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The Moravian Night: A Story
An odyssey through the mind and memory of a washed-up writer, from one of Europe's most provocative novelists
Mysteriously summoned to a houseboat on the Morava river, a few friends, associates, and collaborators of a former writer gather to hear him tell a story that will last until dawn: the tale of the once well-known writer's odyssey across Europe. As his story unwinds, he seeks out places that represent stages of his and the continent's past, many now lost or irrecoverably changed through war, death, and the subtler erosions of time. His wanderings take him from the Balkans to Spain to Austria, from a congress for experts on noise sickness to a clandestine international gathering of Jew's harp virtuosos. His story--and its telling--are haunted by a beautiful stranger, a woman who has a preternatural hold over the writer, and seems to be as much of a demon as she is the longed-for destination of his travels.
Powerfully alive, honest, and at times deliciously satirical, The Moravian Night tracks the anxieties, angers, fears, and pleasures of life. In crystalline prose, Peter Handke tenaciously follows the movement of his own thoughts while gracing the world with a mythic dimension. As Jeffrey Eugenides writes, "Handke's sharp eye is always finding a strange beauty amid this colorless world." The Moravian Night is a bruising self-portrait, an elegy for the lost and forgotten, and a novel of self-interrogation and uneasy discovery from one of world literature’s great voices.
Mysteriously summoned to a houseboat on the Morava river, a few friends, associates, and collaborators of a former writer gather to hear him tell a story that will last until dawn: the tale of the once well-known writer's odyssey across Europe. As his story unwinds, he seeks out places that represent stages of his and the continent's past, many now lost or irrecoverably changed through war, death, and the subtler erosions of time. His wanderings take him from the Balkans to Spain to Austria, from a congress for experts on noise sickness to a clandestine international gathering of Jew's harp virtuosos. His story--and its telling--are haunted by a beautiful stranger, a woman who has a preternatural hold over the writer, and seems to be as much of a demon as she is the longed-for destination of his travels.
Powerfully alive, honest, and at times deliciously satirical, The Moravian Night tracks the anxieties, angers, fears, and pleasures of life. In crystalline prose, Peter Handke tenaciously follows the movement of his own thoughts while gracing the world with a mythic dimension. As Jeffrey Eugenides writes, "Handke's sharp eye is always finding a strange beauty amid this colorless world." The Moravian Night is a bruising self-portrait, an elegy for the lost and forgotten, and a novel of self-interrogation and uneasy discovery from one of world literature’s great voices.
320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2008
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About the author
Peter Handke
303 books1,145 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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Displaying 1 - 30 of 59 reviews
September 26, 2017
As with all of Handke's novels, this is not a book for dilettantes. The reader must be ready to be immersed.
Peter Handke wants to be read slowly. He wants the reader to engage and ask questions: questions about the characters and questions about the world; questions about politics and questions about Peter Handke, and he doesn't always supply an answer, nor even a hint of an answer. Some of these questions the reader must answer for herself.
A "former writer" summons a group of "friends, associates, distant neighbors, collaborators" to his houseboat on the river Morava which rather haphazardly separates the Slavic East of Europe from the West. Here as the night passes the "former writer" recounts his stories of his recent travels throughout Europe.
The story is recounted by a 'narrator', or maybe more than one, who at times doubts his own ability to recount what he heard that night. At the same time, the listeners seem to doubt much of what is being said. Is the storyteller to be doubted? Is Handke questioning himself? If the "former writer" is indeed Handke, why "former"? Is he doubting his own life's work?
"Writing? What had that meant to him? Primarily an escape. An escape from what? From so-called reality? From the heavy hand of reality? From the world? The demands of the world? No. Or yes. If opening one’s mouth, having to speak, being told ‘Come on, out with it! Tell us!’"
Does he regret speaking up in the past? On these travels, revealing his sympathies for the victims, he has passed through the ruins of the former Yugoslavia, where he bemoans the destruction of people's lives and the lost unity of the former nation (which Handke had rather infamously defended during the wars, going so far as to defend Milosovic). It would seem to be an error to suggest that Handke regrets anything that that he has said on the matter.
And for the rest of the travels through Europe? The Dalmatian Coast, Germany, Spain, Portugal, Austria? Memories of earlier times in his life, not just the life of the "former writer" but of Handke as well. Strangely, he portrays his memories of both the recent and the distant past as imperfect. Past loves, events and activities are all part recollection, part invention. As they are for us all. It is an important aspect of humanity that Handke is presenting to us. We are all imperfect storytellers.
Finally, there is a summation of the "former writer's" own career. He acknowledges those who came before him, and dares not suggest that he is even worth there notice. This is the humble side of Handke.
"One after the other, his forebears came toward him in the early light, reached him, went by him.”
Perhaps this is the lament of all modern writers who can never live up to the efforts of Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe or Cervantes.
And I haven't said anything about the conferences: experts on noise sickness, a gathering of Jew’s-harp virtuosos, and a small group “who clung to the idea, or the pipe dream, of a large unified country in the Balkans, in a different kind of Europe.” There is also a dog, which may or may not, (likely not) be the same dog in different places. And most importantly, the woman - is she the same? - at once caring and threatening - the very one who may have caused the "former writer" to flee on his trip in the first place, - or perhaps the product of guilt and paranoia. Alas, we'll never know. Or?
"A sad story"
Peter Handke wants to be read slowly. He wants the reader to engage and ask questions: questions about the characters and questions about the world; questions about politics and questions about Peter Handke, and he doesn't always supply an answer, nor even a hint of an answer. Some of these questions the reader must answer for herself.
A "former writer" summons a group of "friends, associates, distant neighbors, collaborators" to his houseboat on the river Morava which rather haphazardly separates the Slavic East of Europe from the West. Here as the night passes the "former writer" recounts his stories of his recent travels throughout Europe.
The story is recounted by a 'narrator', or maybe more than one, who at times doubts his own ability to recount what he heard that night. At the same time, the listeners seem to doubt much of what is being said. Is the storyteller to be doubted? Is Handke questioning himself? If the "former writer" is indeed Handke, why "former"? Is he doubting his own life's work?
"Writing? What had that meant to him? Primarily an escape. An escape from what? From so-called reality? From the heavy hand of reality? From the world? The demands of the world? No. Or yes. If opening one’s mouth, having to speak, being told ‘Come on, out with it! Tell us!’"
Does he regret speaking up in the past? On these travels, revealing his sympathies for the victims, he has passed through the ruins of the former Yugoslavia, where he bemoans the destruction of people's lives and the lost unity of the former nation (which Handke had rather infamously defended during the wars, going so far as to defend Milosovic). It would seem to be an error to suggest that Handke regrets anything that that he has said on the matter.
And for the rest of the travels through Europe? The Dalmatian Coast, Germany, Spain, Portugal, Austria? Memories of earlier times in his life, not just the life of the "former writer" but of Handke as well. Strangely, he portrays his memories of both the recent and the distant past as imperfect. Past loves, events and activities are all part recollection, part invention. As they are for us all. It is an important aspect of humanity that Handke is presenting to us. We are all imperfect storytellers.
Finally, there is a summation of the "former writer's" own career. He acknowledges those who came before him, and dares not suggest that he is even worth there notice. This is the humble side of Handke.
"One after the other, his forebears came toward him in the early light, reached him, went by him.”
Perhaps this is the lament of all modern writers who can never live up to the efforts of Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe or Cervantes.
And I haven't said anything about the conferences: experts on noise sickness, a gathering of Jew’s-harp virtuosos, and a small group “who clung to the idea, or the pipe dream, of a large unified country in the Balkans, in a different kind of Europe.” There is also a dog, which may or may not, (likely not) be the same dog in different places. And most importantly, the woman - is she the same? - at once caring and threatening - the very one who may have caused the "former writer" to flee on his trip in the first place, - or perhaps the product of guilt and paranoia. Alas, we'll never know. Or?
"A sad story"
July 29, 2017
Handke is mistreated by his American reviewers. Adam Kirsch's review in the NYRB is basically libelous and gives no evidence that Kirsch read the book. Joshua Cohen's in the NYTBR is better - Cohen is the last honest book reviewer around these days, so he actually read the thing (and probably in German) - but misunderstands Handke's Serbian project. Still, Cohen begrudgingly admits that he likes the book.
I need to read it again, but I think The Moravian Night might be the best novel of our young century (along with 2666), or at least the best European novel. Handke does something that only he can do and that no one else is even imitating. I'm not sure how to describe that something other than to use Handke's own description: “a slow, inquiring narration; every paragraph dealing with and narrating a problem, of representation, of form, of grammar—of aesthetic veracity.” That pretty much covers it, but I'd add that The Moravian Night can also be very funny.
Please read this, so I have someone to talk to about it. At the moment nobody I know has read or even heard of Handke.
I need to read it again, but I think The Moravian Night might be the best novel of our young century (along with 2666), or at least the best European novel. Handke does something that only he can do and that no one else is even imitating. I'm not sure how to describe that something other than to use Handke's own description: “a slow, inquiring narration; every paragraph dealing with and narrating a problem, of representation, of form, of grammar—of aesthetic veracity.” That pretty much covers it, but I'd add that The Moravian Night can also be very funny.
Please read this, so I have someone to talk to about it. At the moment nobody I know has read or even heard of Handke.
October 28, 2017
A remarkable work, characterized by rational language and grammar that is used in nonrational ways. Everything makes a sort of sense, but the sorts vary widely. Nothing is stable, including the narrator and the greater and lesser plots. The somewhat abstract nature of this novel makes it difficult to describe, but it works most of the time (only rarely, especially toward the end, the novel dragged a bit here and there). The reward for letting oneself go with the novel is a reading experience like no other.
July 30, 2020
Sve je u sekundama. Tako kaže Handke, i dalje bežeći od toga da svoje pisanje približi većini, i dalje u sumanutoj i dubinski autentičnoj potrebi da ide izokola, u priči, u rečenici, u ritmu, pa i u načinu na koji putuje, uvek nekim perifernim sokacima, poluasfaltiranim obodima gradova, ili sela, svejedno. No onda zapuca raspojasani pasaž od kog vas boli glava, i drhtite čitajući ga iznova, shvatajući da je gotovo nemoguće savršen, kao recimo taj o sekundama.
Sve je u sekundama, tako kaže Handke, pripovedajući o delovima svojih evropskih putešestvija, na seminaru u o šumovima i zvukovima u Numansiji, na utakmici Kompostele, u hladnoći očeve austrijske postojbine, na suviše mirnim aerodromskim sletanjima.
Sve je u sekundama, tako kaže Handke, opisujući prirodu kao nijedan pisac, muve i guštere, leptirova govna, kotrljanje lešnika, miris lipe, zakopavajući se u beskonačne i beskrajne monologe bežeći od žene, ili žena, kao svaki autistični genije, besedeći s moravske lađe, pišući najlepšu od svih oda kosovskoj srpskoj tragediji.
Sve je u sekundama, kaže Handke, pišući autobiografski putopis na način koji će zahtevati fanatični pažljive i iskusne čitaoce, a kojima će zauzvrat podariti svu lepotu koju pisanje poseduje kad ga stvaraju majstori, poštujući svoje čitaoce više no sebe samog.
Sve je u sekundama, tako kaže Handke, pripovedajući o delovima svojih evropskih putešestvija, na seminaru u o šumovima i zvukovima u Numansiji, na utakmici Kompostele, u hladnoći očeve austrijske postojbine, na suviše mirnim aerodromskim sletanjima.
Sve je u sekundama, tako kaže Handke, opisujući prirodu kao nijedan pisac, muve i guštere, leptirova govna, kotrljanje lešnika, miris lipe, zakopavajući se u beskonačne i beskrajne monologe bežeći od žene, ili žena, kao svaki autistični genije, besedeći s moravske lađe, pišući najlepšu od svih oda kosovskoj srpskoj tragediji.
Sve je u sekundama, kaže Handke, pišući autobiografski putopis na način koji će zahtevati fanatični pažljive i iskusne čitaoce, a kojima će zauzvrat podariti svu lepotu koju pisanje poseduje kad ga stvaraju majstori, poštujući svoje čitaoce više no sebe samog.
March 1, 2023
A sad story? That remained to be seen!
No question Handke can be a frustrating writer. At times he comes across as merely self-indulgent or pretentious, and he’s written so many books that it’s easy to miss his masterpieces. Nonetheless, at his best he writes profound meditations on being, loss, real and imagined homelands.
Always different and always the same. I do think it’s possible to discern distinct early, middle, and late periods in his oeuvre. Sorrow Beyond Dreams is undoubtedly the great work of the first period; loss at its most unbearably intimate. Then in the middle period, with Repetition, Handke has the audacity to imagine some sort of reunion with the departed. Finally, the Moravian Night is very much a crepuscular work, surveying a life, a continent, a vocation from some point near the end of everything. Near the end but not entirely without hope of renewal.
October 12, 2020
This was a rather difficult book to read, in style, structure and sequence. Although the storyline hangs on a retired writer’s journey through his past stomping grounds back to his family home, it looked like a self-indulgent romp in time and memory by Peter Handke with nary a care for the reader, as if “through his writing he could re-order time according to his own pace and escape reality.”
In summary, a retired writer (Handke?) summons a group of loyal friends to his boat house on the Morava River for a meal and to a recounting of his recent journey through Europe. The tables on board the boat are each arranged for a single person, each positioned so the person sitting at it is pointed away from the rest of the guests. There is an attractive woman on board whom no-one knows and who flits in and out of the dinner party. That these guests, summoned at such short notice, would linger long into the night while the host rambles on about his travels suggests that they are total admirers of his work and are dedicated to his well-being.
The ex-writer’s peregrinations go from the Balkans to the edge of Portugal and Spain, back through an eight-mile tunnel into Germany, and on to the family home in Austria. The narrator is always a third person or persons, sometimes someone at the boat party and sometimes an unnamed one, and I wondered why Handke chose this complex narrative structure, for it is difficult to read and follow; the style is a confluence of many streams of consciousness, flowing and overlapping like the currents of the Morava River.
The places the wandering ex-writer winds up have shades of the macabre: a cemetery where one half of a town has killed the other half; a young girl he had once had an affair with, who has now been reduced to begging and to hurling curses and excreta at him; a symposium on sound where all the delegates have been damaged by it and yet one delegate, a monk, says, “Silence can also destroy”; hiking in the countryside with a poet who knows nothing about the novelistic craft, while our writer in turn does not get poetry; meeting a populist writer who states that only the language of journalism is alive and that literary writing is dead; meeting his brother, a world traveller, who feels the world in his body parts and has not read any of the ex-writer’s books. Our wanderer is even seen behaving irrationally on some parts of his journey by some of his guests on the boat who then take up the story on his behalf.
He meets odd characters: a young rock climber in Austria, an old man in Portugal editing a manuscript, and the idiots of Santiago de Compostella, to name a few. The woman appears and reappears on this journey, loving him and then being beaten by him. I struggled with the allegory and the symbolism here. Was she his nemesis? His muse? Does she have to be beaten like he has to batter his books to give them character? Why is she now at peace with him on the boat? Because he has finally given up writing? And what does the dog symbolize, for this animal also shows up in places along his journey?
I got it that he is mourning the break up of the Balkans into fragmented states: “new borders have cropped up, new countries carved out of old.” There is even a dying band of Central European partisans meeting annually to resuscitate a unified Balkan state. Handke has a soft spot for the Balkans due to his maternal ancestry being from that side of the world, and which was brought into focus by the recent Nobel Prize furor over his expressed sympathies for Slobodan Milosevic.
At the cemetery where his parents are buried, he has a revelation: he attains a heightened state of awareness and describes the minutia of ant colonies, bumblebees and grasses. Upon his return home to the Morava riverboat he finds that time away on his travels has changed what was home. There are bomb craters now, the signage in the enclave he lives in has changed from Cyrillic to English, the river has dried up, and the boat has been pulled ashore. Symbolism? Meaning? Go figure!
The only redeeming elements here for me were the complex but fluid sentences, the powerful imagery, the writer’s connectedness with sights, sounds and smells, and the reflections of a writer who has passed his “best by” date. Maybe the Nobel was conferred upon Handke for his boldness to go into these areas.
In summary, a retired writer (Handke?) summons a group of loyal friends to his boat house on the Morava River for a meal and to a recounting of his recent journey through Europe. The tables on board the boat are each arranged for a single person, each positioned so the person sitting at it is pointed away from the rest of the guests. There is an attractive woman on board whom no-one knows and who flits in and out of the dinner party. That these guests, summoned at such short notice, would linger long into the night while the host rambles on about his travels suggests that they are total admirers of his work and are dedicated to his well-being.
The ex-writer’s peregrinations go from the Balkans to the edge of Portugal and Spain, back through an eight-mile tunnel into Germany, and on to the family home in Austria. The narrator is always a third person or persons, sometimes someone at the boat party and sometimes an unnamed one, and I wondered why Handke chose this complex narrative structure, for it is difficult to read and follow; the style is a confluence of many streams of consciousness, flowing and overlapping like the currents of the Morava River.
The places the wandering ex-writer winds up have shades of the macabre: a cemetery where one half of a town has killed the other half; a young girl he had once had an affair with, who has now been reduced to begging and to hurling curses and excreta at him; a symposium on sound where all the delegates have been damaged by it and yet one delegate, a monk, says, “Silence can also destroy”; hiking in the countryside with a poet who knows nothing about the novelistic craft, while our writer in turn does not get poetry; meeting a populist writer who states that only the language of journalism is alive and that literary writing is dead; meeting his brother, a world traveller, who feels the world in his body parts and has not read any of the ex-writer’s books. Our wanderer is even seen behaving irrationally on some parts of his journey by some of his guests on the boat who then take up the story on his behalf.
He meets odd characters: a young rock climber in Austria, an old man in Portugal editing a manuscript, and the idiots of Santiago de Compostella, to name a few. The woman appears and reappears on this journey, loving him and then being beaten by him. I struggled with the allegory and the symbolism here. Was she his nemesis? His muse? Does she have to be beaten like he has to batter his books to give them character? Why is she now at peace with him on the boat? Because he has finally given up writing? And what does the dog symbolize, for this animal also shows up in places along his journey?
I got it that he is mourning the break up of the Balkans into fragmented states: “new borders have cropped up, new countries carved out of old.” There is even a dying band of Central European partisans meeting annually to resuscitate a unified Balkan state. Handke has a soft spot for the Balkans due to his maternal ancestry being from that side of the world, and which was brought into focus by the recent Nobel Prize furor over his expressed sympathies for Slobodan Milosevic.
At the cemetery where his parents are buried, he has a revelation: he attains a heightened state of awareness and describes the minutia of ant colonies, bumblebees and grasses. Upon his return home to the Morava riverboat he finds that time away on his travels has changed what was home. There are bomb craters now, the signage in the enclave he lives in has changed from Cyrillic to English, the river has dried up, and the boat has been pulled ashore. Symbolism? Meaning? Go figure!
The only redeeming elements here for me were the complex but fluid sentences, the powerful imagery, the writer’s connectedness with sights, sounds and smells, and the reflections of a writer who has passed his “best by” date. Maybe the Nobel was conferred upon Handke for his boldness to go into these areas.
February 1, 2020
"Und die Schwalben dir, hier wie dort in unserem Europa... Und die Leute draußen auf der Straße waren euch doch wirklich die von Porodin, und ich grüßte sie dir zum Fenster hinaus in ihrer balkanischen Sprache, und - sie grüßten uns ebenso zurück." (S.560) - Dir, euch, uns? Ich kenne solche Einschübe von meiner schlesischen Großmutter, die so ein "dir" quasi als Selbstanrede in der dritten Person verwendete, ohne damit also ein Gegenüber anzusprechen. Sprachgebrauch von gestern. Allerdings originell (im Original) und nicht - wie das Handke öfters (siehe oben) unterläuft - künstlich, gewollt und nicht immer gekonnt. Man spürt die Kunstabsicht, den Willen anders zu schreiben, und wenn man das spürt, ist es nicht gut. Oder doch? Es gibt sprachliche Ausrutscher, einige zu sehr erkennbare Gewolltheiten, deren Überarbeitung man sich wünschen kann, die aber im Ganzen irgendwie untergehen. Am Ende habe ich diese Sprache (besonders im äußerst suggestiven Mittelteil) geliebt, habe mich ihr hingegeben, habe - wie schon lange nicht mehr - vergessen, wo ICH war. Ich war in diesem Raunen und Spinnen, in Handkes Gewebe aus Beobachtungen und Reflexionen verloren, die als Beschreibungen versuchen ohne Begriffe auszukommen. Es ist ein Schauen im Sprechen. Stifter konnte das und Mörike vielleicht- beide werden als Seelenverwandte benannt. Handke kann es auch und es ist faszinierendes l'art pour l'art, die Verweigerung eben, eine Sache auf ihren (oder wenigstens auf einen) Begriff zu bringen. Die überlange "Erzählung" ist ein einziges, über mehr als 500 Seiten dauerndes Traumgesicht einer inneren Welt, die sich im Außen kaum wiederfindet, dieses Außen (also die Welt wie sie ist) aus guten Gründen ablehnt und das Gestern einer (ver)wirklichen(den) und poetischen Sprache den journalistischen Sprechblasen der autistischen Moderne gegenüberstellt. Dem kann man folgen, dem folge ich gerne. "Literatur" in ihrer eigentlichen Bestimmung ist etwas aus der Zeit Gefallenes und nur deshalb in ihr wirklich. Handkes "Morawische Nacht" ist nicht von dieser Welt und doch ganz diese Welt. Sie ist Essenz einer Trauer darüber, dass unsere Welt nie so hätte werden dürfen, wie sie geworden ist. Was die Gründe anbelangt, so gibt es Hinweise, aber einer Analyse verweigert sich der Autor so konsequent wie er es vermeidet, sich für Serbophilie zu entschuldigen. Warum auch? Er ist für den Frieden hier wie überall. Das mag man naiv finden; man mag ihm einseitige Parteinahme vorwerfen. Schlecht ist es jedenfalls nicht, den Traum vom Jugoslawien der vielen Völker als einer Bruder-(Schwestern-) Gemeinschaft geträumt zu haben und weiter zu träumen. Am Anfang und am Schluss geht es um das Leid, das Serben angetan wurde. Ist das zu relativieren nur deswegen, weil (andere, manchmal auch dieselben) Serben unermessliches Leid über Bosniaken, Kroaten usw. gebracht haben? Mit welchem Recht wichten wir Leid? Dabei heißt es auf Seite 542/543: "Wieder ein Autor hatte einmal auf die Zeitungsfrage, welche Dinge ihm zuwider seien, unter anderem die kyrillische Schrift genannt, und das konnte man nach dem, was ihm, seinem Volk und seinem Land unter dem Banner dieser Schrift widerfahren war, auch nachfühlen... Das Kyrillische hatte zwar, und ob, eine Bedeutung, aber nicht die bewußte, oder?" Die Frage schwebt im Raum, wird nicht beantwortet, obwohl sie - uns Heutigen scheint das so - direkt an Saša Stanišić hätte gerichtet sein können. Handke besteht darauf, dem Kyrillischen ein Recht zu geben und den Serben eine Stimme. Hat doch in zivilisierten Ländern jeder Mörder seinen Verteidiger und nur Volltrottel (die es allerdings schon gibt) kommen auf die Idee, den Advokaten für die Taten seines Mandanten verantwortlich zu machen. Das gilt auch dann, wenn der diesen lieb gewonnen hat. Aber davon ab. Jenseits tagesaktueller Fragen ist der Text ein wahres "Gespinst" aus Nebenbemerkungen, die in oft verschachtelten Sätzen (Nebensätzen eben) einen "Sinn" aufbauen, der eher einem mythischen Rauschen denn unserer Alltagslogik folgt. Ich hatte das nicht mehr für möglich gehalten, denn weder folgt die Erzählstrategie einer modernen noch einer postmodernen Logik. Ein bisschen lässt Kafka grüßen. Meint: Schwere Kost. Sicher nichts für Leute, die vom Alltag Entspannung suchen und ein bisschen Abenteuer als Adrenalin- Ersatz brauchen, da unsere Büro- Welt zwar stressig, ganz sicher aber nicht aufregend ist. Hat man aber durchschaut, woher die Krimiflut, die Begeisterung für Horrorfilme und Weltraumschlachten, das Sich- Weg- Träumen in (pseudo)mittelalterliche Fanatsy- Welten etc. kommt und langweilt man sich deswegen mit solchen Themen, dann sollte man DIESEN Handke lesen. Die schwedische Akademie ist sicher konservativ und aus einer solchen, bewahrenden Sicht heraus ist der Nobelpreis für die "Morawische Nacht" konsequent. Das Buch ist große Literatur, auch wenn ihm alle Spannung fehlt. Leute wie ich lesen so was atemlos und daher vergebe ich auch fünf Sterne (und würde einen sechsten drauflegen, wenn es den denn gäbe!). Schade, dass ich das Buch nun ins Regal stellen muss. Aber es gibt da noch die "Niemandsbucht". Mal sehen...
February 16, 2021
Ovo je kao kad neko ko sluša pop muziku, krene da sluša free jazz. Teška, nepovezana, traži najdublju koncentraciju da shvatite šta se i zašto nesšto dešava.
Meni je ovo bila Handkeova prva knjiga, i svakako da sam značajno pogrešio, pošto za ovu knjigu vredi objašnjenje: "Pisac napisao knjigu koju mogu samo pisci da je čitaju". Pa, ako niste pisac ili nemate takve ambicije, zaobiđite je u širokom luku i uzmite neku njegocu drugu knjigu.
Meni je ovo bila Handkeova prva knjiga, i svakako da sam značajno pogrešio, pošto za ovu knjigu vredi objašnjenje: "Pisac napisao knjigu koju mogu samo pisci da je čitaju". Pa, ako niste pisac ili nemate takve ambicije, zaobiđite je u širokom luku i uzmite neku njegocu drugu knjigu.
February 22, 2022
MORAVSKA NOĆ-PETER HANDKE
✒"Neko svetlucanje iskosa iz oblaka,gle,to je ponekad bio život. Da ti jesi dete tvoje sekunde. I da ta sekunda jeste tvoj dah."
🚶♂️Ovo je imaginarna autobiografija-putovanje kroz prostor i vreme
🚶♂️A vreme,posebno književno vreme,se sastoji iz sekundi koje traju beskrajno ili od praznog prostora.
🚶♂️Pisac kreće na put s broda Moravska noć,menja razna prevozna sredstva,putuje u Španiju,Nemačku,Austriju,obiđe rodno selo,brata,grobove predaka,i vrati se opet na Moravu.
🚶♂️Ako vas zanima istorija Balkana nećete ništa saznati osim da je Porodin kod Velike Plane,preko Morave,što sam već i sama znala budući da sam skoro ceo život provela s te druge,planjanske strane.
🚶♂️Ima predivnih opisa,pisac sreće razne predele i ljude,i tu je po mom mišljenju Handke najjači-u opisima.
🚶♂️Tu je i potraga ili bekstvo od neke žene,jer piscu ne treba žena kao žena,samo kao idealna čitateljica. Okeeeeej 🙄😂 i dosta edipovskih razmišljanja. 🤷♀️
🚶♂️U svakom slučaju-ako vas zanima misaoni proces jednog pisca-preporučujem.
#7sensesofabook #bookstagram #knjige #readingaddict #literature
✒"Neko svetlucanje iskosa iz oblaka,gle,to je ponekad bio život. Da ti jesi dete tvoje sekunde. I da ta sekunda jeste tvoj dah."
🚶♂️Ovo je imaginarna autobiografija-putovanje kroz prostor i vreme
🚶♂️A vreme,posebno književno vreme,se sastoji iz sekundi koje traju beskrajno ili od praznog prostora.
🚶♂️Pisac kreće na put s broda Moravska noć,menja razna prevozna sredstva,putuje u Španiju,Nemačku,Austriju,obiđe rodno selo,brata,grobove predaka,i vrati se opet na Moravu.
🚶♂️Ako vas zanima istorija Balkana nećete ništa saznati osim da je Porodin kod Velike Plane,preko Morave,što sam već i sama znala budući da sam skoro ceo život provela s te druge,planjanske strane.
🚶♂️Ima predivnih opisa,pisac sreće razne predele i ljude,i tu je po mom mišljenju Handke najjači-u opisima.
🚶♂️Tu je i potraga ili bekstvo od neke žene,jer piscu ne treba žena kao žena,samo kao idealna čitateljica. Okeeeeej 🙄😂 i dosta edipovskih razmišljanja. 🤷♀️
🚶♂️U svakom slučaju-ako vas zanima misaoni proces jednog pisca-preporučujem.
#7sensesofabook #bookstagram #knjige #readingaddict #literature
August 3, 2018
Oh my lord. This book took several hours of my life that I will never get back. If I didn't believe in finishing every book, I would never have done this one. At first, the premis was fascinating. A group of people get called to a houseboat in the middle of the night to hear a story. But then it was a stream of consciousness, was it real? Wasn't it real? Was there a woman? Wasn't there a woman? And so forth. Until the end of the book. I did not enjoy this book one bit, maybe it was just me, but there was no plot, no real characters, and although I liked conjuring up in my mind the places that were mentioned, that is no reason for an entire book. Publish a list of interesting places. Yuck!
January 22, 2022
Hypnotic, a ruminating, digressive meditation. At times a seduction, at others a puzzle, a frustration, but overall a curiosity, mystery and delight interwoven. A buoyant wandering and floating of the soul.
July 21, 2019
the other person...merely offered him a pretext to utter out loud the conversation he had been having with himself for decades. p295
If we consider the other person to be us, the readers, and the conversation is written down, than indeed we can feel somewhat justified in feeling that this is more a monologue than a novel. Is the narrator, identified as a former writer, having us on?
Destinies, characters, actions: not for him. p298
And yet: treading carefully through the passages of this book, following as best we can the itinerary of a meandering journey being recounted under fabulous circumstances, we find intimations of destiny, brilliantly brief character sketches, and the kind of actions that define a life. In addition, a running commentary on the role of poetry (did the poets calling still exist? P102) and the relationship between silence and words and breathe
...a breathing for which one did not need to inhale; a breathing so deep inside one's body...that did not originate with oneself. p30
Also woven into the text is the offhand social commentary and the constant appeal to the listener/reader for confirmation. Don't you think so?
Reading along, I kept falling into a kind of spell, "wafting in from another era" (p107)rendering the text to some past tense; only to be jolted by sharp references to the present day. Curiously, it is the cell phone that seems out of place in the brooding atmosphere of the book.
Ultimately, it is the provisional nature of life and its shifting provocations that is the theme here and it is PH genius that gives us a peek into a "different calculus"
And the different calculus brought with it a different light, and it was not a brighter light but a markedly darker one, a dimmer one, a sort of dark light ....It was neither a movie nor an ending. p144
PH shifts seamlessly from scrupulous realism to fantasy and satire, a lot of it I admit over my head but most likely hilarious for those more familiar with the Balkans. Im not even sure for what the Balkins night be a metaphor. Could it be the Doldrums? I was actually amazed that I was able to follow with such interest and there was a certain added tension as I waited for the story to fly over the wall and go splat. PH's skill brings it back every time. So forget the hint of misogyny (can we?) and some definitely unpalatable bits ( which may be just morbid fantasy) and sentences that cleverly run on to paragraphs (I may be be exaggerating a bit) don't overthink it.
All that was left was defiance....The last means we had to assert ourselves and radiate something beautiful. p194
If we consider the other person to be us, the readers, and the conversation is written down, than indeed we can feel somewhat justified in feeling that this is more a monologue than a novel. Is the narrator, identified as a former writer, having us on?
Destinies, characters, actions: not for him. p298
And yet: treading carefully through the passages of this book, following as best we can the itinerary of a meandering journey being recounted under fabulous circumstances, we find intimations of destiny, brilliantly brief character sketches, and the kind of actions that define a life. In addition, a running commentary on the role of poetry (did the poets calling still exist? P102) and the relationship between silence and words and breathe
...a breathing for which one did not need to inhale; a breathing so deep inside one's body...that did not originate with oneself. p30
Also woven into the text is the offhand social commentary and the constant appeal to the listener/reader for confirmation. Don't you think so?
Reading along, I kept falling into a kind of spell, "wafting in from another era" (p107)rendering the text to some past tense; only to be jolted by sharp references to the present day. Curiously, it is the cell phone that seems out of place in the brooding atmosphere of the book.
Ultimately, it is the provisional nature of life and its shifting provocations that is the theme here and it is PH genius that gives us a peek into a "different calculus"
And the different calculus brought with it a different light, and it was not a brighter light but a markedly darker one, a dimmer one, a sort of dark light ....It was neither a movie nor an ending. p144
PH shifts seamlessly from scrupulous realism to fantasy and satire, a lot of it I admit over my head but most likely hilarious for those more familiar with the Balkans. Im not even sure for what the Balkins night be a metaphor. Could it be the Doldrums? I was actually amazed that I was able to follow with such interest and there was a certain added tension as I waited for the story to fly over the wall and go splat. PH's skill brings it back every time. So forget the hint of misogyny (can we?) and some definitely unpalatable bits ( which may be just morbid fantasy) and sentences that cleverly run on to paragraphs (I may be be exaggerating a bit) don't overthink it.
All that was left was defiance....The last means we had to assert ourselves and radiate something beautiful. p194
September 19, 2021
De morele en esthetische crisis van het geëngageerde schrijverschap in een posthistorische tijd. Een voormalige schrijver die erg op Peter Handke lijkt maakt een rondreis door Europa en vertelt daarover op zijn woonboot op de de rivier Morava gedurende een nacht met vrienden. Het boek is een wat melancholische vertelling en meditatie over de inwisselbaarheid van het hedendaagse Europa, met de Balkan (maar ook andere regio’s, zoals Galicië) als naam voor een streek die zich aan homogenisering onttrekt; eerder een imaginaire locatie, een mentale kaart, dan een reëel bestaande plek. Dat verzacht het verwijt dat het hier om Balkankitsch gaat een beetje, maar ontslaat de lezer niet van vragen over de reële implicaties van Handkes engagement - lotsverbondenheid, noemt hij het zelfs hier - met de 'enclave', een nogal abstracte aanduiding voor wat in werkelijkheid een concrete betrokkenheid was van Handke bij de in bloed gedrenkte Servische nationale zaak. Op die betrokkenheid kijkt hij in dit boek met een zekere ambivalentie terug, in een mengsel van zelfrechtvaardiging en zelfbeschuldiging. De verteller beseft best dat hij een problematische figuur is, dat de epische stijl waarmee hij zijn gehoor wil omspoelen de eenzaamheid niet kan opheffen, maar hij probeert het toch. Dat maakt het verhaal bij vlagen meeslepend, maar de prijs is dat de verteller zichzelf hautain op een voetstuk moet plaatst en lang niet zo invoelend is als je zou willen. Ik begrijp Handkes afkeer van het platgeslagen Europa waarin de geschiedenis het toneel heeft verlaten, zijn verzet tegen het liberalisme dat zichzelf als neutrale scheidsrechter op het wereldtoneel manifesteert, desnoods met geweld. Maar door zich zo met de regressieve aspecten van de Balkan te identificeren trekt hij in mijn ogen precies de verkeerde conclusies uit het Joegoslavische experiment, dat zo goed en zo kwaad als mogelijk een autonome koers voer in Europa en de wereld waarin je een glimp kunt opvangen van een alternatief dat geen toekomst heeft gekregen.
April 11, 2024
weiß eigentlich gar nicht so richtig was ich über das buch schreiben soll. hat mir auf jedenfalls gefallen und handkes schreibstil hat mir sehr gefallen, trotzdem war es aber irgendwie auch ein riesiges metaphorisches mess. das ende war leider irgendwie absehbar ab einen gewissen zeitpunkt, da hätte ich mir etwas anderes gewünscht.
March 24, 2021
You have to immerse yourself in the book in order to enjoy Handke's book. Of course, in general, you need to make your imagination work hard reading any literary work, but it's more so for Handke's book. His book has a subtle quality which makes skipping or mind wandering forgivable, but it leaves a void in one's mind calling for him to go back to find out what happened in the skipped text. The void call, driven more by guilt than curiosity, keeps a reader absorbed in the book.
The book testifies a writer's style and taste can never get old. His retelling of his mother's older brother's story in the middle of the book fits great into this book. This also gives the reader to compare the young Handke, a sorrow beyond dreams with the older Handke the Movavian night. Knowledge and experience have grown, but Handke is still the same.
The story line is quite simple. A few persons were summoned to listen to the writer tell his long trip around central Europe. And the book is about the happenings of the trip. But it's a wonder that Handke touched so many aspects of human life, including family life, history, politics, philosophy so on.
As always, Handke's book is great demonstration of human intellectual on ordinary living. He always teaches not preaches how a person can live well by living in the moment and experience everything that comes in the way.
The book testifies a writer's style and taste can never get old. His retelling of his mother's older brother's story in the middle of the book fits great into this book. This also gives the reader to compare the young Handke, a sorrow beyond dreams with the older Handke the Movavian night. Knowledge and experience have grown, but Handke is still the same.
The story line is quite simple. A few persons were summoned to listen to the writer tell his long trip around central Europe. And the book is about the happenings of the trip. But it's a wonder that Handke touched so many aspects of human life, including family life, history, politics, philosophy so on.
As always, Handke's book is great demonstration of human intellectual on ordinary living. He always teaches not preaches how a person can live well by living in the moment and experience everything that comes in the way.
April 7, 2021
The last novel of my reading in Peter Handke. At first, I was somewhat surprised by seeing the subtitle, "A Story" on a novel of over five hundred pages, but this is essentially a "story" which is told orally by the protagonist in one night on the Morawa River, aboard a houseboat called "The Moravian Night". The subject of the story is the boat captain's "Rundreise" or circular trip through Europe. At first sight the various episodes seem fairly random, as in the (more linear) trip through the Sierra de Gredos in his earlier long novel, but as I thought more about it there does seem to be a symmetrical structure, though not obvious or worked out in detail.
Apart from a brief prologue where the Hearers gather on the book and an equally brief epilogue, the novel begins and ends aboard the boat. The trip itself starts out with a description of the enclave of Porodin and a bus trip, and finishes up the same way. The first episode (a meal in a cemetary) and the last (a "conference" of "cranks" who want to re-establish a united Balkan state) deal with the past and future of the Balkans. The next episode (a return to a place of his past, the island on which he began his career as an author, and a meeting with his girlfriend from that time) corresponds to the next-to-last episode (the return to his birth-village and meeting with his brother) and form a triangle with a chapter on a visit to his father's grave. There is a sort of chiasmus, with chapter 3 (a synposium on "Noise") matching up with chapter 6 (a jew's harp convention) and chapter 4 (on disguises and apparent madness) matching with chapter 8 on the same themes. The meeting with the "foreign woman" also in chapter 4 is similar (although of more importance) to his meeting with the woman reader on the train in chapter 7.
The various episodes are more interesting than in his earlier "trip" novels; if I hadn't already formed a fairly negative impression of Handke's work, this one might have interested me in his writing. It is the latest book (chronologically) I have read by him.
Apart from a brief prologue where the Hearers gather on the book and an equally brief epilogue, the novel begins and ends aboard the boat. The trip itself starts out with a description of the enclave of Porodin and a bus trip, and finishes up the same way. The first episode (a meal in a cemetary) and the last (a "conference" of "cranks" who want to re-establish a united Balkan state) deal with the past and future of the Balkans. The next episode (a return to a place of his past, the island on which he began his career as an author, and a meeting with his girlfriend from that time) corresponds to the next-to-last episode (the return to his birth-village and meeting with his brother) and form a triangle with a chapter on a visit to his father's grave. There is a sort of chiasmus, with chapter 3 (a synposium on "Noise") matching up with chapter 6 (a jew's harp convention) and chapter 4 (on disguises and apparent madness) matching with chapter 8 on the same themes. The meeting with the "foreign woman" also in chapter 4 is similar (although of more importance) to his meeting with the woman reader on the train in chapter 7.
The various episodes are more interesting than in his earlier "trip" novels; if I hadn't already formed a fairly negative impression of Handke's work, this one might have interested me in his writing. It is the latest book (chronologically) I have read by him.
June 3, 2021
Olipahan romaani! Ei tämä huono ollut, ei missään nimessä, omintakeinen vain. Kaikkia tähän tarinaan piilotettuja merkityksiä, viittauksia ja vihjeitä ei kannata edes yrittää ymmärtää. On hyvä vain heittäytyä mukaan kerrontaan ja antaa osan juonesta suosiolla soljua ohi. Veikkaan, että vaikka tämän romaanin lukisi sata kertaa, se olisi joka kerralla erilainen.
Kertomuksen ytimessä on kai hyvin abstraktilla tasolla yritys ymmärtää, mikä ja mitä on Balkan ja miten se asettuu suhteessa itään, länteen, niiden väliin ja toisaalta ulkopuolelle. Selväksi käy vain määrittelyn mahdottomuus (mikä jo sinänsä on Balkan-klisee), Balkan on loputon ja ääretön, ikuinen ja toisaalta rikkinäinen ja arpinen, aina erilainen ulkopuoliselle kuin sen sisältä tulevalle. Entisen Jugoslavian alue on kertojan kuvailuissa aivan eri tavalla runnottu, hävitetty ja menetetty ex-maa kuin muut (ex-)maat (alan kuulostaa ihan Handkelta).
Kertojan misogynismi ärsytti antaumuksella monessa kohtaa.
Kertomuksen ytimessä on kai hyvin abstraktilla tasolla yritys ymmärtää, mikä ja mitä on Balkan ja miten se asettuu suhteessa itään, länteen, niiden väliin ja toisaalta ulkopuolelle. Selväksi käy vain määrittelyn mahdottomuus (mikä jo sinänsä on Balkan-klisee), Balkan on loputon ja ääretön, ikuinen ja toisaalta rikkinäinen ja arpinen, aina erilainen ulkopuoliselle kuin sen sisältä tulevalle. Entisen Jugoslavian alue on kertojan kuvailuissa aivan eri tavalla runnottu, hävitetty ja menetetty ex-maa kuin muut (ex-)maat (alan kuulostaa ihan Handkelta).
Kertojan misogynismi ärsytti antaumuksella monessa kohtaa.
May 28, 2021
I believe in the serendipitous encounter between human beings and books. Certain books come to us at a right moment, but certain books don't. Although I love Handke's novels, and it is his prose that inspires me the most on my own writing, his novel The Moravian Night, to a man in his 30s so busy with his work and family, was just TOO slow.
One review said: "Handke's prose, always visual and cinematic, often reads as though in slow motion."
His masterpiece, "Slow Homecoming" also is undoubtedly a slow-motion narration. However, something propelled me forward, as I was reading about the narrator's loneliness and observation in Alaska, his idiosyncratic takes on the artist Cezanne, and most touchingly, his parenthood.
One review said the Moravian Night is too political a novel in disguise. Anyone who is familiar with Handke's opinion on Balkan troubles will agree. He says The Moravian Night is "a restatement of Handke's myth of the Balkans."
I decided that I will revisit this book when I'm in my 60s, the author's age when he had written this book, the time in one's life when finally, one can wish for something like peace to descend upon one's soul, long enough to enjoy this painfully slow novel, albeit a novel that wants to be more than a novel.
----------------------------------------------
He had never felt a calling to write, and certainly not before that summer. If there was to be a calling, it had to come from him, from him alone. P. 71
Typical writing style:
When they set out together--set out also while at rest--the cooks' white aprons became whiter than white, whiter than in any laundry detergent advertisement; the sun allowed itself to be looked at without any risk of blindness; the steppe bordered on the Olympic stadium, the Alpine peaks rubbed shoulders with a stand of date palms; the millionaire's estate, without walls or fences, nestled against a tent city for refugees, the monastery garden hugged the international airport, the zoo bordered on the Tibetan smile center, the golf course lay adjacent to the Badlands, the noise canal bumped up against the silent labyrinth, the mine shaft plunged next to the kite-flyers' cliff, there was no distance between Atlas and Lebanon, and it was only a hop, skip, and jump from St. Jakob in the Rosental to Santiago de Chile, and hardly a leap of thought from the earth to Venus, which on evening sparkled red like Mars. And then one fine day William Faulkner's feebleminded hero panted along behind his beloved cow. And then Madame Bovary dropped her handkerchief. And Josef K. stopped in confusion on his way to the railroad station.
One review said: "Handke's prose, always visual and cinematic, often reads as though in slow motion."
His masterpiece, "Slow Homecoming" also is undoubtedly a slow-motion narration. However, something propelled me forward, as I was reading about the narrator's loneliness and observation in Alaska, his idiosyncratic takes on the artist Cezanne, and most touchingly, his parenthood.
One review said the Moravian Night is too political a novel in disguise. Anyone who is familiar with Handke's opinion on Balkan troubles will agree. He says The Moravian Night is "a restatement of Handke's myth of the Balkans."
I decided that I will revisit this book when I'm in my 60s, the author's age when he had written this book, the time in one's life when finally, one can wish for something like peace to descend upon one's soul, long enough to enjoy this painfully slow novel, albeit a novel that wants to be more than a novel.
----------------------------------------------
He had never felt a calling to write, and certainly not before that summer. If there was to be a calling, it had to come from him, from him alone. P. 71
Typical writing style:
When they set out together--set out also while at rest--the cooks' white aprons became whiter than white, whiter than in any laundry detergent advertisement; the sun allowed itself to be looked at without any risk of blindness; the steppe bordered on the Olympic stadium, the Alpine peaks rubbed shoulders with a stand of date palms; the millionaire's estate, without walls or fences, nestled against a tent city for refugees, the monastery garden hugged the international airport, the zoo bordered on the Tibetan smile center, the golf course lay adjacent to the Badlands, the noise canal bumped up against the silent labyrinth, the mine shaft plunged next to the kite-flyers' cliff, there was no distance between Atlas and Lebanon, and it was only a hop, skip, and jump from St. Jakob in the Rosental to Santiago de Chile, and hardly a leap of thought from the earth to Venus, which on evening sparkled red like Mars. And then one fine day William Faulkner's feebleminded hero panted along behind his beloved cow. And then Madame Bovary dropped her handkerchief. And Josef K. stopped in confusion on his way to the railroad station.
June 7, 2023
A bloated and hazy trip down the river blue.
April 11, 2012
HANDKE, Peter: „Die morawische Nacht“, Erzählung, Frankfurt 2009
Eine Gruppe von Menschen trafen sich in der Nacht auf einem Hausboot auf dem Fluss Morawa. Der Bootsbesitzer war quer - er sagte "Zick Zack" - durch Europa gereist. Er nannte sie "Rund-und-Zickzackreise" (Seite 316) In einer Nacht auf dem Fluss Morawa auf dem Boot erzählte er seine Erlebnisse.
Während der Reise zog es ihn in sein Geburtsland Österreich hin, obwohl er das nicht "Heimat" nannte. Als Heimat bezeichnete er den Balkan. Da schimmert immer wieder Peter Handke selbst durch. "mit Österreich verband ihn mit Gedanken nichts mehr, und das schon seit so langem, dass ihm das von Zeit zu Zeit beinahe unheimlich wurde." (Seite 306)
In seinem Heimatdorf angekommen erkannte er vieles nicht mehr. Er nannte die Leute aus dem Morgenland. Minarett neben Kirchturm. Die Welt hatte sich verändert. Er besuchte den Friedhof, das Grab seiner Eltern.
Er führt mit sich selber einen Dialog und kritisiert sich, als einen, der die Heimat verlassen und sich am Balkan angesiedelt hat.
„Sein Engel war es, der ihm im letzten Moment, im Rutschen, im Fastfall, das Gleichgewicht wieder gab. Keine Rüstung hätte ihn dann geschützt. Und gar viel hatte sein Engel zu tun an diesem Tag.“ (Seite 256)
Das Buch endet dort wo es begann: in der Enklave. Die Enklave war aber keine mehr. Nur mehr alte Leute sind geblieben und für die hat man den Stacheldraht weggeräumt und die Panzer abgezogen.
(Hinterbrühl, 11.04.2012)
Eine Gruppe von Menschen trafen sich in der Nacht auf einem Hausboot auf dem Fluss Morawa. Der Bootsbesitzer war quer - er sagte "Zick Zack" - durch Europa gereist. Er nannte sie "Rund-und-Zickzackreise" (Seite 316) In einer Nacht auf dem Fluss Morawa auf dem Boot erzählte er seine Erlebnisse.
Während der Reise zog es ihn in sein Geburtsland Österreich hin, obwohl er das nicht "Heimat" nannte. Als Heimat bezeichnete er den Balkan. Da schimmert immer wieder Peter Handke selbst durch. "mit Österreich verband ihn mit Gedanken nichts mehr, und das schon seit so langem, dass ihm das von Zeit zu Zeit beinahe unheimlich wurde." (Seite 306)
In seinem Heimatdorf angekommen erkannte er vieles nicht mehr. Er nannte die Leute aus dem Morgenland. Minarett neben Kirchturm. Die Welt hatte sich verändert. Er besuchte den Friedhof, das Grab seiner Eltern.
Er führt mit sich selber einen Dialog und kritisiert sich, als einen, der die Heimat verlassen und sich am Balkan angesiedelt hat.
„Sein Engel war es, der ihm im letzten Moment, im Rutschen, im Fastfall, das Gleichgewicht wieder gab. Keine Rüstung hätte ihn dann geschützt. Und gar viel hatte sein Engel zu tun an diesem Tag.“ (Seite 256)
Das Buch endet dort wo es begann: in der Enklave. Die Enklave war aber keine mehr. Nur mehr alte Leute sind geblieben und für die hat man den Stacheldraht weggeräumt und die Panzer abgezogen.
(Hinterbrühl, 11.04.2012)
January 28, 2024
Uh…. da nisam zacrtala sebi da ću pročitati makar jednu knjigu od svakog Nobelovca, ovo bi bila prva knjiga koju bih batalila.
Ovo je kao neki eksponat u muzeju savremene umetnosti. Gledate u crveno platno, na primer, i neko tvrdi kako je to vrhunska slika vredna milion dolara. E tako i ovo. Imate neki papir, prelom, korice, unutra je neki tekst i to sve liči na knjigu. I to je to. Nije zaista knjiga. Nemojte da vas zavara opis na poleđini knjige kao što je mene! Lažan je, nema toga!
Likovi praktično ne postoje, nema radnje, da ne pričam o nekim zapletima i raspletima, motivima. Ništa.
Ovo je jedan dugački esej nabacanih i razbacanih misli, nepovezanih rečenica, nepostojeće vremenske linije. Nijednog trenutka se ne zna da li je nešto stvarno ili san.
Jako mučno. Žao mi je, ali bez obzira na milion dolara vrednosti, ja ovde vidim samo obično, u crveno ofarbano platno.
Ovo je kao neki eksponat u muzeju savremene umetnosti. Gledate u crveno platno, na primer, i neko tvrdi kako je to vrhunska slika vredna milion dolara. E tako i ovo. Imate neki papir, prelom, korice, unutra je neki tekst i to sve liči na knjigu. I to je to. Nije zaista knjiga. Nemojte da vas zavara opis na poleđini knjige kao što je mene! Lažan je, nema toga!
Likovi praktično ne postoje, nema radnje, da ne pričam o nekim zapletima i raspletima, motivima. Ništa.
Ovo je jedan dugački esej nabacanih i razbacanih misli, nepovezanih rečenica, nepostojeće vremenske linije. Nijednog trenutka se ne zna da li je nešto stvarno ili san.
Jako mučno. Žao mi je, ali bez obzira na milion dolara vrednosti, ja ovde vidim samo obično, u crveno ofarbano platno.
November 14, 2018
De proclamatie van exterritorialiteit versus het dissidentendom van de dichter (Nacht op de rivier, Peter Handke)
Nacht op de rivier gaat over een voormalig schrijver die op zijn woonboot een verhaal vertelt over zijn omzwervingen door Europa. Wat het vertellen van de ex-schrijver aan de praat krijgt is de ervaring van gevaar, die de luisteraars doet verstommen en de verteller doet fluisteren op hun tocht over de rivier de Morava. Dit gevaar bestaat erin dat de verteller een exterritorialiteit proclameert, een enclave die zich teweerstelt tegen de tendens tot mondiale hegemonie van het Europese denken, dat door dit Europese denken wordt achterhaald, geïncorporeerd en geüniformeerd. Dat Handke persoonlijk ervaring heeft met het taboe op enclave-denken is bekend; hij bejubelde de onschuld en puurheid van het Servische volk tijdens de Balkan-oorlog terwijl de communis opinio diametraal de andere kant op wees. Toch is dit niet het punt hier, want dit verwijt aan het adres van het Europese denken kun je evengoed vanuit de filosofie van Levinas begrijpen.
Het gevaar waarin de verteller verkeert drijft de vlucht van de woonboot over de Europese wateren aan. Terwijl hij eerst nog dacht dat de proclamatie van exterritorialiteit bestond in een tocht naar buiten-Europese oorden, beseft hij nu dat de vlucht voor het gevaar alleen door een binnen-Europese trektocht kan worden volbracht: “Hoe had hij kunnen vergeten dat de Grote Horizon zich nooit van buitenaf liet zien, ergens buiten, al was het op nog zo’n grote afstand? En al helemaal nooit met opzet? Hoe had hij kunnen vergeten dat de Grote Horizon hoogstens uit een bepaalde nabijheid voortkwam en dan in je binnenste verder liep…” (34). Het grootste gevaar van binnen-Europese trektochten is dat je er niet buiten kunt treden maar er juist door in vervoering wordt gebracht: “’Alleen in vervoering zie ik wat de wereld is’” (37). Allereerst doet die vervoering hem beseffen inbegrepen te zijn in die totaliteitsaanspraak van het Europese denken: “Het veel grotere, het eigenlijke gevaar was dat in zo’n toestand van vervoering de wereld zich enerzijds meer dan ooit als complete wereld, als een totaliteit liet zien, maar dat er anderzijds tegen, van, over die wereld niets meer te zeggen viel” (129). Ten tweede brengt die vervoering zijn vlucht op gang, zijn zin om te ontsnappen aan de uniformering van de wereld door het Europese denken met het oog op een “volmaakte” en “ideale” wereld als “hogere, geldige werkelijkheid” (130). Daarin vindt hij zijn bestemming, zijn zelf-bestemming als verteller en dichter.
De verteller denkt dat die zelf-bestemming louter in de dichterlijke naamgeving kan bestaan – het uitroepen van de enclave – zonder dat dit een handelen hoeft te impliceren. Misschien verklaart deze bepaling van het dichten wel waarom de kritiek op Handke deels terecht was; het bejubelen van de puurheid van het Servische volk is niet alleen een vrij benoemen maar legitimeert het handelen van dat volk uit die naam, wat op z’n minst problematisch is als je de etnische zuivering van duizenden Moslims in Kosovo, Bosnië en Herzegovina in de negentiger jaren in ogenschouw neemt. In dat opzicht had Levinas de voormalig schrijver kunnen vertellen dat het enclave-denken aan dezelfde ziekte lijdt als het Europese denken. Hoe terecht die kritiek misschien ook is, Nacht op de rivier kan ook gelezen worden als Handke’s verontschuldiging voor die fout: “Misschien omdat hij destijds voor korte tijd inderdaad in zoiets als een andere natie geloofde, heel algemeen in principieel andere naties, en omdat hij meende die mede te kunnen belichamen. Idioot, dorpsgek, huisstok” (184).
Hoewel de verteller nu inziet dat de proclamatie van een enclave goed of fout kan uitpakken, geeft hij het idee dat dichters enclaves dichten niet op. Dit idee staat diametraal tegenover het Europese denken, dat het dichten heeft doodverklaard en alleen nog ruimte ziet voor de kunstenaar als arrangeur van dat wat is: “Dichterlijk taal is dood, die bestaat niet meer, of alleen nog als imitatie, als aanstellerij. … weg met de droom van de schrijver als schepper. Had maar op tijd leren arrangeren. Leve de schrijvende arrangeurs, dat zijn wij, wij alleen” (261). Hoewel hij erkent dat zijn dichterlijke naamgeving verkeert kan uitpakken en dat hij zich daardoor heeft laten verleiden in het verleden, blijft hij vasthouden aan het principe van de verteller of dichter als schepper en stichter van nieuwe namen, die binnen de hegemonie van het Europese denken verschijnen als dissidenten, blindgangers en ‘desperado’s op verloren terrein’.
Zo’n gedachte is natuurlijk een spekje naar ons bekje, maar toch moeten we hier een voorbehoud maken. Kun je wel zo’n onderscheid claimen tussen benoemen en handelen, en je terugtrekken op het domein van de dichterlijke naamgeving? Is dat niet een verborgen verontschuldiging, die al niet meer nodig zodra we tot ons toelaten dat literaire proclamaties van enclaves goed en fout kunnen uitpakken? Zijn benoemen en handelen niet onderling afhankelijk, voor zover echte namen performatieve kracht hebben en handelingen pas betekenis krijgen in het licht van een idee? Dan kun je niet meer zeggen: “Ja, mijn gedicht liegt, ik kan heel goed benoemen. Maar wat ik ook kan benoemen en zeggen, ik ben niet in staat het te doen. En ik wil het ook niet. Het is mijn taak om te benoemen en niet om ernaar te handelen. Het is niet mijn ambt om te handelen” (114). De eigenlijke vergissing van Handke is niet dat hij zich heeft laten verleiden door het idee van een ideale en volmaakte natie, daarvoor heeft hij zich verontschuldigt, maar zijn onderschatting van de performatieve kracht van het dichterlijke woord.
Nacht op de rivier gaat over een voormalig schrijver die op zijn woonboot een verhaal vertelt over zijn omzwervingen door Europa. Wat het vertellen van de ex-schrijver aan de praat krijgt is de ervaring van gevaar, die de luisteraars doet verstommen en de verteller doet fluisteren op hun tocht over de rivier de Morava. Dit gevaar bestaat erin dat de verteller een exterritorialiteit proclameert, een enclave die zich teweerstelt tegen de tendens tot mondiale hegemonie van het Europese denken, dat door dit Europese denken wordt achterhaald, geïncorporeerd en geüniformeerd. Dat Handke persoonlijk ervaring heeft met het taboe op enclave-denken is bekend; hij bejubelde de onschuld en puurheid van het Servische volk tijdens de Balkan-oorlog terwijl de communis opinio diametraal de andere kant op wees. Toch is dit niet het punt hier, want dit verwijt aan het adres van het Europese denken kun je evengoed vanuit de filosofie van Levinas begrijpen.
Het gevaar waarin de verteller verkeert drijft de vlucht van de woonboot over de Europese wateren aan. Terwijl hij eerst nog dacht dat de proclamatie van exterritorialiteit bestond in een tocht naar buiten-Europese oorden, beseft hij nu dat de vlucht voor het gevaar alleen door een binnen-Europese trektocht kan worden volbracht: “Hoe had hij kunnen vergeten dat de Grote Horizon zich nooit van buitenaf liet zien, ergens buiten, al was het op nog zo’n grote afstand? En al helemaal nooit met opzet? Hoe had hij kunnen vergeten dat de Grote Horizon hoogstens uit een bepaalde nabijheid voortkwam en dan in je binnenste verder liep…” (34). Het grootste gevaar van binnen-Europese trektochten is dat je er niet buiten kunt treden maar er juist door in vervoering wordt gebracht: “’Alleen in vervoering zie ik wat de wereld is’” (37). Allereerst doet die vervoering hem beseffen inbegrepen te zijn in die totaliteitsaanspraak van het Europese denken: “Het veel grotere, het eigenlijke gevaar was dat in zo’n toestand van vervoering de wereld zich enerzijds meer dan ooit als complete wereld, als een totaliteit liet zien, maar dat er anderzijds tegen, van, over die wereld niets meer te zeggen viel” (129). Ten tweede brengt die vervoering zijn vlucht op gang, zijn zin om te ontsnappen aan de uniformering van de wereld door het Europese denken met het oog op een “volmaakte” en “ideale” wereld als “hogere, geldige werkelijkheid” (130). Daarin vindt hij zijn bestemming, zijn zelf-bestemming als verteller en dichter.
De verteller denkt dat die zelf-bestemming louter in de dichterlijke naamgeving kan bestaan – het uitroepen van de enclave – zonder dat dit een handelen hoeft te impliceren. Misschien verklaart deze bepaling van het dichten wel waarom de kritiek op Handke deels terecht was; het bejubelen van de puurheid van het Servische volk is niet alleen een vrij benoemen maar legitimeert het handelen van dat volk uit die naam, wat op z’n minst problematisch is als je de etnische zuivering van duizenden Moslims in Kosovo, Bosnië en Herzegovina in de negentiger jaren in ogenschouw neemt. In dat opzicht had Levinas de voormalig schrijver kunnen vertellen dat het enclave-denken aan dezelfde ziekte lijdt als het Europese denken. Hoe terecht die kritiek misschien ook is, Nacht op de rivier kan ook gelezen worden als Handke’s verontschuldiging voor die fout: “Misschien omdat hij destijds voor korte tijd inderdaad in zoiets als een andere natie geloofde, heel algemeen in principieel andere naties, en omdat hij meende die mede te kunnen belichamen. Idioot, dorpsgek, huisstok” (184).
Hoewel de verteller nu inziet dat de proclamatie van een enclave goed of fout kan uitpakken, geeft hij het idee dat dichters enclaves dichten niet op. Dit idee staat diametraal tegenover het Europese denken, dat het dichten heeft doodverklaard en alleen nog ruimte ziet voor de kunstenaar als arrangeur van dat wat is: “Dichterlijk taal is dood, die bestaat niet meer, of alleen nog als imitatie, als aanstellerij. … weg met de droom van de schrijver als schepper. Had maar op tijd leren arrangeren. Leve de schrijvende arrangeurs, dat zijn wij, wij alleen” (261). Hoewel hij erkent dat zijn dichterlijke naamgeving verkeert kan uitpakken en dat hij zich daardoor heeft laten verleiden in het verleden, blijft hij vasthouden aan het principe van de verteller of dichter als schepper en stichter van nieuwe namen, die binnen de hegemonie van het Europese denken verschijnen als dissidenten, blindgangers en ‘desperado’s op verloren terrein’.
Zo’n gedachte is natuurlijk een spekje naar ons bekje, maar toch moeten we hier een voorbehoud maken. Kun je wel zo’n onderscheid claimen tussen benoemen en handelen, en je terugtrekken op het domein van de dichterlijke naamgeving? Is dat niet een verborgen verontschuldiging, die al niet meer nodig zodra we tot ons toelaten dat literaire proclamaties van enclaves goed en fout kunnen uitpakken? Zijn benoemen en handelen niet onderling afhankelijk, voor zover echte namen performatieve kracht hebben en handelingen pas betekenis krijgen in het licht van een idee? Dan kun je niet meer zeggen: “Ja, mijn gedicht liegt, ik kan heel goed benoemen. Maar wat ik ook kan benoemen en zeggen, ik ben niet in staat het te doen. En ik wil het ook niet. Het is mijn taak om te benoemen en niet om ernaar te handelen. Het is niet mijn ambt om te handelen” (114). De eigenlijke vergissing van Handke is niet dat hij zich heeft laten verleiden door het idee van een ideale en volmaakte natie, daarvoor heeft hij zich verontschuldigt, maar zijn onderschatting van de performatieve kracht van het dichterlijke woord.
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January 24, 2017Thirty years ago, I can honestly say that I was in love with Handke's stories. For whatever reason, I hadn't read anything by him for a long, long time but when I saw a review of this book, I was determined to read it. To say that it is a novel about a journey is true but it doesn't really give a fair indication as to what Handke's book is 'about'. It is also 'about' writers and their audiences, the author's suspicions regarding language, and, most importantly perhaps, 'Central Europe.' What happens when history is disrupted? How do political changes in the present (present?) affect our memories of the past (and vice versa)? This was a wonderful novel.
February 7, 2020
‘Kom, hierheen, jullie, ik moet jullie een treurig verhaal vertellen!’ Een treurig verhaal? Dat zou nog moeten blijken.
De slotregels in de vertelling Nacht Op De Rivier. Een reisverslag, vlucht en zoektocht door het verkruimelde Europa. Sterk beeldend geschreven en in wandeltempo te genieten tot de laatste bladzijde.
De slotregels in de vertelling Nacht Op De Rivier. Een reisverslag, vlucht en zoektocht door het verkruimelde Europa. Sterk beeldend geschreven en in wandeltempo te genieten tot de laatste bladzijde.
November 22, 2021
Ein tolles Buch, das ich jedem empfehlen würde zu lesen, so viele schöne Naturbeschreibungen unsere schönes Land, so viele Beschreibungen von Menschen und ihren Eigenschaften, alles sehr schön verpackt in einem Buch, das ein Meisterwerk von Peter Handke ist
June 21, 2017
Challenging!
Only serious readers. It's a long, complicated read. Difficult to summarize. A sort if stream of consciousness. The final 4 chapters are worth it.
Only serious readers. It's a long, complicated read. Difficult to summarize. A sort if stream of consciousness. The final 4 chapters are worth it.
November 4, 2019
Stunning and fantastic book for thinking people.
November 12, 2022
Роман сновиђење. Аутобиографија у облику вишестраног монолога о болу одсутности.
July 19, 2024
Početak radnje je bio misteriozan i veoma obećavajuć. Radnja započinje i završava se u Srbiji, u okolini Velike Plane. Skupinu od nekoliko ljudi (nikome se ime ne pominje), a među njima i naratora priče pod okriljem noći okupio je domaćin večeri koga narator oslovljava sa ,,Pisac" ili On (veliko početno slovo), a kasnije i ,,hodač”. Pisac ih je okupio na svom brodu po čijem imenu ovaj roman nosi naziv. Svi dolaze znatiželjni pokušavajući da pretpostave svrhu ovog okupljanja. I tu se završava interesantni deo knjige.
Nakon prvih nekoliko strana sve se menja i ja vise ne znam šta sam zapravo pročitao. Narator detaljno opisuje na koji način Pisac propoveda, zatim se pominje misteriozna žena koja proganja pisca, pojavljuje se i ženski lik u vidu sluškinje na brodu, naklapa se o nekakvim horizontima, a vise od pola poglavlja narrator opisuje putovanje Pisca autobusom kojim započinje njegovo putovanje.
Poglavlja nadalje ne postaju ništa zanimljivija. Pisac opisuje svoja putovanja, svoj boravak u jednom primorskom ribarskom selu verovatno u Dalmaciji gde je započeo svoju karijeru pisca, i takođe se prvi put zaljubio i izgubio nevinost. Mnogo godina kasnije kada se ponovo bude vratio u to selo prepoznaće svoju prvu ljubav u liku prosjakinje ispred crkve. O prisustvu seminaru o zvuku i buci, druženju sa pesnikom još čudnijim od njega, odnosu sa ženama prema kojima pisac ispoljana agresivno ponašanje, poseta rodnom mestu, rodnoj kući i bratu, susreti sa raznovrsnim čudacima…
Sa tako mnogo reči je tako malo rečeno. Rečenice su duge i sa dodatnim objašnjenjima u zagradi zauzimaju gotovo čitav pasus. Rečenice su takođe često međusobno nepovezane. Opisi koji ne doprinose radnji koje inače ni nema. Teško sam održavao koncentraciju, više puta sam se vraćao na pročitano da bih pronašao kakav-takav smisao i pokušao da shvatim šta je pisac hteo reći.
Ubedljivo najdosadniji roman koji sam pročitao i čestitam sebi na tome.
Jedan jedini citat koji je ostavio utisak na mene: ,,proklet da sit i bez oca… Misliš da si neranjiv baš zato što nikada nisi imao oca. Smatraš da su sve oči uprte u tebe i u dobru i u zlu. Veruješ da za tebe ne važe pravila, a ako važe, onda sasvim posebna… dete bez oca nikada ne odraste, ama nikada… Kasnije ćeš kukati za svojim ocem i zašto te je ostavio ako si ti ipak njegov… Možda ti tu ništa i ne možeš. Možda si tražio svog oca tu i tamo, kod ovoga ili onoga, pa ga samo nisi pronašao do danas. I tražiš ga još uvek…”
Nakon prvih nekoliko strana sve se menja i ja vise ne znam šta sam zapravo pročitao. Narator detaljno opisuje na koji način Pisac propoveda, zatim se pominje misteriozna žena koja proganja pisca, pojavljuje se i ženski lik u vidu sluškinje na brodu, naklapa se o nekakvim horizontima, a vise od pola poglavlja narrator opisuje putovanje Pisca autobusom kojim započinje njegovo putovanje.
Poglavlja nadalje ne postaju ništa zanimljivija. Pisac opisuje svoja putovanja, svoj boravak u jednom primorskom ribarskom selu verovatno u Dalmaciji gde je započeo svoju karijeru pisca, i takođe se prvi put zaljubio i izgubio nevinost. Mnogo godina kasnije kada se ponovo bude vratio u to selo prepoznaće svoju prvu ljubav u liku prosjakinje ispred crkve. O prisustvu seminaru o zvuku i buci, druženju sa pesnikom još čudnijim od njega, odnosu sa ženama prema kojima pisac ispoljana agresivno ponašanje, poseta rodnom mestu, rodnoj kući i bratu, susreti sa raznovrsnim čudacima…
Sa tako mnogo reči je tako malo rečeno. Rečenice su duge i sa dodatnim objašnjenjima u zagradi zauzimaju gotovo čitav pasus. Rečenice su takođe često međusobno nepovezane. Opisi koji ne doprinose radnji koje inače ni nema. Teško sam održavao koncentraciju, više puta sam se vraćao na pročitano da bih pronašao kakav-takav smisao i pokušao da shvatim šta je pisac hteo reći.
Ubedljivo najdosadniji roman koji sam pročitao i čestitam sebi na tome.
Jedan jedini citat koji je ostavio utisak na mene: ,,proklet da sit i bez oca… Misliš da si neranjiv baš zato što nikada nisi imao oca. Smatraš da su sve oči uprte u tebe i u dobru i u zlu. Veruješ da za tebe ne važe pravila, a ako važe, onda sasvim posebna… dete bez oca nikada ne odraste, ama nikada… Kasnije ćeš kukati za svojim ocem i zašto te je ostavio ako si ti ipak njegov… Možda ti tu ništa i ne možeš. Možda si tražio svog oca tu i tamo, kod ovoga ili onoga, pa ga samo nisi pronašao do danas. I tražiš ga još uvek…”
December 2, 2019
The Moravian Night is the semi-autobiographical story of the Former Writer (also frequently called The Wanderer) who invites a small band of acolytes to his houseboat where he spends a night telling them about his recent journey through Europe which was also a journey of self-discovery. I can’t say that I’ve ever read a work by Peter Handke that I’ve enjoyed but this one is better than most, if only for a strain of self-deprecating humour and sharp satire which I haven’t come across in his work before. The chapter in which the hero attends a World Symposium on Noise with a Galician poet is genuinely funny and Handke went up in my estimation for including a scene in which a vengeful reader mails his fictional alter ego copies of his novels soaked in liquid excrement. There is also an entertaining episode in which a bag lady unleashes a stream of fierce invective against the wandering former writer: ““May the brimstone butterfly f*ck you. May the firebug f*ck you. May the sultan’s cook f*ck you. May your mother fall out of a pear tree, so even if you f*ck her you won’t be able to bring her back to life.” (Strangely enough, these were my exact thoughts when I was reading Handke’s earlier novel Slow Homecoming.)
Unfortunately, the story of the former writer’s wanderings isn’t always this interesting and is usually recounted in a diffuse prose style full of circumlocutions, repetitions and disfluencies, as if the narrator is constantly groping for the right phrase and, as often as not, failing to find it. This is, of course, deliberate but it doesn’t make the novel any easier to read. An even bigger flaw is the heavy-handed symbolism and straining after a mythic dimension which the story can’t sustain. There are also a couple of disturbing passages where the narrator fantasises about beating up his girlfriend - a recurrent theme in the few Handke novels I’ve read. To be fair, there are some engaging interludes where Handke reflects on literature, ideal readers and the writers he admires but these are far outnumbered by passages which are cringe-makingly lame (the international jew’s-harp competition and a scene in which a furry animal tells the former writer some home truths about his character spring to mind).
Unfortunately, the story of the former writer’s wanderings isn’t always this interesting and is usually recounted in a diffuse prose style full of circumlocutions, repetitions and disfluencies, as if the narrator is constantly groping for the right phrase and, as often as not, failing to find it. This is, of course, deliberate but it doesn’t make the novel any easier to read. An even bigger flaw is the heavy-handed symbolism and straining after a mythic dimension which the story can’t sustain. There are also a couple of disturbing passages where the narrator fantasises about beating up his girlfriend - a recurrent theme in the few Handke novels I’ve read. To be fair, there are some engaging interludes where Handke reflects on literature, ideal readers and the writers he admires but these are far outnumbered by passages which are cringe-makingly lame (the international jew’s-harp competition and a scene in which a furry animal tells the former writer some home truths about his character spring to mind).
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