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Yo por dentro
La primera novela del legendario actor y escritor. Una historia crepuscular sobre la familia, el amor y la pérdida.
De madrugada, echado en la cama, debatiéndose entre el sueño y la vigilia, un hombre solitario medita, evoca escenas y ajusta cuentas con el pasado. Por su cabeza merodean recuerdos, en ocasiones fugaces, de su juventud, de su carrera como actor, de la relación compleja con su padre y del papel de las mujeres en su vida. La figura paterna aparece de modo recurrente en muchos de esos episodios lejanos: ese padre que formó parte de la tripulación de un bombardero en la Segunda Guerra Mundial, ese padre que tenía una novia muy joven, Felicity, con la que también él mantuvo una relación, formando un triángulo que acabaría desembocando en tragedia...
Crepuscular y elusiva, con pinceladas oníricas, la novela está envuelta por los paisajes desérticos de la América profunda, las granjas aisladas como aquella en la que creció el protagonista, los diners, las carreteras inacabables y las vías de tren solitarias, con los aullidos de los coyotes como banda sonora, a los que se suman los ritmos del jazz y el rock'n'roll.
Yo por dentro, con esa escritura seca y desgarrada de la que emerge la intensidad poética característica de Sam Shepard, es una suerte de compendio de sus temas y obsesiones, una intimista invocación de fantasmas en la que se filtran pinceladas autobiográficas, un testamento literario por todo lo alto, que viene además precedido por un bellísimo prólogo de Patti Smith.
De madrugada, echado en la cama, debatiéndose entre el sueño y la vigilia, un hombre solitario medita, evoca escenas y ajusta cuentas con el pasado. Por su cabeza merodean recuerdos, en ocasiones fugaces, de su juventud, de su carrera como actor, de la relación compleja con su padre y del papel de las mujeres en su vida. La figura paterna aparece de modo recurrente en muchos de esos episodios lejanos: ese padre que formó parte de la tripulación de un bombardero en la Segunda Guerra Mundial, ese padre que tenía una novia muy joven, Felicity, con la que también él mantuvo una relación, formando un triángulo que acabaría desembocando en tragedia...
Crepuscular y elusiva, con pinceladas oníricas, la novela está envuelta por los paisajes desérticos de la América profunda, las granjas aisladas como aquella en la que creció el protagonista, los diners, las carreteras inacabables y las vías de tren solitarias, con los aullidos de los coyotes como banda sonora, a los que se suman los ritmos del jazz y el rock'n'roll.
Yo por dentro, con esa escritura seca y desgarrada de la que emerge la intensidad poética característica de Sam Shepard, es una suerte de compendio de sus temas y obsesiones, una intimista invocación de fantasmas en la que se filtran pinceladas autobiográficas, un testamento literario por todo lo alto, que viene además precedido por un bellísimo prólogo de Patti Smith.
216 pages, Paperback
First published February 17, 2017
121 people are currently reading
2116 people want to read
About the author
Sam Shepard
227 books665 followersSam Shepard was an American artist who worked as an award-winning playwright, writer and actor. His many written works are known for being frank and often absurd, as well as for having an authentic sense of the style and sensibility of the gritty modern American west. He was an actor of the stage and motion pictures; a director of stage and film; author of several books of short stories, essays, and memoirs; and a musician.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 218 reviews
February 6, 2017
This gorgeously-conceived and -written memoir is simply delicious to hear. Bill Pullman reads it, sounding so much like Shepard’s remembered craggy, crusty voice crossing the ranges of a human heart on its journey from teen to seventy years. He is sly, self-serving, and somehow sincere, still sexy, selective, remembering his father’s young mistress, confusing us and himself about when he eventually becomes his father (now “one year older than his father was when he died”) and when any indiscretions become his own.
Nabokov is heralded at the beginning, and his fantastic mental contortions are mirrored throughout the naughty little remembrance of an old man romancing a pretty young thing adrift, his Blackmail Girl. She is not as young as his father’s jailbait and he is older than his father but still working in film. Descriptions of what the production team does to ‘authenticate’ a film in production is impressive and maybe even wasteful and unnecessary. Extravagant, certainly. It is absorbing to hear the details interspersed with his little problem—pretending the little miss accompanying him is friend rather than prey.
This book details the metamorphosis of a man, once a boy who, like Felicity, was too young, innocent, shocked by what his body wants and what his mind does, not grousing, not explaining, just writing…describing life through language, lush, foxy, exact, observant…just look, he says, just…listen.
I loved this work. Shepard always read a lot of books but famous writers like Mailer, Capote, or Nabokov confused him. Shepard knew what was important, and stashed language like memory, in red naugahyde suitcases, ready to be pulled out in wonderment years later, and used to describe this world of his, or ours. He may be an ordinary man (who knows?), but he has extraordinary skill. This is a special, wonderful, joyful, ugly, painful look at our past century, a western landscape, and a man in it.
"…forty years of movie sets….a great blue heron waiting for a frog to rise… the wind moans through the aspens…and Nabokov says the reason he writes is ‘aesthetic bliss’…"Patti Smith, Shepard’s long time friend and one-time lover, writes the Foreword and she claims the memoir is both “him, sort of him, and not him at all,” containing “altered perspectives, lucid memory, and hallucinatory impressions.” Reading it, we think we know what might be real and what will always be desire. He is a man of a certain age, one foot in the grave and one hand on his genitals; his descriptions of the twenty-something wearing a pink frilly skirt, sitting straight up, knees together, her spine not touching the back of the chair, recall to us hunger, sharp smells, flavor, and oh yes, something the old man had never forgotten….his first lover, the red-haired Felicity, his father’s fourteen-year-old lover.
Nabokov is heralded at the beginning, and his fantastic mental contortions are mirrored throughout the naughty little remembrance of an old man romancing a pretty young thing adrift, his Blackmail Girl. She is not as young as his father’s jailbait and he is older than his father but still working in film. Descriptions of what the production team does to ‘authenticate’ a film in production is impressive and maybe even wasteful and unnecessary. Extravagant, certainly. It is absorbing to hear the details interspersed with his little problem—pretending the little miss accompanying him is friend rather than prey.
"[Feelings about her] were like warm water running down my back."Comfortable, pleasurable, and maybe not so dangerous. Certainly not wrong. Well, maybe…was it wrong?…what about Felicity? Felicity, we see at the end, was clearly too young. Shepard recalls the name of one of the world’s great prose stylists, Heinrich von Kleist, who is known also for his double suicide in 1811 with a married female friend who was dying of uterine cancer, so she wouldn’t have to die alone.
This book details the metamorphosis of a man, once a boy who, like Felicity, was too young, innocent, shocked by what his body wants and what his mind does, not grousing, not explaining, just writing…describing life through language, lush, foxy, exact, observant…just look, he says, just…listen.
"Who knows what is real anyway?"We chart, as Patti Smith suggests, the “shifting core of the narrator,” from boy to man, from uncertainty to awareness, from innocence to culpability. He was always “confused and amused by women” but in senescence seeks to grasp a moment, a feeling, a memory. Literature, language, and its portrayal in film or on stage, has been his work for forty years. He may be winding down, but this he can still do: write with clarity, dreams or memories or lies or wishes or denials. This may be a memoir, but who’s to say the memories of an old man aren’t half fiction?
I loved this work. Shepard always read a lot of books but famous writers like Mailer, Capote, or Nabokov confused him. Shepard knew what was important, and stashed language like memory, in red naugahyde suitcases, ready to be pulled out in wonderment years later, and used to describe this world of his, or ours. He may be an ordinary man (who knows?), but he has extraordinary skill. This is a special, wonderful, joyful, ugly, painful look at our past century, a western landscape, and a man in it.
“Good enough for a book.”I excerpted a portion of the audiobook, produced by Penguin Random House Audio, on my blog.
March 4, 2019
Λυρικότητα της αχανούς πεδιάδας, του βαθιού φαραγγιού, της ακτής του ωκεανού και της μοναξιάς της οποίας μόνο η αμερικανική ήπειρος μπορεί να αποτελέσει καμβά κ που εδώ αποδίδεται υπέροχα από τον Σαμ Σέπαρντ.
Τόσο μοντέρνα..τόσο αρχέγονα
Κ η Φελισιτυ!!
Η αιτία, η αφορμή κ το αποτέλεσμα
Προσπάθησα να την πείσω να διαβάσει μερικά διηγήματα του Ρομπέρτο Μπολανιο, αλλά τα βρήκε πολύ καταθλιπτικά και ταπεινωτικά από μια καθαρά ανδρική σκοπιά.
Ίσως με ρωτήσεις γιατί είμαι πρόθυμος να αναλάβω μια τέτοια απάτη και θα σου απαντήσω ότι είναι χαρά μου να γίνω μέλος του παλιού κόσμου.
Της αβανγκάρντ,αν προτιμάς.
Να συναντήσω τους ξεχασμένους λυκανθρώπους του 20ου αιώνα
Αυτούς που μας σώζουν από το μηδενισμό των μεγάλων επιχειρήσεων.
Αυτούς, που περπατούν στα μικρά εμπορικά κέντρα με το κεφάλι κατεβασμένο, χαϊδεύοντας μολότοφ στις τσέπες του παλτού τους και μια στο τόσο ανατινάζονται
Όπως τον παλιό καιρό. Όπως τον παλιό καλό καιρό στο παρελθόν.
Τόσο μοντέρνα..τόσο αρχέγονα
Κ η Φελισιτυ!!
Η αιτία, η αφορμή κ το αποτέλεσμα
Προσπάθησα να την πείσω να διαβάσει μερικά διηγήματα του Ρομπέρτο Μπολανιο, αλλά τα βρήκε πολύ καταθλιπτικά και ταπεινωτικά από μια καθαρά ανδρική σκοπιά.
Ίσως με ρωτήσεις γιατί είμαι πρόθυμος να αναλάβω μια τέτοια απάτη και θα σου απαντήσω ότι είναι χαρά μου να γίνω μέλος του παλιού κόσμου.
Της αβανγκάρντ,αν προτιμάς.
Να συναντήσω τους ξεχασμένους λυκανθρώπους του 20ου αιώνα
Αυτούς που μας σώζουν από το μηδενισμό των μεγάλων επιχειρήσεων.
Αυτούς, που περπατούν στα μικρά εμπορικά κέντρα με το κεφάλι κατεβασμένο, χαϊδεύοντας μολότοφ στις τσέπες του παλτού τους και μια στο τόσο ανατινάζονται
Όπως τον παλιό καιρό. Όπως τον παλιό καλό καιρό στο παρελθόν.
March 22, 2017
Beautiful prose, but too fragmentary to really be a novel, or even short stories. The mood is very evocative, dream-like, obscure, and sometimes in the slightly longer sections this really worked for me, but then something very short would cut in, and my mind would want to try to sort it out, where it fitted in the narrative. Perhaps I should have been able to just let go and have it wash over me like poetry, but that didn't work either.
Interesting, but not perfect.
www.clairefuller.co.uk
Interesting, but not perfect.
www.clairefuller.co.uk
February 6, 2017
After watching a half-century of his legendary coolness, you either believe that 73-year-old Sam Shepard has the right stuff or you don’t. Aside from his steely performance in dozens of movies and TV shows, he’s the author of almost 50 plays, including his Pulitzer Prize-winning masterpiece, “Buried Child” (1979), which should be remembered as one of the greatest dramas of the 20th century. He’s got nothing more to prove.
And yet now, “The One Inside ” is being hyped as Shepard’s “first work of long fiction,” though it’s not particularly long nor entirely fictional. Fans of his short stories and autobiographical writings will hear echoes of. . . .
To read the rest of this review, go to The Washington Post:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/entert...
And yet now, “The One Inside ” is being hyped as Shepard’s “first work of long fiction,” though it’s not particularly long nor entirely fictional. Fans of his short stories and autobiographical writings will hear echoes of. . . .
To read the rest of this review, go to The Washington Post:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/entert...
January 30, 2019
The foreword by Patti Smith was incomprehensible, which forewarned me that the book itself, when I got to it, would be unusual. Smith was trying hard to channel the rhythm and slant-ness of Shepard's writing, and failed. Her attempt, though, points out the difficulty of saying anything definitive about what Shepard has written here.
The experience of reading Shepard's prose was so interesting. The words I was reading evoked strong memories in me of things I hadn't thought about for years, and that had nothing to do with the words on the page. I gave up trying to understand exactly what was going on. The strange jittering fragmentation of the story, with its many guilt-laden meanders into regret for the past, carried me into meanings that might not have had anything to do with what the author wrote.
The experience of reading Shepard's prose was so interesting. The words I was reading evoked strong memories in me of things I hadn't thought about for years, and that had nothing to do with the words on the page. I gave up trying to understand exactly what was going on. The strange jittering fragmentation of the story, with its many guilt-laden meanders into regret for the past, carried me into meanings that might not have had anything to do with what the author wrote.
April 9, 2017
Perfect pairing of author and narrator. This book, you guys. On Audio. Go. Get it. Now.
March 5, 2019
Πέμπτη επαφή με το συγγραφικό έργο του Σαμ Σέπαρντ, μετά από τρεις συλλογές ιστοριών/κειμένων και από ένα θεατρικό σενάριο, και δηλώνω για ακόμα μια φορά μαγεμένος από τη γραφή και το όλο στιλ του. Ουσιαστικά έχουμε να κάνουμε και πάλι με μικρές αποσπασματικές ιστορίες, με βινιέτες, με σκέψεις, χωρίς κάποια ιδιαίτερη συνοχή ή χρονολογική σειρά, που όμως συνθέτουν τη ζωή ενός ανθρώπου, ο οποίος θα μπορούσε να είναι και ο ίδιος ο συγγραφέας. Με λυρικότητα και τραχύ χιούμορ ο Σέπαρντ ανασυνθέτει μνήμες και στοχάζεται πάνω στη ζωή και τον θάνατο, με φόντο πάντα τις μεγάλες πεδιάδες της Αμερικής. Οι περιγραφές είναι φοβερές και συχνά πυκνά υποβλητικές, ενώ η ατμόσφαιρα κάπως μελαγχολική, σε σημεία ονειρική και σουρεαλιστική. Υποθέτω ότι σαν βιβλίο δεν είναι για όλα τα γούστα, έτσι αποσπασματικό και ιδιόρρυθμο όπως είναι, όμως προσωπικά μαγεύτηκα από τις περιγραφές και τις σκέψεις του συγγραφέα, οπότε λίγο με απασχόλησε αν υπήρχε αρχή, μέση και τέλος στην όλη ιστορία, ή αν έβγαλα στον απόλυτο βαθμό ένα συγκεκριμένο νόημα από όλα όσα διάβασα.
February 9, 2017
Something between a collection of vignettes, surrealism, short story and thinly veiled memoir that stretches in time from a boy of 13 to a man of 70. Atmospheric and haunting.
May 16, 2017
Wish I could say I liked this book. I wanted to, was prepared to, but wasn't. I'm fine with fragmentary works, even fine with works that falsely label themselves as fiction, as this one does. But I couldn't help think this book would never have been published if it wasn't written by Shepard, that his reputation and fame dictated its being published. And that insecurity about its quality was betrayed by having the much loved Patti smith introduce it.
August 11, 2019
"Μια γκριμάτσα δεν είναι ουρλιαχτό και μια σύσπαση δεν είναι κραυγή αγωνίας" λέει ο αφηγητής σε έναν από τους μονολόγους του.. και όμως σε όλο το βιβλίο τίποτα δε προδίδει την εκφραστικότητα των προσώπων των ηρώων. Το ακριβώς αντίθετο. Παρακολουθείς τα βήματά τους, τις σκέψεις τους, και θαρρείς πως είναι αγαλματίδια με παγωμένα πρόσωπα, περιπλανώμενα μέσα στις καυτές πεδιάδες της αμερικάνικης γης.
Μα το μυθιστόρημα αυτό είναι μια ά��χη κραυγή αγωνίας για τον άνθρωπο που δε θέλει να είναι μόνος του.
"Σκεφτόμουν τη Φελίσιτυ - που μπορεί να είχε πάει. Ίσως δεν είχε φύγει, απλά βαρέθηκε να περιμένει."
Ο μόνος τρόπος που ξέρει να επιβιώνει είναι επιβάλλοντας στον εαυτό του την εξορία του μυαλού και του σώματος. " Το είχα αυτό μέσα μου. Εξόριστος. Το ήξερα. Δεν υπήρχε ανάγκη προετοιμασίας. Ολόκληρη η ζωή μου ήταν μια εισαγωγή σ αυτό". Αποσύνδεση από το παρόν και βουτιά στο τότε που έμεινε πάντα ανερμήνευτο, με κύριο άξονα την ανάπηρη σχέση του αφηγητή με τον πατέρα του. Ο άλλος μέσα του, ο πατέρας του και το γεγονός της γέννησής του που ποιος μπορεί να πει με βεβαιότητα αν μπορεί να αποδοθεί στη μοίρα?
"Το παρόν είναι το παρελθόν μας .. Δε ξέρω αν μου λείπει ένα άτομο ή μια εποχή. Άνθρωποι από το παρελθόν"
Μα το μυθιστόρημα αυτό είναι μια ά��χη κραυγή αγωνίας για τον άνθρωπο που δε θέλει να είναι μόνος του.
"Σκεφτόμουν τη Φελίσιτυ - που μπορεί να είχε πάει. Ίσως δεν είχε φύγει, απλά βαρέθηκε να περιμένει."
Ο μόνος τρόπος που ξέρει να επιβιώνει είναι επιβάλλοντας στον εαυτό του την εξορία του μυαλού και του σώματος. " Το είχα αυτό μέσα μου. Εξόριστος. Το ήξερα. Δεν υπήρχε ανάγκη προετοιμασίας. Ολόκληρη η ζωή μου ήταν μια εισαγωγή σ αυτό". Αποσύνδεση από το παρόν και βουτιά στο τότε που έμεινε πάντα ανερμήνευτο, με κύριο άξονα την ανάπηρη σχέση του αφηγητή με τον πατέρα του. Ο άλλος μέσα του, ο πατέρας του και το γεγονός της γέννησής του που ποιος μπορεί να πει με βεβαιότητα αν μπορεί να αποδοθεί στη μοίρα?
"Το παρόν είναι το παρελθόν μας .. Δε ξέρω αν μου λείπει ένα άτομο ή μια εποχή. Άνθρωποι από το παρελθόν"
April 6, 2019
Още като видях заглавието на първия роман на Сам Шепърд, който излиза малко преди той да почине, знаех, че тази книга ще се окаже много "моя". Не сбърках. Познат предимно като автор на пиеси, носител на "Пулицър" за драматургия, и актьор, с тази книга Шепърд доказва, че може да пише и високо естетическа проза. Стилът му на писане е тъкмо този, който най-много ми импонира, макар да е труден за проследяване поради накъсаността и фрагментарността си. Преди смъртта си авторът е страдал от деменция и някъде прочетох предположението, че този стил в романа пресъздава именно изгубеността, лутанията и разхвърляните му мисли и спомени.
Фрагментите в книгата са с биографични моменти, напомнят елипсовидни импресии, в които премълчаното е важно точно толкова, колкото изказаното. На пръв поглед няма хронологичност, изглеждат като проблясъци и откъслеци от сънища и спомени, които изскачат в съзнанието без видима логика. Сякаш разглеждаме черно-бели снимки, които някой е забравил да подреди в албума. След цялостния прочит обаче, и най-вече в последния фрагмент, книгата придобива рамка и завършеност, отговаря на много от въпросите, които сме си задавали, докато се лутаме по страниците.
Кое е реалното? Какво е случайността, евентуалността? Кое бележи живота и изборите ни - образът на "смаляващия се" баща, на жените в живота му, постоянните роли и трудността да намери "онзи в мен" сред вечните костюми, грим и декори...И още и още...
Книгата не се чете лесно, най-вече заради накъсаността и, бих казала, задъхаността си, но за мен беше истинско удоволствие.
Предговорът на Пати Смит, с която ги е свързвало дългогодишно приятелство, дава важни ключове към разбирането на романа и е не по-малко поетичен от самата книга.
Не на последно място поздравления за изд. Лист за цялостното книжно тяло - изпипано както винаги, чудесен превод и прекрасна минималистична корица на Теодор Ушев.
"Реалността е надценявана. Онова, което остава, са думите, надраскани върху разгръщаща се панорама, следи от прашни тишини, обелени от паметта, жалейна песен на отминали гласове, носеща се над американската равнина. "Онзи в мен" е сливащ се атлас, осеян от следите на ботушите на онзи, който инстинктивно изминава, с отворени очи, неземните му пътища." - Пати Смит
"Мисля си за отговора на Набоков на въпроса защо пише - естетическо блаженство... това е всичко... естетическо блаженство. Да. Каквото и да означава."
"- Хрумна ми, че трябва да има нещо като плаващи идеи между хората. Море, ако предпочиташ. От познати и непознати идеи. И двете. Да се преливаме един в друг. Да се захранваме взаимно. Двамата. Като полета, така да се каже. Може би симбиоза."
Фрагментите в книгата са с биографични моменти, напомнят елипсовидни импресии, в които премълчаното е важно точно толкова, колкото изказаното. На пръв поглед няма хронологичност, изглеждат като проблясъци и откъслеци от сънища и спомени, които изскачат в съзнанието без видима логика. Сякаш разглеждаме черно-бели снимки, които някой е забравил да подреди в албума. След цялостния прочит обаче, и най-вече в последния фрагмент, книгата придобива рамка и завършеност, отговаря на много от въпросите, които сме си задавали, докато се лутаме по страниците.
Кое е реалното? Какво е случайността, евентуалността? Кое бележи живота и изборите ни - образът на "смаляващия се" баща, на жените в живота му, постоянните роли и трудността да намери "онзи в мен" сред вечните костюми, грим и декори...И още и още...
Книгата не се чете лесно, най-вече заради накъсаността и, бих казала, задъхаността си, но за мен беше истинско удоволствие.
Предговорът на Пати Смит, с която ги е свързвало дългогодишно приятелство, дава важни ключове към разбирането на романа и е не по-малко поетичен от самата книга.
Не на последно място поздравления за изд. Лист за цялостното книжно тяло - изпипано както винаги, чудесен превод и прекрасна минималистична корица на Теодор Ушев.
"Реалността е надценявана. Онова, което остава, са думите, надраскани върху разгръщаща се панорама, следи от прашни тишини, обелени от паметта, жалейна песен на отминали гласове, носеща се над американската равнина. "Онзи в мен" е сливащ се атлас, осеян от следите на ботушите на онзи, който инстинктивно изминава, с отворени очи, неземните му пътища." - Пати Смит
"Мисля си за отговора на Набоков на въпроса защо пише - естетическо блаженство... това е всичко... естетическо блаженство. Да. Каквото и да означава."
"- Хрумна ми, че трябва да има нещо като плаващи идеи между хората. Море, ако предпочиташ. От познати и непознати идеи. И двете. Да се преливаме един в друг. Да се захранваме взаимно. Двамата. Като полета, така да се каже. Може би симбиоза."
June 9, 2017
Great writing is just great.
I love Sam Shepard so much. Is this fiction or did he have lotsa affairs that drove Jessica Lange away? Gosh.
He drinks a lot of coffee in this book which I liked. It's kind of a bit dreamy and fiction/memoir. I loved it.
I love Sam Shepard so much. Is this fiction or did he have lotsa affairs that drove Jessica Lange away? Gosh.
He drinks a lot of coffee in this book which I liked. It's kind of a bit dreamy and fiction/memoir. I loved it.
April 27, 2017
Shepard's writing is magical, I love him. He writes magic. And he writes feelings.
I. Love. Him.
I. Love. Him.
May 21, 2022
Çok dağınık. Toplanmak zor oluyor, olayın içine girmeden ilerlemek ara verdiğinizde zor oluyor. Ama yine de bir şey var okutan.
March 29, 2024
Ένα απ'τα πιο περίεργα βιβλία που πέρασαν απ'τα χέρια μου.
Δεν έχουμε να κάνουμε σίγουρα με οτιδήποτε συμβατικό. Ο Σέπαρντ ακόμα κι αν έχει κάποιες ιστορίες να σου πει θα το κάνει με πλάγιο τρόπο. Θα αφήσει να συμπερανεις, θα σε βάλει μέσα σε ένα όνειρο του, θα μιλήσει για κάτι άλλο, θα οδηγήσει 110 χιλιόμετρα στις αχανείς εκτάσεις της Αμερικής.
Αν δείξεις διάθεση να βυθιστείς στην υπνωτική γραφή του ίσως και να περάσεις όμορφα, αλλιώς θα παλέψεις να ακολουθήσεις κάτι που για τον Σαμ Σέπαρντ μπορεί να ήταν η ίδια του η ζωή μέσα από άπειρους διαθλαστικούς φακούς.
Δεν έχουμε να κάνουμε σίγουρα με οτιδήποτε συμβατικό. Ο Σέπαρντ ακόμα κι αν έχει κάποιες ιστορίες να σου πει θα το κάνει με πλάγιο τρόπο. Θα αφήσει να συμπερανεις, θα σε βάλει μέσα σε ένα όνειρο του, θα μιλήσει για κάτι άλλο, θα οδηγήσει 110 χιλιόμετρα στις αχανείς εκτάσεις της Αμερικής.
Αν δείξεις διάθεση να βυθιστείς στην υπνωτική γραφή του ίσως και να περάσεις όμορφα, αλλιώς θα παλέψεις να ακολουθήσεις κάτι που για τον Σαμ Σέπαρντ μπορεί να ήταν η ίδια του η ζωή μέσα από άπειρους διαθλαστικούς φακούς.
June 8, 2017
Not quite sure what to make of this book. Is it the rough outline for a new semi-autobiographical play? Or is it a "treatment" for a movie sorta, kinda about the author? Or is it a long short story or novelette about a particularly telling portion of Sam Shepard's somewhat tortured life as he advances toward his inevitable demise? Either way, it's pretty darn good reading.
The writing is done in short staccato Hemingwayesque bursts much like the Brazilian single shot .410 caliber rifle the semi-fictional character --"The Man With No Name" -- shoots at the raccoon who, like some macabre trickster deity, digs through the trash cans of the writer's memory.
Far smarter minds than mine have some what condemned this book because of its raunchy, Nabokov-like, licentiousness themes and the weird surrealism surrounding the death and odd miniaturization of the main character's father. Yes. There is something elementally Oedipal about their father-son relationship. And his father's nubian underaged girlfriend, curiously known as "Felicity," could represent "the one true love of his life who got away" or the author's lament for ill-spent youth, lost opportunity and what not. But I tend to chalk that up to Greco dramatis to give this novelette a peculiar tension. No. I am more interested in the "one inside" "The Man With No Name" whom we all know is the actor Sam Shepard, a Pulitzer Prize winning playwright.
So what's this all about? In the chapter entitled "Black Hole" he gives the reader a pretty clear hint when he muses about a "colored mural of Kublai Khan and his vast, opulent hunting party" with a menagerie of beasts above the mahogany headboard of a king-sized bed the author/actor borrows while filming "August: Osage County":
"A kind of 'day in the life' of Kublai Khan. Some mind invention woven to capture the imagination down through time. As though time were a spiral. As though the ancient past could be conveniently held in your hand. All at once."
Such are the musings of the unnamed character that Patti Smith describes in the Foreword so eloquently as "a loner who doesn't want to be alone, grappling with the incubus, a rippling of nocturnal waters, the nausea of unending nights."
Sam Shepard's acting and writing style reflect a wounded soul who just witnessed a catastrophic train wreck called his own life. A living, breathing embodiment of shell shock and PTSD, if you will, who sees the doors in the long, narrow hallway of his life slamming shut. Wasn't it Soren Kierkegaard who said, "Life can only be understood looking backward, but must be lived going forward"?
While "The One Inside" may be "him, sort of him, not him at all," it does compel this reader to search for more artistic work by Sam Shepard; both in the visual and written format. It narrowly missed five (5) solid stars here because I believe that Sam Shepard's best literary work lies ahead of him and not behind him, if only he would learn to forgive himself for his past abandonment, marital infidelity and moral misdeeds and write the magnum opus yearning to be set free from the clutches of the "One Inside".
A tip of the hat to Trish for turning me on to this exceptionally well-written book replete with linguistic visuals that will not soon leave me. My only regret is the I did not recommend this novelette to the "Gentlemen" of the Second Tuesday of the Month Book Club in June of this year whom would assuredly mine this work of all or most of its literary gems. Oh well, like the author, I'll live to love and fight another day. It truly 'tis a great reading life.
The writing is done in short staccato Hemingwayesque bursts much like the Brazilian single shot .410 caliber rifle the semi-fictional character --"The Man With No Name" -- shoots at the raccoon who, like some macabre trickster deity, digs through the trash cans of the writer's memory.
Far smarter minds than mine have some what condemned this book because of its raunchy, Nabokov-like, licentiousness themes and the weird surrealism surrounding the death and odd miniaturization of the main character's father. Yes. There is something elementally Oedipal about their father-son relationship. And his father's nubian underaged girlfriend, curiously known as "Felicity," could represent "the one true love of his life who got away" or the author's lament for ill-spent youth, lost opportunity and what not. But I tend to chalk that up to Greco dramatis to give this novelette a peculiar tension. No. I am more interested in the "one inside" "The Man With No Name" whom we all know is the actor Sam Shepard, a Pulitzer Prize winning playwright.
So what's this all about? In the chapter entitled "Black Hole" he gives the reader a pretty clear hint when he muses about a "colored mural of Kublai Khan and his vast, opulent hunting party" with a menagerie of beasts above the mahogany headboard of a king-sized bed the author/actor borrows while filming "August: Osage County":
"A kind of 'day in the life' of Kublai Khan. Some mind invention woven to capture the imagination down through time. As though time were a spiral. As though the ancient past could be conveniently held in your hand. All at once."
Such are the musings of the unnamed character that Patti Smith describes in the Foreword so eloquently as "a loner who doesn't want to be alone, grappling with the incubus, a rippling of nocturnal waters, the nausea of unending nights."
Sam Shepard's acting and writing style reflect a wounded soul who just witnessed a catastrophic train wreck called his own life. A living, breathing embodiment of shell shock and PTSD, if you will, who sees the doors in the long, narrow hallway of his life slamming shut. Wasn't it Soren Kierkegaard who said, "Life can only be understood looking backward, but must be lived going forward"?
While "The One Inside" may be "him, sort of him, not him at all," it does compel this reader to search for more artistic work by Sam Shepard; both in the visual and written format. It narrowly missed five (5) solid stars here because I believe that Sam Shepard's best literary work lies ahead of him and not behind him, if only he would learn to forgive himself for his past abandonment, marital infidelity and moral misdeeds and write the magnum opus yearning to be set free from the clutches of the "One Inside".
A tip of the hat to Trish for turning me on to this exceptionally well-written book replete with linguistic visuals that will not soon leave me. My only regret is the I did not recommend this novelette to the "Gentlemen" of the Second Tuesday of the Month Book Club in June of this year whom would assuredly mine this work of all or most of its literary gems. Oh well, like the author, I'll live to love and fight another day. It truly 'tis a great reading life.
September 2, 2020
Waarom neemt niemand je even apart
Om je te vertellen wat er staat te gebeuren?
- David Foster Wallace
Selectieve en suggestieve herinneringen
Op een ochtend, na een carrière van zo'n veertig jaar, ontwaakt het naamloze hoofdpersonage. Buiten raast de wind rond zijn huis, hij voelt zich onrustig. In de spiegel kijkt een jongere versie van zichzelf hem aan en in gedachten duikt hij terug in zijn leven en beseft dat hij nu een jaar ouder is dan zijn vader is geworden. Zijn herinneringen aan hoe zijn relatie met zijn vader was, zijn selectief. Wat hem echter duidelijk voor de geest staat was dat zijn vader een seksuele relatie had met de veertienjarige Felicity. Terecht haalt hij Lolita aan van Nabokov.
'Ik ging naar binnen en daar was ze. Mijn vaders vriendin zat kaarsrecht op - bijna naakt - alsof ze achterstevoren op een pony reed. Geen van beiden merkte me op. Ze draaiden zich geen moment naar me om. Ze bleef hem maar berijden en onbesuisd schreeuwen, terwijl ze uitzinnig op en neer bleef gaan. Hij lag op zijn rug op een tafel, starend naar het plafond met zijn armen onder zijn hoofd, alsof hij een middagdutje aan het doek was of naar de radio luisterde.'
Hijzelf is op dat moment dertien, ziet ze bezig en weet niet goed of hij ervan walgt of dat het hem biologeert en hij ontvlucht het huis, maar tegelijkertijd ziet hij dat hij zijn vader nooit zal kunnen ontvluchten. Bij terugkomst ziet hij zijn vader afgevoerd worden door de politie. Wanneer Felicity ook hem verleidt tot het hebben van een - zijn eerste - seksuele ervaring, verwart het hem. Ze blijft hen thuis opzoeken en wacht op zijn vader, maar op zeker moment kiest ze ervoor om letterlijk te verdwijnen.
De Amerikaanse Sam Shepard (1943 - 2017) was een veelzijdige duizendpoot. Al op jonge leeftijd hield hij zich bezig met toneel en werkte succesvol als toneelschrijver, acteur, regisseur en scenarist, waarvoor hij meermaals in de prijzen is gevallen. Zijn teksten bevatten vaak surrealistische, hallucinante en absurdistische kenmerken. Deze zijn ook terug te vinden in zijn prozawerk en geven tevens glans aan deze bevreemdende roman die hij kort voor zijn overlijden nog dicteerde; The One Inside | Die Vanbinnen, waar hij autobiografische aspecten in verwerkte, meesterlijk vertaald door Gerrit Brand. Shepard's ex-geliefde en vriendin Patti Smith redigeerde de tekst en voorzag het van een voorwoord. Hierin schrijft ze hoe Shepard het 'veranderen' heeft willen beschrijven, de jongen die hij was en de man die hij is geworden, de man die zijn leven op de rit had en besefte dat hij langzaam de regie aan het verliezen was. Dit voorwoord echter lijkt als los zand aan elkaar te hangen en geen duidelijkheid te scheppen. Wie dit naderhand nog eens leest, zal ontdekken dat het evenwel verduidelijking geeft. Op 73-jarige leeftijd viel Shepard's zwaard van Damocles en stierf hij ten gevolge van de ziekte ALS.
Door de korte en ultrakorte gefragmenteerde hoofdstukken heeft The one onside | Die Vanbinnen een experimentele structuur. Het abrupte verspringen van de tijd, het denderen van verleden naar heden en dan weer terug, vraagt om aandachtig lezen, want op het moment dat je de draad dreigt los te laten lijkt deze onherroepelijk in de war te geraken, waardoor het aanvoelt als drijven op een stuurloos schip. De hallucinante passages zijn als delirische dromen, die de slaap verstoren en waarbij droombeelden en demonen ook bij het ontwaken blijven voortbestaan, dreigend, onheilspellend en obscuur. De herinneringen en dromen zijn niet messcherp ingekaderd en geven het geheel een suggestief karakter. Verbeelding en werkelijkheid lopen ogenschijnlijk in elkaar over. In hoeverre is het hoofdpersonage onder invloed? Wat is droom en wat is werkelijkheid? Surrealistische dromen en drogbeelden van zijn vader, in de hoedanigheid van een geminimaliseerde dode, een mummie verpakt in plastic folie, zijn een terugkerend thema. Dan maakt hij het hoofd van zijn vader vrij van het plastic. In een poging de dode lucht te geven of juist om zijn eigen demonen vrij te maken?
'Waarom en hoe hij was gekrompen in die verschillende dromen en verschijningen is me niet duidelijk. Of het voor of na zijn dood op deze aarde gebeurde, was een andere vraag die ik had. […] Het kan ook zijn dat ik me hem zo droom - piepklein - omdat het een manier is om afstand te nemen […] Maar miniaturisering dwingt je wel tot nadere beschouwing.'
Op de filmset raakt de verteller gebiologeerd door een - op een teenring na - naakte twintiger. De volgende ochtend worden ze met Argusogen bekeken. Wat hebben een man van om en nabij de zeventig en een twintigjarige vrouw met elkaar? Ze chanteert hem niettemin door te opperen hun pikante telefoongesprekken openbaar te maken. Dit levert haar de naam Chantage meisje op en de machtsstrijd tussen hen werkt ontwrichtend. Ook zij zal echter niet lang in zijn leven blijven.
´Ze liep gewoon bij me weg, deze laatste - niet Felicity - […] Niet de ´vrouw´ of ´vrouwen´, als het ware, maar een ander iemand, extreem jong, dat wil zeggen, voor mijn leeftijd. Iets in mij kan het nog steeds niet geloven. Hoe dan ook, op een zonnige ochtend stond ze daar, als een geestverschijning uit de jaren veertig, in de houding met haar rode kunstleren koffer, klaar om weg te hollen. Zonder omwegen.'
Het thema van een ongemakkelijke en verstoorde vader-zoonrelatie gebruikte Shepard vaak in zijn toneelstukken en is ook in deze bundel een rode draad, vervlochten met de losse draden van zijn relaties. De meisjes, maar ook zijn ex-vrouw en vader, verdwijnen op zeker moment, ieder met zijn eigen beweegredenen, plotsklaps uit zijn leven, alsof hij een metafoor heeft gevonden voor het onbarmhartige moment dat ook hij zou verdwijnen.
Het resultaat is een keur aan caleidoscopische beschrijvingen, als de facetten van een geslepen diamant, steeds met een andere lichtinval. Onthutsend en blijmoedig. Door middel van de wisselingen in het vertelperspectief, kijkt de verteller afwisselend van buiten naar binnen en van binnen naar buiten, wat de titel van het boek verklaart. Introspectie is de leidende thematiek; gevoelens, gedachten en herinneringen leiden tot zelfreflectie van de verteller en het ontraadselen van wat hem onbewust of bewust bezighield. Alsof hij in het reine wilde komen met wat hij met zich meedroeg en hem zolang heeft beziggehouden, of een manier om het gecompliceerde gevoel wat er binnen in hem huisde te willen kaderen.
Opvallend is het veelvuldige gebruik van de kleur blauw wat vertrouwen, loyaliteit, wijsheid, zelfverzekerdheid, intelligentie, geloof, waarheid, vrede, rust en de hemel symboliseert en welke terug te voeren is naar de autobiografische elementen.
Laat je leiden door deze ogenschijnlijk incoherente bundeling van memorie, om aan het einde te beseffen dat er wel degelijk sprake is van een samenhang tussen de hoofdstukken van de nalatenschap van deze briljante alleskunner.
Om te lezen en te herlezen. Om nog lang op te kauwen en te herkauwen.
Om je te vertellen wat er staat te gebeuren?
- David Foster Wallace
Selectieve en suggestieve herinneringen
Op een ochtend, na een carrière van zo'n veertig jaar, ontwaakt het naamloze hoofdpersonage. Buiten raast de wind rond zijn huis, hij voelt zich onrustig. In de spiegel kijkt een jongere versie van zichzelf hem aan en in gedachten duikt hij terug in zijn leven en beseft dat hij nu een jaar ouder is dan zijn vader is geworden. Zijn herinneringen aan hoe zijn relatie met zijn vader was, zijn selectief. Wat hem echter duidelijk voor de geest staat was dat zijn vader een seksuele relatie had met de veertienjarige Felicity. Terecht haalt hij Lolita aan van Nabokov.
'Ik ging naar binnen en daar was ze. Mijn vaders vriendin zat kaarsrecht op - bijna naakt - alsof ze achterstevoren op een pony reed. Geen van beiden merkte me op. Ze draaiden zich geen moment naar me om. Ze bleef hem maar berijden en onbesuisd schreeuwen, terwijl ze uitzinnig op en neer bleef gaan. Hij lag op zijn rug op een tafel, starend naar het plafond met zijn armen onder zijn hoofd, alsof hij een middagdutje aan het doek was of naar de radio luisterde.'
Hijzelf is op dat moment dertien, ziet ze bezig en weet niet goed of hij ervan walgt of dat het hem biologeert en hij ontvlucht het huis, maar tegelijkertijd ziet hij dat hij zijn vader nooit zal kunnen ontvluchten. Bij terugkomst ziet hij zijn vader afgevoerd worden door de politie. Wanneer Felicity ook hem verleidt tot het hebben van een - zijn eerste - seksuele ervaring, verwart het hem. Ze blijft hen thuis opzoeken en wacht op zijn vader, maar op zeker moment kiest ze ervoor om letterlijk te verdwijnen.
De Amerikaanse Sam Shepard (1943 - 2017) was een veelzijdige duizendpoot. Al op jonge leeftijd hield hij zich bezig met toneel en werkte succesvol als toneelschrijver, acteur, regisseur en scenarist, waarvoor hij meermaals in de prijzen is gevallen. Zijn teksten bevatten vaak surrealistische, hallucinante en absurdistische kenmerken. Deze zijn ook terug te vinden in zijn prozawerk en geven tevens glans aan deze bevreemdende roman die hij kort voor zijn overlijden nog dicteerde; The One Inside | Die Vanbinnen, waar hij autobiografische aspecten in verwerkte, meesterlijk vertaald door Gerrit Brand. Shepard's ex-geliefde en vriendin Patti Smith redigeerde de tekst en voorzag het van een voorwoord. Hierin schrijft ze hoe Shepard het 'veranderen' heeft willen beschrijven, de jongen die hij was en de man die hij is geworden, de man die zijn leven op de rit had en besefte dat hij langzaam de regie aan het verliezen was. Dit voorwoord echter lijkt als los zand aan elkaar te hangen en geen duidelijkheid te scheppen. Wie dit naderhand nog eens leest, zal ontdekken dat het evenwel verduidelijking geeft. Op 73-jarige leeftijd viel Shepard's zwaard van Damocles en stierf hij ten gevolge van de ziekte ALS.
Door de korte en ultrakorte gefragmenteerde hoofdstukken heeft The one onside | Die Vanbinnen een experimentele structuur. Het abrupte verspringen van de tijd, het denderen van verleden naar heden en dan weer terug, vraagt om aandachtig lezen, want op het moment dat je de draad dreigt los te laten lijkt deze onherroepelijk in de war te geraken, waardoor het aanvoelt als drijven op een stuurloos schip. De hallucinante passages zijn als delirische dromen, die de slaap verstoren en waarbij droombeelden en demonen ook bij het ontwaken blijven voortbestaan, dreigend, onheilspellend en obscuur. De herinneringen en dromen zijn niet messcherp ingekaderd en geven het geheel een suggestief karakter. Verbeelding en werkelijkheid lopen ogenschijnlijk in elkaar over. In hoeverre is het hoofdpersonage onder invloed? Wat is droom en wat is werkelijkheid? Surrealistische dromen en drogbeelden van zijn vader, in de hoedanigheid van een geminimaliseerde dode, een mummie verpakt in plastic folie, zijn een terugkerend thema. Dan maakt hij het hoofd van zijn vader vrij van het plastic. In een poging de dode lucht te geven of juist om zijn eigen demonen vrij te maken?
'Waarom en hoe hij was gekrompen in die verschillende dromen en verschijningen is me niet duidelijk. Of het voor of na zijn dood op deze aarde gebeurde, was een andere vraag die ik had. […] Het kan ook zijn dat ik me hem zo droom - piepklein - omdat het een manier is om afstand te nemen […] Maar miniaturisering dwingt je wel tot nadere beschouwing.'
Op de filmset raakt de verteller gebiologeerd door een - op een teenring na - naakte twintiger. De volgende ochtend worden ze met Argusogen bekeken. Wat hebben een man van om en nabij de zeventig en een twintigjarige vrouw met elkaar? Ze chanteert hem niettemin door te opperen hun pikante telefoongesprekken openbaar te maken. Dit levert haar de naam Chantage meisje op en de machtsstrijd tussen hen werkt ontwrichtend. Ook zij zal echter niet lang in zijn leven blijven.
´Ze liep gewoon bij me weg, deze laatste - niet Felicity - […] Niet de ´vrouw´ of ´vrouwen´, als het ware, maar een ander iemand, extreem jong, dat wil zeggen, voor mijn leeftijd. Iets in mij kan het nog steeds niet geloven. Hoe dan ook, op een zonnige ochtend stond ze daar, als een geestverschijning uit de jaren veertig, in de houding met haar rode kunstleren koffer, klaar om weg te hollen. Zonder omwegen.'
Het thema van een ongemakkelijke en verstoorde vader-zoonrelatie gebruikte Shepard vaak in zijn toneelstukken en is ook in deze bundel een rode draad, vervlochten met de losse draden van zijn relaties. De meisjes, maar ook zijn ex-vrouw en vader, verdwijnen op zeker moment, ieder met zijn eigen beweegredenen, plotsklaps uit zijn leven, alsof hij een metafoor heeft gevonden voor het onbarmhartige moment dat ook hij zou verdwijnen.
Het resultaat is een keur aan caleidoscopische beschrijvingen, als de facetten van een geslepen diamant, steeds met een andere lichtinval. Onthutsend en blijmoedig. Door middel van de wisselingen in het vertelperspectief, kijkt de verteller afwisselend van buiten naar binnen en van binnen naar buiten, wat de titel van het boek verklaart. Introspectie is de leidende thematiek; gevoelens, gedachten en herinneringen leiden tot zelfreflectie van de verteller en het ontraadselen van wat hem onbewust of bewust bezighield. Alsof hij in het reine wilde komen met wat hij met zich meedroeg en hem zolang heeft beziggehouden, of een manier om het gecompliceerde gevoel wat er binnen in hem huisde te willen kaderen.
Opvallend is het veelvuldige gebruik van de kleur blauw wat vertrouwen, loyaliteit, wijsheid, zelfverzekerdheid, intelligentie, geloof, waarheid, vrede, rust en de hemel symboliseert en welke terug te voeren is naar de autobiografische elementen.
Laat je leiden door deze ogenschijnlijk incoherente bundeling van memorie, om aan het einde te beseffen dat er wel degelijk sprake is van een samenhang tussen de hoofdstukken van de nalatenschap van deze briljante alleskunner.
Om te lezen en te herlezen. Om nog lang op te kauwen en te herkauwen.
May 4, 2017
Jumping and dream-ridden and bordering on incomprehensible in terms of a linear narrative, this is a dizzying and heartbroken descent into a sad masculinity, haunted by various phantom women, with a nice taste of magical realism (headless horses flying out of mouths, shrunken fathers carried around by a pack of gangsters, etc.). Characters and time, come and go, things disappear and reappear. The inconclusiveness of anything in the story makes it purely experiential and it's a weird and quick experience. The perspective is embedded in this beatnik-reminiscent masculinity that can be obnoxious and overwrought in its own confusion and blurriness, which simultaneously can also be some of the best parts of this book.
"Was it the anywhere else in the world? Weren't American ideas like 'education' 'trade' 'earning a living' still indelibly implanted in the psyche somewhere? Was being born having to be enlisted in a destiny?"
"Was it the anywhere else in the world? Weren't American ideas like 'education' 'trade' 'earning a living' still indelibly implanted in the psyche somewhere? Was being born having to be enlisted in a destiny?"
July 24, 2017
I found the wandering format of this book hard to follow. I never really got into the characters. But Shepard's descriptions of places were beautiful. I could imagine Shepard writing this book, as someone who so appreciates his plays, I could hear Shepard's voice. But the story kept falling apart for me.
February 20, 2017
The writing is beautiful. The sentence structure unique. The story, meh.
September 8, 2019
„Толкова е студено. Нещо в тялото му отказва да се изправи. Нещо в кръста. Той се взира в стените. Има ли нещо, което може да го накара поне да се надигне до седнало положение? Вслушване? Някакво шумолене? Малко създание, което пълзи по мертеците. Мисълта за огън в кухненското огнище? Шаващи кучета. Кафе – поне това. Периферните устройства като че ли не са свързани с двигателя – какъвто и да е той, - който задвижва това нещо. Те не приемат команди- няма да се подчинят – ръцете, краката, стъпалата, дланите. Нищо не помръдва. Нищо дори не иска да помръдне. Мозъкът не изпраща сигнали. Това е. Сигнали. Няма даже знак за опасност.“
„Помня, че тя каза, че мрази вятъра. Всеки постоянен вятър. Беше запомнила всичките му имена. В различните страни: „мистралите“ във Франция, „стригачите“ на равнините в Албърта, „прашните демони“ от Сонора и „чинуките“. Нещо във вятъра я подлудяваше. Виждаше се как я прихваща. Очите. Устата ѝ се отваряше широко. Дори цветът на косата ѝ се променяше.“
„Една друга сутрин, когато Фелисити дойде с вездесъщата си черна чантичка и седна на същия плетен стол, за да чака баща ми, който винаги беше на работа, аз събрах куража да я попитам защо лицето ѝ винаги изглеждаше така безизразно. Тя ми каза, че не знае какво изражение има, защото не разбирала хората. Попитах я как така и тя каза, че винаги е имала чувството, че живее нечий друг живот и хората са някак извън нея. Отделно.“
„Помня, че тя каза, че мрази вятъра. Всеки постоянен вятър. Беше запомнила всичките му имена. В различните страни: „мистралите“ във Франция, „стригачите“ на равнините в Албърта, „прашните демони“ от Сонора и „чинуките“. Нещо във вятъра я подлудяваше. Виждаше се как я прихваща. Очите. Устата ѝ се отваряше широко. Дори цветът на косата ѝ се променяше.“
„Една друга сутрин, когато Фелисити дойде с вездесъщата си черна чантичка и седна на същия плетен стол, за да чака баща ми, който винаги беше на работа, аз събрах куража да я попитам защо лицето ѝ винаги изглеждаше така безизразно. Тя ми каза, че не знае какво изражение има, защото не разбирала хората. Попитах я как така и тя каза, че винаги е имала чувството, че живее нечий друг живот и хората са някак извън нея. Отделно.“
June 3, 2020
„Онзи в мен“ беше книга, която ме трогна и обърка едновременно и човърка мозъка ми доста време след прочитането ѝ. Книгата, която незнайно защо е наричана „роман“, за мен е по-скоро мемоар. Мемоар на един болен и объркан човек, търсещ отговори, които не е сигурен, че може да намери.
Не бях запозната добре с историята на Сам Шепърд - познавам една част от филмовото му творчество и толкоз. В последствие прочетох колко бурен живот е имал. Събирал се е и се е разделял с много жени, написал е много пиеси, носител е на Пулицър... Умира от амиотрофична латерална склероза през 2017 година.
Книгата е като разпръснат пъзел, чийто части трябва сам да сглобиш (ако успееш изобщо да го направиш). Пейзажите са мрачни, настроенията също. Шепърд се лута из спомени за изминали събития, които често се чудех дали не са просто плод на въображението му, копае в съзнанието си за нещо, което да осмисли сегашното му съществуване.
Още преди средата на книгата някак неусетно спрях да правя връзка между различните части и да губя ориентация из лабиринта от истории. Но пък за сметка на това се насладих до края на прекрасно написаните (и преведени) думи, които се изливаха на всяка страница.
Категоризирам книгата в главата си като „странна книга“, но по хубав начин. Според мен трябва да се прочете заради емоциите и мислите, които ще предизвика, а не толкова заради сюжета.
Не бях запозната добре с историята на Сам Шепърд - познавам една част от филмовото му творчество и толкоз. В последствие прочетох колко бурен живот е имал. Събирал се е и се е разделял с много жени, написал е много пиеси, носител е на Пулицър... Умира от амиотрофична латерална склероза през 2017 година.
Книгата е като разпръснат пъзел, чийто части трябва сам да сглобиш (ако успееш изобщо да го направиш). Пейзажите са мрачни, настроенията също. Шепърд се лута из спомени за изминали събития, които често се чудех дали не са просто плод на въображението му, копае в съзнанието си за нещо, което да осмисли сегашното му съществуване.
Още преди средата на книгата някак неусетно спрях да правя връзка между различните части и да губя ориентация из лабиринта от истории. Но пък за сметка на това се насладих до края на прекрасно написаните (и преведени) думи, които се изливаха на всяка страница.
Категоризирам книгата в главата си като „странна книга“, но по хубав начин. Според мен трябва да се прочете заради емоциите и мислите, които ще предизвика, а не толкова заради сюжета.
August 25, 2017
I once wrote in a review that I think I just don't like short stories/essays -- after all, I haven't really enjoyed any Roxane Gay or Patti Smith, and the entire internet seems to lose their sh*t over those two. So, maybe it's just me. This isn't supposed to be in that category, as they're calling it long fiction, so I thought it might be different, but to me it feels that way. It wasn't until about 3/4 of the way through the book that I realized there is actually a plot that is loosely tying the stories together. It's fragmented, hard to follow, and the ending just had me thinking "meh."
That said, the writing is lovely at times. I can tell that Shepard was a talented writer, and it does make me want to read some of his plays, because plays are a format I can tolerate and perhaps even enjoy.
While this book was not for me, I can see how those who enjoy this disjointed semi-short story format would like this.
That said, the writing is lovely at times. I can tell that Shepard was a talented writer, and it does make me want to read some of his plays, because plays are a format I can tolerate and perhaps even enjoy.
While this book was not for me, I can see how those who enjoy this disjointed semi-short story format would like this.
March 29, 2017
Sam Shepard's The One Inside is a slim, fragmentary memoir in which teasing apart the truth from the creative elaboration is more and more difficult as the two become more entangled, just as teasing apart conversations in which the speaker is not identified is not always easy, or teasing apart the roles of the individual players within the fabric of the narrative. The language is at once simple and beautiful, rarely reaching for a vocabulary more complicated than necessary, all while producing graceful phrases that leave the reader feeling a bit breathless. An interesting, if challenging, read that forces the reader to jump back and forth between the vignettes in order to understand the transitions from Sam's youth to present state, and the women who mark each phase.
July 20, 2017
DNF. I was looking for something different. This qualifies, but I couldn't really engage after reading a third of the book. Reviewers seem confused as to whether to treat this as nonfiction or fiction. Reality suggests it is probably a little of both. Some of the language is quite beautiful and evocative: this is, after all, Sam Shepard's writing. But some of the chapters just seem self-indulgent, like those reporting the narrator's purported interactions/dialogue with Blackmail Girl about his/her genitalia.
May 11, 2017
Sam Shepard has an amazing way for words. His plays give us a different world and The One Inside, his first full novel (hard to believe he hasn't written one before) gives us individual glimpses of the lives of the unnamed narrator and his father over decades. They felt like tiny vignettes of these lives and would make an outstanding play. Beautiful structure and language.
March 25, 2017
Shepard has created a a world of memories, rendered in disparate and dissociated recollections, dreams, hallucinations, conversations, etc. The various storylines dissolve into each other creating a seemingly otherworldly view of the instability of his relationships.
February 23, 2021
Desolaat en mind blowing boek!
September 2, 2019
Quello di dentro parla a Sam Shepard di una vita ormai trascorsa, una vita dal sapore agrodolce della polvere della prateria e di Hollywood, di roulotte perse su un set chissà dove e bar che danno rifugi ai reduci. Attraverso flash, pennellate veloci, parole smozzicate ricostruiamo pagina dopo pagina il paesaggio interiore dell'autore nel quale passato e presente coesistone, nel quale i nessi logici sono più deboli dei nessi affettivi, nel quale le beghe della vita quotidiana si trovano faccia a faccia con i tormenti che si porta dietro sin dall'infanzia.
Ho sempre amato Shepard come attore e come drammaturgo. Questo suo romanzo/zibaldone/in prosa/poetica mi ha convinto meno rispetto alla sua produzione drammatica, pur non mancando di una sua peculiare bellezza. L'immagine muta del padre con le cicatrici da granata... Felicity che salta sul materasso...Il padre rimpicciolito che si cala sul filo da cucito... Tante sono le immagini suggestive, interruttori che fanno luce su un intero capitolo di vita. La voce dell'autore si sovrappone alla voce dell'autore per creare un concertato pacato, sussurrato, appunto, dall'interno. Siamo sicuri che Shepard avrebbe avuto ben altre cose da raccontare. Ma forse quest'opera l'ha scritta più per sé stesso che per i lettori. E proprio quindi, per me è il suo limite. Personalmente poi ho trovato la traduzione un po' buttata lì, in poche ore, come se bastasse conoscere l'inglese per tradurre.
Voto: 7
Ho sempre amato Shepard come attore e come drammaturgo. Questo suo romanzo/zibaldone/in prosa/poetica mi ha convinto meno rispetto alla sua produzione drammatica, pur non mancando di una sua peculiare bellezza. L'immagine muta del padre con le cicatrici da granata... Felicity che salta sul materasso...Il padre rimpicciolito che si cala sul filo da cucito... Tante sono le immagini suggestive, interruttori che fanno luce su un intero capitolo di vita. La voce dell'autore si sovrappone alla voce dell'autore per creare un concertato pacato, sussurrato, appunto, dall'interno. Siamo sicuri che Shepard avrebbe avuto ben altre cose da raccontare. Ma forse quest'opera l'ha scritta più per sé stesso che per i lettori. E proprio quindi, per me è il suo limite. Personalmente poi ho trovato la traduzione un po' buttata lì, in poche ore, come se bastasse conoscere l'inglese per tradurre.
Voto: 7
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