My Friends

by Emmanuel Bove, Janet Louth (Translator)

Victor Baton is a wounded war veteran trying to reestablish his prewar lifestyle but avoid work. Living in a run-down boardinghouse, Baton spends his days searching Paris for the modest comforts of warmth, cheap meals, and friendship, but he finds little. Despite his desperate situation, Baton remains vain and unsympathetic, a Bovian antihero to the core. Bove himself called My Friends, published in France in 1923, a "novel of impoverished solitude."

Genres: Fiction, France, Classics, Novels, French Literature, Literature, 20th Century

152 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1924

About the author

Emmanuel Bove, born in Paris as Emmanuel Bobovnikoff in 1898, died in his native city on Friday 13 July 1945, the night on which all of France prepared for the large-scale celebration of the first 'quatorze juillet' since World War II. He would probably have taken no part in the festivities. Bove was known as a man of few words, a shy and discreet observer. His novels and novellas were populated by awkward figures, 'losers' who were always penniless. In their banal environments, they were resigned to their hopeless fate. Bove's airy style and the humorous observations made sure that his distressing tales were modernist besides being depressing: not the style, but the themes matched the post-war atmosphere precisely.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Emmanuel Bove wrote in his own idiosyncratic style. Short sharp sentences of My Friends convey to the narration a photographical precision…
The hero, Victor Bâton is a very lonely man who doesn’t work and has no friends… He is a pitiful nonentity whose main ambition is to find a friend so he wishes to see a friend in any person he meets. He is a primitive and hopeless dreamer…
Those are the dreams:

Oh, how I should love to be rich!
Everyone would admire the fur collar of my overcoat, especially in the suburbs. My jacket would be open. A gold chain would hang across my waistcoat; my purse would be attached to my braces by a silver chain. I should carry my wallet in my revolver pocket, as Americans do. I should have to make an elegant gesture in order to look at the time on my wrist-watch. I should put my hands in my jacket pockets, with the thumbs outside, and not, like the nouveaux riches, in the arm-holes of my waistcoat.
I should have a mistress, an actress.
We should go, she and I, to have an apéritif on the terrace of the largest café in Paris. The waiter would roll away the pedestal tables like barrels to make way for us. Ice-cubes would float in our glasses. The cane of the chairs would not be coming to bits.
We should have dinner in a restaurant where there were table-cloths and flowers elegantly arranged.

And this is reality:

Lucie has a beer-drinker's figure. An aluminium ring – a souvenir of her husband who died at the front – decorates the index finger of her right hand. Her ears are flabby. Her shoes have no heels. She keeps blowing at the wisps of hair which have escaped from her bun. When she bends over, her skirt splits open at the back like a chestnut. Her pupils are not in the middle of her eyes; they are too high up, like those of alcoholics.
The room smells of empty barrels, rats and slops. Above the gas-mantle there is an asbestos fan which does not turn. In the evening the gas-lamp throws its light right under the tables. A notice – Regulations on the Control of Drunkenness – is nailed to the wall, where it can be seen clearly. A few pages are sticking out of the printed slab of a street-directory. A stained mirror, scratched on the back, decorates the partition wall.

The penury is formidable and living imaginary life full of ludicrous ambitions, the protagonist resembles an unfeathered peacock…
And the narration is laden equally with wicked sarcasm and bitter sadness.
“Solitude, what a sad and beautiful thing it is! How beautiful when we choose it! How sad when it is forced upon us year after year!”
The ultimate loneliness inevitably becomes a tragedy.

[Ilse · Rating 4 out of 5]

The warm blanket of self-pity

This book surged up the lyrics of a couple of songs I remember from student’s days - Circle– but also Friend is a four letter word.

What to think about Emmanuel Bove’s anti-hero, monsieur Victor Bâton? He surely is in a miserable place- lonely, poor, living in a tiny, damp, cold room in Paris, a war invalid with a paltry pension, not having a single friend to turn to. Initially, it feels only natural to follow his yearning and search for company, a friend, even love with sympathy.

However, as much as the reader might be willing and able to commiserate and empathize with him, Victor Bâton doesn’t make such precisely easy. To put it euphemistically, he is not very likeable...

While Bâton is professing his own modesty and humbleness, he is pretty demanding and fickle, veering from ludicrous overblown self-humiliation to repulsive haughtiness, ill-treating who shows some concern with his plight. His ideal friends must meet extremely high standards and cover him with flowers and generosity – and for sure not be too happy themselves. In his relations with the ordinary mortals he meets instead, these standards of course don’t apply to himself. He rejoices in the misfortune of others. At least he is reliable in his unreliability. Sure, he encounters animosity, disdain and even aversion. There are quite a few names to categorize him, none of them flattering. Deadbeat. Scoundrel. Sponge. Loafer. But things being as they are, what can a man like him, a man without qualities but full of contrasts and quirks, signify for other people? He rightly notes that his behaviour and presence grates others:

In that house full of working people, I was the madman that, deep down, everyone wanted to be. I was the one who went without food, the cinema, warm clothes, to be free. I was the one who, without meaning to, daily reminded people of their wretched state.

As soon as he finds what he is ostensibly looking for - kindness, generosity, a job offer, love – he runs away. Out of fear? Or are there other motives, something in his personality which make him prefer his little warm blanket of self-pity to the honest concern of real human beings? While he seems naive, his mistrust of others is that profound that he prefers to wallow in his misery, as if happiness, joy or good fortune would dissolve his identity:

Instead of pulling myself together, I tried to prolong my misery. I withdrew into myself, making myself more insignificant and wretched than I really am. In that way I found some comfort in my sorrows.

Nonetheless, this is not a depressing book. The tone of it is so light and almost cheerful Bâton’s pointy observations and self-reflections often put a smile on my face. Bove holds a mirror, showing the all too human flaw of the oversensitivity of the ego which so often goes together with uncaring or callous treatment of others. In that respect, it makes sense that Victor Bâton is frequently looking in the mirror – even if he is unconscious his own narcissism.


Emmanuel Bove (1898-1945), né Bobovnikoff) has been put on the same line as Dostoevsky and Proust and was admired by Beckett, Rilke, Soupault, and Gide. If it wasn’t for GR, I presumably would have never heard about him. ‘My friends’ was his debut and apparently Rilke was so enthusiast about it he wanted to meet Bove (in the beginning, before taking on a more deadpan tone, Bâton’s Parisians street impressions and wanderings echo The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge). Even if My friends is considered his masterpiece and Bove’s tone and terse style suit the story and the idiosyncratic personality of Victor Bâton wonderfully, Le Pressentiment (the first novel I read by Emmanuel Bove) resonated more with me – possibly because it was easier to relate to that other forlorn anti-hero Charles Bernestau.

[Helga · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5

Solitude, what a sad and beautiful thing it is! How beautiful when we choose it! How sad when it is forced upon us year after year!

Have you ever been depressed and miserable, waiting for someone to acknowledge it, to see you and ask you “Hey, what’s wrong?... Tell me all about yourself. I’m listening.”?
Have you ever been so lonely that a short mundane conversation with a complete stranger has made your day?

You wait for someone to notice you, take your hand and lift you up…but in vain.
It is in vain, but you still hope. You believe that one day you will be happy; that someone would love you; that one day you will find that friend who will want to see you and listen to you, without judging you.
To someone who hasn’t been invaded by melancholia and despair, this mind-set may seem like self-pity or self-indulgence. But it is quite the opposite. It is a cry for help. It is a dying anticipation.
You hope, you imagine, you dream and you wish.
And that’s how you survive…day by day, hour by hour.

Our disillusioned narrator, Victor Bâton, is a veteran of WWI who has returned from war with high hopes for the future, only to face poverty, joblessness, loneliness and depression.
The setting is post-war France and the time is the time of general lack of interest in another’s afflictions.
And the story is about Victor’s misadventures in trying to fit in and to survive.

I am looking for a friend. I do not think I shall ever find one.

[Guille · Rating 4 out of 5]

Tras permanecer unos días al calor de Proust, enredado en sus laberínticas frases y envuelto en la músicalidad de su prosa, leyendo sobre personas ociosas y odiosas entregadas a una cháchara interminable cuando no al chismorreo hiriente, leer a Bove es todo un refrescante baño de agua fría con brillantes pedacitos de hielo flotando a mi alrededor: frases cortas, párrafos breves, pensamientos simples, sujeto, verbo y predicado, un detalle preciso suple toda una farragosa descripción... Bove es un autor que, como bellamente dijo de él Maurice Betz, "había despojado a las frases de su elegancia, ese espejismo, de su melodía, ese canto de sirenas". Su literatura es sugerente, como esos ejercicios infantiles en los que una figura surge al unir los puntos pero en la que se nos hurta la enumeración, quedando para el lector la elección del orden de ligazón y, por tanto, el resultado de la imagen resultante.

«Una nube ocultó el sol. La calle templada se volvió gris. Las moscas dejaron de brillar. Me sentí triste. Acababa de salir hacia lo desconocido con la ilusión de ser un vagabundo, libre y feliz. Y ahora, por culpa de una nube, se había echado todo a perder.»

En mi caso, de esa unión de puntos salió un personaje, Bâton (palo en francés), con la apariencia de un desagradable Buster-cara de palo-Keaton, un hombre frágil y triste, con un semblante pálido que enfrenta las desgracias y los desprecios que su hipersensibilidad construye con una absoluta falta de expresividad en el rostro y una dolorosa quemazón en su interior, que sale de su sórdida habitación, llena de humedades y muebles viejos y desvencijados, con la esperanza siempre puesta en un acontecimiento capaz de cambiar su vida por completo. Bâton llora en la soledad hasta darse cuenta de que está forzando el llanto, no soporta que lo observen aunque gusta de verse reflejado en los cristales de los escaparates, se tiene por buena persona pero no puede evitar que su buen corazón pierda siempre la batalla ante su feroz egoísmo, ante sus continuas neurosis y paranoias. Bâton es un ser patológicamente tímido, que siempre prefiere soportar una molestia a provocarla, que vaya donde vaya necesita sentarse en el mismo sitio, incómodo ante las miradas ajenas, alerta ante cualquier gesto o comentario que siempre piensa que le van a él dirigidos, encerrado en sí mismo por mucho que lo que más desee sea abrirse a alguien.

«A cambio de un poco de afecto, compartiría todo lo que poseo: el dinero de mi pensión, mi cama. Sería muy cariñoso con la persona que me ofreciera su amistad. No la contradiría nunca. Sus deseos serían los míos. Como un perro la seguiría a todas partes. No tendría más que decir una gracia, y yo me reiría; cuando estuviera triste yo lloraría con ella.»

No es fácil que te caiga bien este Víctor Bãton que requiere gratitud antes sus actos de bondad, que exige reconocimiento por su participación en la guerra, por su brazo tullido, que se siente superior a sus convecinos que han dilapidado su libertad en aras de un trabajo y de unas míseras comodidades, que cree que toda mujer que posa en él su mirada se enamora, y la persigue y acosa, pero que, sin embargo, descarta que nadie que sea feliz pueda interesarse por él. Un ser extraño que de todo se lamenta, que se esfuerza por estar triste, que huye de la única mujer que inopinadamente le hace caso, que prefiere provocar la culpa y el remordimiento en aquellos con los que se cruza antes que sentir su indiferencia.

«Inspirar compasión a menudo me gusta. En cuanto un paseante se aproximaba, ocultaba el rostro entre las manos y aspiraba por la nariz como cuando uno ha llorado. La gente, mientras se alejaba, volvía la cabeza.»

Una lástima que Víctor Bãton seguramente no supo nunca cuántos lectores encontró al fin dispuestos a escucharle gracias al buen hacer de Emmanuel Bove, un autor al que hay que leer, háganme caso. Una recomendación válida para todo el mundo pero especialmente dedicada a aquellos adoradores de Camus o Beckett.

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Have short, sober first-person sentences ever been as affecting as this?

What a sad, funny, harsh, stripped-down, wholly engaging little novel this was!

Swinging back and forth between irresolute optimism, withered expectations, and a bleak mistrust, through the dirt & germs, the shabby loneliness, soup kitchens, and bad teeth, this is a book where the minimal events from an empty hand-to-mouth existence resonates with maximum effect.

Victor Baton, I raise a glass to you! This stuff ain't cheap either.

Here, pull up a chair - you a have friend in me now.

[Mevsim Yenice · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hüzünlü ama çok güzel bir roman. Savaş gazisi bir kahramanımız var. Savaş gibi büyük bir travma atlatmış olmasına rağmen, kitap boyunca anlıyoruz ki asıl travması kendine bir "arkadaş" bulamamak. Savaşta hayatta kalmış olmasına rağmen, arkadaşsız olduğu için kendini hayata kök salmış ve ait hissedememek.

Şu sıralar Zambra'dan Serbest Kürsü'yü okuyorum. Şöyle diyor Zambra: “Edebiyatta sadece 3,4 bilemedin 5 konu olduğu söyleniyor ama belki de tek bir konu vardır: ait olmak. Tüm kitaplar ait olma arzusu yahut bu arzuyu reddetme üzerinden okunabilir. Bir ailenin, bir topluluğun, bir ülkenin, Şili edebiyatının, bir futbol takımının, bir siyasi partinin, bir rock grubunun, bir rock grubunun fan kulübünün, bir izci ya da Adsız Alkolikler grubunun parçası olmak ya da parçası olmayı bırakmak. Bize konu serbest dendiğinde bunun hakkında yazıyoruz; aşk ölüm, seyahat, sinekler, telgraflar ya da döner tekerlekli bavullar hakkında yazdığımızı zannederken de yine bunun hakkında yazıyoruz. İster şaka yollu, ister ciddiyetle, ister şiir, ister düzyazı biçiminde hep bundan bahsediyoruz: Ait olmak.”

En çok bu düşünce kafama yattı Arkadaşlarım bitince. Bu kitap ne hakkındaydı diye düşündüm, en güzel cevabı Zambra verdi, ait olmak hakkındaydı.

Tavsiye ederim.

[Araz Goran · Rating 5 out of 5]

قرأت الكثير من الروايات التي تتحدث عن شعور الإنسان بالوحدة ولكن هذه الرواية قد تبدو من بين الأفضل في بساطتها وعفوية قصتها الموجعة والمليئة بالكوميديا السوداء، رواية تجعلك تحزن كثيراً وتتعاطف مع بطل الحكايا الذي يبحث بشكل مهين عن أي صداقة هرباً من شعوره الحاد بالوحدة والعزلة، بطلنا هنا إنسان تعيس للغاية غريب الأطوار مزاجي بشكل حاد ، قراراته غالبا متسرعة وعاطفية الى حد الملل، الرواية تريك المشهد الحزين للإنسان الوحيد والغير متكيف في عصرنا، إذ أن الناس أصبحوا محاطين بسلاسل اجتماعية معقدة للوصول الى فكرة الصداقة البدائية، الصداقات هي مجاملات ومراكز اجتماعية ومصالح معقدة ومن دون ذلك سينبذك الجميع بشكل مزري ، لهذا تبدو الرواية بعض الأحيان مخيفة ومحزنة لدرجة أنك تشفق على البطل وتعتبره ربما أبلهاً ولكن لو تعمقت في الصورة الكاملة ستجد أن الأمر كئيب ومحزن أكثر مما نعتقد ، وهنا تذكرت أقتباساً قرأته منذ أيام ربما يصف الرواية بشكل دقيق للغاية :

‏‎" كثيرةٌ هي الأخطاء التي تُرتكب تحت مُسمى الشعور بِالوحدة ."

وهذا بالضبط ما تدور عليه رحى الرواية ..
بالمجمل رواية رائعة مبدعة وفيها بناء شخصية بشكل ممتع وعفوي ، فيها ألتقاطات نفسية مبهرة مما حفزني على منحها العلامة الكاملة من دون أي ندم ..

[Fionnuala]

How could a book about a sad and lonely unemployed handicapped ex-soldier living in poverty in a slum be funny? It's impossible. The main character is tragic, his situation is far too bleak to laugh at, yet I smiled and laughed over and over. I think Emmanuel Bove is a magician.

[Bogdan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Je crois que Victor Bâton, le protagoniste de ce livre, est un des grands héros naïfs de la littérature. Il a, comme Don Quichotte, une quête – quoique sans la grandeur idéaliste de celle-ci. Il ne veut pas rétablir l'âge d'or sur la terre. Il ne veut que se faire un ami. Cependant, ses péripéties et les résultats dérisoires de tous ses efforts sont tout aussi risibles et tristes que la parodie des actes héroïques faite par le célèbre hidalgo.

Mon imagination crée des amis parfaits pour l'avenir, mais, en attendant, je me contente de n'importe qui.

L’acharnement que Victor Bâton met dans cette tâche simple – trouver un vrai proche – et l’irrémédiable, constant, écrasant échec nous le montrent comme pas seulement aussi absurde que son prédécesseur – si bien dans la forme la plus modeste et humble possible – mais aussi comme un des plus grands personnages petits de la littérature moderne. À propos, elle en abonde. Les personnages petits que j’aime le plus sont Akaki Akakievitch Bachmatchkine (du Manteau de Gogol), L’Homme à l’étui (de Tchekhov), Jakob von Gunten (de l’œuvre homonyme de Robert Walser, traduite comme L’Institut Benjamenta) et bien sûr, Gregor Samsa.

Parfois, en lisant, je me suis demandé qui sont, au fond, “les amis” de Victor Bâton, si le livre porte tout de même le titre Mes amis. Je crois qu'il y a (au moins) trois réponses possibles: ou bien le titre est ironique, parce que le narrateur n’a pas d’amis; ou bien il résulte de la candeur du personnage principal – parce que les pauvres et brèves relations qu’il entretient avec les autres lui suffisent pour les appeler des amis; ou encore, il existe une hypothèse peut-être pas trop exagérée: les amis visés par Victor, c’est nous, les lecteurs. Nous sommes, en fin de compte, les seuls à qui il se montre sans réserves, dans sa petitesse et sa misère.

Je crois que les personnages, surtout les personnages narrateurs, sont plus proches des lecteurs que des autres personnages du même livre. C’est davantage à nous qu’en racontant leurs histoires, en se confessant partiellement, ils réclament de la sympathie. Victor Bâton, même s’il est un homme naïf et humble, est aussi très circonspect, méfiant envers les autres, hyperattentif à tout ce qu’il faut ou devrait faire. Il est aussi un peu paranoïaque et narcissique, donc trop conscient de lui-même et des autres. Il s’en fait une image exagérée, précisément parce qu’il est trop conscient et minutieux. Il se perd dans les détails. Sa naïveté est paradoxale ou a des nuances.

Victor Bâton a envers les autres des élans toujours un peu délirants – ce qui m’a rappelé Don Quichotte chargeant les moulins – mais pas avec une lance comme son grand prédécesseur idéaliste. Il s’élance, mais il reste toujours sur ses gardes… Cela s’explique aussi par le fait qu’il est un vétéran de la Première Guerre mondiale. Sa scrupulosité défensive, ainsi que la rudesse ou l'indifférence des autres, peuvent être justifiées par le contexte sociohistorique. La guerre a rendu les hommes plus étrangers les uns aux autres, moins confiants, plus vigilants qu'auparavant.

Dans certaines circonstances, Victor Bâton affirme qu’il est un “grand blessé” de la guerre, mais ce n’est que vers la fin du roman que l’on découvre qu’il a une main mutilée. Pourtant, selon un autre personnage, il n’est rien de plus qu’un “fainéant”. Il est sans doute difficile dans ses relations brèves et insuffisantes avec les autres. Il est aussi un peu sauvage. Peut-être, comme le renard dans Le Petit Prince, cherche-t-il d’abord quelqu’un qui puisse “l’apprivoiser”, le ramener à cet état social, calme et affable, où il serait surtout capable d’avoir des amis, donc, d’être aimable.

Je voudrais que l’on s’occupât de moi, que l’on m’aimât. Comme je ne connais personne, j’essaye d’attirer l’attention, dans la rue, car il n’y a que là qu’on puisse me remarquer.

Mon cas ressemble à celui du mendiant qui, en plein hiver, chante sur un pont, à minuit. Les passants ne donnent rien parce qu’ils trouvent cette façon de demander l’aumône un peu trop théâtrale. De même, en me voyant accoudé sur un parapet, mélancolique et désœuvré, les passants devinent que je joue la comédie. Ils ont raison. Mais, tout de même, ne pensez-vous pas que c’est une situation bien triste que celle de mendier à minuit sur un pont ou de s’accouder sur un parapet, pour intéresser le monde.

Dans son humiliation dérisoire, Victor Bâton ressemble un peu à l’homme souterrain de Dostoïevski. Tout aussi, il est comme l’artiste de la faim de Kafka, personnage qui affiche son jeûne, mais pas pour en être admiré :

«J’ai toujours voulu que vous admiriez mon jeûne», dit le jeûneur. «Mais nous l’admirons!» dit l’inspecteur, conciliant. «Mais il ne faut pas l’admirer!», dit le jeûneur. «Bon, dans ce cas-là, nous ne l’admirons pas», dit l’inspecteur, «et pourquoi ne faut-il pas l’admirer ?» «Parce que je suis forcé d’avoir faim, je ne peux pas faire autrement», dit le jeûneur. «Voyez-moi cela», dit l’inspecteur, «et pourquoi ne peux-tu pas faire autrement?» «Parce que», dit le jeûneur, (en soulevant un peu sa petite tête et en avançant les lèvres comme s’il voulait donner un baiser; il parlait à l’oreille de l’inspecteur, afin qu’aucune de ses paroles ne se perdît), parce que je n’ai pas pu trouver d’aliment qui me plaise. Si j’en avais trouvé un, crois-moi, je n’aurais pas fait tant de façons et je m’en serais repu comme toi et les autres.»

Comme le personnage de Kafka, qui n'aurait pas tant fait et affiché sa faim, s'il avait trouvé “l’aliment qui plaise”, aussi Victor Bâton n'aurait tant affiché sa solitude et n'aurait fait un tel cas d'elle, “dans la rue”, s'il avait trouvé ce qu’il imagine et cherche:

Je cherche un ami. Je crois que je ne le trouverai jamais.

L'artiste de la faim et Victor Bâton “jouent la comédie” de leur manque. Pendant le spectacle de leur misère, ils sont apparemment – ou vraiment, je ne saurais pas le dire – ridicules. Mais, en fond, ils souffrent. Le fait reste qu'ils ont chacun un grand besoin.

Victor Bâton est l’observateur minutieux de son petit monde. Toutes les descriptions sont des miniatures hyperréalistes, et c'est ce réseau de détails quotidiens qui constitue le seul support palpable – mais très fin et fragile – de sa vie. Dans ma présentation d’Armand, le second roman de Bove, j’ai écrit un peu sur l'effet instantané et la précision visuelle, presque photographique des descriptions. Et j’ai même collectionné les images avec des ombres. Ici, je me limite seulement à une image qui, hors contexte, semble un haïku (dans mon acceptation occidentale et profane, les haïkus sont des descriptions tellement laconiques et hors contexte qu’elles en deviennent pures):

“Des gouttes tombaient à terre, jamais l’une sur l’autre.”

[Geoff · Rating 5 out of 5]

Yes, this is a perfect novel. Perfect tone, voice, tempo. Perfect sentence by sentence. (I mean, is there a more tidy, well-crafted, luminous sentence than "Raindrops were falling on the ground, never one on top of another."- and I can't even tell you why it's perfect, it just is). All the perfect strange phrasing. ("In the morning we should go by taxi to the Bois de Boulogne. The driver's elbows would move." "I had no intention of dying, but I have often wanted to arouse pity. As soon as a passer-by approached I hid my face in my hands and sniffed like someone who has been crying. People turned as they went past me. Last week I came within a hair's breadth of throwing myself into the water in order to make it appear I was in earnest."). Perfect in its brevity. But it is a brevity that expands each time you reflect on what you have just read; the smallness of this book is elastic. The closest thing to its sad charm are the writings of Robert Walser, but it's so different. An utterly curious, funny, and brilliant rendering of a deep, deep solitude and otherness. No wonder Beckett was an admirer. Bâton out-Molloys Molloy, and he doesn't even have to try so hard to unsettle you. Also, there is something uncomfortably familiar and close to home about Bâton's meandering thoughts; under all of it is a spookily recognizable abyss.

[Ludmilla · Rating 5 out of 5]

Emmanuel Bove, dilimize kazandırılması çok uzun sürmüş bu kitabında bu bağ kurma ihtiyacı içinde kıvranan, iyileşmeye, bütünleşmeye ve yaşamına anlam katmaya uğraşan Victor Baton'u anlatıyor. Baton'un tek istediği kendisini dinlemeye, anlamaya biraz olsun çaba gösteren birini bulmak, ona da tüm varlığını sunmak. Yoksul olmasına, açlık sınırında yaşamasına rağmen "sevgi ve ait olma" ihtiyacı bütün fizyolojik gereksinimlerinin de önüne geçiyor. İstediği yakınlığı göremeyince kendisine sunulan bedenlerden de işlerden de vazgeçebiliyor ve yeni bir "dost arayışına" başlıyor.

Bu kitap gerçekten bir harika, Goodreads'in sıkı okurlarından Mike Puma, Hamsun "Açlık" kitabıyla açlığı nasıl anlattıysa Bove da "Arkadaşlarım" ile aynı şeyi başarmış diyerek harika bir özet yapmış. Okuyun, okutun. 5/5

[Jimmy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sometimes a book comes along that is so good that I don't know what to say. How do you express speechlessness in writing?

Every page contained perfect sentence after perfect sentence. Sentences that were both funny and sad at the same time. Like crystallizations, clear and precise. But above all, simple sentences--Bove makes writing seem easy, even self-evident, when it is obviously not.

Beckett says Bove has an instinct for the essential detail like no other, and I cannot agree more.

Observations on people:

He has two daughters and he beats them--just with his hand--for their own good. They have sinews at the back of their knees. Their hats are held on by elastic.

On places:

Raindrops were falling on the ground, never one on top of another.

On things:

It is odd how ugly women's wedding-rings are particularly noticeable.

Even on his own psyche (for he is very self aware):

I am light-hearted as if I were going out without my overcoat for the first time. My eyelashes and the inside of my ears are still damp with washing-water. I am sorry for people who are still asleep.

Just the fact that Victor (the narrator) notices things nobody else does sets him apart. One senses that his extraordinary gift for observation was honed through a life of being a loner, longing from the sidelines. Since he cannot possess things in real life, he possesses them in words.

Plot-wise, a comparison can be made with Hunger, in that both books show a man wandering around looking for sustenance. Both seem rather aimless and open ended. But in this book, the narrator's hunger is not for food, it is for human contact.

And whereas in Hunger, the speaker had an overly played out unreliable voice of madness, here the narrator's voice cannot be more different. It is uniquely a blend of naivety, self consciousness, doubt, bitterness, longing. This is a different sort of neuroticism, full of sensitivity and subtlety.

And quietness above all; this is not a loud book. Which is what makes it special. It almost begs you not to read it.

At times the naivete (especially in social situations) reminded me of some of Robert Walser's characters, but the sentences are simpler. And the tone is not as exaggerated (exaggeration is a good thing in Walser's hands, but I must say what Bove does is probably more difficult). The naivete does not lead to wide eyed optimism, but a blend of human indecisiveness and complexity.

Also: Victor longs for friends but the Blanche chapter is especially telling: you realize that perhaps he doesn't really want friends. That his loneliness is perhaps out of choice, or habit. And maybe he is more attached to the idea of having friends than actually having them.

I think Victor Baton is more real to me than most of the people I know in real life.

I have the odd, uncomfortable feeling that this book was written just for me.

[Paula Mota · Rating 3 out of 5]

3,5*

Embora a solidão seja um dos meus temas preferidos na literatura, este livro tão aclamado passou-me um bocado ao lado, já que não me comoveu nem lhe achei muita graça. O narrador, Victor Bâton, é um inválido de guerra que vive numa pensão e passa os dias a vaguear pelas ruas para ocupar o tempo e tentar fazer amigos. O resultado é repetitivo: ou são pessoas tão miseráveis como ele que só se querem aproveitar, ou são senhores abastados que querem ajudá-lo apenas por pena. Bâton é uma personagem tragicómica, às vezes patética e iludida, outras vezes, realista e racional, cuja abordagem às mulheres é um pouco perturbadora e repelente.

Ah! A solidão, que bela e triste coisa! Como é bela quando a escolhemos! Como é triste quando nos é imposta há anos! Certos homens fortes não estão sós na solidão, mas eu, que sou fraco, estou só quando não tenho amigos.

[Momčilo Žunić · Rating 5 out of 5]

Nenametljivo s organskom lakoćom retko kada bude i lako postignuto i lako dostižno. Silesija nanovo otkrivenih opažaja u svakodnevlju, jer se ništa više ne podrazumeva. Obzorje (planinčuge) sitnica koje svako od nas primeti, ali promine pored njih, s(a)vesno ih ne artikulišući. Darežljiv je Bovov protagonista i u pogledu onoga što vidi - recimo, fleke od mleka na papučama od filca, disanje na stomak ili rečenice poput ove: "Odnoseći poznate glave i moje prazno mesto, tramvaj ode." - i u pogledu prituljenog a sveprisutnog humora - iz nekog (ne)pojamnog razloga u glavi su mi i Penžeov "Gospodin Sonž" i crtani film "Kalimero" - i u pogledu onoga što će raspršiti, a prećutati.

I delikatna, (in)diskretna lažljivost gose Batona, reljefnog narativnog ja, "Mojih prijatelja": spočetka, u uvodnoj  glavi ovaj ne stupa bosom nogom iz kreveta, jer će mu se zalepiti šibice za gole tabane. Naravno, odmah vam dođe da priupitate prevodioca na šta je tačno mislio i da li ga je uhvatio dremež?! A onda, skraja, Baton, podstanarsko biće bez bliskosti - o, prijatelji bivši, o, prijatelji budući! - napominje da nikada nije palio šibice po hodniku kada se po mraku vraćao u sobu (hm, da, radnja koja se odvija u međuratju dala bi se svesti na to da je protagonista ratni invalid s maleckom apanažom koji tumara Parizom, pokušavajući da stekne prijatelja) pa to nipošto ne može biti razlog zašto mu je smeštaj otkazan. Eh! U najkraćem, pouzdanost opažaja i nepouzdanost pričanja o sebi i sijaset ostalih dragocenosti. Sklopka par excellence!

P.S. Obavezno ću koristiti isti peškir i za lice i za ruke i kada se, jednog lepog dana, obogatim. I ne dajte da vas korica odbije od knjige, jer ona je - knjiga - i ljupka i dražesna, bez trunke ograde i ironije!

[Dalia Nourelden · Rating 3 out of 5]

" آه ! العزلة ، أيتها الشئ الجميل والحزين ! كم تكون حزينة أن أُجبرنا عليها من سنوات عديدة.
بعض الناس الأقوياء ليسوا وحيدين في العزلة ، لكن أنا الضعيف ، فإنني وحيد عندما أكون بلا أصدقاء."

كان فيكتور باطون وحيداً جداً وحساس جداً ، وحيداً لدرجة إستعداده أن يتغاضي عن كل شئ ليكون له صديق أو حبيبة ، يظن إذا تحدث معه أى شخص انه قد يكون صديقه ، وإذا تعاملت معه فتاة بلطف ظن أنها قد احبته وأن اخيراً سيكون له حبيية .



هكذا هم الأشخاص الوحيدون يتعلقون بكل ذرة من التعاطف والتقارب كما يتعلق الغريق بالقشة ، يظنون كلما ألتقوا إنسان أنهم سيتخلصوا أخيراً من وحدتهم حتى وإن كان هذا الشخص أقل منهم ، حتى وإن كان لا يعجبهم حقاً أو يشعرون أنه يتقرب طمعاً فيهم سيتمسكون به وسيعتبرون أنه الصديق المُرسل إليهم لينتشلهم من معاناة وحدتهم ، وهكذا كانت حياة فيكتور .

فيكتور باطون هو واحد من جرحي الحرب يعيش على منحة الخدمة العسكرية التي بالكاد تؤمن له المعيشة ، يحيا في فقر مدقع لكنه متقبل لحالته ولا يتضايق من بؤس حاله لكن كل ما يحتاج إليه هو الرفقة ، صديق يؤنس وحدته ويبث له همومه ويتحدث معه ويفهمه ويشعر به.

"فكرت في حياتي البائسة ، بلا أصدقاء، بلا مال. كنت أبحث عمن يحبني، أن أكون مثل الآخرين. وما أبحث عنه ليس شيئً عظيماً."




نستعرض مع فيكتور حياته والشخصيات التي يلتقي بها في حياته بداية من جيرانه أو شخصيات التقي بها في الشارع ، كان يحذر منهم لدقائق ثم لا يلبث أن يشعر بالسعادة والرغبة في العطاء بلا حدود ظناً منه أنه أخيراً قد إلتقي رفيقاً وصديقاً له ، لكنه لا يلبث أحيانا ان يشعر بالخوف وبالحساسية تجاههم مرة أخرى ، يقرأ ما يمكن ان يكون وراء كلماتهم ونظراتهم ، يشعر أنهم ربما يسخرون منه . فنتعرف على مشاعره وأفكاره وتقلباته وسذاجته وعاطفته وخيبة أمله تجاه احداث حياته.

" لقد كان الأمر هكذا دائماً معي . لا أحد تجاوب مع حبي. لم أكن أطلب سوى أن أُحَبً، أن يكون لي أصدقاء ورغم ذلك أظل دائماً وحيداً . في البدء يشفقون علي ، ثم يهربون مني . لم يكن الحظ يوما إلى جانبي ."


فيكتور هو مثال لشخص وحيد ، يبحث عن الرفقة، عن الانتماء. لديه رغبه شديدة وبائسة في أن يكون محبوبًا ومرغوباً.

" أبحث عن صديق . اعتقد أنني لن أعثر عليه إطلاقاً."


١٤ / ٨ / ٢٠٢٥

[Anna Carina · Rating 4 out of 5]

Emmanuel Bove schreibt mit „Meine Freunde“ einen psychologischen Episodenroman über Victor Baton, einem einsamen Invaliden, nach dem ersten Weltkrieg in Frankreich.

Müsste ich das Buch mit einem Wort beschreiben, dann dieses: Unangenehm.

Victor ist einsam. Er hat keine Freunde, keine Vertrauten. Er lebt sozial isoliert in einem heruntergekommen Dachzimmerchen.

„Ich liebe die Bahnhöfe, weil sie Tag und Nacht belebt sind. Wenn ich nicht schlafen kann, fühle ich mich dort weniger allein.“

Ein Mensch, von vielen Unsicherheiten und Ängsten geprägt. Er ist zögerlich, zurückhaltend, traut sich oft nicht. Sich lächerlich zu machen, ängstigt ihn sehr.
Eine schrecklich sensible Persönlichkeit.

„Ich mag die Frauen in Pantoffeln: die Beine wirken nicht so unnahbar.“


Furchtbar empathisch trotten wir mit ihm, im Versuch Freunde zu finden, durch seinen Alltag und erleben eine Klatsche nach der Anderen. Hahaaa...nix da. Bove hat was ganz Gemeines auf Lager.
Victor ist eine äußerst komplexe, schwer zugängliche und ambivalente Persönlichkeit.

Er sucht seinen Platz in der Welt – keine Frage. Auf eine destruktive Weise, die ihres gleichen sucht.
Als er erfährt, dass sein möglicher neue Kumpel eine Mätresse hat, ist er völlig durch den Wind:

„und er wurde geliebt, während ich allein lebte, ich, der ich jünger und schöner war.
Nie würden wir miteinander zurechtkommen. Er war glücklich. Die Folge: ich interessierte ihn nicht. Das einzig Richtige: weggehen.“

Sind wir etwa missgünstig? Wo ist das Indiz dafür, dass du ihn nicht interessierst? Erwartest du etwa auch deine schlechten Eigenschaften, deine Befindlichkeiten von anderen?

Victor ist stark auf das Außen fixiert, das er wiederum an seine inneren Zustände bindet, die er umgegekehrt auf das Außen überträgt. Sein fragiles Wesen und das Unvermögen mit dem Unbekannten umzugehen, lassen ihn bei der kleinsten Unsicherheit kippen und leichtes Opfer für Manipulationen werden.

„Eine Wolke verbarg die Sonne. Die warme Straße wurde fahl. Verschwunden war der Glanz an den Fliegen.
Ich fühlte Traurigkeit.
Gerade noch war ich ins Unbekannte aufgebrochen, in der Einbildung, ein Landstreicher zu sein, frei und glücklich. Jetzt, wegen einer Wolke, war alles aus.
Ich kehrte um.“

Sobald er in Interaktion mit Menschen tritt, kommt zu diesen Eigenschaften noch obsessives Verhalten und eine ekelhafte Werte und Normenordnung hinzu, die ihn zu hypersymbolischen Interpretationen jeder noch so kleinsten Geste verleitet. Überall lauern für ihn Machtspielchen. Er fühlt sich in Frage gestellt. Seine Welt ist voller unsichtbarer Regeln, die er bestätigen und verteidigen muss.

„Als die Gläser leer waren, schenkte ich sofort nach, aus Sorge, Neveu würde mir zuvorkommen. Hätte er sich das herausgenommen, wäre ich schockiert gewesen. Es wäre ein Zeichen dafür gewesen, daß er meine Überlegenheit nicht anerkannte. War es nicht schon genug, daß er mich duzte?“

Irgendwann wird klar, so einsam er ist, so gern sabotiert er sich selbst.
Bove bearbeitet meines Erachtens einen Konflikt der Authentizität. Victor scheitert an seiner Aufrichtigkeit und schildert uns dennoch als Icherzähler in schonungsloser Ehrlichkeit seine Schwächen. Victor ist ein Möbiusband. Er zeigt uns seine zwei Seiten, die eins sind und dennoch in einer ständigen unauflösbaren Paradoxie zueinander vorliegen.
Und diese Spannung, diese unerträglichen Seiten Victors, lässt er den Leser im Nacken gepackt, reduziert, verknappt und dicht miterleben.

Hier flieht einer vor der Freiheit durch Scheinaktivität.

„Wenn ich von zu Hause weggehe, rechne ich immer mit einem Ereignis, das mein Leben von Grund auf ändern wird. Ich erwarte es bis zum Moment meiner Rückkehr. Das ist der Grund, daß ich nie im Zimmer bleibe. Leider ist dieses Ereignis nie eingetreten.“

Ich hätte dem Buch zu gerne 5 Sterne gegeben. Absolut faszinierendes Buch. Allerdings bekommt es durch den episodischen Charakter eine gewisse Monotonie. Einige Episoden wirken etwas zu schematisch. Außerdem sind sie nicht sonderlich kohärent miteinander verbunden. Am Ende des Tages bekomme ich leider ein dezentes Geschmäckle von Lehrstück. Das ist allerdings jammern auf hohem Niveau.

[Nora Barnacle · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ovo je jedna od onih potmulih knjiga koje parališu svaku artikulaciju utiska, koje se retko i teško pišu, a najčešće i nažalost ostaju ostrvo u piščevom opusu.

Afektirajući manir osnovnoškolske vežbe prepričavanja (Osvanuo je sunčan dan. Spremao sam se da idem na pecanje sa Markom. Ja sam poneo crviće. Markova mama je spremila one hrskave sendviče što ih najviše volim.), ućilibarivši svaku reč i krvlju i znojem (toliko pažljivo, dabome, da kapi nijedanput ne padnu jedna na drugu), Emanuel Bov postiže istinski jedinstven izraz, o kome se nipošto ne može govoriti kao o zanatskoj uspelosti, tačnosti i balansiranju. Eto, to bi moglo biti ono čistopisačko nešto, zašta Handke predlaže kanonizaciju.

Ovako suptilnu perverziju nigde nisam videla (možda bih, da je Jakob fon Gunten bio nekakav Žakob de Gunte, ali.., pa, tad bi bio Viktor Baton). Nadam se da joj će dejstvo uskoro prestati, jer ne znam kako da se rešim ove podsvesne, bovovski perverzne potrebe za hodanjem na prstima.

Zavidim Bojanu Savić-Ostojiću, pa i na mukama.

[knig · Rating 4 out of 5]

Lets talk about the mystery of the unique French invention of concierge, rampant in its heyday of 1920s Paris. What manner of beast is it? Here is what I can deduce: withered old crone (invariably), comfortably ensconced in a freebie flat on the parterre of a block of flats, tasked with the baton of promoting virtue and morality, which should always be accomplished by bombastically parading up and down the stairwell, broom in hand (for show only: no cleaning ever seems to be done) and sermonising with the residents. And, the piece de resistance: locking up the front door at 10 pm for the night. Now, as the residents don’t have a front door key, anyone foolish enough to be out past 10 pm, like our hapless protagonist Victor Baton, takes their own lives into their hands, rings the doorbell, and is at the mercy of the Furies. I think France may have perfected the three strikes and you’re out at about this time, and long before the States and now the UK.

Victor Baton, then, once circumvented of concierge lambastment, must now climb up seven flights to his attic garconniere. Now, I’ve seen these Parisian turn of the century apartment buildings. The ceilings are 14 ft high min. So its more like 11 flights of stairs in modern parlance. (obviously no ascenseur ). What demon architect concocted these torture chambers, I don’t know. I do know, however, if you were to pop out and discover its pelting it down, going back up to retrieve your brolly would be a non sequiter. Not even if there is a tsunami outside. Once you’re down, you’re down for the day.

This book has nothing to do with concierge or apartment design, apart from a passing mention in one sentence. But, it doesn’t take much to get me going, I guess.

Emmanuel Bove is Colette’s protégé: that sold me. And neither Colette nor Bove disappoint. A simpy written tale of a naive and lonely young man looking for companionship, it is a 1923 gentle precursor to Nathaniel West’s Pitkin in ‘A Cool Million’ and latterly of Evan Connell’s ‘Diary of a Rapist'. In all three the (anti)hero fails to find a fit with social norm and vacillates between exuberant (but false) sense of connectivity and a vague sense of alarm that all is not well in the kingdom of Denmark. Deeply moving account of the vagaries of the outlier.

[Dagio_maya · Rating 4 out of 5]

“La mia immaginazione si costruisce degli amici perfetti per l'avvenire ma, nell'attesa, mi accontento di chiunque.”

I miei amici fu pubblicato nel 1924 e conobbe un enorme successo per alcuni anni per poi essere completamente dimenticato.
Si deve a Peter Handke * il merito di aver riportato all'attenzione del pubblico di lettori questo racconto.

Victor Baton è il nome del protagonista che ci racconta in prima persona e con spiazzante semplicità il peso e la misura della propria solitudine.

Frasi brevi, precise, dettagli chiari:
tutti ingredienti che compongono la cornice di un malessere esistenziale.
Un uomo solo tra la folla della metropoli parigina.
La cameretta spoglia e umida, i vestiti rattoppati (come non pensare a Raskolnikov?), la pelle sporca.
Victor è fuori dai percorsi tracciati: è un reduce di guerra che percepisce una pensione minima d’invalidità.
La gente, però, vuole dimenticare la guerra e di lui hanno compassione solo pochi filantropi.
Non lavora e non vuole lavorare.
Cammina tutto il giorno per la città.
Osserva tutto e soprattutto la gente perché il suo unico desiderio è non essere solo, avere degli amici.
Non sembra difficile, eppure….


” Ah, la solitudine, che cosa bella e triste! Come è triste quando ci è imposta da anni!
Certi uomini forti non sono soli nella solitudine, ma io, che sono debole, sono solo quando non ho nessun amico.”


--------------------------------------
* Dalla nota finale del traduttore:

” È lecito dire che il silenzio che dopo la sua morte ha avvolto l'opera di Bove, sia stato infranto solo negli ultimi anni grazie ad una traduzione devota di questo romanzo (e del successivo Armand) da parte dello scrittore austriaco Peter Handke. Dopo, Mes amis è diventato perfino un oggetto di culto. Per fare un esempio, il regista Wim Wenders passeggia in un suo cortometraggio su New Jork col romanzo sottobraccio, mentre la sua voce fuori campo suggerisce: "Finalmente, dopo giorni di erranza, è un libro a destarmi la voglia di immagini restituendomi il senso del racconto. Questa storia semplice ed esemplare, con il suo rispetto dei dettagli, mi ricorda che il cinema può descrivere allo stesso modo, lasciando le cose così come sono."

[Kansas · Rating 5 out of 5]

https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2024...

"Me hubiera gustado correr hacia él, pero como seguramente habría supuesto que llevaba varias horas esperándole, me contuve. Nunca se habría creído que acababa de llegar.
La gente no cree en la casualidad, sobre todo cuando ésta es la única excusa."


Emmanuel Bove es un autor francés al que no conocía, imagino que porque la literatura francesa no me entusiasma y me mantengo alejada de ella, pero tengo que dejarme de prejuicios ya a estas alturas, porque ¿qué más dan estas etiquetas que no valen para nada? Bove es absolutamente francés y la novela me ha encandilado totalmente. La cita del principio define perfectamente a Victor Baton, el antihéroe de Emmanuel Bove, un tipo que se pasa el tiempo corriendo detrás de la gente pidiendo migajas de amistad, de amor… necesita un calor humano que no encuentra, o él cree que lo necesita y quizás esto nuble sus verdaderas necesidades. Realmente la novela no me ha encandilado tanto por el argumento sino por cómo está narrada, aquí es donde está el impacto al encontrarme con ella… ¿cómo es posible que Emmanuel Bove haya podido transmitir esta vida tan gris, tan inadaptada con esta finura por los detalles, con este sentido del humor tan sútil, con esta gracia continua que te hace querer avanzar cuando su antihéroe es un hombre tan apagado y victimilla? La historia fluye en frases cortas, que van al grano, en las que el monólogo interior de Victor Baton, nos lo cuenta todo, el vuelo de una mosca, una camarera sirviéndole un trago (“Aunque un poco borracho, salí con la torpeza de un hombre desnudo.”), una mirada cruzada en una calle, un vigilar desde la distancia a un amigo esperando que no suene a casualidad cuando se encuentren, cuando realmente la casualidad ¿existe???


“Cuando habla de todo aquello, sus dos ojos, el verdadero y el falso, se humedecen y sus pestañas se juntan en pequeñas mechas.
Los tiempos de antes de la guerra han desaparecido tan rápido que no puede creer que no sean más que un recuerdo.”


Victor Baron es un veterano de la Primera Guerra Mundial, vuelve de ella hecho un desastre, frágil e inseguro aunque parece tener muy claro que en el fondo disfruta de su libertad. Está perdido, deambula de aquí para allá, intentando trabar amistades forzadas pero ya sabemos que en esto de la amistad lo importante no es tanto coincidir (que ya de por sí es difícil) sino conectar, aunque no sé qué será más difícil de estas dos C’s porque Victor coincide y parece que se esfuerza, se hace accesible, pero la conexión no se establece, no sé si porque finalmente sus supuestos amigos encontrados casualmente en la calle están demasiado ocupados con sus vidas como para pararse con él como él quiere pensar o, y es lo que creo, que Victor esté en una eterna huida, él cree que necesita a la gente pero en el fondo sabe que está mejor solo. Expresa su decepción ante la desaparición de los amigos (“Tuve una especie de vahído que hizo que viera triple a cada transeúnte, cada cara, cada coche. Comprendo que la gente se hubiese podido reír de mi emoción. Nada de lo que había pasado hubiera conmocionado a otro que no fuera yo” . Soy demasiado sensible. Eso es todo.”) pero sigue adelante en el fondo aliviado, aunque autocompadeciéndose, siempre.


“Una nube ocultó el sol. La calle templada se volvió gris. Las moscas dejaron de brillar.
Me sentí triste.
Acababa de salir hacia lo desconocido con la ilusión de ser un vagabundo, libre y feliz. Y ahora, por culpe de una nube, se había echado todo a perder.
Volví sobre mis pasos.”


Busca el amor pero solo tiene sexo casual en aventuras de una noche…

“Las mujeres aparecieron por fin. Las conté. Eran siete.
Sus cortos vestidos despedían ese olor de vicio y de miseria que desprenden los trajes de lentejuelas con que visten a los muñecos de cera expuestos en museos extranjeros.
Tenían una tez pálida y brillante de muñeca de cartón. Los dedos llenos de anillos relucientes, alineados.”


La novela está dividida en una serie de capítulos que funcionan como relatos cada uno de ellos llevando el nombre de ese amigo encontrado casualmente pero nunca conservado. Victor se ve como una víctima del mundo, de la guerra, de los demás, aunque inconscientemente ha hecho sus elecciones. Emmanuel Bove no se anda con rodeos, aquí no hay metáforas, ni adjetivos rimbombantes, no hay un estilismo llamativo y sin embargo, el secreto de su estilazo puede estar en esas frases cortas, en ese humanismo siempre presente, en cómo transmite el movimiento de las calles por las que deambula Victor, el ruido, los encuentros, los apartamentos desolados, las habitaciones en las que solo le queda mirar por la ventana.


“No cabía duda de que me quería y me comprendía.
¡Son tan raros los que me quieren un poco y me comprenden!"


El lector pronto se da cuenta de que Victor es un narrador poco confiable y quizás aquí pueda estar otro detalle de la fínísima sutilidad del estilo de Bove ¿cómo es posible que en un estilo tan minimalista, tan sencillo, de frases tan cortas, todavía puedan esconderse datos que hagan saltar la alarma en el lector de que Victor no es el que parece? Parece que quede poco espacio en este minimalismo para que Bove pueda esconder algo, pero sí lo hace, por eso la narración de Emmanuel Bove me ha encandilado. Historias de hombres grises hay muchas, pero el estilo de Bove es único, fresco, fluye casi sin esfuerzo. La novela fue escrita en 1924 y parece mentira, pero podría ser una novela de ahora mismo por cómo Bove nos habla de la fugacidad del tiempo, de los encuentros y desencuentros, del desapego disfrazado de amistad. Una joyita.


“Se acabó. El sol no volverá a indicarme la hora en la pared. El enfermo que vive en mi descansillo se morirá, quince días después de mi partida, pues las novedades nunca vienen solas. Se repintarán algunas cosas. Los obreros repararán el tejado.
Es curioso como cambia todo sin uno.”

♫♫♫ Late night - Foals ♫♫♫

[Paul Fulcher · Rating 4 out of 5]

Emmanuel Bove's 1924 novel Mes amis was translated by Janet Louth, originally in 1986, but has recently been re-issued by NYRB Classics. The novel opens:

When I wake up, my mouth is open. My teeth are furry: it would be better to brush them in the evening, but I am never brave enough. Tears have dried at the corner of my eyes. My shoulders do not hurt any more. Some stiff hair covers my forehead. I spread my fingers and push it back. It is no good: like the pages of a new book it springs up and tumbles over my eyes again. When I bow my head I can feel that my beard has grown: it pricks my neck.

Our narrator, Victor Bâton , is a first world war veteran, with a crippled left hand, living, in relative but not absolute poverty, on a 50% invalid's pension. His life is deliberately simple, living on meagre comforts so he doesn't have to work:

In that house full of working people. I was the madman that, deep down, everyone wanted to be. I was the one who went without food, the cinema, warm clothes, to be free. I was the one who, without meaning to, daily reminded people of their wretched state. People have not forgiven me for being free and for not being afraid of poverty.

But Victor craves one thing above everything else - friendship:

When you wander about all day without speaking to anyone, you feel so tired in your room in the evening.

and even when opportunities for conversation do arise, typically others take little interest in his rather pathetic figure:

Life is so miserable for someone who is alone and speaks only to those who take no interest in him.

Which makes him sympathetic to others in a similar situation, such as those that, 100 years ago as still today, are employed to hand out flyers in the street to typically disinterested passers-by:

I always accept what they offer me. I know that these men are not free until after they have distributed several thousand pieces of paper. People who pass contemptuously by these outstretched hands instead of taking what they have to offer annoy me.

The slim novel (150 pages) narrates the story of five of his 'friends', or at least five of his encounters that bore sufficient fruit to at least offer that hope. Yet typically Victor's pride limits his ability to accept charity from those in higher social classes, to befriend those he considers unworthy (one he lends money as a test to see how he spends it) or indeed make friends with a peer who then turns out to be, in some respect, in a more fortunate position than him. One promising acquaintance is nearly ended when the other man turns out to have a girlfriend:

We were not really friends. Somebody loved him.

with Victor's only hope that she is perhaps unattractive or has some other major fault (when she turns out to have a limp he can barely conceal his pleasure).

Brilliantly done - darkly humorous and also moving, bleak and yet hopeful. Recommended.

[Teresa · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Nesse prédio de operários, eu era o louco que, no fundo, todos queriam ser. Era o que se privava de carne, de cinema, de lã, para ser livre. Era o que, sem querer, lembrava todos os dias às pessoas a sua condição miserável.
Não me perdoaram ser livre e não temer a miséria."

Victor Bâton não é livre. É escravo da sua necessidade de afecto.
Ele precisa de amor. Não de sexo para alívio.
Ele precisa de amigos. Não de piedade pela sua pobreza.
Não o incomoda o quarto frio e miserável em que vive, nem os trapos velhos com que se cobre. Apenas lhe dói a solidão, fonte dos seus sonhos irrealizáveis...

Bâton combateu na Primeira Guerra e dela saiu estropiado e impossibilitado de trabalhar. Recebe uma pensão que lhe permite apenas sobreviver. A sua vida resume-se a comer, dormir e deambular por Paris à procura de alguém que lhe dê atenção, que lhe queira bem.


(Edvard Munch, Despair)

"Quero ser o teu amigo. Nem demais e nem de menos.
Nem tão longe e nem tão perto.
Na medida mais precisa que eu puder.
Mas amar-te sem medida e ficar na tua vida,
Da maneira mais discreta que eu souber.
Sem tirar-te a liberdade, sem jamais te sufocar.
Sem forçar tua vontade.
Sem falar, quando for hora de calar.
E sem calar, quando for hora de falar.
Nem ausente, nem presente por demais.
Simplesmente, calmamente, ser-te paz.
É bonito ser amigo, mas confesso é tão difícil aprender!
E por isso eu te suplico paciência.
Vou encher este teu rosto de lembranças,
Dá-me tempo, de acertar nossas distâncias…"
— Fernando Pessoa (Poema do amigo aprendiz)

Os meus amigos foi publicado em 1924. Emmanuel Bove tinha 25 anos mas revelava já, além de uma grande sensibilidade e capacidade de análise do ser humano e meio envolvente, uma criatividade literária impressionante. As suas frases são curtas - nada está a mais ou a menos - mas de tal forma elaboradas que nos permitem visualizar de imediato o que a personagem vê e sente. Magnífico!


Como penso não ter sido suficientemente convincente sobre o valor desta obra, deixo a crítica literária que me deu a conhecer, e convenceu a ler, este romance:
Jornal Público (Ípsilon) de 4 de Junho de 2018

[Banu Yıldıran Genç · Rating 4 out of 5]

1. dünya savaşından sonra aldığı gazi maaşıyla yaşamaya çalışan victor’un yalnızlığını anlatıyor kitap.
victor genç yaşına rağmen savaşa katılmış, hatırlamak istemediği savaş anıları var, üstelik ellerinden birini kaybetmiş, kullanamıyor ve paris’te yapayalnız hayalleriyle yaşıyor.
yaşadığı daireyi, mahallesini betimlediği ilk bölüm o kadar canlı ve içten ki insanın kalbi yumuşuyor.
ve arkadaş bulabilmek uğruna tüm yaptıklarına, salaklıkları dahil, bu yumuşamış kalbimizden dolayı bir anne şefkatiyle yaklaşıyoruz.
her güzel anını melankolik düşüncelerle mahvetmesi, garlarda, nehir kıyılarında ilgi çekebilmek için ağlıyor numarası yapması, sadece ateş istemek için konuştuğu insanların bile kendi hakkında ne düşündüğünü önemsemesi o kadar gençliğe, hatta ergenliğe dair ki aslında.
gencecik ve yapayalnız bir adam victor bâton. tek istediği bir arkadaşı ve sevgilisi olması. ama huysuz da, sınıflara, davranışlara, kişi zamirlerine dair önyargıları var. kullanmak da kullanılmak da istemiyor ve bir türlü şans yüzüne gülmüyor.
bazı romanlar iyi, edebi filanın ötesinde “tatlı” oluyor. “arkadaşlarım” da böyle. sade, içten, herkese 19-20 yaşını hatırlatacak denli samimi. ve tabii arkada olanca çıplaklığıyla fakirliği müthiş anlatmış.
çevirmen ebru erbaş “fransa’nın sait faik’i” diye tanımladı bove’yi, gerçekten öyle.
ve çok iyi çeviri ki zaten ebru hanım sayesinde gördüm bu kitabı ilk.

[MJ Nicholls · Rating 5 out of 5]

Yes. Hell and expletive yes. As ever, other reviewers have capably articulated my thoughts for me, so there’s no reason to read this when you can read Geoff Wilt, Knig-o-lass, Jimmy, Adam Florida and Mark Zero’s fine reviews. I won’t provide links, since they’re easily findable by looking above (or below) this sparse paragraph. All I can say is: heartbreaking and melancholy, perfectly realised, the real deal. Universal. Read it. But don’t listen to this after.

[Laurent De Maertelaer · Rating 4 out of 5]

'Is mijn leven dan zo abnormaal dat het de wereld aanstoot geeft? Ik kan het niet geloven.'
Sublieme roman over eenzaamheid, pijn en vervreemding, maar ook de wil om te leven en de moeizame zoektocht naar verlossing en loutering. Korte, krachtige zinnen die met slechts enkele subtiele wendingen en een verbluffend oog (en oor!) voor details een van intensiteit huiverend en zinderend universum vol duisternis en wanhoop oproepen. Knappe vertaling van Angèle Manteau.

[Mariel · Rating 5 out of 5]

Solitude, what a sad and beautiful thing it is! How beautiful when we choose it! How sad when it is forced upon us year after year!
Some strong men are not lonely when they are alone, but I, who am weak, am lonely when I have no friends.

It is my inside thought, that Marieling voice that's white lonely, that he wanted to be alone. What would he have left if he settled his light dust? Would his spirits soar ever higher, new glass sky shards, past changing atmosphere windows, heavenly doors. Baton is the buy the cheapest, making it last longer when he should have lived once. He is eating in one bite when he should have savoured the taste of warmth. He will always be wrong. It was perfect how he doesn't sing the songs from his childhood. When will good be with him? Bad spoils places forever. I really get doing this. I am scared of not being able to listen to a favorite song because it reminds me of times too miserable to face again. Did you see the scar on his hand? It was from the war. Head lowered, the hung dog's face. Secret's pretty girls are backs to his stage. Baton is like walking around in a Baton movie in his mind. Sometimes he is the rags to rich story. The beautiful love interest will sweep him off his feet. Bring boxes of kleenex to this double feature. Baton the penurious prince. A friend on his arm, castaway changes, aren't reading their cues. Once more, with feeling. Do you have ten francs I can borrow? Their life beaten faces throb their own drum paths. Baton follows this benefactor's teenage daughter home from school. By this time I knew Baton so well I knew he was going to do it. You fuck up, you pervert. I just wanted.... This sad face cannot relate in an inside stillborn thought. Why don't you want to die too, Baton? It's easier if you're on my dead arm. The death-wish walks on the pity-party into a bar, a whore house instead. So the suicidal can't be bought any more than ten franc man. Bove is amazing in Baton's private thoughts a parallel world to the worlds of his "friends". Go swimming in the fat benefactor's likes to see himself as the benefactor. He wasn't as good, though. How they like to see themselves wasn't as good as the sick wanting something good to happen underneath that Baton and the suicidal bargeman had. I could live a long time on these details. The soup kitchen run by his one-night mistress Lucie will set aside their portion if they don't show up for a meal. Baton knows this and won't know that he has friends. Trembling kisses, love time voices. Slipping out in the night. When he always leaves them there.... If he had kept that job, tipped the concierge, didn't lose the room he had. Where he had avoided whenever possible to go into the streets where the good was going to happen to him one day. What would he do with himself if he weren't dreaming the streets? Being on the move makes dreaming come true. I didn't think it was that important that he was above the tramps in his own mind. His army pension to buy coffee and wine would doubtless make him so in the minds of those in lighted doorways. If he were staring out a work window he would rise another notch or two above where he is and that would be it. Something I've tried to remember in my life is that other people don't notice/don't think that much about me. Baton is the person that is thinking all of those nasty things someone afraid of people would cross the street. If he's basing others on himself that would explain a lot. I was fascinated with the slipping through. The young girl looks like girls kissing horses in postcards. If you were an out of this world impostor you would disappear if a girl like that looked at you. Their other-world can take away from this one. His clothes are more than clothes, an intimate stain. Knowledge of creases wear him. Do they know what he is thinking? What else could escape him? I thought it was going to be super important to me his longing for a dream-friend. I might have stopped believing in that. When you're with other people you're trivial to their true lives. The only thing to do is to have one of your own. He's sinking further into the ground past where other people are too. He's sold his furniture. So it's good I believe he's crossing the universe to make his half-life in the half-light. The dream of a dream is the friend he wants. It hurts because that he is doing right. He's doing it wrong because the ten franc man and his crippled girlfriend are more alive than the gratitude. He's doing it right because they don't need him for anything more than ten francs. The real world doors are closing and keep going, your friend is right around the black white corner....

In my imagination I see sailors and girls dancing together, little flags, motionless ships with sails furled.
These thoughts do not last.
I know the wharves of Paris too well: only for a moment do they look like the misty cities of my dreams.

[Meltem Sağlam · Rating 5 out of 5]

Çok etkileyici bir roman. Harika betimlemeler ve psikolojik analizlere dayanan tanımlamalar var. Akıcı ve sürükleyici, eğlenceli bir metin. Duygulanarak ve gülümseyerek okudum.

Uzun zaman, umudu geleceğe bağlamış olanların hikayesinde (sf; 149) hepimiz biraz kendimizi bulacağız.

Çok beğendim.

Yazarı tanımak mutluluk verici.


“…Seni seviyorum, dedim ona. Güldü, tipsiz ve yoksul olduğumdan kuşkusuz. …”, sf; 10.

[Eylül Görmüş · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ay ya Victor Bâton, seni kucaklamak istedim, kıyamam sana. Emmanuel Bove'un ilk romanı Arkadaşlarım, aslında hiç arkadaşı olmayan ve tek derdi azıcık sevilmek olan savaş gazisi Victor Bâton'un orada burada tanıştığı kişilerle kurmaya çalıştığı ilişkileri anlattığı bir küçük roman. Savaşta tek eli sakatlandığı için çalışamayan, devletin bağladığı gazi maaşıyla tuttuğu tek göz odada yaşayan Bâton, sokaklarda gezip birileriyle tanışmaya ve ilişki kurmaya çalışıyor, biz de onun ağzından "arkadaşlarını" dinliyoruz.

Kitabı kapatınca sorduğum soruyu buraya da bırakayım: Bu nasıl bir gözlem gücüdür ya sevgili Emmanuel Bove? Kendimi Victor Bâton kadar çaresiz ve yalnız hissetmedim hayatta hiçbir zaman, şanslıyım, ama tarif ettiği bazı duygular o kadar, o kadar tanıdık ki! Bazı şeyleri birinin fark edeceğini umarak yapma hâli, bazı "gibi yapma"lar, insanın kendini önemli hissetmek için giriştiği tuhaflıklar, kimi zaman hissettiğimiz o kuvvetli ihtiyaç duyulma ihtiyacı... Of. Nasıl bildik duygular. Herkesin, bu kitapta tarif edilen hislerin pek çoğunu deneyimlediğine eminim. Şimdi değilse de ilk gençliğinizde muhakkak bu ait olamama halini yaşamışsınızdır bence, aksi düşünülemez!

Anlatımız Victor Bâton sahiden şefkat uyandırıyor insanda ama sadece umutsuz bir iyilik timsali değil kendisi, yazarın gayet inceden sezdirdiği bir kibri de var. Çaresizliğinin bir kısmı öğrenilmiş çaresizlik, bir kısmı melankoliye duyduğu heves evet, hatta insan zaman zaman düşünüyor, çok istediği gibi zengin olsa iddia ettiği kadar verici ve iyi olur muydu diye, muhtemelen hayır, zira kendini kandırmayı iyi beceren biri o ama yine de yoksulluğunu ve yalnızlığını öfke içinde değil de bir çocuk gibi karşılaması, umutsuzluğunun içinden sürekli yeni umutlar devşirmesi, yer yer olağanüstü naifleşebilmesi filan, yukarıda bahsettiğim örtülü kibre rağmen insanda şefkat uyandırıyor.

Çok, çok sevdim ya, kalbimi okşadı resmen. Bu kitabı Brenda Lozano, İdeal Defter'de bahsettiği için almıştım, iyi ki almışım. Başka kitapların kapısını aralayan kitaplar ve edebiyatın içinde yolculuk etmenin heyecanı çok yaşasın.

[Rita · Rating 5 out of 5]

Há um humor triste e um sarcasmo subtil neste livro de Bove (o único que dele conheço) que se alinha na perfeição com a personagem e as suas pequenas histórias. Todas as seis histórias andam em redor de uma mesma coisa (a procura desesperada por um amigo, um que seja), mas ainda assim Bove não nos cansa. Bove apresenta-nos um personagem brilhantemente construído que, na sua procura de algo essencial, se revela (ou se torna) patético e mesquinho. Não seremos todos por vezes assim?

[Beril Ozakinci · Rating 5 out of 5]

müthiş kitap. karakterimiz victor baton I. dünya savaşı sonrası paris'inde özgürlüğünün tadını çıkarırken insanlar tarafından fark edilmek, değer görmek ister; tabii bir de tüm benliğini sunabileceği bir arkadaşı olmasını. gündelik hayatın akışı içinde yemek yediği restoranda, bazen bir meydanda, seine nehrinin kıyısında karşılaştığı insanlarla etkileşime girmekten çekinmez. bazen sırf biri gelsin de neyi olduğunu merak etsin diye ağlıyormuş gibi yaptığını anlattığı bir yer var. bunu yaparken de bakan, fark eden var mı diye tek gözüyle çevresini kontrol etmeyi unutmuyor tabii.

kendine dair algısı müthiş yüksek biri baton. hangi durumda nasıl davranılacağına dair gerçekten belli başlı kalıpları var ve biri buna uygun davranmayadursun canı inanılmaz sıkılıyor ve o hayal kırıklığı biz okuyucuya da çok ama çok iyi geçiyor. içinde bulunduğu sınıfa dair de hassasiyetleri var. bir de müthiş takıntılı biri. o takıntılarını, detayları oldukça başarılı buldum ve çok sevdim.

okumaya başladığımda gerçekten kalbimi yumuşacık yapacak bir roman okuyormuş düşüncesiyle devam ediyordum. kitabı bitirdiğimde ise çok farklı düşünüyorum. victor baton'un hikayesi yalnız hayatına anlam katma arayışı değildi. onun zaten ayakları yere basan bir anlam dünyası vardı ve yalnızlık bir anlamda onun tercihiydi diye düşünüyorum.