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The Tenants
In The Tenants (1971), Bernard Malamud brought his unerring sense of modern urban life to bear on the conflict between blacks and Jews then inflaming his native Brooklyn. The sole tenant in a rundown tenement, Henry Lesser is struggling to finish a novel, but his solitary pursuit of the sublime grows complicated when Willie Spearmint, a black writer ambivalent toward Jews, moves into the building. Henry and Willie are artistic rivals and unwilling neighbors, and their uneasy peace is disturbed by the presence of Willie's white girlfriend Irene and the landlord Levenspiel's attempts to evict both men and demolish the building. This novel's conflict, current then, is perennial now; it reveals the slippery nature of the human condition, and the human capacity for violence and undoing.
256 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1971
38 people are currently reading
1172 people want to read
About the author
Bernard Malamud
158 books486 followersBernard Malamud was an American novelist and short story writer. Along with Saul Bellow, Joseph Heller, Norman Mailer and Philip Roth, he was one of the best known American Jewish authors of the 20th century. His baseball novel, The Natural, was adapted into a 1984 film starring Robert Redford. His 1966 novel The Fixer (also filmed), about antisemitism in the Russian Empire, won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 128 reviews
October 20, 2018
ETA: I keep thinking about the book. Two things I want to add. I believe the author’s intention was to illustrate how disfavored minority groups, rather than uniting and fighting together for a common cause, fight instead against each other. Unfortunately, other themes dilute the message! The abrupt, brutal and exaggerated ending, which I dislike, points in this direction. Malamud probably wanted to close the book with a bang, but I found the ending melodramatic and unrealistic.
**********************
This novel has the feel of a short story, but a short story I had trouble making sense of. What is its message? I am not quite sure.
Here is the set-up. A thirty-six-year-old author, Harry Lesser, lives in a tenement which the landlord, Levenspiel, wants to demolish. The tenement is to be replaced by more profitable office buildings. He cannot throw Lesser out because of rent controlled housing regulations. Levenspiel offers Lesser larger and larger amounts of money if he will just pick himself up and leave. Lesser refuses. He insists that he cannot alter his writing routine; he can only finish the novel where he had begun writing it. He has been working on the novel for the last nine years. I will say right off the bat that I find this reasoning insane. The huge sum of money offered if he moves would provide him with much better accommodations, accommodations more conductive to writing. The tenement has no water or heat, except for those short intervals after he complains. Toilets do not function.
Lesser is the sole tenant remaining, until the day he hears someone plonking away at a typewriter. Another “author” has installed himself in the building. This we learn is Willie Spearmint. In prison Willie came to love books. Now he is determined to write about black power and resistance. Lesser is white and Jewish, as is the landlord. Lesser’s book is a novel about love. There arises a rivalry between Lesser and Willie, not only over writing but a girl too. Willie has a white girlfriend. And both being writers, a friendship of sorts develops.
There is the layout of the story. We watch what happens.
What is delivered is a messy mix of assorted topics.
Wiki says that when Malamud was asked what "set off" the writing of his novel, he replied: "Jews and blacks, the period of the troubles in New York City; the teachers strike, the rise of black activism, the mix-up of cause and effect. I thought I'd say a word."
What Malamud is saying is NOT clear to me! Is the book about the art and struggle of writing, about Jewish and racial discrimination, about deplorable housing, about landlords’ greed for profits or an overall criticism of life in poor areas of NYC at the end of the 1960s? What is the underlying message of the book?! That is what I want to know. The alternatives are not properly followed through. In my view, the art and struggle of writing is the theme I would say the book is most about.
Neither do I like the writing. First of all, the language is crude. Downright filthy. One might argue that it must be this way given the people about which the story is written. With this I agree and have thus grudgingly given the book two rather than one star. Secondly, the prose is choppy. Thirdly, there are sections where one word is repeated over and over again. Is repetition of one word the best way for an author to make himself understood? I hope you hear my intended sarcasm.
If a book must use sordid language to accurately describe events and characters, then at least the message to be conveyed must be clear.
The audiobook is narrated by L.J. Ganser. In the dialogues one cannot hear who is speaking. This makes following the story sometimes confusing. The words are clearly spoken and the speed with which the story is read are fine. For me the narration performance is merely OK. It should not be that hard for a professional narrator to distinguish between an angry, down and out, Black seeking revenge, a Jewish landlord and a white, educated, Jewish author having two published books to his name, currently working on his third.
****************
The Assistant 4 stars
Dubin's Lives 4 stars
The Fixer 4 stars
A New Life 3 stars
My Father Is a Book 2 stars
The Tenants 2 stars
Bernard Malamud: A Writer's Life TBR
**********************
This novel has the feel of a short story, but a short story I had trouble making sense of. What is its message? I am not quite sure.
Here is the set-up. A thirty-six-year-old author, Harry Lesser, lives in a tenement which the landlord, Levenspiel, wants to demolish. The tenement is to be replaced by more profitable office buildings. He cannot throw Lesser out because of rent controlled housing regulations. Levenspiel offers Lesser larger and larger amounts of money if he will just pick himself up and leave. Lesser refuses. He insists that he cannot alter his writing routine; he can only finish the novel where he had begun writing it. He has been working on the novel for the last nine years. I will say right off the bat that I find this reasoning insane. The huge sum of money offered if he moves would provide him with much better accommodations, accommodations more conductive to writing. The tenement has no water or heat, except for those short intervals after he complains. Toilets do not function.
Lesser is the sole tenant remaining, until the day he hears someone plonking away at a typewriter. Another “author” has installed himself in the building. This we learn is Willie Spearmint. In prison Willie came to love books. Now he is determined to write about black power and resistance. Lesser is white and Jewish, as is the landlord. Lesser’s book is a novel about love. There arises a rivalry between Lesser and Willie, not only over writing but a girl too. Willie has a white girlfriend. And both being writers, a friendship of sorts develops.
There is the layout of the story. We watch what happens.
What is delivered is a messy mix of assorted topics.
Wiki says that when Malamud was asked what "set off" the writing of his novel, he replied: "Jews and blacks, the period of the troubles in New York City; the teachers strike, the rise of black activism, the mix-up of cause and effect. I thought I'd say a word."
What Malamud is saying is NOT clear to me! Is the book about the art and struggle of writing, about Jewish and racial discrimination, about deplorable housing, about landlords’ greed for profits or an overall criticism of life in poor areas of NYC at the end of the 1960s? What is the underlying message of the book?! That is what I want to know. The alternatives are not properly followed through. In my view, the art and struggle of writing is the theme I would say the book is most about.
Neither do I like the writing. First of all, the language is crude. Downright filthy. One might argue that it must be this way given the people about which the story is written. With this I agree and have thus grudgingly given the book two rather than one star. Secondly, the prose is choppy. Thirdly, there are sections where one word is repeated over and over again. Is repetition of one word the best way for an author to make himself understood? I hope you hear my intended sarcasm.
If a book must use sordid language to accurately describe events and characters, then at least the message to be conveyed must be clear.
The audiobook is narrated by L.J. Ganser. In the dialogues one cannot hear who is speaking. This makes following the story sometimes confusing. The words are clearly spoken and the speed with which the story is read are fine. For me the narration performance is merely OK. It should not be that hard for a professional narrator to distinguish between an angry, down and out, Black seeking revenge, a Jewish landlord and a white, educated, Jewish author having two published books to his name, currently working on his third.
****************
The Assistant 4 stars
Dubin's Lives 4 stars
The Fixer 4 stars
A New Life 3 stars
My Father Is a Book 2 stars
The Tenants 2 stars
Bernard Malamud: A Writer's Life TBR
August 2, 2024
.
فقط همین بخش آخرش باقی مونده،لونسپیل. نصف بیشتر سال رو داشتم روش کار میکردم و هنوز درست نیست.یه چیز حیاتیش گم شده که پیدا کردنش زمان میبره.ولی دارم نزدیک میشم،توی خونم احساسش میکنم.دارم با رمز و راز به سمت کشفش پیش میرم.منظورم اینه که داره آزارم میده چیزی نمونده که برملا بشه.مال من و مال کتاب.اگه این رمان رو دقیقا اونجور که باید ننویسم ،اگه زبونم لال زورکی بنویسم یا جعلش کنم،پس بعد از نُه سال و نیم زحمت خودم و کتاب باهم ویران شدهایم.بعد از اون حماقت چه خیری میتونم از خودم انتظار داشته باشم؟
اینی که در موردش حرف میزنیم یه رمان معمولی نیست.این پتانسیل رو داره که به یه شاهکار کوچیک تبدیل بشه.
#اجاره_نشین_ها
#برنارد_مالامود
#میلاد_شالیکاریان
📝من تا حالا از مالامود کتابی نخوندم ولی این کتاب باعث شد که حتما سراغ بقیهی کتابهای این نویسنده برم.فضاسازی کتاب عالی بود.داستان پرکشش بود و پایان جالبی داشت که البته برداشت خوانندهها نسبت به داستان متفاوت خواهد بود.روایت نویسندهای به نام هری لسر است که در گیر نوشتن رمانشه ولی باید خانهی استیجاری را تخلیه کند.در این میان مهمان ناخواندهای که سیاهپوست است وارد ساختمان شده و اتفاقا اوهم نویسندست و بعد اتفاقاتی رقم میخوره که زندگی لسر تحت الشعاع قرار میگیره
فقط همین بخش آخرش باقی مونده،لونسپیل. نصف بیشتر سال رو داشتم روش کار میکردم و هنوز درست نیست.یه چیز حیاتیش گم شده که پیدا کردنش زمان میبره.ولی دارم نزدیک میشم،توی خونم احساسش میکنم.دارم با رمز و راز به سمت کشفش پیش میرم.منظورم اینه که داره آزارم میده چیزی نمونده که برملا بشه.مال من و مال کتاب.اگه این رمان رو دقیقا اونجور که باید ننویسم ،اگه زبونم لال زورکی بنویسم یا جعلش کنم،پس بعد از نُه سال و نیم زحمت خودم و کتاب باهم ویران شدهایم.بعد از اون حماقت چه خیری میتونم از خودم انتظار داشته باشم؟
اینی که در موردش حرف میزنیم یه رمان معمولی نیست.این پتانسیل رو داره که به یه شاهکار کوچیک تبدیل بشه.
#اجاره_نشین_ها
#برنارد_مالامود
#میلاد_شالیکاریان
📝من تا حالا از مالامود کتابی نخوندم ولی این کتاب باعث شد که حتما سراغ بقیهی کتابهای این نویسنده برم.فضاسازی کتاب عالی بود.داستان پرکشش بود و پایان جالبی داشت که البته برداشت خوانندهها نسبت به داستان متفاوت خواهد بود.روایت نویسندهای به نام هری لسر است که در گیر نوشتن رمانشه ولی باید خانهی استیجاری را تخلیه کند.در این میان مهمان ناخواندهای که سیاهپوست است وارد ساختمان شده و اتفاقا اوهم نویسندست و بعد اتفاقاتی رقم میخوره که زندگی لسر تحت الشعاع قرار میگیره
December 23, 2024
” Una cosa che succede quando scrivi un libro è che tieni la morte al suo posto;
l'ideale è continuare ininterrottamente a scrivere. “
In una Brooklyn in piena trasformazione edilizia, uno dopo l’altro si sbriciolano palazzi del primo novecento per far posto a nuove abitazioni che significano altri soldi per gli speculatori.
Non è così per Levenspiel, proprietario di un condominio che proprio non riesce a tirar giù. L’ostacolo è umano ed ha un nome e cognome: Harry Lesser.
Forte di un contratto che lo difende da ogni sfratto, Harry è l’ultimo inquilino rimasto.
Fa lo scrittore e si rifiuta di lasciare l’appartamento finchè non avrà terminato il suo libro:
una creatura che ha in gestazione da ben dieci anni.
Tutto sembra procedere con un’assodata routine finchè un giorno tornando dall’alimentari sente echeggiare nei corridoi un ticchettio familiare: il battere sui tasti di una macchina da scrivere.
Scopre subito che, in uno degli appartamenti abbandonati, uno scrittore afroamericano sta scrivendo il suo romanzo, il suo nome è Willie Spearmint...
Ecco che l’intreccio della storia inizia ad inerpicarsi su una spirale metaforica e metaletteraria.
Innanzitutto le dicotomie della scrittura: Willie che trasporta sulla carta tutte le brutture della sua vita di afroamericano povero nel paese in cui è nato e cresciuto ma che lo tratta come nemico.
Scrive pagine che “puzzano”; un odore di marcio scaturito da tutta la violenza rappresentata e dalla rabbia che lo scrittore cova verso il mondo bianco.
La scrittura è per entrambi salvezza.
Mentre per Willie è la sublimazione dell’odio razziale, per Harry, invece, la scrittura diventa una nicchia dove travestire la propria capacità di amare inventando un ”personaggio che in un certo senso amerà per lui, e in un certo senso lo amerà; come dire, poiché le parole salgono e scendono in tutte le direzioni, che in questo libro lo scrittore di Lesser, creando l'amore meglio che può, portandolo alla luce con l'immaginazione, espanderà il proprio io e il proprio spirito; e così con un po' di fortuna potrà amare la sua ragazza reale come vorrebbe amarla, e qualunque altro essere umano in un mondo folle..”
Un destino non facile quello della scrittore: spesso non compreso e, soprattutto, dilaniato da un continuo tormento.
Quarto romanzo che leggo di Malamud: uno più bello dell’altro per me.
Consigliato a chi ama riflettere sulla letteratura e la sua annosa lotta tra forma e contenuto.
” La casa è dov'è il mio libro. Davanti al cadente edificio dipinto di scuro - una volta una casa decente, ora la casa di piacere di Lesser, era lui che la animava - c'era un solitario bidone ammaccato che conteneva quasi esclusivamente la sua spazzatura, migliaia di urlanti parole strappate e torsoli di mela marci, fondi di caffè e gusci d'uovo, un bidone di spazzatura letteraria, rifiuti del linguaggio diventati linguaggio dei rifiuti.”
l'ideale è continuare ininterrottamente a scrivere. “
In una Brooklyn in piena trasformazione edilizia, uno dopo l’altro si sbriciolano palazzi del primo novecento per far posto a nuove abitazioni che significano altri soldi per gli speculatori.
Non è così per Levenspiel, proprietario di un condominio che proprio non riesce a tirar giù. L’ostacolo è umano ed ha un nome e cognome: Harry Lesser.
Forte di un contratto che lo difende da ogni sfratto, Harry è l’ultimo inquilino rimasto.
Fa lo scrittore e si rifiuta di lasciare l’appartamento finchè non avrà terminato il suo libro:
una creatura che ha in gestazione da ben dieci anni.
Tutto sembra procedere con un’assodata routine finchè un giorno tornando dall’alimentari sente echeggiare nei corridoi un ticchettio familiare: il battere sui tasti di una macchina da scrivere.
Scopre subito che, in uno degli appartamenti abbandonati, uno scrittore afroamericano sta scrivendo il suo romanzo, il suo nome è Willie Spearmint...
Ecco che l’intreccio della storia inizia ad inerpicarsi su una spirale metaforica e metaletteraria.
Innanzitutto le dicotomie della scrittura: Willie che trasporta sulla carta tutte le brutture della sua vita di afroamericano povero nel paese in cui è nato e cresciuto ma che lo tratta come nemico.
Scrive pagine che “puzzano”; un odore di marcio scaturito da tutta la violenza rappresentata e dalla rabbia che lo scrittore cova verso il mondo bianco.
La scrittura è per entrambi salvezza.
Mentre per Willie è la sublimazione dell’odio razziale, per Harry, invece, la scrittura diventa una nicchia dove travestire la propria capacità di amare inventando un ”personaggio che in un certo senso amerà per lui, e in un certo senso lo amerà; come dire, poiché le parole salgono e scendono in tutte le direzioni, che in questo libro lo scrittore di Lesser, creando l'amore meglio che può, portandolo alla luce con l'immaginazione, espanderà il proprio io e il proprio spirito; e così con un po' di fortuna potrà amare la sua ragazza reale come vorrebbe amarla, e qualunque altro essere umano in un mondo folle..”
Un destino non facile quello della scrittore: spesso non compreso e, soprattutto, dilaniato da un continuo tormento.
Quarto romanzo che leggo di Malamud: uno più bello dell’altro per me.
Consigliato a chi ama riflettere sulla letteratura e la sua annosa lotta tra forma e contenuto.
” La casa è dov'è il mio libro. Davanti al cadente edificio dipinto di scuro - una volta una casa decente, ora la casa di piacere di Lesser, era lui che la animava - c'era un solitario bidone ammaccato che conteneva quasi esclusivamente la sua spazzatura, migliaia di urlanti parole strappate e torsoli di mela marci, fondi di caffè e gusci d'uovo, un bidone di spazzatura letteraria, rifiuti del linguaggio diventati linguaggio dei rifiuti.”
November 18, 2012
***SPOILERS***
Before reading THE TENANTS, my only exposure to Bernard Malamud was his wonderful baseball novel THE NATURAL. That was almost ten years ago. To be honest, I had forgotten all about him -- even if I do think that THE NATURAL is one of the finest books of fiction about my favorite sport.
So let's come to the present. THE TENANTS.
The story centers on Harry Lesser, a novelist who has seen success with one novel, followed by a sophomore stinker. For the past ten years he has been laboring over his third novel, said to be his best. But things seem to keep getting in the way of him finishing this novel. His landlord, Levenspiel, wants to sell his building; in fact, Harry is the only resident in the building. The other residents have moved after receiving lucrative payoffs. Harry is a creature of habit. His novel was started here; it must be finished here. Just when Harry begins to find his groove, Willie Spearmint enters his life, squatting in an abandoned room downstairs. A past junky with a penchant for violence, Willie, too, is a writer looking for a place to free his inspiration. Willie is trying to write the great black novel. His disdain for whites (Jews especially) intensifies with the novel and culminates with a horrific conclusion. Malamud's social commentary throughout the novel had me shaking my head in disbelief. I wasn't born in the 60s, and only arrived with 6 months left in the 70s. I have never really seen the level of racial intolerance as Malamud conveys. But Harry cannot allow a fellow writer to wallow in their own creativity, so he begins the arduous task of mentoring Willie, even if this means being lectured by Willie about what being Black or White truly means. Willie seems to think he has all the answers. The relationship starts off rocky -- Willie has a difficult time accepting constructive criticism. For a good chunk of the novel, we are allowed access to what a writer thinks and does when preparing a scene or a sentence or a word. This part becomes a bit much, but is handled deftly by Malamud's technical skill and storytelling abilities.
When Willie and Harry's relationship progresses, Willie brings Harry into his circle of friends. They are an unsavory crew that only bolsters the racial tension of NYC in the 60s. Most of the characters are two dimensional, nothing more than dressing for set pieces. But even as unrealized characters, they add to the story. When Harry beds one of the crew's lady, after being invited to a party, Willie saves Harry by playing a game of insults. One person must out-insult the other. Basically, this is yo-mamma jokes beefed up on steroids. Harry stands his ground and leaves the party intact. But the collateral damage of the party is when Harry professes his love to Irene Bell, a white woman who has been dating Willie. They begin a sordid affair. At first, Irene and Harry make sense together. Harry can give Irene everything she is lacking in her relationship with Willie. But after Harry tells Willie the truth about him and Irene the wheels of the already strained and rickety relationship dissolve. Willie goes crazy and vandalizes Harry's apartment, including the destruction of Harry's only copy of his current manuscript. Harry is determined to recreate his novel, even it means subjecting Irene to the edges of his life. Irene can only handle so much and decides that writers are too limited in their desires and leaves Harry for her own sojourn to San Francisco.
The sequence of events that follow are like watching a train wreck to the soundtrack of Alice in Wonderland. What is real and unreal blend together, forming a false reality. This part is a perfect illustration of madness and art and is a lot of fun, if a bit confusing. When the smoke clears, Levenspiel is standing over the bloody bodies of Harry and Willie, confused and shocked and still only wanting Harry to move out of the building so he can sell it to some high-rise developers.
THE TENANTS is hard to classify. It is a gritty personal drama, with bits of absurdest comedy and fantasy thrown in at seemingly random intervals. Most of the scenes that occupied these seemingly random acts left me confused...until I read over them again, and then again. The constant, but seamless 3rd person limited to omniscient narrator can be a bit taxing and requires patience on the reader's part. As an experimental novel, this works. Only just barely. In the hands of a lesser writer, THE TENANTS would come across as a MFA assignment gone astray.
I will definitely be seeking out Malamud's other titles.
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
Before reading THE TENANTS, my only exposure to Bernard Malamud was his wonderful baseball novel THE NATURAL. That was almost ten years ago. To be honest, I had forgotten all about him -- even if I do think that THE NATURAL is one of the finest books of fiction about my favorite sport.
So let's come to the present. THE TENANTS.
The story centers on Harry Lesser, a novelist who has seen success with one novel, followed by a sophomore stinker. For the past ten years he has been laboring over his third novel, said to be his best. But things seem to keep getting in the way of him finishing this novel. His landlord, Levenspiel, wants to sell his building; in fact, Harry is the only resident in the building. The other residents have moved after receiving lucrative payoffs. Harry is a creature of habit. His novel was started here; it must be finished here. Just when Harry begins to find his groove, Willie Spearmint enters his life, squatting in an abandoned room downstairs. A past junky with a penchant for violence, Willie, too, is a writer looking for a place to free his inspiration. Willie is trying to write the great black novel. His disdain for whites (Jews especially) intensifies with the novel and culminates with a horrific conclusion. Malamud's social commentary throughout the novel had me shaking my head in disbelief. I wasn't born in the 60s, and only arrived with 6 months left in the 70s. I have never really seen the level of racial intolerance as Malamud conveys. But Harry cannot allow a fellow writer to wallow in their own creativity, so he begins the arduous task of mentoring Willie, even if this means being lectured by Willie about what being Black or White truly means. Willie seems to think he has all the answers. The relationship starts off rocky -- Willie has a difficult time accepting constructive criticism. For a good chunk of the novel, we are allowed access to what a writer thinks and does when preparing a scene or a sentence or a word. This part becomes a bit much, but is handled deftly by Malamud's technical skill and storytelling abilities.
When Willie and Harry's relationship progresses, Willie brings Harry into his circle of friends. They are an unsavory crew that only bolsters the racial tension of NYC in the 60s. Most of the characters are two dimensional, nothing more than dressing for set pieces. But even as unrealized characters, they add to the story. When Harry beds one of the crew's lady, after being invited to a party, Willie saves Harry by playing a game of insults. One person must out-insult the other. Basically, this is yo-mamma jokes beefed up on steroids. Harry stands his ground and leaves the party intact. But the collateral damage of the party is when Harry professes his love to Irene Bell, a white woman who has been dating Willie. They begin a sordid affair. At first, Irene and Harry make sense together. Harry can give Irene everything she is lacking in her relationship with Willie. But after Harry tells Willie the truth about him and Irene the wheels of the already strained and rickety relationship dissolve. Willie goes crazy and vandalizes Harry's apartment, including the destruction of Harry's only copy of his current manuscript. Harry is determined to recreate his novel, even it means subjecting Irene to the edges of his life. Irene can only handle so much and decides that writers are too limited in their desires and leaves Harry for her own sojourn to San Francisco.
The sequence of events that follow are like watching a train wreck to the soundtrack of Alice in Wonderland. What is real and unreal blend together, forming a false reality. This part is a perfect illustration of madness and art and is a lot of fun, if a bit confusing. When the smoke clears, Levenspiel is standing over the bloody bodies of Harry and Willie, confused and shocked and still only wanting Harry to move out of the building so he can sell it to some high-rise developers.
THE TENANTS is hard to classify. It is a gritty personal drama, with bits of absurdest comedy and fantasy thrown in at seemingly random intervals. Most of the scenes that occupied these seemingly random acts left me confused...until I read over them again, and then again. The constant, but seamless 3rd person limited to omniscient narrator can be a bit taxing and requires patience on the reader's part. As an experimental novel, this works. Only just barely. In the hands of a lesser writer, THE TENANTS would come across as a MFA assignment gone astray.
I will definitely be seeking out Malamud's other titles.
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
August 9, 2025
داستان در شهر نیویورک و در بسترِ یک ساختمان متروکِ در حال تخریب، تنشها و پیچیدگیهای دو نویسنده را به تصویر میکشه: یکی سفیدپوست یهودی، دیگری سیاهپوست. رمان حول محور نوشتن، هویت، خشم فروخورده و رقابت شکل میگیره، اما به نظرم بهجای اینکه نتیجهای روشن بده، فضایی خاکستری، خالی و گاهی آزاردهنده ایجاد میکنه.
با اینکه فضای کتاب خاکستری و بیروح بود، و داستان برام جذاب نبود، دلم میخواست ببینم چی میشه. روایت، صحنهپردازی و سرعت پیشروی داستان خوب بود و این باعث میشد ولش نکنم، با اینکه برام نچسب بود. معمولاً کتابی با این درصد نچسبی رو دراپ میکنم، ولی این یکی تا آخر کشش داشت. (که در نوع خودش تجربهی جالبی بود)
بین دو شخصیت، یه جاهایی حس میکردم هر دوشون یه نفرن، مثل یه توهم یا درگیری ذهنی، و این نگاه برام جالب بود. ولی بحثهاشون، دعواهاشون، فشار نوشتن و حتی منطق رفتارشون خیلی جاها برام بیمعنی یا دور از تجربه بود. نفهمیدم مالامود دقیقاً حرفش چیه: نژادپرستی؟ درد نویسنده بودن؟ تقابل سیاهوسفید؟ تفاوت کسی که از درد واقعی مینویسه با کسی که فقط فرمش رو میفهمه؟ میتونستم بشینم تجزیه تحلیل کنم، لایه درست کنم و یه معنایی بیرون بکشم، ولی حس کردم یه فشار اجباریه و تمایلی نداشتم.
احتمالاً دوباره سراغش نمیرم، ولی وقتی خوندم، اذیتم نکرد. به شخصه برای من(با اینکه نفهمیدم دقیقاً چی میخواست بگه) تکنیکی قوی و روایتگر قَدَری داشت. کتابی که جذاب نیست ولی انقدر خوب نوشته شده که نتونی رهاش کنی واقعا نشون از توانایی نویسنده داره (شاید رعایت همون فرمی که نویسنده داخل کتاب ازش حرف میزنه)، همین باعث شد بین ۱ و ۲ ستاره بمونم، چون درگیرم کرد ولی چیزی هم دستم نداد
با اینکه فضای کتاب خاکستری و بیروح بود، و داستان برام جذاب نبود، دلم میخواست ببینم چی میشه. روایت، صحنهپردازی و سرعت پیشروی داستان خوب بود و این باعث میشد ولش نکنم، با اینکه برام نچسب بود. معمولاً کتابی با این درصد نچسبی رو دراپ میکنم، ولی این یکی تا آخر کشش داشت. (که در نوع خودش تجربهی جالبی بود)
بین دو شخصیت، یه جاهایی حس میکردم هر دوشون یه نفرن، مثل یه توهم یا درگیری ذهنی، و این نگاه برام جالب بود. ولی بحثهاشون، دعواهاشون، فشار نوشتن و حتی منطق رفتارشون خیلی جاها برام بیمعنی یا دور از تجربه بود. نفهمیدم مالامود دقیقاً حرفش چیه: نژادپرستی؟ درد نویسنده بودن؟ تقابل سیاهوسفید؟ تفاوت کسی که از درد واقعی مینویسه با کسی که فقط فرمش رو میفهمه؟ میتونستم بشینم تجزیه تحلیل کنم، لایه درست کنم و یه معنایی بیرون بکشم، ولی حس کردم یه فشار اجباریه و تمایلی نداشتم.
احتمالاً دوباره سراغش نمیرم، ولی وقتی خوندم، اذیتم نکرد. به شخصه برای من(با اینکه نفهمیدم دقیقاً چی میخواست بگه) تکنیکی قوی و روایتگر قَدَری داشت. کتابی که جذاب نیست ولی انقدر خوب نوشته شده که نتونی رهاش کنی واقعا نشون از توانایی نویسنده داره (شاید رعایت همون فرمی که نویسنده داخل کتاب ازش حرف میزنه)، همین باعث شد بین ۱ و ۲ ستاره بمونم، چون درگیرم کرد ولی چیزی هم دستم نداد
May 15, 2025
A cultural schism erupts between a mildly successful Jewish novelist (Harry) and an angry black writer (Bill) manqué living in a derelict building on the cusp of demolition. The interplay between the obsessive Harry, whose decade-long slog to literary perfection is all-consuming, and the furious blackpantheresque Bill, reluctant to take any advice that might cramp the blackness of his style, is the most interesting stratum of the novel, although the depiction of Bill is frequently off-piste where the jive-talkin’ dialogue is concerned and whenever Malmaud refers to him as “the black” (!!!). As a dispatch from the fringes of tormented artistry, satirising the ludicrous lengths writers will take to polish their terminally unready manuscripts, The Tenants is a delicious dark comedy . . . as a comment on African-American-Jewish relations, best read with a 1970s tongue in your 1970s cheek.
January 7, 2020
Lesser, a zsidó író egy lebontásra váró bérház hatodik emeletén püföli az írógépet, amikor egyszer csak őrjítő kopácsolása mintha visszhangra lelne. Utánajár, és mit ad Isten? A kibelezett szomszéd lakásban kollégát talál: Willie Spearmint, a fekete radikális nyüstöli ott ugyanolyan elszánással a saját írógépét. Írók egymás között, hasonló a hasonlóval találkozik. Mindkettejüket ugyanaz a démon kínozza (akit szoktak volt Múzsának is nevezni): kínos vajúdáson kell átesniük nap mint nap, amikor náluknál nagyobb témákat próbálnak meg papírra izzadni. Akár egymás nyakába is borulhatnának, és elénekelhetnék az Ebony and Ivory-t. Aztán mégsem. Mert néha a hasonlóság csak kiemeli, amiben különbözünk. És mert regény alapanyaga gyakran az író haragja, fájdalma, sértettsége – és ez jól van így. De mi van, ha ezek már nem férnek el a papíron?
April 14, 2023
I enjoyed this tragic short novel from 1971 about a rivalry between two writers, a black man and a Jewish man, although some of the language made me flinch at times. In the end, I wavered between three and four stars, but ultimately I felt like some part of it went over my head. I understand it at face value, but it seems to want to say more, make some social commentary that I just couldn't fully grasp. Apparently the author went to write this with following reason: "Jews and blacks, the period of the troubles in New York City; the teachers strike, the rise of black activism, the mix-up of cause and effect. I thought I'd say a word" - and as such, I don't understand what that word he said was.
This might be a novel to stay with me and continue scratching my head over.
This might be a novel to stay with me and continue scratching my head over.
April 2, 2025
A master of the written word, Malamud confuses in this installment.
Two young men, one black and one white, both writers working on their manuscripts, occupy a tenement in Manhattan during the 1960s.
The landlord wants both out of the building to raze it and erect a new one.
He, BM, veers away from his safety zone, creating this story.
There is symbolism related to isolation and love, the writer's terrain, racial interactions, men and women.
Malamud lies somewhere between Bellows and Roth in tone, but not either.
Nu? Life is small, and there is only so much to expand—a quandary for these two neighboring authors.
Otherwise, advanced age becomes a factor in readers who read a lot and writers who constantly write.
We know the limitations of life and what can be said about it, even from the better phalanx of writers.
And this, the author imparts.
Technically, though, I enjoyed it.
Two young men, one black and one white, both writers working on their manuscripts, occupy a tenement in Manhattan during the 1960s.
The landlord wants both out of the building to raze it and erect a new one.
He, BM, veers away from his safety zone, creating this story.
There is symbolism related to isolation and love, the writer's terrain, racial interactions, men and women.
Malamud lies somewhere between Bellows and Roth in tone, but not either.
Nu? Life is small, and there is only so much to expand—a quandary for these two neighboring authors.
Otherwise, advanced age becomes a factor in readers who read a lot and writers who constantly write.
We know the limitations of life and what can be said about it, even from the better phalanx of writers.
And this, the author imparts.
Technically, though, I enjoyed it.
May 24, 2023
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«لسر در تکآینه اتاقش نگاهی سرسری به خود انداخت. از فکر تمام کردن کتابش بیدار شده بود. بوی زمین زنده را در چله زمستان احساس میکرد. ناله شیپور کشتیای که از بند رخت برمیبست از دوردست به گوش میرسید. آه، ای کاش میتوانستم با کشتی بروم. تقلا کرد تا دوباره به خواب برود ولی نتوانست. پریشانحالی مثل اسبی او را با پاهای بسته از تخت بیرون کشید. باید بلند شوم و بنویسم، وگرنه آرام نمیگیرم. جز این هیچ چارهای ندارم. خدای من، اینهمه سال. پتو را کنار زد و لرزان کنار صندلی لقی که لباسهایش روی آن آویزان بود ایستاد و شلوار سردش را به تن کرد. روز از نو روزی از نو. لسر با بیمیلی و حیرتی یأسآور، لباسش را پوشید، چراکه با شوقی آتشین برای نوشتن صبحگاهی به رختخواب رفته بود. برای فردا افکاری شیرین داشت و ناشکیبا بود...».
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هری لسر نویسنده ای است یهودی که در حال نگارش سومین کتاب خود است، کتابی که نوشتن آن نزدیک به ده سال طول کشیده است و حال به لحظات پایانی خود نزدیک می شود. لسر پیش از این دو کتاب دیگر منتشر کرده بود که اولی عالی و دومی متوسط قلمداد می شود. لسر در آپارتمانی زندگی می کند که سال های زیادی از ساخت آن می گذرد و اکنون در حال فروپاشی است به همین دلیل صاحبخانه همه را بیرون کرده ولی لسر به بهانه اتمام کتابش از آن جا خارج نمی شود. تا این جا اتفاق خاصی در کتاب شاهد نیستیم تا اینکه پای شخصی جدید به داستان باز می شود. بیلی، نویسنده ای سیاه پوست و شدیدا برضد دین یهون و سفید پوستی، زخم خورده از تبعیض نژادی، برای نوشتن کتابش به یکی از خانه های خالی از سکنه آن ساختمان وارد می شود.
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مالامود از استعاره و تشبیهات فراوانی برای تاثیرگذاری بیشتر بر تبعیض نژادی استفاده چرده است. او بسیاری از جاها بیلیِ سیاه پوست را "سیاه" و لسر را "نویسنده" می نامد،سیاه پوست اگر نویسنده هم باشد باز سیاه پوست است. یا هنگام سیاهی شب همیشه برف سپیدی در حال باریدن و پوشیدن زمین سیاه است.
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یک رابطه ی عشقی هم این وسط به وجود می آید. لسر شیفته ی معشوقه ی بیلی می شود. زنی سفید که با مردی سیاه رابطه ای سه ساله به وجود می آورند. بیلی انقدر غرق در نوشتن کتابش می شود که از عشقش دور می ماند همین باعث می شود لسر بتواند از این فرصت استفاده کند و معشوقه را تصاحب کند. اتفاقی که سرانجام بر سر خود لسر می آید و او هم غرق در پایان بندی کتابش از معشوقه غافل می شود و او را ترک می کند. و معشوقه در پیامی خطاب به لسر اینگونه می نویسد، (هیچ کتابی مهم تر از من نیست).
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مالامود سختی های نویسندگی و خلق یک اثر را نیز به تصویر می کشد، جایی که خالق اثر و نویسنده قید همه چیز خود را می زند، حتی از عشق خود نیز می زند تا بتواند اثری که میخواهد را خلق کند و مهم تر از همه چیز بنا به نظر مالامود، پایان یک اثر است.
کتاب را می شود این چنین توصیف کرد، داستانی درمورد یک داستان.
کتاب عجیبی است، بخوانیدش، از آن دلسرد نشوید و فرصت دهید تا آن چیزی که قرار است را به شما نشان دهد.
«لسر در تکآینه اتاقش نگاهی سرسری به خود انداخت. از فکر تمام کردن کتابش بیدار شده بود. بوی زمین زنده را در چله زمستان احساس میکرد. ناله شیپور کشتیای که از بند رخت برمیبست از دوردست به گوش میرسید. آه، ای کاش میتوانستم با کشتی بروم. تقلا کرد تا دوباره به خواب برود ولی نتوانست. پریشانحالی مثل اسبی او را با پاهای بسته از تخت بیرون کشید. باید بلند شوم و بنویسم، وگرنه آرام نمیگیرم. جز این هیچ چارهای ندارم. خدای من، اینهمه سال. پتو را کنار زد و لرزان کنار صندلی لقی که لباسهایش روی آن آویزان بود ایستاد و شلوار سردش را به تن کرد. روز از نو روزی از نو. لسر با بیمیلی و حیرتی یأسآور، لباسش را پوشید، چراکه با شوقی آتشین برای نوشتن صبحگاهی به رختخواب رفته بود. برای فردا افکاری شیرین داشت و ناشکیبا بود...».
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هری لسر نویسنده ای است یهودی که در حال نگارش سومین کتاب خود است، کتابی که نوشتن آن نزدیک به ده سال طول کشیده است و حال به لحظات پایانی خود نزدیک می شود. لسر پیش از این دو کتاب دیگر منتشر کرده بود که اولی عالی و دومی متوسط قلمداد می شود. لسر در آپارتمانی زندگی می کند که سال های زیادی از ساخت آن می گذرد و اکنون در حال فروپاشی است به همین دلیل صاحبخانه همه را بیرون کرده ولی لسر به بهانه اتمام کتابش از آن جا خارج نمی شود. تا این جا اتفاق خاصی در کتاب شاهد نیستیم تا اینکه پای شخصی جدید به داستان باز می شود. بیلی، نویسنده ای سیاه پوست و شدیدا برضد دین یهون و سفید پوستی، زخم خورده از تبعیض نژادی، برای نوشتن کتابش به یکی از خانه های خالی از سکنه آن ساختمان وارد می شود.
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مالامود از استعاره و تشبیهات فراوانی برای تاثیرگذاری بیشتر بر تبعیض نژادی استفاده چرده است. او بسیاری از جاها بیلیِ سیاه پوست را "سیاه" و لسر را "نویسنده" می نامد،سیاه پوست اگر نویسنده هم باشد باز سیاه پوست است. یا هنگام سیاهی شب همیشه برف سپیدی در حال باریدن و پوشیدن زمین سیاه است.
.
یک رابطه ی عشقی هم این وسط به وجود می آید. لسر شیفته ی معشوقه ی بیلی می شود. زنی سفید که با مردی سیاه رابطه ای سه ساله به وجود می آورند. بیلی انقدر غرق در نوشتن کتابش می شود که از عشقش دور می ماند همین باعث می شود لسر بتواند از این فرصت استفاده کند و معشوقه را تصاحب کند. اتفاقی که سرانجام بر سر خود لسر می آید و او هم غرق در پایان بندی کتابش از معشوقه غافل می شود و او را ترک می کند. و معشوقه در پیامی خطاب به لسر اینگونه می نویسد، (هیچ کتابی مهم تر از من نیست).
.
مالامود سختی های نویسندگی و خلق یک اثر را نیز به تصویر می کشد، جایی که خالق اثر و نویسنده قید همه چیز خود را می زند، حتی از عشق خود نیز می زند تا بتواند اثری که میخواهد را خلق کند و مهم تر از همه چیز بنا به نظر مالامود، پایان یک اثر است.
کتاب را می شود این چنین توصیف کرد، داستانی درمورد یک داستان.
کتاب عجیبی است، بخوانیدش، از آن دلسرد نشوید و فرصت دهید تا آن چیزی که قرار است را به شما نشان دهد.
June 4, 2019
La passione.
La passione che ti tiene 'arpionato' ad un luogo, ad una persona; la passione che non ti fa progredire perché temi che quello che verrà sarà meno bello e appassionante di quello che è; la passione che non ti fa vedere nulla al di là del tuo ristretto orizzonte e tutto quello che si affaccia di nuovo da quell'orizzonte lo vivi come una minaccia a quanto 'conquistato'.
La passione che ti può annullare.
Che Bernard Malamud sia un grande scrittore non lo scopro certo io però mi fa piacere ribadirlo.
La passione che ti tiene 'arpionato' ad un luogo, ad una persona; la passione che non ti fa progredire perché temi che quello che verrà sarà meno bello e appassionante di quello che è; la passione che non ti fa vedere nulla al di là del tuo ristretto orizzonte e tutto quello che si affaccia di nuovo da quell'orizzonte lo vivi come una minaccia a quanto 'conquistato'.
La passione che ti può annullare.
Che Bernard Malamud sia un grande scrittore non lo scopro certo io però mi fa piacere ribadirlo.
January 6, 2022
Malamud è sempre Malamud!
October 22, 2018
Problematic in ways it wishes to be, and ways it does not. Very much of its time in its politics, such politics having dated quite badly in places.
But. Some great writing at times, as one would expect from Malamud, but nowhere near one of his best works (e.g. Fixer or Assistant).
Reminded me of Stanley Elkin, but suffered for the comparison, as Elkin is a bloody genius.
But. Some great writing at times, as one would expect from Malamud, but nowhere near one of his best works (e.g. Fixer or Assistant).
Reminded me of Stanley Elkin, but suffered for the comparison, as Elkin is a bloody genius.
April 4, 2009
(First, for the record: the review that posted a couple of days ago was incomplete. The mistake was mine, not GR's. Thanks to Alan & Shane for helping me notice this)
Bernard Malamud brought off some of the most finely-balanced American short stories of the 50 years, tent-shaped angularities of terror vs. magic vs. the stubborn quandary over what's right. "The Magic Barrel," "The Jew-Bird," these & other stories tug at the neck-hairs beautifully. Yet the work of this author that taught me most -- & that haunts me most, still -- is this novel of Manhattan from about a generation back. New York here suffers, above all, the perturbation of two races who spent most of the century suffering & then began taking out their pain on each other: the Jews & the African Americans. In an apartment building that may be condemned any moment, two all-but-failed artists: the black Bill or Willie, the Jewish Lesser, both thoroughly Noo Yawk. They first reach out to each other, in part to fend off a landlord who wants them gone, but then before long, given the spur of unequal artistic success & a woman whose discernment & decisions provides yet another measure of that success, these brothers in twinned struggles (for shelter, for expression) stumble into a tragic spiral of hurting each other. So much for airless plot summary. So much for skewed synopsis. A thumbnail version like the above, you see, does an injustice to the imagination at play in this story, an egregious injustice. The vision of Willie's & Lesser's turmoil, rooted though it is in pain & venality that goes back centuries ("Ishmael & Israel," as Malamud puts it), nonetheless offers surprise & laughter & even blinking chills, throughout, via a kaleidoscope's shifting fragments of stories-w/in-stories, fantasies-w/in-disappointments, always brightly colored by the fragility of both these men, weaknesses that nonetheless can't hold back their impulse to bring out what's best in them. Few novels of vast & intractable urban dilemmas offer such sprightliness, even as they cry out for mercy.
Bernard Malamud brought off some of the most finely-balanced American short stories of the 50 years, tent-shaped angularities of terror vs. magic vs. the stubborn quandary over what's right. "The Magic Barrel," "The Jew-Bird," these & other stories tug at the neck-hairs beautifully. Yet the work of this author that taught me most -- & that haunts me most, still -- is this novel of Manhattan from about a generation back. New York here suffers, above all, the perturbation of two races who spent most of the century suffering & then began taking out their pain on each other: the Jews & the African Americans. In an apartment building that may be condemned any moment, two all-but-failed artists: the black Bill or Willie, the Jewish Lesser, both thoroughly Noo Yawk. They first reach out to each other, in part to fend off a landlord who wants them gone, but then before long, given the spur of unequal artistic success & a woman whose discernment & decisions provides yet another measure of that success, these brothers in twinned struggles (for shelter, for expression) stumble into a tragic spiral of hurting each other. So much for airless plot summary. So much for skewed synopsis. A thumbnail version like the above, you see, does an injustice to the imagination at play in this story, an egregious injustice. The vision of Willie's & Lesser's turmoil, rooted though it is in pain & venality that goes back centuries ("Ishmael & Israel," as Malamud puts it), nonetheless offers surprise & laughter & even blinking chills, throughout, via a kaleidoscope's shifting fragments of stories-w/in-stories, fantasies-w/in-disappointments, always brightly colored by the fragility of both these men, weaknesses that nonetheless can't hold back their impulse to bring out what's best in them. Few novels of vast & intractable urban dilemmas offer such sprightliness, even as they cry out for mercy.
August 1, 2022
זה היה הספר השני של מלמוד שקראתי השנה. לא תכננתי לקרוא אותו דווקא, אבל מצאתי אותו בארגזי קרטון של תכולת דירה שנזרקה לרחוב והיה חבל לי עליו. הארגזים גם עברו השקיה מאיזו טפטפת של העירייה ואז התייבשו בשמש הקופחת. מאחר שהצטופף בצוותא עם עוד כמה "עם עובדים" כמוהו, נדבקה כריכתו, בגלל ההשקיה, לזו של "הכפיל" של דוסטוייבסקי. כשהפרדתי ביניהם נשא עמו חלק מהכריכה של זה. זה היה דווקא זיווג מוצלח כי הספר הזה הוא כל כולו "ספרות כפילים". ביתר דיוק הכפילים בספר הם כפילים מנוגדים, סימטריים – כלומר דומים אך גם שונים מהותית.
סופר יהודי, לבן, הארי לסר (פחות) מתבצר בבניין נטוש בניו-יורק של סוף שנות השישים ועמל במשך עשר שנים על כתיבת ספר שאינו יודע כיצד לסיימו. בשלב מסוים מופיע בבניין כפילו – סופר אפרו אמריקאי, שחור, ווילי ספירמינט (חנית שבטית), שגם הוא מתקשה בכתיבתו, דומה לו אך גם שונה להחריד. היחסים ביניהם יודעים עליות ומורדות עד שהם מוצאים עצמם במאבק תחרותי ואלים – חברתי, ארוטי וספרותי, מאבק המדגיש את אנושיותם אך גם את התהום העקרונית הפעורה ביניהם ואינה ניתנת לגישור.
הכתיבה האנושית, הצנומה והכנה של מלמוד, עשויה להטעות – מדובר בספר אלגורי פילוסופי להחריד. אלגורי משמות הגיבורים ועד לרעיונות שהוא מתחבט בהם, מתאורי החלומות וההזיות ועד לדיאלוגים ולמעשים שהם מטרימים. המאבק הבין גזעי הוא רק חלק מן הסיפור, משולבים כאן כתמונת מראה התחבטויות בנושא מהות הכתיבה הספרותית, מהות האהבה (נושא ספרו של לסר, שהוא מתקשה להשלים) והחיים בכלל. צפות ועולות כאן בעיות שעדין שרירות וקיימות ובפרט בעידן הפרוגרסיבי, המבטל לעיתים (גם אם איני יודע כיצד מתקבל הרומן היום בציבור ובאקדמיה האמריקאית, אם בכלל קוראים בו). צורה מול תוכן, החיים עצמם מול הכתיבה, מהפיכה אלימה מול אוננות יצירתית, אוניברסאליות מול החוויה הפרטית ועוד.. לכל דבר כמה פנים, ראו למשל את השילוב בדיאלוג הבא (עמוד 66):
(השחור פותח) "... סיפורת לבנה אינה דומה לשחורה, לא יכולה להיות דומה."
"אין בידך להפוך חוויות שחורות לספרות רק על ידי העלאתן על הנייר."
"שחור אינו לבן ולא יכול להיות לבן. שחור הוא אך ותמיד שחור. זה לא אוניברסאלי אם לכך אתה מתכוון. אתם מרגישים אחרת ממה שאנחנו מרגישים. איכות הרגשות שלנו שונה משלכם. אתה תופס את זה? וככה זה מוכרח להיות. אני כותב כתיבת נשמה של אנשים שחורים הצועקים שהם עדיין עברים בארץ הזנונה הזאת, ויותר לא יהיו עבדים. איך אתה מסוגל להבין את זה, לסר, אם המוח שלך לבן?"
"גם המוח שלך לבן. אבל אם החוויה ענינה הצד האנושי שבנו והיא נוגעת אל ליבי, הרי עשית אותה לחוויה שלי. יצרת אותה גם בשבילי. אתה יכול להכחיש את קיומה של אוניברסאליות אבל אינך יכול לבטלה."
"הצד האנושי הוא חרא. הוא לא מעניק לכם שום זכויות כמו שלנו לא העניק."
"אם אנו מדברים על אומנות, הרי הצורה דורשת את שלה. בלעדיה היצירה חסרה סדר, ואולי גם משמעות. מה עוד חסרה היא אני מניח שאתה יודע בעצמך."
"האומנות יכולה לנשק לי בתחת העסיסי שלי. אתה רוצה לדעת מהי האומנות באמת? אני האומנות. וילי ספירמינט, אדם שחור, הצורה שלי היא אני בעצמי."
בשלב מאוחר יותר מגיע גם החורבן הבלתי נמנע ולאחריו, מתוך מעמקי הייאוש והניסיון חסר הסיכוי לחזור לחיים שהיו, הניגודים והמאבק הם אלו שתופסים את המושכות גם בתוך נשמתו של הארי עצמו ובאופן פוסט מודרני גם בכתיבתו של מלמוד. עד שגם הספר הזה נשאר פתוח, מוצעים לנו מספר סיומים הזויים, אך הגבולות בין ההזיה למציאות מטשטשים.
הספר הוא נהדר לדעתי. חכם מורכב ונוגע ללב. נהניתי מאוד לקרוא בו. לא הייתי ממליץ דווקא על התרגום הזה לעברית. עדיף לקוראו במקור האנגלי. התרגום ארכאי להחריד. זה ניכר במיוחד בתרגום הסלנג, העגה האפרו אמריקאית והקללות והתיאורים המיניים. ממש הייתי צריך לתרגם בחזרה לאנגלית את התרגום המילולי מידי של המתרגם. שפטו בעצמיכם: "אל תחריא לי, לסטר" = Don't shit me, Lester. וכיו"ב.
סופר יהודי, לבן, הארי לסר (פחות) מתבצר בבניין נטוש בניו-יורק של סוף שנות השישים ועמל במשך עשר שנים על כתיבת ספר שאינו יודע כיצד לסיימו. בשלב מסוים מופיע בבניין כפילו – סופר אפרו אמריקאי, שחור, ווילי ספירמינט (חנית שבטית), שגם הוא מתקשה בכתיבתו, דומה לו אך גם שונה להחריד. היחסים ביניהם יודעים עליות ומורדות עד שהם מוצאים עצמם במאבק תחרותי ואלים – חברתי, ארוטי וספרותי, מאבק המדגיש את אנושיותם אך גם את התהום העקרונית הפעורה ביניהם ואינה ניתנת לגישור.
הכתיבה האנושית, הצנומה והכנה של מלמוד, עשויה להטעות – מדובר בספר אלגורי פילוסופי להחריד. אלגורי משמות הגיבורים ועד לרעיונות שהוא מתחבט בהם, מתאורי החלומות וההזיות ועד לדיאלוגים ולמעשים שהם מטרימים. המאבק הבין גזעי הוא רק חלק מן הסיפור, משולבים כאן כתמונת מראה התחבטויות בנושא מהות הכתיבה הספרותית, מהות האהבה (נושא ספרו של לסר, שהוא מתקשה להשלים) והחיים בכלל. צפות ועולות כאן בעיות שעדין שרירות וקיימות ובפרט בעידן הפרוגרסיבי, המבטל לעיתים (גם אם איני יודע כיצד מתקבל הרומן היום בציבור ובאקדמיה האמריקאית, אם בכלל קוראים בו). צורה מול תוכן, החיים עצמם מול הכתיבה, מהפיכה אלימה מול אוננות יצירתית, אוניברסאליות מול החוויה הפרטית ועוד.. לכל דבר כמה פנים, ראו למשל את השילוב בדיאלוג הבא (עמוד 66):
(השחור פותח) "... סיפורת לבנה אינה דומה לשחורה, לא יכולה להיות דומה."
"אין בידך להפוך חוויות שחורות לספרות רק על ידי העלאתן על הנייר."
"שחור אינו לבן ולא יכול להיות לבן. שחור הוא אך ותמיד שחור. זה לא אוניברסאלי אם לכך אתה מתכוון. אתם מרגישים אחרת ממה שאנחנו מרגישים. איכות הרגשות שלנו שונה משלכם. אתה תופס את זה? וככה זה מוכרח להיות. אני כותב כתיבת נשמה של אנשים שחורים הצועקים שהם עדיין עברים בארץ הזנונה הזאת, ויותר לא יהיו עבדים. איך אתה מסוגל להבין את זה, לסר, אם המוח שלך לבן?"
"גם המוח שלך לבן. אבל אם החוויה ענינה הצד האנושי שבנו והיא נוגעת אל ליבי, הרי עשית אותה לחוויה שלי. יצרת אותה גם בשבילי. אתה יכול להכחיש את קיומה של אוניברסאליות אבל אינך יכול לבטלה."
"הצד האנושי הוא חרא. הוא לא מעניק לכם שום זכויות כמו שלנו לא העניק."
"אם אנו מדברים על אומנות, הרי הצורה דורשת את שלה. בלעדיה היצירה חסרה סדר, ואולי גם משמעות. מה עוד חסרה היא אני מניח שאתה יודע בעצמך."
"האומנות יכולה לנשק לי בתחת העסיסי שלי. אתה רוצה לדעת מהי האומנות באמת? אני האומנות. וילי ספירמינט, אדם שחור, הצורה שלי היא אני בעצמי."
בשלב מאוחר יותר מגיע גם החורבן הבלתי נמנע ולאחריו, מתוך מעמקי הייאוש והניסיון חסר הסיכוי לחזור לחיים שהיו, הניגודים והמאבק הם אלו שתופסים את המושכות גם בתוך נשמתו של הארי עצמו ובאופן פוסט מודרני גם בכתיבתו של מלמוד. עד שגם הספר הזה נשאר פתוח, מוצעים לנו מספר סיומים הזויים, אך הגבולות בין ההזיה למציאות מטשטשים.
הספר הוא נהדר לדעתי. חכם מורכב ונוגע ללב. נהניתי מאוד לקרוא בו. לא הייתי ממליץ דווקא על התרגום הזה לעברית. עדיף לקוראו במקור האנגלי. התרגום ארכאי להחריד. זה ניכר במיוחד בתרגום הסלנג, העגה האפרו אמריקאית והקללות והתיאורים המיניים. ממש הייתי צריך לתרגם בחזרה לאנגלית את התרגום המילולי מידי של המתרגם. שפטו בעצמיכם: "אל תחריא לי, לסטר" = Don't shit me, Lester. וכיו"ב.
March 31, 2021
Parts of this book are breathtaking, parts are incredibly funny (I have a soft spot for writers writing about writers -- the original autofiction?). But there is something just... heartbreaking about this book. The hamfisted social commentary and its place within the Malamud canon only make things worse. It's like an elegy, except written when the composer's power is fading, like a last, bitter, longing gasp.
July 23, 2022
Il grido di Malamud "Storie, storie, storie: per me non esiste altro" è, da qualche anno, diventato un mio mantra personale. Avendo passato la gioventù a percorrere le contorte strade della semiotica, dello stile, della struttura, alla ricerca di un senso misterioso e profondo che si può trovare solo alla fine di una faticosa discesa nei meandri della parola e del suo suono, convinto che la pietra filosofale della bellezza si potesse raggiungere solo attraverso un'opera al nero guidata dalla massima "only connect", giunto alla piena maturità ho iniziato a sentire come muffite e polverose tutte quelle velleità squisitamente novecentesche per aprire finalmente gli occhi sulla più semplice e banale delle evidenze: Storie! Non esiste altro.
Con questa nuova convinzione affronto ogni nuovo lavoro e questa è la frase che mi risuona nella mente ogni volta che apro un libro di Malamud.
"Gli inquilini" è stato, per me, un libro curioso. Perché se è vero che la "storia" è presente ed importante in questo caso risulta però molto evidente come il plot non sia il fine del romanzo, ma piuttosto il più importante tra gli strumenti che l'autore utilizza per veicolare il suo pensiero. Il conflitto del romanzo insieme con le sue conseguenze è subito lì, esposto in bella vista: Un conflitto tra bianco e nero, tra forma e sostanza, tra solitudine e socialità. Un palazzo fatiscente, in attesa di demolizione, dove due scrittori (o due incarnazioni dello Scrittore) si incontrano, si perdono, si inseguono. Una vecchia, maestosa macchina da scrivere. Parole scritte, bruciate, accartocciate, ripescate da un bidone. Amori liquidi che fluiscono dall'uno all'altro finché il confine tra i due diventa troppo labile. Una tensione infinita verso una conclusione, un finale, una soluzione che sembra sempre vicinissima e rimane però irraggiungibile. Un duello finale tra il bene e il male (nel quale però non è chiaro chi sia chi) che si risolve con un annichilimento delle forze in campo. Leggere Gli inquilini è stato come perdersi per un po' dentro la mente di Malamud, tra le sue paure, le sue speranze, le sue fobie. E allo stesso tempo un tuffo in un' America lontana dagli sfarzi nella quale una nuova coscienza di classe sta per cambiare gli equilibri del gioco. Una lettura labirintica, non sempre piacevole, sulle orme ora dell'uno ora dell'altro scrittore, con la voce del proprietario Levenspiel che si affaccia a più riprese nel vano tentativo di riportarci a terra, di ancorarci ad una realtà quotidiana fatta di oggetti, di fatti che possono servirci come bussola per ritrovare una via nel labirinto dei pensieri. Un libro bello e strano che ha ancora bisogno di sedimentare per rivelarsi pienamente.
Con questa nuova convinzione affronto ogni nuovo lavoro e questa è la frase che mi risuona nella mente ogni volta che apro un libro di Malamud.
"Gli inquilini" è stato, per me, un libro curioso. Perché se è vero che la "storia" è presente ed importante in questo caso risulta però molto evidente come il plot non sia il fine del romanzo, ma piuttosto il più importante tra gli strumenti che l'autore utilizza per veicolare il suo pensiero. Il conflitto del romanzo insieme con le sue conseguenze è subito lì, esposto in bella vista: Un conflitto tra bianco e nero, tra forma e sostanza, tra solitudine e socialità. Un palazzo fatiscente, in attesa di demolizione, dove due scrittori (o due incarnazioni dello Scrittore) si incontrano, si perdono, si inseguono. Una vecchia, maestosa macchina da scrivere. Parole scritte, bruciate, accartocciate, ripescate da un bidone. Amori liquidi che fluiscono dall'uno all'altro finché il confine tra i due diventa troppo labile. Una tensione infinita verso una conclusione, un finale, una soluzione che sembra sempre vicinissima e rimane però irraggiungibile. Un duello finale tra il bene e il male (nel quale però non è chiaro chi sia chi) che si risolve con un annichilimento delle forze in campo. Leggere Gli inquilini è stato come perdersi per un po' dentro la mente di Malamud, tra le sue paure, le sue speranze, le sue fobie. E allo stesso tempo un tuffo in un' America lontana dagli sfarzi nella quale una nuova coscienza di classe sta per cambiare gli equilibri del gioco. Una lettura labirintica, non sempre piacevole, sulle orme ora dell'uno ora dell'altro scrittore, con la voce del proprietario Levenspiel che si affaccia a più riprese nel vano tentativo di riportarci a terra, di ancorarci ad una realtà quotidiana fatta di oggetti, di fatti che possono servirci come bussola per ritrovare una via nel labirinto dei pensieri. Un libro bello e strano che ha ancora bisogno di sedimentare per rivelarsi pienamente.
December 6, 2022
Gli inquilini è un interessante romanzo sul conflitto. Il conflitto tra due scrittori in quanto scrittori e persone; conflitti razziali ( uno dei due è ebreo, l'altro nero ); conflitti personali dovuti alla perenne ossessione di dover scrivere, salvare il proprio romanzo, sopravvivere, esistere e come farlo.
La storia è vivace; la narrazione ha una falcata che non perde mai in potenza. Ci sono dialoghi bellissimi, profondi e anche divertenti. Alcuni mi hanno zittito dentro, altri mi hanno fatto ridere.
Bernard Malamud è uno scrittore eccezionale. Mi piace molto la sua ironia sottile, il suo essere provocatorio e veritiero. Mi piacciono i suoi temi. Questo romanzo è molto diverso da Il commesso in tutto, quindi l'autore è anche capace di un completo cambio di registro.
La storia è vivace; la narrazione ha una falcata che non perde mai in potenza. Ci sono dialoghi bellissimi, profondi e anche divertenti. Alcuni mi hanno zittito dentro, altri mi hanno fatto ridere.
Bernard Malamud è uno scrittore eccezionale. Mi piace molto la sua ironia sottile, il suo essere provocatorio e veritiero. Mi piacciono i suoi temi. Questo romanzo è molto diverso da Il commesso in tutto, quindi l'autore è anche capace di un completo cambio di registro.
February 17, 2014
Perhaps I should've read Malamud's works in order, because I just jumped through time into a completely different author. I've read Malamud's first two books and loved them; I even loved the crazy debut novel about baseball for crying out loud. Then I stepped over five other books and landed in the 1970s. 1970's Malamud is not the same as 1950's Malamud. Gone is the easygoing, beautiful prose that glimmers; in its place is a noisy, experimental tale that felt more like cocaine on the brain. Hey, it was the seventies.
Had I not known this was written by Malamud, I wouldn't have had the faintest idea from the writing. Maybe I should pretend it wasn't Malamud and approach it as an unknown author. There's some wonderful conflict in this story. The novel is largely about two writers at war with one another. Now, I roll my eyes almost anytime a story is written about writers, but I'll grant each and every author one token to play the writer card (but only one). The characters themselves are sort of cliché, but I think the author did a wonderful job making them believable and original within their caricatures.
Truth is, this story is all over the place. I couldn't tell what was dreams, what was imagined, what was novel. Did any of this really happen? Was some of what I read the novel that was being written by one of these imagined writers? Were there even two writers, or was this all merely the internal struggle of one writer? The author of The Tenants seems angry, confused, and hopeless, a person with a negative view of the world. And this is not how I remember Malamud.
So back to Malamud: I get the feeling that maybe this was a very personal story for the author. I get a sense that maybe his own personal life and writing life were unraveling. There's a sense that everything is falling apart, not only for these characters, but for the author as well. And maybe that wasn't the case, and if so, Malamud did a wonderful job painting chaos without having to be submersed in it. I don't know, I'm just trying to find the positive. Knowing this is Malamud, it sort of sucked, but even if I didn't have preconceived notions of the author, I still would've found The Tenants to be jarring, strained, and little more than okay. So, that being that case, I have decided to get back in my time machine and journey to the year I left off at: 1958. Maybe by the time I read through the sixties, 1970s Malamud will make complete sense. Or maybe it would be better to skip over the seventies altogether.
Had I not known this was written by Malamud, I wouldn't have had the faintest idea from the writing. Maybe I should pretend it wasn't Malamud and approach it as an unknown author. There's some wonderful conflict in this story. The novel is largely about two writers at war with one another. Now, I roll my eyes almost anytime a story is written about writers, but I'll grant each and every author one token to play the writer card (but only one). The characters themselves are sort of cliché, but I think the author did a wonderful job making them believable and original within their caricatures.
Truth is, this story is all over the place. I couldn't tell what was dreams, what was imagined, what was novel. Did any of this really happen? Was some of what I read the novel that was being written by one of these imagined writers? Were there even two writers, or was this all merely the internal struggle of one writer? The author of The Tenants seems angry, confused, and hopeless, a person with a negative view of the world. And this is not how I remember Malamud.
So back to Malamud: I get the feeling that maybe this was a very personal story for the author. I get a sense that maybe his own personal life and writing life were unraveling. There's a sense that everything is falling apart, not only for these characters, but for the author as well. And maybe that wasn't the case, and if so, Malamud did a wonderful job painting chaos without having to be submersed in it. I don't know, I'm just trying to find the positive. Knowing this is Malamud, it sort of sucked, but even if I didn't have preconceived notions of the author, I still would've found The Tenants to be jarring, strained, and little more than okay. So, that being that case, I have decided to get back in my time machine and journey to the year I left off at: 1958. Maybe by the time I read through the sixties, 1970s Malamud will make complete sense. Or maybe it would be better to skip over the seventies altogether.
September 29, 2015
Terrific book ostensibly about Afro-Semitic relations in New York set in an all but empty apartment building with intermittent electricity, rats running around and rarely flushable toilets. The landlord offers Harry Lesser, a Jewish novelist increasing amounts of money to leave (he's the last tenant), but he refuses to do so until he finishes his third novel which he has spent ten years on and thinks the disturbance would ruin it. He finds a squatter in a flat below who is black and also a writer and the two begin a symbiotic love/hate relationship as Harry tries to help with William Spearmint's own novel/memoir. The problem is Harry falls for Bill's (as he wants to be called) white girlfriend, and mayhem ensues. This includes racist catcalling, violence, and most dreadful, burning of manuscripts when only one copy exists. It's thrilling, terrifying, and strange if you write because the novel's real subject is writing, about how it takes over everything, and all else is secondary, including love and lovers, family and friends. There's rivalry between the two as the building decays around them. The landlord offers $10,000 (a hell of a lot in the 60s), but still Harry clings on. It's very 60s, minis and beads, and pot parties and the like, and it's totally fascinating and gripping. I don't know what non-writers would make of it though, because the obsession flattens all.
August 13, 2019
Non è Bernard Malamud, mi son detta dopo il primo capitolo. Non può essere lo stesso scrittore che mi ha presentato Morris Bober. Lo stile è senza fronzoli, l’atmosfera è cupa ma la voce è diversa, più potente, disperata, senza pietà.
Sono qui, a New York, all’angolo tra la Trentunesima Strada e la Terza Avenue e guardo questo palazzo fatiscente che attende d’esser demolito: un edificio di mattoni sbiaditi, costruito all’inizio del 900, in cui hanno abitato almeno 35 famiglie prima di raggiungere un compromesso con il proprietario, il signor Levenspiel. La maggior parte degli inquilini ha incassato la liquidazione ed è andata via. Harry Lesser no. Gli altri edifici si sgretolano intorno a lui ma Harry non demorde. Bianco, ebreo, scapolo, 36 anni di cui dieci trascorsi cercando di scrivere il capolavoro della vita, il romanzo che lo riscatterà dall’ultima disastrosa pubblicazione. È uno scrittore di professione, un abitudinario: quello che sarà il suo grande capolavoro è stato concepito in quest’appartamento al sesto piano ed è qui che verrà finito. Non c’è dubbio.
La casa è dov’è il mio libro.
Poi, un mattino presto, il silenzio del palazzo viene interrotto dal ticchettio di una vecchia macchina da scrivere.
https://librinvaligia.blogspot.com/20...
Sono qui, a New York, all’angolo tra la Trentunesima Strada e la Terza Avenue e guardo questo palazzo fatiscente che attende d’esser demolito: un edificio di mattoni sbiaditi, costruito all’inizio del 900, in cui hanno abitato almeno 35 famiglie prima di raggiungere un compromesso con il proprietario, il signor Levenspiel. La maggior parte degli inquilini ha incassato la liquidazione ed è andata via. Harry Lesser no. Gli altri edifici si sgretolano intorno a lui ma Harry non demorde. Bianco, ebreo, scapolo, 36 anni di cui dieci trascorsi cercando di scrivere il capolavoro della vita, il romanzo che lo riscatterà dall’ultima disastrosa pubblicazione. È uno scrittore di professione, un abitudinario: quello che sarà il suo grande capolavoro è stato concepito in quest’appartamento al sesto piano ed è qui che verrà finito. Non c’è dubbio.
La casa è dov’è il mio libro.
Poi, un mattino presto, il silenzio del palazzo viene interrotto dal ticchettio di una vecchia macchina da scrivere.
https://librinvaligia.blogspot.com/20...
May 24, 2021
Harry Lesser is working on his third novel and this one really needs to succeed. His first book was well received but his second didn’t fare so well. So he really needs to get his burgeoning career back in motion by doing well with number three. So he’s really taking great care to get this one right, so much care, that he won’t move out of his rent controlled apartment in a dilapidated building. The landlord, desperate to demolish the building so the site can be redeveloped, is offering Lesser, the lat remaining occupant of the building, big bucks to get the hell out. But Lesser won’t go. He fears such a disruption in his routing will throw his writing off the track. And as a rent controlled tenant, Lesser can’t be forced to move.
Suddenly, Lesser hears the sound of typing coming from another part of the building. It turns out another struggling writer, Willie, has squatted in a vacant apartment to finish his first book.
Harry and Willie ought to become best buds, or at least artistic comrades, so one would think. But not exactly. Harry is a white Jew. Willie is an angry black. And it’s the time in New York’s history just after controversy in Brooklyn’s Ocean Hill-Brownsville school district cause blacks and Jews, formerly political allies (an alliance of the oppressed), to turn against one another as they aligned, respectively, with the teaching union (where Jews were prominent) and activists seeking community control over the school district dominated by black families and students. ((Nothin about Ocean Hill-Brownsville is explicitly referred to in Malamud’s book; it’s part of the unspoken backdrop — which may be a negative for readers who don’t know about it.)
Harry and Willie sort of play out this drama. They want each other’s support and value one another’s opinion (they are, after all, struggling writers), but they resent the hell out of and in a way despise one another. Willie knows Harry can provide helpful feedback given that he is a more “successful” (at least compared to Willie) author. But Harry is not impressed with Willie’s work, a bunch of angry-black ranting. Willie is torn. He knows he needs Harry’s help, but he is unwilling to accept feedback because Harry truly doesn’t and can’t understand the black experience. A love triangle, when Harry moves in on Willie’s ex (?) on-again off-again girlfriend. And now, the shit-show accelerates.
In one sense, the Ocean Hill-Brownsville backdrop is really critical and almost makes the book dated, given how long ago that was. But unless on has a dog in that old fight, one might not know that the battle never really ended. The school politics evolved and settled into various new normals, as always happens. But the Black-Jewish tensions never really ended. Although segments of each community seem to have moved on, large and growing portions of each side continue to play out the drama to this day and over a wider range of scenarios, right through the Crown Heights riots of the early 1990s, which largely killed off the political career of David Dinkins, New York City’s first black mayor and ushered in the Giuliani era to the split in today’s democratic party that is making US Mideast policy increasingly challenging and even over to the Middle East itself where Palestinians (subbing in for New York blacks) and right wing Jews have been literally battling in the streets.
Seeing how far the basic controversy has evolved over the decades, it’s probably worthwhile to revisit this work, form its earliest days, and possible understand what, exactly, is going on. A lot of contemporary connections to and evolutions from Ocean Hill-Brownsville fights have been badly under-covered by a media, that a media that seems afraid to address these sensitive topics. (Had the Founding Fathers envisioned social media pressure of the future, they’d have probably skipped the First Amendment reasoning that commentators of the future will be too fearful and squeamish to take advantage of it. So I suppose my annoying radical right ultra orthodox Jewish relatives are good for something — expanding my awareness of otherwise obscure things.) This is a book that’s far more relevant today than many realize. That said, I do drop one star due to Malamud’s sometimes irritating tendency to get a bit too artsy in the writing.
Suddenly, Lesser hears the sound of typing coming from another part of the building. It turns out another struggling writer, Willie, has squatted in a vacant apartment to finish his first book.
Harry and Willie ought to become best buds, or at least artistic comrades, so one would think. But not exactly. Harry is a white Jew. Willie is an angry black. And it’s the time in New York’s history just after controversy in Brooklyn’s Ocean Hill-Brownsville school district cause blacks and Jews, formerly political allies (an alliance of the oppressed), to turn against one another as they aligned, respectively, with the teaching union (where Jews were prominent) and activists seeking community control over the school district dominated by black families and students. ((Nothin about Ocean Hill-Brownsville is explicitly referred to in Malamud’s book; it’s part of the unspoken backdrop — which may be a negative for readers who don’t know about it.)
Harry and Willie sort of play out this drama. They want each other’s support and value one another’s opinion (they are, after all, struggling writers), but they resent the hell out of and in a way despise one another. Willie knows Harry can provide helpful feedback given that he is a more “successful” (at least compared to Willie) author. But Harry is not impressed with Willie’s work, a bunch of angry-black ranting. Willie is torn. He knows he needs Harry’s help, but he is unwilling to accept feedback because Harry truly doesn’t and can’t understand the black experience. A love triangle, when Harry moves in on Willie’s ex (?) on-again off-again girlfriend. And now, the shit-show accelerates.
In one sense, the Ocean Hill-Brownsville backdrop is really critical and almost makes the book dated, given how long ago that was. But unless on has a dog in that old fight, one might not know that the battle never really ended. The school politics evolved and settled into various new normals, as always happens. But the Black-Jewish tensions never really ended. Although segments of each community seem to have moved on, large and growing portions of each side continue to play out the drama to this day and over a wider range of scenarios, right through the Crown Heights riots of the early 1990s, which largely killed off the political career of David Dinkins, New York City’s first black mayor and ushered in the Giuliani era to the split in today’s democratic party that is making US Mideast policy increasingly challenging and even over to the Middle East itself where Palestinians (subbing in for New York blacks) and right wing Jews have been literally battling in the streets.
Seeing how far the basic controversy has evolved over the decades, it’s probably worthwhile to revisit this work, form its earliest days, and possible understand what, exactly, is going on. A lot of contemporary connections to and evolutions from Ocean Hill-Brownsville fights have been badly under-covered by a media, that a media that seems afraid to address these sensitive topics. (Had the Founding Fathers envisioned social media pressure of the future, they’d have probably skipped the First Amendment reasoning that commentators of the future will be too fearful and squeamish to take advantage of it. So I suppose my annoying radical right ultra orthodox Jewish relatives are good for something — expanding my awareness of otherwise obscure things.) This is a book that’s far more relevant today than many realize. That said, I do drop one star due to Malamud’s sometimes irritating tendency to get a bit too artsy in the writing.
November 22, 2012
Publicado en http://lecturaylocura.com/los-inquili...
Ya hablé de Bernard Malamud en esta reseña de otra novela suya. En este caso, y gracias a la misma editorial podemos gozar nuevamente de otra muestra de su buen hacer; la sencillez argumental de la novela “Los inquilinos” esconde sin embargo una complejidad de forma y fondo con una serie de ideas que subyacen desde el principio y que vertebran el texto que nos ofreció el escritor en las apenas doscientas páginas de las que consta.
De entre estas ideas, me gustaría poner énfasis en los siguientes temas:
-El evidente, aunque no menos importante, conflicto racial; latente a lo largo de todo el texto. En este caso el protagonista Harry Lesser es judío y Willie Spearmint es negro, representan facciones alejadas de “la mayoría” y que se resisten a ser desahuciados, que luchan contra una sociedad, encarnada en el casero Levenspiel, que les quiere echar de donde viven. Willie ejemplifica en primera persona esto:
“¡Oh, qué imbécil hipócrita soy de pedir a un judío blanco que me aconseje cómo debo expresar mi alma negra! Solo con leerlo estropeas lo que escribo”
-Si no fuera porque sé que estaba leyendo a Malamud, en algunos momentos, por tratar la supremacía negra, nuevas formas literarias que la reflejen, etc… habría pensado que era Leroi Jones más conocido Amiri Baraka (1934) el que estaba haciéndolo. Baraka siempre ha tenido mucha controversia, sólo tenemos que observar el ensayo que escribió en 1965 (antes de la publicación de “Los inquilinos”):
“Most American white men are trained to be fags. For this reason it is no wonder their faces are weak and blank. …The average ofay [white person] thinks of the black man as potentially raping every white lady in sight. Which is true, in the sense that the black man should want to rob the white man of everything he has. But for most whites the guilt of the robbery is the guilt of rape. That is, they know in their deepest hearts that they should be robbed, and the white woman understands that only in the rape sequence is she likely to get cleanly, viciously popped”
Este polémico escritor, ensayista y poeta, seguidor de Malcolm X, buscaba la supremacía negra sobre la blanca y para ellos lo tenía que ser igualmente en el arte, y más concretamente en la literatura, buscando su identidad, lo característico de la raza en forma y fondo; podemos ver en los siguientes textos cómo Malamud plantea en estos términos el personaje de Willie:
“Willie ríe, grita y baila en su celda. Pide papel y lápiz, se lo dan, y se sienta a la mesa. Escribe cuál es el verdadero espanto de la vida. Escribe llorando. “Lloro por mi maldita madre y por todos los negros sobre los que escribo, incluido yo mismo.” Ama las palabras que traza en el papel; de ellas nace la gente negra. Ama la manera de ser de esa gente, sus voces y su ingenio. Willie se exalta cuando escribe, este es el más dulce de los placeres. [...] Juro a mí mismo que seré el mejor escritor, el mejor escritor soul”
“Ningún blanco hijo de mala madre puede ponerse en mi lugar. Estamos hablando de un libro negro que tú no entiendes para nada. La narrativa blanca no es como la narrativa negra. No puede serlo [...] Yo escribo literatura soul sobre la gente negra que grita que aún somos esclavos en este jodido país y que no estamos dispuestos a seguir siéndolo. ¿Cómo puedes entenderlo, Lesser, si tus sesos son blancos?”
Y para ello es capaz incluso, de realizar un ejercicio de estilo literario donde plantea nuevas formas que intentan adaptarse a la forma de escribir que debería ser llamada narrativa negra, los experimentos se suceden a lo largo de la novela; pongo el más evidente, la poesía:
“El blanco no tiene esplendor,
no hay luz para el blanco;
el negro resplandece de verdad,
tiene luz dentro.
Te quiero.
Mujer Negra.
Tócame
por amor,
hazme
TODO NEGRO”
-Una vez dejadas de lado estas discusiones también podemos observar las reflexiones del autor con respecto al proceso de creación literaria, más limpio en el caso del judío, más caótico en el caso del de color, pero en este caso igual de inefectivos ambos ya que no consiguen acabar sus libros, el caso de Lesser es muy ilustrativo:
“Lesser es un hombre de costumbres, de orden, de trabajo constante y disciplinado. La costumbre y el orden llenan las páginas una a una. La inspiración es costumbre, orden; las ideas nacen, se formulan, se forman. Está decidido a terminar su libro donde lo empezó, donde creó su historia, donde todavía vive.”
-No me gustaría terminar sin otro paralelismo que podría ser el eje de fondo; y tiene que ver con Melville y la obsesión del capitán Ahab con “Moby Dick”, aquí extrapolada a la de Harry con la creación de su libro (que podría llevarse igualmente a Willie), que supedita su vida, su búsqueda, evidente, del Amor, que le completará y le hará disfrutar de su vida.
“Falta algo esencial que me costará tiempo encontrar. Pero estoy ya cerca, lo siento en la sangre. Estoy avanzando por un misterio hacia la revelación. Con eso quiero decir que lo que me preocupa está en los confines de la conciencia. Mía y del libro. [...] Si no escribo eta novela exactamente tal como debo, si, Dios no lo quiera, tengo que forzarla o falsearla, entonces esos nueve años y medio serán inútiles y yo también lo seré. Después de esa locura ¿qué otra cosa podría esperar de mí mismo?”
Está contraposición constante de dos personajes que guardan algo tan importante en común se agudiza en un final cargado de violencia, crudo, extremo, sin solución ante el que Levenspiel sólo puede pedir:
“Piedad, vosotros dos, por amor de Dios, llora Levenspiel. Hab Rachmones, os lo suplico. Tened piedad de mí. Piedad piedad…”
Una gran novela, con muchas capas que quitar para disfrutar en todo momento, con muchos textos dentro de otros, amarga y dolorosa; al mismo tiempo inspiradora y reflexiva.
Ya hablé de Bernard Malamud en esta reseña de otra novela suya. En este caso, y gracias a la misma editorial podemos gozar nuevamente de otra muestra de su buen hacer; la sencillez argumental de la novela “Los inquilinos” esconde sin embargo una complejidad de forma y fondo con una serie de ideas que subyacen desde el principio y que vertebran el texto que nos ofreció el escritor en las apenas doscientas páginas de las que consta.
De entre estas ideas, me gustaría poner énfasis en los siguientes temas:
-El evidente, aunque no menos importante, conflicto racial; latente a lo largo de todo el texto. En este caso el protagonista Harry Lesser es judío y Willie Spearmint es negro, representan facciones alejadas de “la mayoría” y que se resisten a ser desahuciados, que luchan contra una sociedad, encarnada en el casero Levenspiel, que les quiere echar de donde viven. Willie ejemplifica en primera persona esto:
“¡Oh, qué imbécil hipócrita soy de pedir a un judío blanco que me aconseje cómo debo expresar mi alma negra! Solo con leerlo estropeas lo que escribo”
-Si no fuera porque sé que estaba leyendo a Malamud, en algunos momentos, por tratar la supremacía negra, nuevas formas literarias que la reflejen, etc… habría pensado que era Leroi Jones más conocido Amiri Baraka (1934) el que estaba haciéndolo. Baraka siempre ha tenido mucha controversia, sólo tenemos que observar el ensayo que escribió en 1965 (antes de la publicación de “Los inquilinos”):
“Most American white men are trained to be fags. For this reason it is no wonder their faces are weak and blank. …The average ofay [white person] thinks of the black man as potentially raping every white lady in sight. Which is true, in the sense that the black man should want to rob the white man of everything he has. But for most whites the guilt of the robbery is the guilt of rape. That is, they know in their deepest hearts that they should be robbed, and the white woman understands that only in the rape sequence is she likely to get cleanly, viciously popped”
Este polémico escritor, ensayista y poeta, seguidor de Malcolm X, buscaba la supremacía negra sobre la blanca y para ellos lo tenía que ser igualmente en el arte, y más concretamente en la literatura, buscando su identidad, lo característico de la raza en forma y fondo; podemos ver en los siguientes textos cómo Malamud plantea en estos términos el personaje de Willie:
“Willie ríe, grita y baila en su celda. Pide papel y lápiz, se lo dan, y se sienta a la mesa. Escribe cuál es el verdadero espanto de la vida. Escribe llorando. “Lloro por mi maldita madre y por todos los negros sobre los que escribo, incluido yo mismo.” Ama las palabras que traza en el papel; de ellas nace la gente negra. Ama la manera de ser de esa gente, sus voces y su ingenio. Willie se exalta cuando escribe, este es el más dulce de los placeres. [...] Juro a mí mismo que seré el mejor escritor, el mejor escritor soul”
“Ningún blanco hijo de mala madre puede ponerse en mi lugar. Estamos hablando de un libro negro que tú no entiendes para nada. La narrativa blanca no es como la narrativa negra. No puede serlo [...] Yo escribo literatura soul sobre la gente negra que grita que aún somos esclavos en este jodido país y que no estamos dispuestos a seguir siéndolo. ¿Cómo puedes entenderlo, Lesser, si tus sesos son blancos?”
Y para ello es capaz incluso, de realizar un ejercicio de estilo literario donde plantea nuevas formas que intentan adaptarse a la forma de escribir que debería ser llamada narrativa negra, los experimentos se suceden a lo largo de la novela; pongo el más evidente, la poesía:
“El blanco no tiene esplendor,
no hay luz para el blanco;
el negro resplandece de verdad,
tiene luz dentro.
Te quiero.
Mujer Negra.
Tócame
por amor,
hazme
TODO NEGRO”
-Una vez dejadas de lado estas discusiones también podemos observar las reflexiones del autor con respecto al proceso de creación literaria, más limpio en el caso del judío, más caótico en el caso del de color, pero en este caso igual de inefectivos ambos ya que no consiguen acabar sus libros, el caso de Lesser es muy ilustrativo:
“Lesser es un hombre de costumbres, de orden, de trabajo constante y disciplinado. La costumbre y el orden llenan las páginas una a una. La inspiración es costumbre, orden; las ideas nacen, se formulan, se forman. Está decidido a terminar su libro donde lo empezó, donde creó su historia, donde todavía vive.”
-No me gustaría terminar sin otro paralelismo que podría ser el eje de fondo; y tiene que ver con Melville y la obsesión del capitán Ahab con “Moby Dick”, aquí extrapolada a la de Harry con la creación de su libro (que podría llevarse igualmente a Willie), que supedita su vida, su búsqueda, evidente, del Amor, que le completará y le hará disfrutar de su vida.
“Falta algo esencial que me costará tiempo encontrar. Pero estoy ya cerca, lo siento en la sangre. Estoy avanzando por un misterio hacia la revelación. Con eso quiero decir que lo que me preocupa está en los confines de la conciencia. Mía y del libro. [...] Si no escribo eta novela exactamente tal como debo, si, Dios no lo quiera, tengo que forzarla o falsearla, entonces esos nueve años y medio serán inútiles y yo también lo seré. Después de esa locura ¿qué otra cosa podría esperar de mí mismo?”
Está contraposición constante de dos personajes que guardan algo tan importante en común se agudiza en un final cargado de violencia, crudo, extremo, sin solución ante el que Levenspiel sólo puede pedir:
“Piedad, vosotros dos, por amor de Dios, llora Levenspiel. Hab Rachmones, os lo suplico. Tened piedad de mí. Piedad piedad…”
Una gran novela, con muchas capas que quitar para disfrutar en todo momento, con muchos textos dentro de otros, amarga y dolorosa; al mismo tiempo inspiradora y reflexiva.
November 22, 2025
A novel about two writers and the frustrations they undergo in writing their novels. Harry Lesser, a white Jew, has been working on his third book for ten years. He lives alone in a fetid abandoned slum tenement, living like a pauper. His first book had been quite successful. Willie Spearmint moves in to the tenement. Willie is black, a self styled Soul Writer. Lesser falls in love with Irene, Willie’s white girlfriend. Willie had disappeared, destroying his own work to begin again. Lesser and Willie offer criticism of each other’s writing.
Things fracture when Lesser tells Willie that Irene is now Lesser’s girlfriend and that they plan to marry.
A short novel with interesting characters and good plot momentum.
This book was first published in 1971.
Things fracture when Lesser tells Willie that Irene is now Lesser’s girlfriend and that they plan to marry.
A short novel with interesting characters and good plot momentum.
This book was first published in 1971.
May 8, 2021
فکر میکردم فقط خودم نتونستم با اخر کتاب ارتباط برقرار کنم ولی چندتا از نظرات کسایی که کتاب خارجیشو خوندن هم دیدم اونا هم همینطور بودن اکثرا، با توجه به این ترجمه ای که خوندم که خیلی از ترجمه راضی نبودم ولی کلا فضای کلی کتاب سوررئال بود که خب لذت بردم و خیلی جاهاش گیج کننده بود یعنی مثه یه فیلمی بود که هی میبردت توی تخیلات کرکتر بعد یه دفعه میاوردت بیرون تو باید حدس بزنی کجاش واقعیه کجاش نیست و این تکنیک رو دیگه یه جاهایی بیش از حد به کار برد. توقع داشتم اخرشو خوب تموم کنه یعنی وقتی اخرشو خوندم اول واکنشم این بود "الان چیشد؟" بعد به خودم اومدم گفتم "پس فاز متمدنانتون کجا رفت؟" میتونست یه اثر معرکه ی سوررئال باشه ولی نمیدونم واقعا... به نظرم اگه یه اثری میخواید که کمی اجتماعی، کمی دارک، کمی زندگی رو به تصویر بکشه رمان جالبیه اما خیلی پیشنهاد نمیکنم بیشتر برای کسایی که نویسنده هستن یا به نویسنده ها و افکارشون علاقه دارن پیشنهاد میکنم.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
February 6, 2023
rasizam
July 16, 2022
Still enjoyed
March 10, 2018
Bernard Malamud's The Tenants, published in 1971, is the fraught story of the novelist Harry Lesser, last remaining tenant of a dilapidated New York apartment building. His landlord wants to demolish the old and get on with building something new, but Harry is exercising his statutory rights as a tenant and can't, under the law, be evicted. Harry is in the final stages of writing a novel and, fearing the disruptive effects that packing up and moving will have on his creative process, has decided to stay where the work was conceived until it is completed, ignoring his landlord's mounting desperation and not-so-subtle campaign of harassment, and resisting steadily increasing offers of cash to get the hell out. Harry, alone in a building with thirty rental units, discovers one day that he is not alone, that another writer is using one of the vacant apartments for creative purposes. Willie Spearmint, a young black man with a chip on his shoulder and the spirit and anger to back it up, is writing a work about the Black experience in America. The two meet and start talking about creativity and the art of writing. Unavoidably, they are drawn into each other’s lives, and it is at this point that Harry's fate is sealed, because Willie asks him to read his work and comment on it. The clash that ensues is one that goes far beyond different approaches to writing. Harry preaches form and structure to a young man whose world has no use for either, and the result is a schism that attains its pinnacle when Harry falls in love with Willie's white girlfriend Irene, ultimately stealing her away from the other man. Malamud's tale of conflicting desires and irreconcilable cultural differences is a thinly veiled allegory that draws inspiration from the racial tensions of the late 1960s. The war between Harry Lesser and Willie Spearmint is about more than a woman, or words and how to get them down on paper, and eventually explodes into violence and vindictiveness. The Tenants is not among Malamud’s best works, though it might be his bravest and most audacious. Some of the action is forced and the reader loses patience with Harry when his insistence that he must stay in a building that is falling to pieces around him begins to seem unreasonable. But the power of the book is undeniable. In 1971 Malamud is suggesting that if we don’t quickly curb our passions and behave rationally, we will one day wake up to a reality where the success of one race will depend upon the failure of the other. When that happens can the destruction of our civilization be far behind? It is amazing and disconcerting to see that this story remains as relevant in 2013 as the day it was published.
February 16, 2013
My God, that was a good book! I bought an old edition of Malamud's "The Tenants" at a used book sale a year ago because I am familiar with and like his work and have taught some of his short stories in my introductory literature courses. But none of my previous knowledge about Malamud's work prepared me for this edgy and disturbing masterpiece. The novel is set in the late 1960s, early 1970s in a borough of New York City in a run-down tenement building, and when we arrive in this world it is the dead of winter (give me urban decay and a winter setting during a time before computers and the internet, and I am instantly fascinated). The protagonist, Harry Lesser, is a struggling Jewish writer of some past successes and is the last tenant to move out of the building, a hanger on who insists that he just needs to stay until he finishes writing his third novel. Enter antagonist Willie Spearmint (pen name, Bill Spear), an African American writer who squats in the room across the hall with an old typewriter and a dream of becoming the next Black Arts success and his off-Broadway actress girlfriend, Irene (white and Jewish), and the plot thickens. This story is uncomfortable, nail-bitingly suspenseful, unsettling, disturbing, and at times offensive--all of the things a good book should be--but you will come away from it with a sense of wonder and terror about what human beings driven by love and the burning desire to create art are capable of. This is a story of love and friendship complicated by racial tension and betrayal. It's definitely worth reading because Malamud's writing style is sharp, clean, direct, and beautiful from beginning to end, and his story fulfills Franz Kafka's belief that "A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us."
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