experience for the first time Indian traveller is the confrontation with human misery on a vast scale. These are as much expectations as the Taj Mahal, the ghats of Varanasi or the erotic sculptures on the Khajuraho temples. Nothing is as it seems inside the rectangle of a book either. One narrative frames another and so on. The opening pages maker reference to places visited in the book – Khajuraho features as the name of a hotel in Bombay – advertisers place names on signage as pointers to their premises, but Tabucchi offers them in a similar way - as the promise we have of our destination – India is always framed for us, seducing us with our own impressions.
The other stock in trade of the European travelling in India is the journey of discovery. Naturally, this is the one Tabucchi plays with the most, though if I go on there may be a spoiler there. Herman Hesse, the Beatles, friends of mine looking for ashrams and gurus, drugs and experiences. Like Hesse, our narrator has an interest in Theosophy, if only to look for his friend, Xavier, who was in communication with the Madras Theosophical Society. Somehow India is always framed as spirit, what we can know is as elusive.
The European visitor-narrator always brings their own journey of discovery references. Perhaps the traveller is lucky if this framework offers them the opportunity to confront themselves, and if they are not confronted with themselves most of all, there is the suggestion that they are not really there. This is confirmed late in the story when our traveller narrator meets a grotesque fortune teller in the middle of the night at a bus exchange - as likely an event in India as a voyage of discovery since stoppages happen with their own logic and never when we expect them. There, the monstrously deformed sibling carried by his brother on his back performs a kind of oracle function but here he cannot actually tell the mans’ fortune:
“He said it is not a question of rupees… you are not there, he cannot tell you where you are.”
For the student of Indian religion, the narrator has no atma (the self, or the soul).
Perhaps that’s how we all travel through India, without a kind of soul, just our bodies our suitcases that carry us around all our lives - as the man on his way to Varanasi to die says early on, we won’t see each other in this form next time.
I wonder if Tabucchi realised that characters like myself would emerge out of the reading of his books. Characters who keep reading his books, going over them, the way his characters go over their own lives, seeking that which is as elusive as Xavier who the narrator is trying to find in Indian Nocturne.
If you wonder what a journey like this was like back in the author’s time of the 1970s or 1980s find a really old copy of India, a Travel Survival Kit by Lonely Planet, a book that also makes an appearance in another story of Tabucchi’s The Trains that Go to Madras , and the guide book plays the same character in both – it gives some useful advice – but not what we might expect – if it’s just a travel guide, it tells us not to have any expectations, which is good advice in a number of life circumstances.
For the most part of this novella we are guided to consider who Xavier is. But we should be wondering who the narrator is. He after all is taking the journey. He reaches dead ends wherever he goes, but saying that is not a spoiler, as the dead ends are the point. Or one of them.
From the opening scene, the taxi ride to the hotel, we encounter the narrator in European mode, experiencing the place through the European mind - the taxi driver provokes an altercation with his narrator customer over the place he wanted to go. The driver it seems was thinking that this European gentleman won’t like such a bad place as the Cage District. The narrator has his own reasons. So, of course reading a book by Tabucchi called Indian Nocturne is exactly like being taken on a taxi ride to a destination we did not ask for.
“I’d seen it (the Cage District) in the photographs of a famous photographer and thought I was prepared for human misery, but photographs enclose the visible in a rectangle.”
As do books.
Tabucchi has done something interesting here, he has engaged us in the Indian traveller’s first encounter story – the Indian taxi driver is always trying to take the fresh traveller somewhere other than where they want to go – I have a similar story. And the other stock experience for the first time Indian traveller is the confrontation with human misery on a vast scale. These are as much expectations as the Taj Mahal, the ghats of Varanasi or the erotic sculptures on the Khajuraho temples. Nothing is as it seems inside the rectangle of a book either. One narrative frames another and so on. The opening pages maker reference to places visited in the book – Khajuraho features as the name of a hotel in Bombay – advertisers place names on signage as pointers to their premises, but Tabucchi offers them in a similar way - as the promise we have of our destination – India is always framed for us, seducing us with our own impressions.
The other stock in trade of the European travelling in India is the journey of discovery. Naturally, this is the one Tabucchi plays with the most, though if I go on there may be a spoiler there. Herman Hesse, the Beatles, friends of mine looking for ashrams and gurus, drugs and experiences. Like Hesse, our narrator has an interest in Theosophy, if only to look for his friend, Xavier, who was in communication with the Madras Theosophical Society. Somehow India is always framed as spirit, what we can know is as elusive.
The European visitor-narrator always brings their own journey of discovery references. Perhaps the traveller is lucky if this framework offers them the opportunity to confront themselves, and if they are not confronted with themselves most of all, there is the suggestion that they are not really there. This is confirmed late in the story when our traveller narrator meets a grotesque fortune teller in the middle of the night at a bus exchange - as likely an event in India as a voyage of discovery since stoppages happen with their own logic and never when we expect them. There, the monstrously deformed sibling carried by his brother on his back performs a kind of oracle function but here he cannot actually tell the mans’ fortune:
“He said it is not a question of rupees… you are not there, he cannot tell you where you are.”
For the student of Indian religion, the narrator has no atma (the self, or the soul).
Perhaps that’s how we all travel through India, without a kind of soul, just our bodies our suitcases that carry us around all our lives - as the man on his way to Varanasi to die says early on, we won’t see each other in this form next time.
May 21, 2022
در ستایش گمگشتگی :
به عنوان اثری که زمانی جایزه بهترین رمان خارجی رو از فرانسه گرفته، زیادی سطحی بود. ترفند سادهنویسی و پایانبندی خاص و فلسفهی ضعیف نویسنده هم کمکی نکرد. داستان، سفری به هند و جستجوی دوستی گمشده است که سالها از آن خبر ندارد. انگیزهی سفر در اصل مشخص نیس و میماند سفرِ گیجِ نویسنده که گویا خود هم بدنبال گم شدن است. فصل آخر، خاص و اعتراف هنری نویسنده است ولی جوری هم نیست که بگویم ورق را برگرداند و داستان را زیر و رو کرد.
پ.ن ۱ : فکر کنم متاسفانه یا خوشبختانه باید بگم که تا این جای زندگیم، سینمای ایتالیا رو از ادبیاتش بیشتر دوست داشتم.
پ.ن ۲ : فقط با بخش بیمارستان و گفتگو با دکتر حال کردم.
پ.ن ۳ : سومین کتاب متوسط رو به پایینی هست که با ترجمه سروش حبیبی میخونم ( البته ترجمه خوب بود ), فکر میکنم آقای حبیبی بعضی آثار رو جهت دستگرمی بین پروژههای سنگین ترجمه میکنن یا فقط دلبستگی خاصی به برخی کتابها دارن، وگرنه به لحاظ کیفیت ادبی زیاد مالی نیستن.
اردیبهشت هزار و چهارصد و یک
به عنوان اثری که زمانی جایزه بهترین رمان خارجی رو از فرانسه گرفته، زیادی سطحی بود. ترفند سادهنویسی و پایانبندی خاص و فلسفهی ضعیف نویسنده هم کمکی نکرد. داستان، سفری به هند و جستجوی دوستی گمشده است که سالها از آن خبر ندارد. انگیزهی سفر در اصل مشخص نیس و میماند سفرِ گیجِ نویسنده که گویا خود هم بدنبال گم شدن است. فصل آخر، خاص و اعتراف هنری نویسنده است ولی جوری هم نیست که بگویم ورق را برگرداند و داستان را زیر و رو کرد.
پ.ن ۱ : فکر کنم متاسفانه یا خوشبختانه باید بگم که تا این جای زندگیم، سینمای ایتالیا رو از ادبیاتش بیشتر دوست داشتم.
پ.ن ۲ : فقط با بخش بیمارستان و گفتگو با دکتر حال کردم.
پ.ن ۳ : سومین کتاب متوسط رو به پایینی هست که با ترجمه سروش حبیبی میخونم ( البته ترجمه خوب بود ), فکر میکنم آقای حبیبی بعضی آثار رو جهت دستگرمی بین پروژههای سنگین ترجمه میکنن یا فقط دلبستگی خاصی به برخی کتابها دارن، وگرنه به لحاظ کیفیت ادبی زیاد مالی نیستن.
اردیبهشت هزار و چهارصد و یک
January 21, 2021
“Le fotografie chiudono il visibile in un rettangolo. Il visibile senza cornice è sempre un'altra cosa.”
Primo scatto: un uomo su un taxi. Bianco e nero pieno.
Secondo scatto: una stanza sudicia, lo stesso uomo in piedi vicino ad una finestra e una donna seduta sulla punta di una poltrona. E’ avvolta in un sari, ha il viso da bambina e il trucco sfatto. Colore saturo.
Terzo scatto: un uomo che potrebbe avere trent’anni come ottanta seduto ad una scrivania alla buona. Ha un camice e dietro c’è un mobile di vetro che contiene dei farmaci. Bianco e nero morbido.
Quarto scatto: un posto d’attesa, una panca, due uomini che si guardano mentre parlano. Bianco e nero distinto.
Quinto scatto: una stanza d’albergo pulita, mobili anonimi e una donna in piedi vicino la porta. Guarda l’obiettivo sfrontata e con un’aria sicura di sé. Bianco e nero. Solo una macchia rossa: il rossetto della donna.
Sesto scatto: una mano da uomo elegante nell’atto di tamburellare sul bracciolo di una poltrona. Bianco e nero morbido.
Settimo scatto: un ragazzo seduto che tiene qualcosa sulle spalle. Si accorge dello scatto nel momento del click voltandosi e la foto viene mossa. Solo un ammasso di due sagome indistinto. Bianco e nero duro.
Poi foto sparpagliate su un piano, tante ombre e colori, una bottiglia di vino, la sacca di un portalettere, una sera stellata.
Che cosa c’è attorno alla foto lo racconta Tabucchi con un senso di incompleto e allo stesso tempo compiuto che lo caratterizza. Incompleto perche il lettore vorrebbe altro, crea curiosità che si soddisfa solo nell’immaginazione, compiuto perché il romanzo basta a se stesso e così si chiude.
Un viaggio alla ricerca di qualcuno, che si cerca come se non si volesse trovare e che si trova come non si è cercato.
Primo scatto: un uomo su un taxi. Bianco e nero pieno.
Secondo scatto: una stanza sudicia, lo stesso uomo in piedi vicino ad una finestra e una donna seduta sulla punta di una poltrona. E’ avvolta in un sari, ha il viso da bambina e il trucco sfatto. Colore saturo.
Terzo scatto: un uomo che potrebbe avere trent’anni come ottanta seduto ad una scrivania alla buona. Ha un camice e dietro c’è un mobile di vetro che contiene dei farmaci. Bianco e nero morbido.
Quarto scatto: un posto d’attesa, una panca, due uomini che si guardano mentre parlano. Bianco e nero distinto.
Quinto scatto: una stanza d’albergo pulita, mobili anonimi e una donna in piedi vicino la porta. Guarda l’obiettivo sfrontata e con un’aria sicura di sé. Bianco e nero. Solo una macchia rossa: il rossetto della donna.
Sesto scatto: una mano da uomo elegante nell’atto di tamburellare sul bracciolo di una poltrona. Bianco e nero morbido.
Settimo scatto: un ragazzo seduto che tiene qualcosa sulle spalle. Si accorge dello scatto nel momento del click voltandosi e la foto viene mossa. Solo un ammasso di due sagome indistinto. Bianco e nero duro.
Poi foto sparpagliate su un piano, tante ombre e colori, una bottiglia di vino, la sacca di un portalettere, una sera stellata.
Che cosa c’è attorno alla foto lo racconta Tabucchi con un senso di incompleto e allo stesso tempo compiuto che lo caratterizza. Incompleto perche il lettore vorrebbe altro, crea curiosità che si soddisfa solo nell’immaginazione, compiuto perché il romanzo basta a se stesso e così si chiude.
Un viaggio alla ricerca di qualcuno, che si cerca come se non si volesse trovare e che si trova come non si è cercato.
April 8, 2019
کتاب بازدید غرب از شرق است. بازدید یقین از گمشدگی. جایی از داستان پزشکِ هندیِ متخصصِ قلب که تحصیلش در لندن و کسبِ تجربه اش در زوریخ بوده است؛ به راویِ داستان که پیِ رفیق اش می گردد و این خود همه یِ بهانه یِ داستان است؛ می گوید: «خیلی ها در هند گم می شوند. این مملکت برای همین درست شده است.»
گفتم: « همین طور است » و چشم به او دوختم و او هم مرا نگاه می کرد ولی فکرش با من نبود. گفتی حضورش آن جا از سر تصادف بود. انگاری همه چیز حاصل اتفاق بود و می بایست همان طور بوده باشد.
***
داستان مثل درخششِ نوری در شبی ظلمت زده ... چند باری ... چند جا ... در هند برقی می زند و باز تاریکی است .... اما همان دم زیبا و دلربا است ... باز صحنه ای دیگر و صحنه ای دیگر تا در واپسین صفحات به دوستش می رسد ... چشم در چشم می شوند اما پیش نمی روند انگار ... در واقع ... در حقیقت ... �� قطعیتی که جایی از کتاب مسافری از بنارس که به سوی مرگ می رفت و خرده به اروپاییان گرفته بود و راوی را سرزنش کرده بود؛ پس از این سفرِ پر ماجرا رنگ باخته و راوی هم معنا را در بی معنایی یافته
***
همراهم گفت: « لابد کاتولیک هستید! »
گفتم: « اروپاییان می شود گفت همه کاتولیک اند یا بگوییم همه مسیحی اند. در واقع فرقی هم نمی کند.»
او « در واقع » مرا تکرار کرد. مثل این بود که از آن لذت می برد. انگلیسی شسته رفته ای حرف می زد و ضمن گوش دادن به صحبتش متوجه شدم که به شیوه ی معمول در بعضی دانشگاه ها ضمن حرف زدن مکث های کوتاهی می کند و کلامش را به شیوه ی خاصی می کشد یا در انتخاب بعضی کلمات مردد می ماند. گفت: « در واقع ... در حقیقت ... چه کلمات عجیبی! این کلمات را در انگلستان زیاد می شنوید. شما اروپاییان این کلمات را زیاد به کار می برید! »
مکث طولانی تری کرد ولی من دانستم که حرفش را تمام نکرده است. بعد ادامه داد: « هرگز نتوانسته ام بفهمم که این از خوش بینی است یا بدبینی. عقیده ی شما چیست؟ »
از او توضیح خواستم.
گفت: « اوه؛ مشکل می شود از این واضح تر گفت. مثلن گاهی نمی فهمم این جور گفته ی خود را واقعیت یا حقیقت دانستن از خودبینی است یا بی شرمی؛ یا شاید وحشت زیاد. متوجه منظورم هستید؟ »
گفتم: « نمی دانم فهمیدن حرف تان آسان نیست ولی خوب شاید هم این « در واقع » در واقع هیچ معنایی نداشته باشد.»
خندید. اول بار بود می خندید. گفت: « چه جواب ظریفی! از من بردید اما « در واقع » به من حق دادید »
گفتم: « همین طور است » و چشم به او دوختم و او هم مرا نگاه می کرد ولی فکرش با من نبود. گفتی حضورش آن جا از سر تصادف بود. انگاری همه چیز حاصل اتفاق بود و می بایست همان طور بوده باشد.
***
داستان مثل درخششِ نوری در شبی ظلمت زده ... چند باری ... چند جا ... در هند برقی می زند و باز تاریکی است .... اما همان دم زیبا و دلربا است ... باز صحنه ای دیگر و صحنه ای دیگر تا در واپسین صفحات به دوستش می رسد ... چشم در چشم می شوند اما پیش نمی روند انگار ... در واقع ... در حقیقت ... �� قطعیتی که جایی از کتاب مسافری از بنارس که به سوی مرگ می رفت و خرده به اروپاییان گرفته بود و راوی را سرزنش کرده بود؛ پس از این سفرِ پر ماجرا رنگ باخته و راوی هم معنا را در بی معنایی یافته
***
همراهم گفت: « لابد کاتولیک هستید! »
گفتم: « اروپاییان می شود گفت همه کاتولیک اند یا بگوییم همه مسیحی اند. در واقع فرقی هم نمی کند.»
او « در واقع » مرا تکرار کرد. مثل این بود که از آن لذت می برد. انگلیسی شسته رفته ای حرف می زد و ضمن گوش دادن به صحبتش متوجه شدم که به شیوه ی معمول در بعضی دانشگاه ها ضمن حرف زدن مکث های کوتاهی می کند و کلامش را به شیوه ی خاصی می کشد یا در انتخاب بعضی کلمات مردد می ماند. گفت: « در واقع ... در حقیقت ... چه کلمات عجیبی! این کلمات را در انگلستان زیاد می شنوید. شما اروپاییان این کلمات را زیاد به کار می برید! »
مکث طولانی تری کرد ولی من دانستم که حرفش را تمام نکرده است. بعد ادامه داد: « هرگز نتوانسته ام بفهمم که این از خوش بینی است یا بدبینی. عقیده ی شما چیست؟ »
از او توضیح خواستم.
گفت: « اوه؛ مشکل می شود از این واضح تر گفت. مثلن گاهی نمی فهمم این جور گفته ی خود را واقعیت یا حقیقت دانستن از خودبینی است یا بی شرمی؛ یا شاید وحشت زیاد. متوجه منظورم هستید؟ »
گفتم: « نمی دانم فهمیدن حرف تان آسان نیست ولی خوب شاید هم این « در واقع » در واقع هیچ معنایی نداشته باشد.»
خندید. اول بار بود می خندید. گفت: « چه جواب ظریفی! از من بردید اما « در واقع » به من حق دادید »
January 25, 2021
"In qualche modo sta cercando se stesso.
Voglio dire, è come se cercasse se stesso, cercando me:
nei libri succede spesso così, è letteratura"
Il rischio di un romanzo breve e che lo si legga troppo velocemente (soprattutto quando si è lettori voraci!).
Come è noto, tuttavia, per una buona digestione occorre masticare lentamente.
Ho riletto, pertanto, questo racconto, che avevo giudicato bello, con tanti input ma che rimaneva in superficie.
In realtà, rileggendo mi sono resa conto che chi stava a filo dell'acqua ero io.
Pigra lettrice.
Le osservazioni che seguono sono frutto di una seconda "immersione"
*************************************
"India, a travel survival kit" è la guida turistica che il protagonista ha in mano al suo arrivo per l'appunto in India.
Un manuale di sopravvivenza fa pensare ad un viaggio pericoloso ma a volte le insidie maggiori sono quelle dentro di noi.
L'impatto con la realtà della miseria è da subito sorprendente poichè l'effimera sicumera occidentale fa credere di essere preparati a ciò che si vedrà dato che nel comodo salotto di casa si sono sfogliati libri.
Si parte decisi e sicuri di saper tutto dopo aver visto le ferme immagini:
ma le fotografie chiudono il visibile in un rettangolo. Il visibile senza cornice è sempre un'altra cosa. E poi quel visibile aveva un odore troppo forte. Anzi, molti odori.
Ecco il primo passo del viaggiatore che si libera dalle infradito e pacchetti di souvenir:
spogliarsi delle certezze, sospendere il giudizio, vivere tempo e luogo lontano dai pregiudizi.
Un infimo hotel – che in realtà è uno dei tanti bordelli-, un nome di ragazza appuntato su un foglietto.
Così comincia la storia di un uomo che cerca il disperso amico di un tempo.
Il viaggio sarà un percorso di conoscenza di altro da sè e al contempo la ricerca di sé.
L'India è lo scenario ideale (quante volte anni fa chiedendo notizie di una conoscenza ci rispondevano: è andato in India a cercare se stesso?).
Una realtà dove accade l'improbabile, dove il bizzarro ti cammina di fianco, dove ti assalgono odori pungenti ed estranei.
Il viaggio continua seguendo tracce che portano all'amico e parallelamente avanza una consapevolezza di sé sempre maggiore dove i corpi diventano solo valigie che trasportano la nostra essenza e citando Hugo ("Les Travailleurs De La Mer"):
"Le corps humaines pourrait bien n'être qu'une apparence. Il cache notre réalité, il s'épaissit sur notre lumière ou sur notre ombre"
Voglio dire, è come se cercasse se stesso, cercando me:
nei libri succede spesso così, è letteratura"
Il rischio di un romanzo breve e che lo si legga troppo velocemente (soprattutto quando si è lettori voraci!).
Come è noto, tuttavia, per una buona digestione occorre masticare lentamente.
Ho riletto, pertanto, questo racconto, che avevo giudicato bello, con tanti input ma che rimaneva in superficie.
In realtà, rileggendo mi sono resa conto che chi stava a filo dell'acqua ero io.
Pigra lettrice.
Le osservazioni che seguono sono frutto di una seconda "immersione"
*************************************
"India, a travel survival kit" è la guida turistica che il protagonista ha in mano al suo arrivo per l'appunto in India.
Un manuale di sopravvivenza fa pensare ad un viaggio pericoloso ma a volte le insidie maggiori sono quelle dentro di noi.
L'impatto con la realtà della miseria è da subito sorprendente poichè l'effimera sicumera occidentale fa credere di essere preparati a ciò che si vedrà dato che nel comodo salotto di casa si sono sfogliati libri.
Si parte decisi e sicuri di saper tutto dopo aver visto le ferme immagini:
ma le fotografie chiudono il visibile in un rettangolo. Il visibile senza cornice è sempre un'altra cosa. E poi quel visibile aveva un odore troppo forte. Anzi, molti odori.
Ecco il primo passo del viaggiatore che si libera dalle infradito e pacchetti di souvenir:
spogliarsi delle certezze, sospendere il giudizio, vivere tempo e luogo lontano dai pregiudizi.
Un infimo hotel – che in realtà è uno dei tanti bordelli-, un nome di ragazza appuntato su un foglietto.
Così comincia la storia di un uomo che cerca il disperso amico di un tempo.
Il viaggio sarà un percorso di conoscenza di altro da sè e al contempo la ricerca di sé.
L'India è lo scenario ideale (quante volte anni fa chiedendo notizie di una conoscenza ci rispondevano: è andato in India a cercare se stesso?).
Una realtà dove accade l'improbabile, dove il bizzarro ti cammina di fianco, dove ti assalgono odori pungenti ed estranei.
Il viaggio continua seguendo tracce che portano all'amico e parallelamente avanza una consapevolezza di sé sempre maggiore dove i corpi diventano solo valigie che trasportano la nostra essenza e citando Hugo ("Les Travailleurs De La Mer"):
"Le corps humaines pourrait bien n'être qu'une apparence. Il cache notre réalité, il s'épaissit sur notre lumière ou sur notre ombre"
February 7, 2017
My favorite quote so far:
Oh, Indian Nocturne is a difficult book to rate, on one hand the description of the different places and cities the narrator had traveled across India throughout the book is great--though it is a bit strange to see those Indian cities being referred with their old colonized names instead of their Hindu ones. This book brings back all my nostalgic memories of this spellbinding country, plus the noir atmosphere is simply splendid; on the other hand, too many things are left unexplained and 'out of frames' so to speak. In the end I feel the novel is pretty much on the 'noir just for the sake of noir' side, although I fully understand the author seemingly never intends to give us any straight forward explanation.
I'm glad it is a short novel, if the story were any longer than its current self I most likely would have lost interest, yet I still enjoy it enough to give it four stars.
Blind science tills vain colds,
mad Faith lives the dream of its cult,
a new God is only a word,
Don't believe or search,
all is hidden.
Oh, Indian Nocturne is a difficult book to rate, on one hand the description of the different places and cities the narrator had traveled across India throughout the book is great--though it is a bit strange to see those Indian cities being referred with their old colonized names instead of their Hindu ones. This book brings back all my nostalgic memories of this spellbinding country, plus the noir atmosphere is simply splendid; on the other hand, too many things are left unexplained and 'out of frames' so to speak. In the end I feel the novel is pretty much on the 'noir just for the sake of noir' side, although I fully understand the author seemingly never intends to give us any straight forward explanation.
I'm glad it is a short novel, if the story were any longer than its current self I most likely would have lost interest, yet I still enjoy it enough to give it four stars.
February 26, 2020
Bem vistas as coisas não andamos aqui muito longe de «Os papéis de K.», de Manuel António Pina, mais pela estrutura narrativa do que pelo estilo de escrita. Mas, postas de parte as diferenças evidentes, estamos igualmente num patamar bastante elevado da literatura. Fascinou-me, de resto, pelas referências literárias e pelo ambiente (aquela Índia que Salman Rushdie descreve em «Os filhos da meia-noite» está toda aqui), agarrou-me pela estranheza dos diálogos e das personagens, e deixou-me sem chão num final que tanto podia pender para o falhanço como para o brilhante. Lida a última página e fechado o livro, Tabucchi não desiludiu. Entrou para a lista daqueles livros que abracei quando terminei, como se abraçasse o próprio escritor, agradecendo-lhe a graça.
March 26, 2021
Tabucchi'nin sade, insanı kolayca kavrayıp sarmalayan bir anlatımı var. Her okuduğumda, adını koyamadığım bir yakınlık/samimiyet hissediyorum kendisine.
November 23, 2020
ليالٍ هندية
أنطونيو تابوكي
الكاتب من مواليد إيطاليا سنة 1943 وتوفي بالسرطان سنة 2012 هو كاتب وأكاديمي بحاضر في اللغة والآداب البرتغالية في جامعة سيينا ,هواه برتغالي عميق بسبب عشقه للكاتب والشاعر البرتغالي فرناندو بيسو صاحب الرواية العظيمة اللاطمأنينة واللي كان مصاب بإضطراب ثنائي القطب,بسبب حب أنطونيو إله راح تعلم اللغة البرتغالية وترجم كثير من أعماله وتأثر بأسلوبه...إله أعمال مشهورة ومترجمة لأكثر من 18 لغة مثل:بيريرا يدعي,الزمن يشيخ بسرعة,الملاك الأسود.....
الكتاب من وجهة نظر الكاتب عبارة عن دليل سياحي للأشخاص اللي بحبوا يعملوا سياحة غريبة غير إعتيادية في الهند لإنه بحكي فيها عن بسرد سحري عن رحلة غامضة لشخص رجع يبحث عن صديقه اللي تركه من فترة وأعطاه بعض الإشارات ليرجع يبحث عنه في الهند,الإشارات شبه غير مرئية وخفية وغير مترابطة ,بالإضافة إلى النهاية اللي جمعته بشبيه للشخص اللي ببحث عنه ورغم هيك ما راح يستقبله أو يسلم عليه....
الرواية السهلة والخفيفة اللي ممكن تقرأها بساعة بتوخذك برحلة خاطفة للقارة الهندية بفقرها وشوارعها وأماكنها السياحية ودياناتها وحضارتها وشعوبها ومعاناتها وجمالها وتعدديتها...صديقنا السائح بجرب كل شي خلال رحلته السريعة ابتداء من الفنادق الرخيصة والفخمة وانتهاء بأخذ نصائح من صبية عرافين بحكوله عن مستقبله وعن الصديق اللي ببحث عنه...
الجميل بالرواية تمكن الكاتب من السيطرة التامة على أدواته!لهيك عالأغلب تكون الرواية عن رحلة قام فيها فعلا وسرد يومياته والأحداث اللي صارت فيها لإنها التسلسل بالأحداث رائع والقفز كان بخفة بين الشخصيات المحدودة ,واكتملت اللوحة بقدرة الكاتب على وصف الأماكن بتفاصيلها الحلوة والصغيرة والأنيقة.
الرواية تصلح جداً لقطع جمود القراءة أو حالات الملل بسبب القراءة الثقيلة والمتواصلة,ممكن تخلصها بساعة لكن رح تعمل إلك تنظيف وإعادة تشغيل للمخ لإنها ناجحة جداً بنقل القارئ لزمان ومكان خارج واقعه تماماً
أنطونيو تابوكي
الكاتب من مواليد إيطاليا سنة 1943 وتوفي بالسرطان سنة 2012 هو كاتب وأكاديمي بحاضر في اللغة والآداب البرتغالية في جامعة سيينا ,هواه برتغالي عميق بسبب عشقه للكاتب والشاعر البرتغالي فرناندو بيسو صاحب الرواية العظيمة اللاطمأنينة واللي كان مصاب بإضطراب ثنائي القطب,بسبب حب أنطونيو إله راح تعلم اللغة البرتغالية وترجم كثير من أعماله وتأثر بأسلوبه...إله أعمال مشهورة ومترجمة لأكثر من 18 لغة مثل:بيريرا يدعي,الزمن يشيخ بسرعة,الملاك الأسود.....
الكتاب من وجهة نظر الكاتب عبارة عن دليل سياحي للأشخاص اللي بحبوا يعملوا سياحة غريبة غير إعتيادية في الهند لإنه بحكي فيها عن بسرد سحري عن رحلة غامضة لشخص رجع يبحث عن صديقه اللي تركه من فترة وأعطاه بعض الإشارات ليرجع يبحث عنه في الهند,الإشارات شبه غير مرئية وخفية وغير مترابطة ,بالإضافة إلى النهاية اللي جمعته بشبيه للشخص اللي ببحث عنه ورغم هيك ما راح يستقبله أو يسلم عليه....
الرواية السهلة والخفيفة اللي ممكن تقرأها بساعة بتوخذك برحلة خاطفة للقارة الهندية بفقرها وشوارعها وأماكنها السياحية ودياناتها وحضارتها وشعوبها ومعاناتها وجمالها وتعدديتها...صديقنا السائح بجرب كل شي خلال رحلته السريعة ابتداء من الفنادق الرخيصة والفخمة وانتهاء بأخذ نصائح من صبية عرافين بحكوله عن مستقبله وعن الصديق اللي ببحث عنه...
الجميل بالرواية تمكن الكاتب من السيطرة التامة على أدواته!لهيك عالأغلب تكون الرواية عن رحلة قام فيها فعلا وسرد يومياته والأحداث اللي صارت فيها لإنها التسلسل بالأحداث رائع والقفز كان بخفة بين الشخصيات المحدودة ,واكتملت اللوحة بقدرة الكاتب على وصف الأماكن بتفاصيلها الحلوة والصغيرة والأنيقة.
الرواية تصلح جداً لقطع جمود القراءة أو حالات الملل بسبب القراءة الثقيلة والمتواصلة,ممكن تخلصها بساعة لكن رح تعمل إلك تنظيف وإعادة تشغيل للمخ لإنها ناجحة جداً بنقل القارئ لزمان ومكان خارج واقعه تماماً
October 6, 2015
Ti rendi conto delle dimensioni del libro solo quando l’hai finito. Perché quando inizi, il viaggio si rivela qualcosa d’immenso, di affascinante e misterioso. È il viaggio delle supposizioni, dove tutto sembra, è o potrebbe essere. È il viaggio di uno che cerca un altro, ma è anche è il contrario. E può essere che l’altro sia null’altro che il proprio sé. È il viaggio del perdersi e del cercare. È anche il viaggio del non voler essere trovati. È il viaggio dentro e fuori della cornice. Ciò che è dentro pare; ciò che è fuori, è. È una storia allo specchio. Proiezione di ciò che sfugge alla coscienza e ancor prima all’occhio.
”…l'ingrandimento falsa il contesto, bisogna vedere le cose da lontano. Méfiez-vous des morceaux choisis”.
E tanta, tanta poesia. E saudade. Ah, Tabucchi!, come ti voglio bene!
July 26, 2022
“Nocturno de la India”, qué puede haber más misterioso que la suma de esos dos conceptos: la noche y la India. El misterio de la India, no obstante, no es desde luego el misterio del enredo, ni de la intriga, es el misterio de la vida en sí, el misterio de un lugar donde lo evanescente e inaprehensible del devenir constituye el imposible soporte de todas nuestras construcciones.
Esto es lo que rezuma este sencillo relato del viaje por el subcontinente del autor, que narra en primera persona su búsqueda de un amigo “que se ha perdido en la India”.
Los encuentros, las conversaciones, los hoteles, trenes, autobuses, paradas en mitad de la noche y de la nada, ciudades y construcciones suspendidas en otro tiempo y la persecución de un rastro que, en la medida en que se concreta, se desvanece de inmediato porque el pasado no existe y lo que es ahora ya ha dejado de ser y todos estamos siempre irremediablemente perdidos.
“Perhaps he would like to grasp something that escaped him in the past. In a way he is looking for himself. I mean it is as if he were looking for himself, looking for me: that often happens in books, it’s literature.”
Y no sólo ahí, diría yo…
June 6, 2021
Un libro adatto a chi vuole partire ma non può farlo, un viaggio in una nazione, negli incontri con le persone, alla ricerca di un vecchio amico ma soprattutto un viaggio in sé stessi. Un Tabucchi all'inizio, senza la raffinatezza stilistica di requiem o sostiene Pereira ma ugualmente affascinante: inseguiamo il protagonista che insegue l'ombra, le tracce di un amico nella caotica india, incontrando le persone più disparate, lasciandosi contaminare dalle loro filosofie, modi di vivere, pensieri.
Il finale, non finale, getta nuova luce sul tutto, e pur essendo in un certo senso anticlimatico fornisce la chiave di lettura per tutto, volutamente inconsistente ma pregno di senso, con della metanarrazione in cui riflette su sé stesso, a prima vista frettoloso, come se non si sapesse poi come culminare la narrazione ma in realtà l'unico possibile se si segue il filo rosso dall'inizio. Mi è piaciuta molto la sensazione di straniamento durante il racconto, disteso ma che ti fa procedere in modo concitato nelle varie tappe, e l'insoddisfazione per il finale che poi rimane in mente e si apprezza giorno dopo giorno, accettandolo come malinconicamente inevitabile.
Un libro che si legge in un soffio, ma che può accompagnare a lungo. Un invito al viaggio, una guida atipica.
Il finale, non finale, getta nuova luce sul tutto, e pur essendo in un certo senso anticlimatico fornisce la chiave di lettura per tutto, volutamente inconsistente ma pregno di senso, con della metanarrazione in cui riflette su sé stesso, a prima vista frettoloso, come se non si sapesse poi come culminare la narrazione ma in realtà l'unico possibile se si segue il filo rosso dall'inizio. Mi è piaciuta molto la sensazione di straniamento durante il racconto, disteso ma che ti fa procedere in modo concitato nelle varie tappe, e l'insoddisfazione per il finale che poi rimane in mente e si apprezza giorno dopo giorno, accettandolo come malinconicamente inevitabile.
Un libro che si legge in un soffio, ma che può accompagnare a lungo. Un invito al viaggio, una guida atipica.
May 6, 2015
کتاب توصیفات قشنگی داره،جملات قشنگ و معنی داری حتی، منتها در کلیت داستان یه چیزی کمه.انگار کل داستان برای رسیدن به هدفی زاده شده اما حتی از نزدیکی اون هدفم نگذشته. سردرگمی داره توش،تهشم یه حس ناقص موندگی.
که این می تونست بهتر از این باشه ولی نشده.
اردی بهشت 94
October 19, 2023
این کتاب و یه کتاب دیگهای رو تحقیق نکردم و به پیشنهاد فروشندهی توی کتابفروشی، که یه حالت هنریطورِ من خیلی کتاب میخونمی داشت، گرفتم. ولی خب هر دو تا کتاب بهم ثابت کرد که حتما باید تحقیق کنم تا کتاب دلخواهم رو بگیرم و به سلیقه بقیه کار نداشته باشم😅
آخر این کتاب هم اینطوری بودم خب که چی؟!
آخر این کتاب هم اینطوری بودم خب که چی؟!
July 28, 2017
Η ωραία και καλογραμμένη αυτή νουβέλα, αποτελεί την πρώτη μου επαφή με τον Ιταλό συγγραφέα Αντόνιο Ταμπούκι. Αν και στην βιβλιοθήκη μου είχα άλλα δυο-τρία βιβλία του στα αδιάβαστα, έμελλε να κάνω την αρχή με αυτήν την νουβέλα, που αγόρασα πριν κάτι μέρες από παλαιοβιβλιοπωλείο. Η ιστορία είναι αρκετά αινιγματική και ολίγον τι μυστηριώδης, καταφέρνει να κρατήσει το ενδιαφέρον του αναγνώστη μέχρι το τέλος, χάρη στην απίστευτη νουάρ ατμόσφαιρα, τις πολύ ωραίες περιγραφές της Ινδίας, καθώς και την όλη αναζήτηση του αφηγητή για κάποιον φίλο του, ή ακόμα και για τον ίδιο τον εαυτό του. Εκτός από τις περιγραφές της Ινδίας αλλά και την ευκαιρία να γνωρίσουμε κάποιους ιδιαίτερους κατοίκους της, ενδιαφέρον έχουν και οι διάφορες υπαρξιακές και φιλοσοφικές αναζητήσεις που μπορεί να διακρίνει κανείς στην πλοκή και τις σκέψεις του αφηγητή. Η γραφή είναι πολύ καλή, λιτή, χωρίς περιττές λεπτομέρειες, σίγουρη και οξυδερκής. Γενικά πρόκειται για μια ιδιαίτερα αξιόλογη νουβέλα, που θα ικανοποιήσει τόσο τους λάτρεις της καλής λογοτεχνίας, όσο και αυτούς που απολαμβάνουν την νουάρ ατμόσφαιρα σε μια ιστορία.
May 25, 2025
«Questo libro, oltre che un’insonnia, è un viaggio. L’insonnia appartiene a chi ha scritto il libro, il viaggio a chi lo fece.»
Onirico, simbolico, estenuante e affascinante è il viaggio in India del narratore, Roux, alla (vana) ricerca del suo perduto amico, Xavier, di cui va inseguendo le tracce di strada in strada, di città in città, su treni e autobus, passando da un albergo all’altro.
In un tempo sospeso e in una incessante notte crepuscolare.
Dove si avvicendano gli incontri improbabili, cesellati da dialoghi essenziali, mentre, di pagina in pagina, i testimoni del passaggio di Roux e di Xavier via via illanguidiscono e poi scompaiono.
Ma chi sta cercando chi, in realtà? E possiamo definire realtà questo luogo alieno, questa India così estranea e straniante?
Forse il libro più rarefatto e metafisico di Tabucchi.
Si legge in un soffio, cullati da una prosa limpida, accompagnati da un disagio sottile e perturbante.
Ma l’incognita rimane tale; quella X dei nomi, probabilmente, verso cui il pungolo della ragione vanamente si arrovella.
(Rilettura 24/5/25)
Onirico, simbolico, estenuante e affascinante è il viaggio in India del narratore, Roux, alla (vana) ricerca del suo perduto amico, Xavier, di cui va inseguendo le tracce di strada in strada, di città in città, su treni e autobus, passando da un albergo all’altro.
In un tempo sospeso e in una incessante notte crepuscolare.
Dove si avvicendano gli incontri improbabili, cesellati da dialoghi essenziali, mentre, di pagina in pagina, i testimoni del passaggio di Roux e di Xavier via via illanguidiscono e poi scompaiono.
Ma chi sta cercando chi, in realtà? E possiamo definire realtà questo luogo alieno, questa India così estranea e straniante?
Forse il libro più rarefatto e metafisico di Tabucchi.
Si legge in un soffio, cullati da una prosa limpida, accompagnati da un disagio sottile e perturbante.
Ma l’incognita rimane tale; quella X dei nomi, probabilmente, verso cui il pungolo della ragione vanamente si arrovella.
(Rilettura 24/5/25)
November 23, 2016
นี่ก็อ่านดีเลย์กว่าคนอื่นตั้ง 4 ปีแน่ะ
อินเดียในเล่มนี้ดูเป็นผู้ดีเกินกว่าที่เราเคยเจอ มันดูเป็นยูโรเปียนอินเดียมาก โดยเฉพาะฉากดินเนอร์ช่วงสุดท้าย (ถึงจะพยายามคิดไกล่เกลี่ยแล้วว่ามันเกิดในโรงแรมนะยะ) แถมวิธีการตามหาในเรื่องมันก็ช่างเปลี่ยวเหงาเหลือเกิน เหมือนเอาหว่อง การ์ ไว มากำกับ PK ไรงี้ (เปรียบเทียบอะไรของเธอยะ)
อืม.. ถึงจะบ่นบ้าแบบนี้ แต่นี่ชอบนะ เพราะความเป็นยูโรเปียนอินเดียที่เรารู้สึกว่าไม่จริง เลยทำให้อินเดียในเรื่องกลายเป็นอินเดียในความฝัน ยิ่งอีตาคนเล่าเรื่องนี่ก็ยิ่งเหมือนไม่ได้นอนเลยแฮะ มีความอ่อนเปลี้ยในการบรรยายอยู่ที่ทำให้คิดไปได้ด้วยว่า ตานี่ต้องละเมออยู่แน่ๆ สิ่งที่เขาเจอมันเลยดูวนๆ กลับไม่ได้ ไปไม่ถึง คล้ายๆ ความฝัน
ตอนอ่านนึกถึงคัลวีโนด้วย ชอบตรงที่ตาบุคคีละลายเปลาะของการตามหาออกไป ลำดับของการตามหาที่ดูเหมือนจะต่อยอดกันไป แต่มันไม่ได้นำไปสู่อะไรเลย จนเริ่มสับสนว่าตานี่กำลังตามหาใคร ตามหาคนที่มีตัวตนอยู่จริงรึเปล่า หรือทั้งหมดคือเกมล่อหลอกคนอ่านให้ตามหาผ่านการบงการแบบเมาหลับ แล้วขยิบตาให้ตอนท้ายว่า เธอโดนหลอกแล้วจ้ะ
อินเดียในเล่มนี้ดูเป็นผู้ดีเกินกว่าที่เราเคยเจอ มันดูเป็นยูโรเปียนอินเดียมาก โดยเฉพาะฉากดินเนอร์ช่วงสุดท้าย (ถึงจะพยายามคิดไกล่เกลี่ยแล้วว่ามันเกิดในโรงแรมนะยะ) แถมวิธีการตามหาในเรื่องมันก็ช่างเปลี่ยวเหงาเหลือเกิน เหมือนเอาหว่อง การ์ ไว มากำกับ PK ไรงี้ (เปรียบเทียบอะไรของเธอยะ)
อืม.. ถึงจะบ่นบ้าแบบนี้ แต่นี่ชอบนะ เพราะความเป็นยูโรเปียนอินเดียที่เรารู้สึกว่าไม่จริง เลยทำให้อินเดียในเรื่องกลายเป็นอินเดียในความฝัน ยิ่งอีตาคนเล่าเรื่องนี่ก็ยิ่งเหมือนไม่ได้นอนเลยแฮะ มีความอ่อนเปลี้ยในการบรรยายอยู่ที่ทำให้คิดไปได้ด้วยว่า ตานี่ต้องละเมออยู่แน่ๆ สิ่งที่เขาเจอมันเลยดูวนๆ กลับไม่ได้ ไปไม่ถึง คล้ายๆ ความฝัน
ตอนอ่านนึกถึงคัลวีโนด้วย ชอบตรงที่ตาบุคคีละลายเปลาะของการตามหาออกไป ลำดับของการตามหาที่ดูเหมือนจะต่อยอดกันไป แต่มันไม่ได้นำไปสู่อะไรเลย จนเริ่มสับสนว่าตานี่กำลังตามหาใคร ตามหาคนที่มีตัวตนอยู่จริงรึเปล่า หรือทั้งหมดคือเกมล่อหลอกคนอ่านให้ตามหาผ่านการบงการแบบเมาหลับ แล้วขยิบตาให้ตอนท้ายว่า เธอโดนหลอกแล้วจ้ะ
August 6, 2011
A short novel but its imagery, so vividly woven, will stay with your for a long time. One forges a bond with the book so personal and profound that makes verbalizing it quite difficult . Best description I could come up with: a condensed version of Don Quixote filtered through space and time with some Pessoa sprinkled into the mix. ("Blind science tills vain clods, mad Faith lives the dream of its cult, a new God is only a word. Don't believe or search: all is hidden.") I loved the ending with all its several permutations for the reader to ponder upon.
July 13, 2020
"Tudo pode acontecer na vida, até dormir no hotel Zuari. Na altura poderá parecer-nos um acontecimento não particularmente feliz; mas na recordação, como sempre nas recordações, purificada das sensações físicas imediatas, dos cheiros, das cores, da vista daquele bicharoco debaixo do lavatório, a circunstância perde os contornos e a imagem melhora. A realidade passada é sempre menos má do que efectivamente foi: a memória é uma falsária espantosa. É-se desonesto mesmo sem querer."
October 29, 2018
خوشحالم یک بار دیگه از کشور محبوبم «ایتالیا» از نویسنده شون کتابی خووندم که در ایران هم بسیار خوب ترجمه شده
کتابی به نام «شبانه هندی»
من این کتاب رو صوتی گوش دادم،بخصوص با موسیقی هایی که لا به لای داستان پخش میشد،فوق العاده بود.
شبانه ی هندی همانطور که نویسنده در مقدمه می گوید: شرح یک سفر و بی خوابیست!
سفری که جست و جویی عمیق و درونی دارد و برای درک ناشناخته هاست!
فضا سازی های عالی،پیچیدگی خاصِ رمان های اوست که خواننده رو تا آخر سردرگم میکنه (برای شبانه هندی که اینطور بود و آخرش شوکه شدم)
کتابی به نام «شبانه هندی»
من این کتاب رو صوتی گوش دادم،بخصوص با موسیقی هایی که لا به لای داستان پخش میشد،فوق العاده بود.
شبانه ی هندی همانطور که نویسنده در مقدمه می گوید: شرح یک سفر و بی خوابیست!
سفری که جست و جویی عمیق و درونی دارد و برای درک ناشناخته هاست!
فضا سازی های عالی،پیچیدگی خاصِ رمان های اوست که خواننده رو تا آخر سردرگم میکنه (برای شبانه هندی که اینطور بود و آخرش شوکه شدم)
May 4, 2019
Hay novelas que irremediablemente hablan de lugares imposibles. Relatos que atrapan y cautivan al lector por retrotraer una voz de las profundidades de la noche. 'Nocturno hindú' es una de esas historias fascinantes, un encuentro con seres desconocidos por un paisaje fascinante —la India a ojos de Tabucchi—, un viaje al encuentro de uno mismo: un texto imprescindible.
May 31, 2011
بد نبود. اما نه بیشتر از این.
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کالوینو و موراویا رو بیشتر ترجیح میدم
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کالوینو و موراویا رو بیشتر ترجیح میدم
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October 6, 2012
عندما انتصفت بالرواية القصيرة فكرت أني سوف لن أندم فيما لو فقدتها في إحدى ساحات الانتظار و ساورني الكثير من العتاب و الأسى - العتاب على الدار المترجمة و الأسى على تابوكي - غير أن بضعة صفحات في النهاية قلبت الحكاية رأساً على عقب !
الرواية مدهشة ، يصل رجل أوروبي إلى الهند و يمضي باحثاً عن صديقه الحميم و الذي على ما يبدو قد تاه في الهند و لكن الطبيب الذي سبق و عالج صديقه يجيبه بكل برود : لمثل أشياء كهذه كانت الهند ! يتنقل من مدينة لأخرى و من مكان لآخر حتى تأتي ضربة المعلم تابوكي لتعلن عن ماهو أوسع من النهايات المفتوحة . زعزعت الكثير من أفكاري المسبقة بأمانة و تحولت من رواية كريهة إلى رواية ذكية و جميلة .
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