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Once Again for Thucydides
Once Again for Thucydides is a collection of seventeen micro-epics written on trips around the world. In each brief journal entry, Handke concentrates on small things he observes, trying to capture their essence, their simple, unadorned validity. What results is a work or remarkable precision, in which he uncovers the general appearance of random objects and discovers their inner working and mystery.
102 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1990
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149 people want to read
About the author
Peter Handke
319 books1,134 followersPeter Handke (* 6. Dezember 1942 in Griffen, Kärnten) ist ein österreichischer Schriftsteller und Übersetzer.
Peter Handke is an Avant-garde Austrian novelist and playwright. His body of work has been awarded numerous literary prizes, including the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2019. He has also collaborated with German director Wim Wenders, writing the script for The Wrong Move and co-writing the screenplay for Wings of Desire.
Peter Handke is an Avant-garde Austrian novelist and playwright. His body of work has been awarded numerous literary prizes, including the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2019. He has also collaborated with German director Wim Wenders, writing the script for The Wrong Move and co-writing the screenplay for Wings of Desire.
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January 5, 2022
Treba oprezno sa oduševljenjem. Zna da vara. Ali ovaj put mislim da je sasvim na mestu.
Ovo su besprekorno delikatni zapisi, fascinantno tanani. Uopšte, teško je i objasniti šta se ovde zaista dešava – ne sa stanovišta radnje, jer, jasno je – u pitanju su, opet, Handkeovi zapisi sa puta, već šta se zbiva u posmatranju i njegovom predočavanju. Dogodilo se tu neko tajanstveno saglasje, pobednički dirljivo uosećavanje sa svetom, koje čuva veru u nevinost pogleda. Najveća je tu mistika nemistična, ostvariva u neposrednosti između čoveka, kroz osećaj trenutka i prisustva u trenutku. Bilo da piše lirsku studiju o svetlucavosti pahuljica, majušnu epopeju o svicima, ili razmatranja o sudbini jednog jasena u Minhenu, Handke nastupa kao jedan od retkih čuvara sveta. Bez falširanja, podvlađivanja čitaocima i nakinđurenosti, uspeva da dočarava neverovatne prelaze – slike se pretaču u dešavanje i postaju u svojoj deskriptivnosti uzbudljivije od marševa akcionih scena. Stoga, na primer i otapanje leda može biti prava čulna avantura, gde se krajnje precizno, i još više osećajno, udomljavaju narativna šetanja u prelazima. To je krajnji domet proze hodanja – paukova mreža koja sve sa svime povezuje. Kao što bih ja sad povezao Handkeov sjajni opis oluje – bluz grmljavine – sa onim koji možemo pročitati u „Ljudi govore” Rastka Petrovića. Sjajne su te analogije, dragocene i uzbudljive. I Handke i Rastko pokušavaju da pronađu sasvim osobenu, neantropocentirčnu perspektivu, da posredstvom književnosti kao jedinstvenog oblika formulisanja ljudskog iskustva dođu do onoga što je van tog iskustva. Uspelost tog poduhvata i njegova inspirativna nezavršivost nalazi se u nerazmrsivosti granice između sfere prirode i sfere kulture. Koračanje po tim nepokorivim vrletima jeste suštinski važno, a prava univerzalna perspektiva je samo ona koja se nalazi na samom rubu, kad se nanosi svakodnevice svedu samo na ono što je elementarno, tamo gde sve suvišnosti nestaju, a zaleđeno more puca.
Ovo su besprekorno delikatni zapisi, fascinantno tanani. Uopšte, teško je i objasniti šta se ovde zaista dešava – ne sa stanovišta radnje, jer, jasno je – u pitanju su, opet, Handkeovi zapisi sa puta, već šta se zbiva u posmatranju i njegovom predočavanju. Dogodilo se tu neko tajanstveno saglasje, pobednički dirljivo uosećavanje sa svetom, koje čuva veru u nevinost pogleda. Najveća je tu mistika nemistična, ostvariva u neposrednosti između čoveka, kroz osećaj trenutka i prisustva u trenutku. Bilo da piše lirsku studiju o svetlucavosti pahuljica, majušnu epopeju o svicima, ili razmatranja o sudbini jednog jasena u Minhenu, Handke nastupa kao jedan od retkih čuvara sveta. Bez falširanja, podvlađivanja čitaocima i nakinđurenosti, uspeva da dočarava neverovatne prelaze – slike se pretaču u dešavanje i postaju u svojoj deskriptivnosti uzbudljivije od marševa akcionih scena. Stoga, na primer i otapanje leda može biti prava čulna avantura, gde se krajnje precizno, i još više osećajno, udomljavaju narativna šetanja u prelazima. To je krajnji domet proze hodanja – paukova mreža koja sve sa svime povezuje. Kao što bih ja sad povezao Handkeov sjajni opis oluje – bluz grmljavine – sa onim koji možemo pročitati u „Ljudi govore” Rastka Petrovića. Sjajne su te analogije, dragocene i uzbudljive. I Handke i Rastko pokušavaju da pronađu sasvim osobenu, neantropocentirčnu perspektivu, da posredstvom književnosti kao jedinstvenog oblika formulisanja ljudskog iskustva dođu do onoga što je van tog iskustva. Uspelost tog poduhvata i njegova inspirativna nezavršivost nalazi se u nerazmrsivosti granice između sfere prirode i sfere kulture. Koračanje po tim nepokorivim vrletima jeste suštinski važno, a prava univerzalna perspektiva je samo ona koja se nalazi na samom rubu, kad se nanosi svakodnevice svedu samo na ono što je elementarno, tamo gde sve suvišnosti nestaju, a zaleđeno more puca.
January 23, 2019
Sometimes when I ride my bike in the grass, on the road or on the sidewalk, I wonder how many ants and other tiny life forms I'm killing and maiming, and it disturbs me. I think I'm being green and earth-friendly by this mode of transportation, yet I am probably responsible for genocide on a massive scale in the micro universe.
Reading Peter Handke's "mini epics" in Once Again for Thucydides put me to mind of this personal observation because the 17 short pieces in this book attempt to isolate, coolly observe and describe rituals and everyday phenomena of the human and wider natural order that are typically ignored or unobserved by otherwise distracted humans.
Handke essentially attempts to turn pictures into a thousand words as he contemplates the ostensibly ordinary on travels mostly through Europe and Asia in the late 1980s: the loading of a cargo ship in Dubrovnik, formations of pigeons and the artistic flourishes of a shoeshine man in Croatia, distant thunderstorms on a Yugoslav isle, the falling of snow on Hokkaido in Japan, a Greek man's futility in trying to capture his escaped parakeet, an inexplicable procession of citizens in a Macedonian town, a Catholic oil ceremony in Spain, a luminous night of glowworms in Italy, a thawing stream in the Pyrenees, the movement of cloud formations around a mountain near Salzburg, impressions about a beloved ash tree in the center of Munich, the barren aftermath of a French forest fire, etc.
The universality of the things observed make the actual locales themselves somewhat anonymous. These are mostly things that could take place anywhere. It turns the idea of travel diary on its head a bit.
I had mixed feelings reading this collection. An essential question that nagged me was whether Handke, by taking a microscope to typically ignored actions and things (such as the loading of a cargo ship), succeeds in making these things any more interesting or any less boring. Another basic question I pondered was: Just because someone writes something and writes it well, does that mean it's a worthwhile endeavor to read it?
These concerns arose partly because I couldn't decide if Handke's observations were clinical, poetic, or philosophical. I hardly detected much attempt by Handke to overlay much philosophic meat on the scenes he described, and yet, there is a certain wisdom and interpretive POV inherent in the way he describes things.
I wondered what the tie exactly is supposed to be to the historian Thucydides. If Thucydides' histories were like Peter Handke's diarist essays we might know a lot about how people milked their cows in ancient Greece but not a whole hell of a lot about the Peloponnesian War.
Needless to say, the glum Austrian Mr. Handke is not a laugh riot, and what philosophic pondering there is to be done is mostly left to the reader.
There are themes to be gleaned from all of this; about how one travels life's path, for instance, and about how the markings of those paths are as impermanent as we are.
If there is any tie to Thucydides at all, it might be the fact that little has really changed about the basic human condition since the days of the Greek historian. People go about their jobs and travels, and nature's cycles continue as always. All of this might be interesting to read about and contemplate if not for the fact that it has all been written about and contemplated in far more compelling and thought-provoking fashion by scads of other writers. There's nothing new to the mix here to make this book memorable.
The text could have added value as a teaching tool for showing students how to pen basic, minimalist descriptive word pictures.
There were a few times while reading this that I was put to mind of Chris Marker's masterful 1983 essay art film, Sans Soleil, especially in the way Handke used image memories from previously visited places to comment on observations of the place being visited in the here and now.
Reading this, I wasn't requiring or expecting a narrative skeleton for these observations, but I think I would have liked a little more philosophical meat. As it stands, it's a sparse diary, an exercise, more academic than heartfelt. Maybe this is the way Handke always is. More readings will tell. This is my first encounter with him, and, I suspect, possibly not the best place to start.
If there are deeper meanings in these "stories"--for lack of a better word--I'm missing them, clearly.
Maybe next time Handke could write observations about things seen, or unseen, while riding a bike. But he can't have my first paragraph. That's mine.
Reading Peter Handke's "mini epics" in Once Again for Thucydides put me to mind of this personal observation because the 17 short pieces in this book attempt to isolate, coolly observe and describe rituals and everyday phenomena of the human and wider natural order that are typically ignored or unobserved by otherwise distracted humans.
Handke essentially attempts to turn pictures into a thousand words as he contemplates the ostensibly ordinary on travels mostly through Europe and Asia in the late 1980s: the loading of a cargo ship in Dubrovnik, formations of pigeons and the artistic flourishes of a shoeshine man in Croatia, distant thunderstorms on a Yugoslav isle, the falling of snow on Hokkaido in Japan, a Greek man's futility in trying to capture his escaped parakeet, an inexplicable procession of citizens in a Macedonian town, a Catholic oil ceremony in Spain, a luminous night of glowworms in Italy, a thawing stream in the Pyrenees, the movement of cloud formations around a mountain near Salzburg, impressions about a beloved ash tree in the center of Munich, the barren aftermath of a French forest fire, etc.
The universality of the things observed make the actual locales themselves somewhat anonymous. These are mostly things that could take place anywhere. It turns the idea of travel diary on its head a bit.
I had mixed feelings reading this collection. An essential question that nagged me was whether Handke, by taking a microscope to typically ignored actions and things (such as the loading of a cargo ship), succeeds in making these things any more interesting or any less boring. Another basic question I pondered was: Just because someone writes something and writes it well, does that mean it's a worthwhile endeavor to read it?
These concerns arose partly because I couldn't decide if Handke's observations were clinical, poetic, or philosophical. I hardly detected much attempt by Handke to overlay much philosophic meat on the scenes he described, and yet, there is a certain wisdom and interpretive POV inherent in the way he describes things.
I wondered what the tie exactly is supposed to be to the historian Thucydides. If Thucydides' histories were like Peter Handke's diarist essays we might know a lot about how people milked their cows in ancient Greece but not a whole hell of a lot about the Peloponnesian War.
Needless to say, the glum Austrian Mr. Handke is not a laugh riot, and what philosophic pondering there is to be done is mostly left to the reader.
There are themes to be gleaned from all of this; about how one travels life's path, for instance, and about how the markings of those paths are as impermanent as we are.
If there is any tie to Thucydides at all, it might be the fact that little has really changed about the basic human condition since the days of the Greek historian. People go about their jobs and travels, and nature's cycles continue as always. All of this might be interesting to read about and contemplate if not for the fact that it has all been written about and contemplated in far more compelling and thought-provoking fashion by scads of other writers. There's nothing new to the mix here to make this book memorable.
The text could have added value as a teaching tool for showing students how to pen basic, minimalist descriptive word pictures.
There were a few times while reading this that I was put to mind of Chris Marker's masterful 1983 essay art film, Sans Soleil, especially in the way Handke used image memories from previously visited places to comment on observations of the place being visited in the here and now.
Reading this, I wasn't requiring or expecting a narrative skeleton for these observations, but I think I would have liked a little more philosophical meat. As it stands, it's a sparse diary, an exercise, more academic than heartfelt. Maybe this is the way Handke always is. More readings will tell. This is my first encounter with him, and, I suspect, possibly not the best place to start.
If there are deeper meanings in these "stories"--for lack of a better word--I'm missing them, clearly.
Maybe next time Handke could write observations about things seen, or unseen, while riding a bike. But he can't have my first paragraph. That's mine.
October 30, 2019
Aparentemente se trata de un libro de viajes, 17 cuadros que describen otros tantos momentos vividos en la antigua Yugoslavia, España o el norte de Italia. Pero realmente estas descripciones no son impresiones del viajero sino del observador, del escritor abierto a la epifanía de la caída de la nieve o el vuelo de las golondrinas y los murciélagos a cierta hora del atardecer. La trascendencia del instante aparentemente tranquilo, anodino, es la del xonfscfi con la naturaleza, con los desconocidos o con el pasado, pero sobre todo es lograda gracias a una capacidad descriptiva virtuosa.
December 13, 2022
JOŠ JEDANPUT ZA TUKIDIDA-PETER HANDKE
✒️"Oduvek sam želeo da u potpunosti doživim onaj čadak u predvečerje između poslednje lastavice na nebu i prvog slepog miša-da imam oko baš za taj trenutak. A bar jedanput sam poželeo da slepog miša vidim kako se pojavljuje upravo kao prvi slepi miš večeri,baš kao i prvu zvezdu u trenutku njenog zasijavanja. Taj tren prvog slepog miša,baš kao i prve zvezde,svaki put sam propustio:kako je zvezda nenadno tu stajala još od pamtiveka,tako je i više tih letača sutona odmah nenadno krstarilo između lastavica,čak i kada sam često već sat pre zalaska sunca bio na njih usredsređen."
🚶Handke mi je najbolji kad ne pokušava da napiše roman i da vodi naraciju.
🚶Ovde imamo sedamnaest poetskih slika iz sedamnaest mesta na planeti(na koricama je mapa). Jedna lirska šetnja kroz predele,boje,mirise i zvukove. Od svitaca i ptica,preko snega i oblaka pa do drveta i planina. Bogato metaforama,živopisno,skoro opipljovo. Poput sedamnaest kratkih predaha. Odnosno šesnaest.
🚶Poslednja slika je u požaru uništena planina Saint-Victoire. Pošto mi je prvi susret s Handkeom bila upravo jedna kratka lirska šetnja predelima koje je slikao Pol Sezan(Handke-Pouka Planine Saint-Victoire)-nije mi se svidela nova slika. Ne kažem da nije dobro napisana,kažem nije mi se svidelo to što je opisano.
🚶Kad bih ocenjivala eto,ocena bi bila 16/17🤷♀️
#7sensesofabook #bookstagram #readingaddict #knjige #literature
✒️"Oduvek sam želeo da u potpunosti doživim onaj čadak u predvečerje između poslednje lastavice na nebu i prvog slepog miša-da imam oko baš za taj trenutak. A bar jedanput sam poželeo da slepog miša vidim kako se pojavljuje upravo kao prvi slepi miš večeri,baš kao i prvu zvezdu u trenutku njenog zasijavanja. Taj tren prvog slepog miša,baš kao i prve zvezde,svaki put sam propustio:kako je zvezda nenadno tu stajala još od pamtiveka,tako je i više tih letača sutona odmah nenadno krstarilo između lastavica,čak i kada sam često već sat pre zalaska sunca bio na njih usredsređen."
🚶Handke mi je najbolji kad ne pokušava da napiše roman i da vodi naraciju.
🚶Ovde imamo sedamnaest poetskih slika iz sedamnaest mesta na planeti(na koricama je mapa). Jedna lirska šetnja kroz predele,boje,mirise i zvukove. Od svitaca i ptica,preko snega i oblaka pa do drveta i planina. Bogato metaforama,živopisno,skoro opipljovo. Poput sedamnaest kratkih predaha. Odnosno šesnaest.
🚶Poslednja slika je u požaru uništena planina Saint-Victoire. Pošto mi je prvi susret s Handkeom bila upravo jedna kratka lirska šetnja predelima koje je slikao Pol Sezan(Handke-Pouka Planine Saint-Victoire)-nije mi se svidela nova slika. Ne kažem da nije dobro napisana,kažem nije mi se svidelo to što je opisano.
🚶Kad bih ocenjivala eto,ocena bi bila 16/17🤷♀️
#7sensesofabook #bookstagram #readingaddict #knjige #literature
April 22, 2022
Sono brevi emissioni di parole vive e accecanti quelle scritte da Handke, accompagnano lampi scenografici di paesaggi. Introspezioni guidate dalla natura, forza generatrice che plasma la realtà in cui siamo immersi e verso cui spesso esercitiamo l’ignoranza.
La Madre è guida suprema del nostro cammino, scenografia del pellegrinaggio su questa Terra. Siamo immersi nel movimento e fermarsi a osservare il moto del mondo naturale e animale è un momento speso a ricaricare le energie, a riempire gli occhi di bellezza feroce e impagabile, senza tempo. Sotto gli occhi abbiamo meraviglie da cogliere. Praticare l’osservazione placa la frenesia del tempo vissuto. L’azione lascia spazio all’accoglienza.
Esplorare la natura sempiterna può aiutare ad evocare dall’interno di noi stessi la ragione profonda delle cose perché alla fine è il cuore l’unico organo in grado di rispondere a qualsiasi interrogativo.
Offre prospettive mobili per osservare ciò che sta fuori e ciò che sta dentro noi stessi.
La Madre è guida suprema del nostro cammino, scenografia del pellegrinaggio su questa Terra. Siamo immersi nel movimento e fermarsi a osservare il moto del mondo naturale e animale è un momento speso a ricaricare le energie, a riempire gli occhi di bellezza feroce e impagabile, senza tempo. Sotto gli occhi abbiamo meraviglie da cogliere. Praticare l’osservazione placa la frenesia del tempo vissuto. L’azione lascia spazio all’accoglienza.
Esplorare la natura sempiterna può aiutare ad evocare dall’interno di noi stessi la ragione profonda delle cose perché alla fine è il cuore l’unico organo in grado di rispondere a qualsiasi interrogativo.
Offre prospettive mobili per osservare ciò che sta fuori e ciò che sta dentro noi stessi.
September 30, 2025
I'd like to write about this work (Once Again for Thucydides) against the background of Gen A.I. frenzy in year 2025. Seemingly a brief eye-witness accounts of natural phenomena in various parts of the world (What Handke calls "epopee" or "micro-epics,") this literary piece is a testimony to unique human sensibility in art form that the machine, however well-trained and however gargantuan its size of the memory, can never match up to.
Although what Handke seems to write about is the "description" of natural (or sometimes cultural) phenomena, his writing is indeed about the "event," and this is how machine writing and human writing may differ. For human, writing itself is an event. I can't quite recall if it was Handke who said "Every sentence has to be an event," and this description vs. event has incomparable contrast mainly due to what could be called "human attunement" to the world, (gripped by the world, in Heideggerian sense) the symbiotic relationship with human and the world that every unique sensibility and experience could bestow different perspective and interpretation at varying moments. For the machine, it is always one and the same, and the variant outputs actually do not come from such change in "attunement" but from its random permutations.
How Handke writes about certain "events" of the natural phenomena, such as doves flying, snow falling, thunders roaring, glowworms glowing, cannot be replicated by the machine, because what Handke is going through at the moment (and such moment can be split into infinite number of infinitesimal moments) endows his writerly events. For the machines like chatbots, writing could never be an event, writing cannot become an event, cannot describe an event, but it is merely an output as a description, a reply to a prompt, something static. However, a human writing, every human writing, is an event, and it refers to a human's unique "attunement" to the world.
Handke wrote micro-epics; machines could never write an epic, which is full of "events." Yes, in this age of A.I., epics are disappearing.
Handke was prescient; his novels, often painfully slow and without a story arc, urge the readers to slow down in this era of acceleration. This novel, Once Again for Thucydides, is an ultimate testimony to the value of human writing in this era of A.I.
--------------------------------------------------------
Were those flocks of birds in the crannies of the sink-hole walls also pigeons, illuminating its depths with their bright wings? Similarly, a single white butterfly's wobbling search for its mate intensified the green darkness under the chestnut trees. Meanwhile, waiting passengers (who had become quite numerous) stood around under the pigeons' din like a collection of unnecessary things.
The dark berries, fallen from the palm trees into puddles left by the afternoon's winter rain, formed a large archipelago that shone in the sun.
A single world of snowflakes spindled slowly on the breezes over the entire land. In the distance, especially near the dark forest edges, it fell wildly, as it did right at the train window. Only in the middle ground, where it was most easily discerned, did it fall with an almost primordial slowness.
I knew then that fulfillment--or, the right things--consisted of such hours. Yet, if I had had to stand before someone and portray it, I would have had nothing to say. I stuck my feet in the freshly melted stream in Llivia and thought, "Up and onwards!"
A small blue butterfly landed on one of the tracks, shining in the sun, and turned in a half circle as if moved by the heat, and the children of Izieux screamed to the heavens, almost a half century after their deportation, but only now as they should.
I was gripped with excitement at knowing that if I slowly, continuously, circled and examined the tree, much more would be revealed.
Although what Handke seems to write about is the "description" of natural (or sometimes cultural) phenomena, his writing is indeed about the "event," and this is how machine writing and human writing may differ. For human, writing itself is an event. I can't quite recall if it was Handke who said "Every sentence has to be an event," and this description vs. event has incomparable contrast mainly due to what could be called "human attunement" to the world, (gripped by the world, in Heideggerian sense) the symbiotic relationship with human and the world that every unique sensibility and experience could bestow different perspective and interpretation at varying moments. For the machine, it is always one and the same, and the variant outputs actually do not come from such change in "attunement" but from its random permutations.
How Handke writes about certain "events" of the natural phenomena, such as doves flying, snow falling, thunders roaring, glowworms glowing, cannot be replicated by the machine, because what Handke is going through at the moment (and such moment can be split into infinite number of infinitesimal moments) endows his writerly events. For the machines like chatbots, writing could never be an event, writing cannot become an event, cannot describe an event, but it is merely an output as a description, a reply to a prompt, something static. However, a human writing, every human writing, is an event, and it refers to a human's unique "attunement" to the world.
Handke wrote micro-epics; machines could never write an epic, which is full of "events." Yes, in this age of A.I., epics are disappearing.
Handke was prescient; his novels, often painfully slow and without a story arc, urge the readers to slow down in this era of acceleration. This novel, Once Again for Thucydides, is an ultimate testimony to the value of human writing in this era of A.I.
--------------------------------------------------------
Were those flocks of birds in the crannies of the sink-hole walls also pigeons, illuminating its depths with their bright wings? Similarly, a single white butterfly's wobbling search for its mate intensified the green darkness under the chestnut trees. Meanwhile, waiting passengers (who had become quite numerous) stood around under the pigeons' din like a collection of unnecessary things.
The dark berries, fallen from the palm trees into puddles left by the afternoon's winter rain, formed a large archipelago that shone in the sun.
A single world of snowflakes spindled slowly on the breezes over the entire land. In the distance, especially near the dark forest edges, it fell wildly, as it did right at the train window. Only in the middle ground, where it was most easily discerned, did it fall with an almost primordial slowness.
I knew then that fulfillment--or, the right things--consisted of such hours. Yet, if I had had to stand before someone and portray it, I would have had nothing to say. I stuck my feet in the freshly melted stream in Llivia and thought, "Up and onwards!"
A small blue butterfly landed on one of the tracks, shining in the sun, and turned in a half circle as if moved by the heat, and the children of Izieux screamed to the heavens, almost a half century after their deportation, but only now as they should.
I was gripped with excitement at knowing that if I slowly, continuously, circled and examined the tree, much more would be revealed.
October 13, 2019
Essays, or really short meditations, on nature and human presence.
May 1, 2023
Really lays bare how Handke thinks about nature, which is particularly helpful if you’re slogging through his catalogue. Funny to learn that he, of all writers, considers Ernst Jünger “pretentious” (not that I disagree, just like the pot calling the kettle et cetera)
May 9, 2020
It's ok. I don't really have much to say, I'm just underwhelmed. I read it twice just to see if I was missing some but I guess it's just not my thing?
November 27, 2008
Thanks to Riley for reminding me that I've owned this book for awhile and haven't cracked it, though "cracked" isn't the the right word for a Peter Handke book. In an "epic" about an enormous ash tree in Munich, here are some key lines: "I did see a larger world again within the small one, but to do so, I was more than just looking. The larger world did not arise as effortlessly as it had the day before. Because I was approaching the tree for a second time, even if my gaze was not deliberate, I was perhaps too set on continuing and expanding the phenomenon of the tree . . ." Hypnotic, meditative, dare I say "Zen-like" descriptions of a thunderstorm, unloading cargo from ships, falling "Japanese" snow, and my favorite, all the various hats passing on heads in Skopje, Macedonia, on December 10, 1987. At best, Handke makes you aware of infinite everyday epics invisible all around you. At worst, this sort of stuff can sometimes be super-soporific. Three stars really for a semi-distracted first read, but another given since small nightly doses of close wintertime re-reading, one epic pre-sleep, could easily reveal a fifth star.
February 25, 2019
Handke cares about language, or rather the inability of language to ultimately express the inexpressible. The overwhelming, painstaking attention to detail, as through the most minute motion a fluid, camera makes reading Handke at times denset, but always rewarding.
The flashe of illumination comes from the sheer vertigo of his endless wandering, that's where this, arguably, travel book gets its punch; at times even establishes the contact between the object-observer-writer and the 'places' its neutral camera like objectivity 'analyzes' (...)
I once was considered a detached and cold writer way early in some other universe, so I can relate.
*
From the earlier notes...
His minute attention to detail, say a graffiti on the wall in Macedonia, or an overgrown weed patch in Dalmatia (natives generally too languid to bother) could only get you that far..
This valiant travel book does not have to (be) read in order. One can skip back and forth, travel with the author to these often less traveled, geographically more cryptic locales.
Good book, perhaps even great if read in the original German tongue (which sadly I cannot).
The flashe of illumination comes from the sheer vertigo of his endless wandering, that's where this, arguably, travel book gets its punch; at times even establishes the contact between the object-observer-writer and the 'places' its neutral camera like objectivity 'analyzes' (...)
I once was considered a detached and cold writer way early in some other universe, so I can relate.
*
From the earlier notes...
His minute attention to detail, say a graffiti on the wall in Macedonia, or an overgrown weed patch in Dalmatia (natives generally too languid to bother) could only get you that far..
This valiant travel book does not have to (be) read in order. One can skip back and forth, travel with the author to these often less traveled, geographically more cryptic locales.
Good book, perhaps even great if read in the original German tongue (which sadly I cannot).
May 31, 2016
Best when these "micro-epics" (the argot dreamed-up by the dust jacket's p.r.) turned to the self-conscious, when Hankde's personality broke in, melancholic (e.g. when narrator tries to arrests his natural inclination to match the pattern of an ash tree's trunk bark to that of flagstones in Cividale del Friuli: "Hadn't I always felt alienated or even repulsed when other writers used their sense of imagery in this way...parading their mystical gift for an omnipresence that could always transform a modern ruin into an ancient temple or change the calyx of a lily into an oriental king's tent out of whose depths the appropriate shawm music immediately resounds?"), otherwise a mild, pleasurable break to reside with Handke's eyes (circa 1987-90) for a spell.
October 16, 2022
Poëtische woorden, dwalend, ik ga het boek nog eens lezen, na het opzoeken van Engelse woorden die ik niet ken en begrippen, feestdagen, spreekwoorden, plaatsen die genoemd worden. Het boek eindigt met 6 witte bladzijdes, ruimte, het boek heeft veel ruimte, het heeft tijd nodig, mogelijk om op te vullen met aantekeningen. Nog open, ik laat het open, het eindigt onaf, als een aantekening, opengelaten.
October 30, 2025
Peter Handke: Epopea del baleno. Guanda ed.
“Manca ancora un’epopea (no, non è vero, ne mancano ancora molte): quella delle lucciole.
Per esempio ieri, nella notte tra il 29 e il 30 maggio 1988, tra Cormòns e il paese di Brazzano, in Friuli, «all’improvviso» ne comparvero varie su una strada che passa attraverso i campi.
Non erano incandescenti, ma si limitavano a scintillare; restavano immobili lungo la strada, a illuminare e rischiarare per terra con i loro addomi lucenti, per poi dirigersi come aeroplani anche nell’erba folta e là lampeggiare tra i fili.
Una di esse si posò sul palmo della mano del passeggiatore notturno: gli illuminava le linee, gettando una luce intensa proprio accanto a quella della vita […] volgendo lo sguardo verso l’alto, si vedevano gli insetti brillare ormai per tutta la pianura friulana, molto più intensamente delle stelle che li sovrastavano, come fosse quella, nell’anno, la prima ora di apparizione della luce delle lucciole, la festa per il loro ritorno sulla faccia della terra…”
Undici prose brevi costruite sull’esplorazione dei dettagli e degli istanti,
sulla scomposizione del momento in frammenti minutissimi per ricercarne l’essenza: l’anima profonda del mondo, che di tutto è intessuta e in tutto risiede.
Undici epopee dello straordinario nell’ordinario: dei gesti (i movimenti delle mani del protagonista de Il lustrascarpe di Spalato, ma anche quelli del suo cliente), della danza degli esseri viventi (le farfalle di A Tucidide, le lucciole di Epopea delle lucciole, da cui è tratto il brano proposto), degli elementi (i lampi di Epopea del baleno ovvero A Tucidide un’altra volta, le nuvole lungo le pendici dell’Untersberg descritte in Due giorni a osservare il monte che cucina le nuvole).
Peter Handke nasce nel 1942 da padre tedesco e madre slovena nella Carinzia austriaca.
Scrittore, drammaturgo e poeta, attraversa le avanguardie teatrali e firma le sceneggiature di alcuni film di Wim Wenders — tra cui La paura del portiere prima del calcio di rigore, primo lungometraggio a colori di Wenders tratto da un suo romanzo — e, soprattutto, il capolavoro Der Himmel über Berlin (Il cielo sopra Berlino).
In seguito finirà al centro di feroci polemiche per le posizioni filo-serbe espresse nel corso della guerra nella ex Jugoslavia, destinate a riesplodere nel 2019, quando l’Accademia svedese gli conferisce il Premio Nobel per la Letteratura “per il suo lavoro influente che con ingegnosità linguistica ha esplorato la periferia e la specificità dell’esperienza umana”: un riconoscimento che riaccende l’eterno dibattito sulla possibilità — o sull’impossibilità — di separare l’opera dal pensiero di un autore.
Il Premio viene contestato da intellettuali e scrittori del calibro di Susan Sontag e Salman Rushdie (che, in quell’occasione, ha dichiarato: “Handke ha scritto ampiamente su quel conflitto jugoslavo. Non si può non tenerne conto, non si può giustificarlo”), oltre che dalle associazioni delle vittime di Srebrenica e da esponenti delle istituzioni, soprattutto albanesi e kosovare.
Scritta prima della tragedia balcanica e pubblicata per la prima volta nel 1990 con il titolo originale Noch einmal für Thukydides, Epopea del baleno testimonia — anche attraverso molteplici rimandi a quei luoghi — il legame profondo dello scrittore con le terre della ex Jugoslavia.
“Avvicìnati piano piano e sprofòndati in quel disegno articolato — evita soltanto il risucchio nel fregio delle immagini non collegate a nulla, con le quali ti dai delle arie come una specie di dominatore del mondo, come un esempio ammonitore, quasi come un ennesimo poeta”, scrive ne La piccola fiaba del frassino di Monaco.
Cercare, dunque, di rifuggire dalla tentazione di legare l’osservazione al libero fluire dei ricordi e delle immagini; cercare di assecondare un “desiderio di abbandonare le cose, lasciandole pure, senza orpelli, senza contenuto”, per evitare la loro trasformazione “in strane visioni […] toccare finalmente soltanto la corteccia, e nient’altro”.
Eppure non è nell’intento dichiarato, nel “silenzio […] personificazione della sua legge interiore”, ma forse proprio nell’instabile equilibrio, nella tensione costante tra questo desiderio di distacco e l’irrefrenabile potere della mente di procedere per libere associazioni — a cui Handke, da poeta, non può sottrarsi — che risiede la forza della sua scrittura: nella consapevolezza che l’occhio dello scrittore non può osservare il mondo senza, nel farlo, deformarlo.
“Manca ancora un’epopea (no, non è vero, ne mancano ancora molte): quella delle lucciole.
Per esempio ieri, nella notte tra il 29 e il 30 maggio 1988, tra Cormòns e il paese di Brazzano, in Friuli, «all’improvviso» ne comparvero varie su una strada che passa attraverso i campi.
Non erano incandescenti, ma si limitavano a scintillare; restavano immobili lungo la strada, a illuminare e rischiarare per terra con i loro addomi lucenti, per poi dirigersi come aeroplani anche nell’erba folta e là lampeggiare tra i fili.
Una di esse si posò sul palmo della mano del passeggiatore notturno: gli illuminava le linee, gettando una luce intensa proprio accanto a quella della vita […] volgendo lo sguardo verso l’alto, si vedevano gli insetti brillare ormai per tutta la pianura friulana, molto più intensamente delle stelle che li sovrastavano, come fosse quella, nell’anno, la prima ora di apparizione della luce delle lucciole, la festa per il loro ritorno sulla faccia della terra…”
Undici prose brevi costruite sull’esplorazione dei dettagli e degli istanti,
sulla scomposizione del momento in frammenti minutissimi per ricercarne l’essenza: l’anima profonda del mondo, che di tutto è intessuta e in tutto risiede.
Undici epopee dello straordinario nell’ordinario: dei gesti (i movimenti delle mani del protagonista de Il lustrascarpe di Spalato, ma anche quelli del suo cliente), della danza degli esseri viventi (le farfalle di A Tucidide, le lucciole di Epopea delle lucciole, da cui è tratto il brano proposto), degli elementi (i lampi di Epopea del baleno ovvero A Tucidide un’altra volta, le nuvole lungo le pendici dell’Untersberg descritte in Due giorni a osservare il monte che cucina le nuvole).
Peter Handke nasce nel 1942 da padre tedesco e madre slovena nella Carinzia austriaca.
Scrittore, drammaturgo e poeta, attraversa le avanguardie teatrali e firma le sceneggiature di alcuni film di Wim Wenders — tra cui La paura del portiere prima del calcio di rigore, primo lungometraggio a colori di Wenders tratto da un suo romanzo — e, soprattutto, il capolavoro Der Himmel über Berlin (Il cielo sopra Berlino).
In seguito finirà al centro di feroci polemiche per le posizioni filo-serbe espresse nel corso della guerra nella ex Jugoslavia, destinate a riesplodere nel 2019, quando l’Accademia svedese gli conferisce il Premio Nobel per la Letteratura “per il suo lavoro influente che con ingegnosità linguistica ha esplorato la periferia e la specificità dell’esperienza umana”: un riconoscimento che riaccende l’eterno dibattito sulla possibilità — o sull’impossibilità — di separare l’opera dal pensiero di un autore.
Il Premio viene contestato da intellettuali e scrittori del calibro di Susan Sontag e Salman Rushdie (che, in quell’occasione, ha dichiarato: “Handke ha scritto ampiamente su quel conflitto jugoslavo. Non si può non tenerne conto, non si può giustificarlo”), oltre che dalle associazioni delle vittime di Srebrenica e da esponenti delle istituzioni, soprattutto albanesi e kosovare.
Scritta prima della tragedia balcanica e pubblicata per la prima volta nel 1990 con il titolo originale Noch einmal für Thukydides, Epopea del baleno testimonia — anche attraverso molteplici rimandi a quei luoghi — il legame profondo dello scrittore con le terre della ex Jugoslavia.
“Avvicìnati piano piano e sprofòndati in quel disegno articolato — evita soltanto il risucchio nel fregio delle immagini non collegate a nulla, con le quali ti dai delle arie come una specie di dominatore del mondo, come un esempio ammonitore, quasi come un ennesimo poeta”, scrive ne La piccola fiaba del frassino di Monaco.
Cercare, dunque, di rifuggire dalla tentazione di legare l’osservazione al libero fluire dei ricordi e delle immagini; cercare di assecondare un “desiderio di abbandonare le cose, lasciandole pure, senza orpelli, senza contenuto”, per evitare la loro trasformazione “in strane visioni […] toccare finalmente soltanto la corteccia, e nient’altro”.
Eppure non è nell’intento dichiarato, nel “silenzio […] personificazione della sua legge interiore”, ma forse proprio nell’instabile equilibrio, nella tensione costante tra questo desiderio di distacco e l’irrefrenabile potere della mente di procedere per libere associazioni — a cui Handke, da poeta, non può sottrarsi — che risiede la forza della sua scrittura: nella consapevolezza che l’occhio dello scrittore non può osservare il mondo senza, nel farlo, deformarlo.
March 13, 2023
This collection of short pieces is rather uneven. I like the premise: a series of very short pieces that each strives to capture some detail he observed in his travels to various places and by examining that detail, to explore some aspect of the significance of the place. All are worth reading. A few puzzled me. One seemed a little overdrawn.
And one, "Attempt to Exorcise One Story with Another", is one of the most powerful short pieces of writing I have ever read. If you read nothing else from this book, the book is worth picking up just for that.
And one, "Attempt to Exorcise One Story with Another", is one of the most powerful short pieces of writing I have ever read. If you read nothing else from this book, the book is worth picking up just for that.
January 27, 2021
While the concept and theme of this book is something that's right up my alley, it seems like Handke is trying to imitate great German and Austrian writers. The problem? His enumerations and tiny digressions tend to lose focus and disrupt the flow, which seems like an act of complacency. I don't like complacency.
March 15, 2020
It seems all loners think the same when they roam on their travels around the globe... I remembered some things that happened to me when I was on my journeys, sometimes the book is too existencialist but it do u turns in the right moments.
January 20, 2025
Reads a bit like Handke's autobiographical take on Invisible Cities, brief, wandering and beautiful.
June 13, 2020
If these stories were photographs they would be shot in macro.
If they were paintings they would probably go under impressionism.
What an amazing world this writer possesses inside!
If they were paintings they would probably go under impressionism.
What an amazing world this writer possesses inside!
April 21, 2021
Brief descriptions of things that happen, in nature on certain moments, just related like snapshots, presented with little comment. I get almost nothing out of writing like this.
October 29, 2024
Хандке ради оно што најбоље ради. Осећа и пише.
November 9, 2025
Como dormidina me ha venido de lujo
September 28, 2024
I finished this book over two days sitting in my parents living room in Palm Springs.
Later, years later, when I write this review, I recall sitting in the chair. I remember dad drinking eggnog. I remember my mom’s favorite radio stations. She’s in the kitchen. She’s making cookies. In four years, when I write this review, I’ll remember him and her on a train from Salerno to Rome.
Later, years later, when I write this review, I recall sitting in the chair. I remember dad drinking eggnog. I remember my mom’s favorite radio stations. She’s in the kitchen. She’s making cookies. In four years, when I write this review, I’ll remember him and her on a train from Salerno to Rome.
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