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In padurile Siberiei
Am înţeles la un moment dat că, de unul singur, nu voi putea schimba lumea. Aşa că nu mi-a rămas decât să mă duc undeva departe de lume, să trăiesc singur, într-o cabană. În pădurile Siberiei. Am cumpărat o izbă de lemn, pe tărâmurile nimănui, la marginea lacului Baikal. Acolo, la cinci zile de mers pe jos de prima aşezare umană, înconjurat de natura sălbatică, am încercat timp de şase luni să descopăr fericirea. Şi cred că am reuşit. Doi câini, o vatră, nişte vreascuri de foc şi o fereastră de la care puteam privi lacul – nici n-aveam nevoie de mai mult în viaţă. Nu cumva libertatea înseamnă, în primul rând, să fii stăpân pe timpul tău? Nu cumva fericirea înseamnă, la urma urmei, să ai parte din plin de singurătate, spaţiu şi linişte – lucruri care le lipsesc oamenilor din marile oraşe? Atât timp cât există cabane pierdute în locuri neştiute de nimeni, nu e totul pierdut.
248 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2011
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About the author
Sylvain Tesson
108 books577 followersSylvain Tesson est le fils de Marie-Claude et Philippe Tesson et le frère de la comédienne Stéphanie Tesson et de la journaliste d'art Daphné Tesson.
Géographe de formation, il effectue en 1993 un tour du monde à bicyclette avec Alexandre Poussin avec qui il traverse l'Himalaya à pied en 1997. Il traverse également les steppes d'Asie centrale à cheval avec la photographe et compagne Priscilla Telmon, sur plus de 3 000 km du Kazakhstan à l'Ouzbékistan. En 2004, il reprend l'itinéraire des évadés du goulag en suivant le récit de Sławomir Rawicz : The Long Walk (1955)1. Ce périple l'emmène de la Sibérie jusqu'en Inde à pied.
Sylvain était également un « escaladeur de cathédrales » et au sein d'un cercle d'acrobates on le surnommait « le prince des chats », tandis qu'il escaladait Notre-Dame de Paris, le Mont-Saint-Michel, l'église Sainte Clotilde et d'autres monuments (principalement des églises) à Orléans, Argentan, Reims, Amiens ou encore Anvers.
En 2010, après avoir fait allusion à ce projet de nombreuses fois, Sylvain Tesson passe six mois en ermite dans une cabane au sud de la Sibérie, sur les bords du lac Baïkal, non loin d'Irkoutsk. Selon ses propres dires : « Recette du bonheur : une fenêtre sur le Baïkal, une table devant la fenêtre ».
Il voyage la plupart du temps par ses propres moyens, c'est-à-dire sans le soutien de la technique moderne, en totale autonomie. Ses expéditions sont financées par la réalisation de documentaires, par des cycles de conférences et par la vente de ses récits d'expédition.
Il écrit également des nouvelles. Il signe de nombreuses préfaces et commentaires de films. Il collabore à diverses revues. On peut retrouver ses bloc-notes chaque mois dans le magazine Grands reportages. Depuis 2004, il multiplie les reportages pour Le Figaro Magazine avec le photographe Thomas Goisque et le peintre Bertrand de Miollis. Il signe plusieurs documentaires pour la chaîne France 5.
Il obtient le prix Goncourt de la Nouvelle en 2009, pour Une vie à coucher dehors (éditions Gallimard, 2009) et le prix Médicis essai en 2011 pour Dans les forêts de Sibérie.
Source : Wikipedia
Géographe de formation, il effectue en 1993 un tour du monde à bicyclette avec Alexandre Poussin avec qui il traverse l'Himalaya à pied en 1997. Il traverse également les steppes d'Asie centrale à cheval avec la photographe et compagne Priscilla Telmon, sur plus de 3 000 km du Kazakhstan à l'Ouzbékistan. En 2004, il reprend l'itinéraire des évadés du goulag en suivant le récit de Sławomir Rawicz : The Long Walk (1955)1. Ce périple l'emmène de la Sibérie jusqu'en Inde à pied.
Sylvain était également un « escaladeur de cathédrales » et au sein d'un cercle d'acrobates on le surnommait « le prince des chats », tandis qu'il escaladait Notre-Dame de Paris, le Mont-Saint-Michel, l'église Sainte Clotilde et d'autres monuments (principalement des églises) à Orléans, Argentan, Reims, Amiens ou encore Anvers.
En 2010, après avoir fait allusion à ce projet de nombreuses fois, Sylvain Tesson passe six mois en ermite dans une cabane au sud de la Sibérie, sur les bords du lac Baïkal, non loin d'Irkoutsk. Selon ses propres dires : « Recette du bonheur : une fenêtre sur le Baïkal, une table devant la fenêtre ».
Il voyage la plupart du temps par ses propres moyens, c'est-à-dire sans le soutien de la technique moderne, en totale autonomie. Ses expéditions sont financées par la réalisation de documentaires, par des cycles de conférences et par la vente de ses récits d'expédition.
Il écrit également des nouvelles. Il signe de nombreuses préfaces et commentaires de films. Il collabore à diverses revues. On peut retrouver ses bloc-notes chaque mois dans le magazine Grands reportages. Depuis 2004, il multiplie les reportages pour Le Figaro Magazine avec le photographe Thomas Goisque et le peintre Bertrand de Miollis. Il signe plusieurs documentaires pour la chaîne France 5.
Il obtient le prix Goncourt de la Nouvelle en 2009, pour Une vie à coucher dehors (éditions Gallimard, 2009) et le prix Médicis essai en 2011 pour Dans les forêts de Sibérie.
Source : Wikipedia
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October 17, 2015
This is one of those books which I began by enjoying, but which so steadily disappointed and frustrated me throughout that I set it down again after a week with a sense of relief. It’s not awful, and it certainly is diverting — but then any record of a six month stay in a cabin in remote Siberia could hardly fail to provide at least a few good anecdotes. The problem is that the author’s penchant for aphorisms goes beyond a matter of literary style: you begin by thinking that he can’t possibly believe half of the things he writes here, convinced that at any moment he is about to strike upon something else, something deeper and more insightful in his writing — but that moment of revelation never comes. There’s nothing wrong with what he has to say except that it is all so sadly limited. If I were the editor and this came across my desk after our man had been out on assignment for six months, I’d send him back for six more to have a really good think about himself.
To explain: the author is a fairly well-known French travel writer, and the book (in translation) is his record of the time he spent in a tiny one-room cabin on the shores of Lake Baikal in Siberia. It’s a wild, desolate and dangerous place; the lake is vast and deep, one of the biggest in the world, and entirely frozen for part of the year; his temporary home is miles from the nearest neighbour, let alone a town or village of any kind. He lives off pasta and tomato sauce, fish caught from the lake, the occasional cigar and (frankly unbelievable) quantities of vodka. He becomes friends with some of the local fishermen and rangers tasked with monitoring the local outposts of civilisation, many of whom are as eccentric as you’d expect in a book like this. He adopts a couple of dogs and he saunters around the surrounding landscape, thinking his thoughts. He reads a great many books from the enormous (and extremely fine) reading list he’s brought with him. He chops wood. He feeds the fire. He writes.
Apparently he also uses the time to make a documentary about himself, but you’d never know that from how he presents himself here. I haven’t seen the film, but I only realised this after a brief Google search brought it up; a camera is mentioned once or twice here, but that’s about it. Perhaps this might not strike every reader as a particularly significant omission — and I don’t really feel it affects the book — but it did strike me as further confirmation of the author’s total lack of self-consciousness in his work.
The presence of a camera changes its subject as soon as it is switched on, yet the work that he presumably put into making that documentary doesn’t feature here at all because it isn’t part of the version of himself that he wants to put into the book. Through writing it seems he has attempted to erase and reconstruct his persona into a creature that was somehow born into this world where he is not just another man on holiday, but a new resident, with as much right to be there as the birds and the bears and the fish and the ice and the trees.
There’s other stuff that he half-mentions in a way that’s gently infuriating: in his packing list, he mentions bringing various electrical devices, plus solar panels and batteries to charge them, and though he never details what they are, there are occasional mentions of a computer and listening to music (and of course the camera). Whether or not one can listen to music or a radio during six months in the wilderness seems to me just as important as reading — but apparently this merits no clarification. It’s bizarre.
Yet the author seems entirely at home, here in this world of his own writing. Frequently his little home is compared to a return to a womb-like environment of perfect security and serenity while the worst of the weather rages outside, and it would be tough not to feel a degree of affinity at this point: after all, one needn’t venture into the wilderness to crave peace of mind. But it turns out that the actual condition of hermitage is integral to the point he is making. The author is convinced that the average hermit is happier and more easily sustained than his brothers and sisters in the city; and not only that, but the hermit is also the only truly revolutionary figure in a political world. In deciding to withdraw their labour from society, the hermit detaches themselves entirely from the greater mass of civilisation, and in doing so develops into what is effectively a better class of person.
He must have been referring to a different hermit entirely, because it swiftly becomes clear that the author here remains a product of society and a participant in it, even if he is temporarily allowing himself to pretend otherwise. I have about as much patience with this point of view as I do with the rabid capitalist who insists he owes nothing to the government which built his roads, raised his children, and which will cart him to hospital and put him in the ground when he dies. As it does with all of us, society provided this author with the tools that enable him to survive out on his own: it wrote and printed his supply of books, it fashioned his wooden cabin and his cast-iron stove and his fishing rods and his down jacket and his sleeping bag. And it shaped his mind so finely that he cannot even recognise himself as a product of the world and not of his own imagination.
Nor has he even really ‘left’ society: he is merely on loan. The satellite phone is his umbilical cord back to the real world, and when he receives news by text message that his girlfriend has broken up with him, he weeps — as anyone else would do. The whole shape of his expedition is defined as a temporary affair, one that will not only provide him with physical and spiritual nourishment, but which will also furnish his society with another book, another film to add to our ever-growing stock of recorded encounters with the self. Such is the proof, if any were needed, that he is no more an island than any of us.
To explain: the author is a fairly well-known French travel writer, and the book (in translation) is his record of the time he spent in a tiny one-room cabin on the shores of Lake Baikal in Siberia. It’s a wild, desolate and dangerous place; the lake is vast and deep, one of the biggest in the world, and entirely frozen for part of the year; his temporary home is miles from the nearest neighbour, let alone a town or village of any kind. He lives off pasta and tomato sauce, fish caught from the lake, the occasional cigar and (frankly unbelievable) quantities of vodka. He becomes friends with some of the local fishermen and rangers tasked with monitoring the local outposts of civilisation, many of whom are as eccentric as you’d expect in a book like this. He adopts a couple of dogs and he saunters around the surrounding landscape, thinking his thoughts. He reads a great many books from the enormous (and extremely fine) reading list he’s brought with him. He chops wood. He feeds the fire. He writes.
Apparently he also uses the time to make a documentary about himself, but you’d never know that from how he presents himself here. I haven’t seen the film, but I only realised this after a brief Google search brought it up; a camera is mentioned once or twice here, but that’s about it. Perhaps this might not strike every reader as a particularly significant omission — and I don’t really feel it affects the book — but it did strike me as further confirmation of the author’s total lack of self-consciousness in his work.
The presence of a camera changes its subject as soon as it is switched on, yet the work that he presumably put into making that documentary doesn’t feature here at all because it isn’t part of the version of himself that he wants to put into the book. Through writing it seems he has attempted to erase and reconstruct his persona into a creature that was somehow born into this world where he is not just another man on holiday, but a new resident, with as much right to be there as the birds and the bears and the fish and the ice and the trees.
There’s other stuff that he half-mentions in a way that’s gently infuriating: in his packing list, he mentions bringing various electrical devices, plus solar panels and batteries to charge them, and though he never details what they are, there are occasional mentions of a computer and listening to music (and of course the camera). Whether or not one can listen to music or a radio during six months in the wilderness seems to me just as important as reading — but apparently this merits no clarification. It’s bizarre.
Yet the author seems entirely at home, here in this world of his own writing. Frequently his little home is compared to a return to a womb-like environment of perfect security and serenity while the worst of the weather rages outside, and it would be tough not to feel a degree of affinity at this point: after all, one needn’t venture into the wilderness to crave peace of mind. But it turns out that the actual condition of hermitage is integral to the point he is making. The author is convinced that the average hermit is happier and more easily sustained than his brothers and sisters in the city; and not only that, but the hermit is also the only truly revolutionary figure in a political world. In deciding to withdraw their labour from society, the hermit detaches themselves entirely from the greater mass of civilisation, and in doing so develops into what is effectively a better class of person.
He must have been referring to a different hermit entirely, because it swiftly becomes clear that the author here remains a product of society and a participant in it, even if he is temporarily allowing himself to pretend otherwise. I have about as much patience with this point of view as I do with the rabid capitalist who insists he owes nothing to the government which built his roads, raised his children, and which will cart him to hospital and put him in the ground when he dies. As it does with all of us, society provided this author with the tools that enable him to survive out on his own: it wrote and printed his supply of books, it fashioned his wooden cabin and his cast-iron stove and his fishing rods and his down jacket and his sleeping bag. And it shaped his mind so finely that he cannot even recognise himself as a product of the world and not of his own imagination.
Nor has he even really ‘left’ society: he is merely on loan. The satellite phone is his umbilical cord back to the real world, and when he receives news by text message that his girlfriend has broken up with him, he weeps — as anyone else would do. The whole shape of his expedition is defined as a temporary affair, one that will not only provide him with physical and spiritual nourishment, but which will also furnish his society with another book, another film to add to our ever-growing stock of recorded encounters with the self. Such is the proof, if any were needed, that he is no more an island than any of us.
January 10, 2019
در جنگلهای سیبری یک اثر تجربی و ماحصل روزنوشتهای 6 ماه زندگی یک جهانگرد در جنگلهای تایگای سیبری در کنار دریاچهی بایکال است. ماجرای وقوع چنین تجربهای از این قرار است که گذر نویسنده در سال 2003 بطور اتفاقی به کنار دریاچهی بایکال میافتد و تصمیم میگیرد تا پیش از 40 سالگی مدتی را به تنهایی در جنگل زندگی کند. حالا 7 سال بعد، چنین فرصتی برایش فراهم گشته، تنها در کلبهای دور افتاده در محیطی که میان ساحل، کوهستان و جنگل تقسیم شده است
به سبب شرایط محیطی و جغرافیایی بایکال، جمعیت بسیار اندکی در این نواحی زندگی میکنند و بدیهی است که مخاطب نباید توقع یک سفرنامهی معمول و یا حوادث و وقایع گوناگون را داشته باشد. همانطور که گفتم این کتاب بیشتر یک دفترچه خاطرات است و میتوان به سه بخش تقسیمش کرد (مجازاً و محتوایی): بخش نخست شامل توصیفهای طبعیت سرد و خشن سیبری است، سرشار از آرایههای ادبی و تشبیهات و استعارات ظریف. بخش دوم شامل آمیختهای از شرح معدود ملاقاتهای نویسنده با جنگلبانان و جزئیات تاریخی شوروی است و بخش سوم شامل افکار، احوالات و سخنوریهای نویسنده. بخش نخست، لذتبخشترین قسمت کتاب برای من - که دوستدار طبعیت سرد و قطبی و تنهاییای که الزاما توام با آن است، هستم - بود. بخش دوم من باب آشنایی با شیوهی زیست و سرنوشت مردمانی که در مناطق دورافتاده زندگی میکنند جالب بود، انسانهایی غرق شده در رخوت و آرامشی جنینی در دودِ شعلههای چوب و نوشیدنیهای الکلی و پیهی فک. اما بخش سوم کتاب برای من (تاملات نویسنده) آزاردهنده و حوصلهسربر بود. علتش را کمی بعدتر میگویم و فعلا فقط به نکات مثبت اشاره میکنم
هنگامی که در مورد ماهیگیری از رودخانه و فرآیند آمادهسازی غذای نویسنده میخواندم به این فکر افتادم که چقدر خوب بود ما هم امروز میدانستیم غذایمان از کجا میآید و چه داستانی پشتش دارد. اینگونه شاید هم دلسوزانهتر و مهربانتر مصرف میکردیم و هم سالمتر. میگویم مهربانتر چون سرخپوستهای آمریکای جنوبی و بومیان آسیایی آمد به ذهنم، که هنگام چیدن گیاه یا تعقیب یک حیوان برای شکار، مدتها با او صحبت میکردند
نویسنده در این سفر حدود 60 کتاب از نویسندگان مختلف همراه خود دارد که در گوشه و کنار متن به آنها اشاراتی میکند. به مدد کتابخوانی جناب سیلون تسون، من هم با چند کتاب خواندنی آشنا شدم (رفت در لیست): مثلا روانکاوی آتش، رنه، مجمعالجزایر گولاگ و خاطرات کازانوا
فراغتی تجملاتی و گرانقیمت
از روزی که سقراط چنین جملهای را بر زبان آورده قریب به 2400 سال میگذرد و جمعیت جهان در طی این سالها حدودا 102 میلیون برابر شده است و تازه بخش اعظم این رشد در دویست سال اخیر اتفاق افتاده و طبیعت هرگز فرصت تطبیق خود با این رشد انفجاری حیوان دو پا را پیدا نکرده است. احتمالا اگر سقراط امروز در میان ما میزیست و با تنها یکی از پیامدهای ناگوار افزایش جمعیت (حجم آلایندههای تولیدی، گونههای منقرض شده، جنگلهای تخریبشده، جنگها، بیماریهای جسمی و روانی و میزان جنگ و خشونت و ....) مواجه میگردید هیچگاه چنین سخنی به زبان نمیآورد و چه بسا از دست آدمیان به دشت و جنگل و کوه و بیابان گریزان میشد
با در نظر گرفتن این شرایط، کوچ به نقطهای که هم از نظر آب و هوایی قابل سکونت باشد و هم آدمیزادی حداقل تا شعاع چند ده کیلومتری آن رویت نشود امری محال بهنظر میرسد. مگر امروز که دولتها در اندیشهی ایجاد سکونتگاه دائم در مریخ و ایجاد نیروی نظامی فضایی هستند، دیگر نقطهی قابل سکونتی هم روی زمین میتوان یافت که از دستبرد انسان در امان مانده باشد؟ شاید بتوان با صرف هزینهی هنگفت چنین شرایطی را مهیا کرد (مثلا خرید و ایجاد یک جزیرهی شخصی!)، اما حتی در مقایس بسیار پایینتر هم تنهایی خودخواسته نیاز به صرف هزینه، برنامهریزی و تدارکات بسیار (دارو، پنلهای خورشیدی، لباس، تجهیزات، ابزار و ...) دارد. از هجوم جمعی و جادهایِ مردمِ تحت فشار و اسیر در تعطیلات پایان هفته و روزهای بینالتعطیلین - که در حکم تنفسی ضروری و سر از زیر آب در آوردن است - بگذریم (اینها از میل درونی انسان به بازگشت به زندگی قبیلهای و دانهچینی و بعد شکارگری نشات میگیرد)، میخواهم بگویم خیلی از این گریزهای موقت که عکسهایش را میبینم و داستانش را میخوانیم یا صرفا با انگیزهی کسب تجربهای جدید و رمانتیک در طبقهی بورژوا صورت میپذیرد (به زبان خودمانی، خوشی زده زیر دلشان) یا جنبهی نمایشی، تجملاتی و مد جدید خرده بورژواهاست و اصالت چنین تجربهای برای من یکی که خندهآور و مضحک است، چرا که اینها نه مانند طغیانگران و عاصیان نظم معیوب تمدن هستند که موقع رفتن بر سر همه فریاد میزدند : "خوش بگذرد، ما دیگر نیستیم" و نه آرمانگرایان و تارک دنیاهای قرون نخستین که دنیا و متعلقاتش برایشان پشیزی اهعمیت نداشت
نویسندهی این کتاب هم از نگاه منِ مخاطب یقینا جزء دستهی دوم نیست و بنابراین نمیتواند و در جایگاهی نیست که بخواهد به دیگری درس گوشهنشینی و عشق به طبعیت بدهد. البته که من از دو بخش نخست لذت بردم، اما فلسفهبافیهای نویسنده که صرفا درجایگاه یک سیاح است ولی بهوفور به سخنوری میپردازد تا حد زیادی برایم شعارگونه و خستهکننده بود (بارها در دلم از سخنوری بیجای نویسنده غرولند کردم). مگر میشود از معایب جامعه مصرفی شکایت داشته باشی ولی در عین حال از مواهبش استفاده کنی و با چند چمدان پر از تجهیزات و وسایل (تلفن ماهوارهای، اسلحه، پنل خورشیدی، دارو، انواع تجهیزات و کنسروها و...) به وسط طبیعت بروی؟ مثلا در باب انرژی خاکستری و آب پنهانی که صرف یک استیک خوک میشود موعظه کنی (و این اصلا هم ارتباطی با این موضوع ندارد که خودش از گوشت دودی فک و ماهی بهوفور استفاده میکند) و بعد برای سفر دست به دامان هواپیما و اتوموبیل با سوخت فسیلی شوی؟ بماند که همین میزان توانایی سفر و خوشگذرانی ه�� صدقهسر نظام سرمایهداری است و تجربههای سیاحتی نویسنده هم جزیی از همین کالای لوکس مصرفی
به سبب شرایط محیطی و جغرافیایی بایکال، جمعیت بسیار اندکی در این نواحی زندگی میکنند و بدیهی است که مخاطب نباید توقع یک سفرنامهی معمول و یا حوادث و وقایع گوناگون را داشته باشد. همانطور که گفتم این کتاب بیشتر یک دفترچه خاطرات است و میتوان به سه بخش تقسیمش کرد (مجازاً و محتوایی): بخش نخست شامل توصیفهای طبعیت سرد و خشن سیبری است، سرشار از آرایههای ادبی و تشبیهات و استعارات ظریف. بخش دوم شامل آمیختهای از شرح معدود ملاقاتهای نویسنده با جنگلبانان و جزئیات تاریخی شوروی است و بخش سوم شامل افکار، احوالات و سخنوریهای نویسنده. بخش نخست، لذتبخشترین قسمت کتاب برای من - که دوستدار طبعیت سرد و قطبی و تنهاییای که الزاما توام با آن است، هستم - بود. بخش دوم من باب آشنایی با شیوهی زیست و سرنوشت مردمانی که در مناطق دورافتاده زندگی میکنند جالب بود، انسانهایی غرق شده در رخوت و آرامشی جنینی در دودِ شعلههای چوب و نوشیدنیهای الکلی و پیهی فک. اما بخش سوم کتاب برای من (تاملات نویسنده) آزاردهنده و حوصلهسربر بود. علتش را کمی بعدتر میگویم و فعلا فقط به نکات مثبت اشاره میکنم
هنگامی که در مورد ماهیگیری از رودخانه و فرآیند آمادهسازی غذای نویسنده میخواندم به این فکر افتادم که چقدر خوب بود ما هم امروز میدانستیم غذایمان از کجا میآید و چه داستانی پشتش دارد. اینگونه شاید هم دلسوزانهتر و مهربانتر مصرف میکردیم و هم سالمتر. میگویم مهربانتر چون سرخپوستهای آمریکای جنوبی و بومیان آسیایی آمد به ذهنم، که هنگام چیدن گیاه یا تعقیب یک حیوان برای شکار، مدتها با او صحبت میکردند
نویسنده در این سفر حدود 60 کتاب از نویسندگان مختلف همراه خود دارد که در گوشه و کنار متن به آنها اشاراتی میکند. به مدد کتابخوانی جناب سیلون تسون، من هم با چند کتاب خواندنی آشنا شدم (رفت در لیست): مثلا روانکاوی آتش، رنه، مجمعالجزایر گولاگ و خاطرات کازانوا
فراغتی تجملاتی و گرانقیمت
مرا از{علاقه به طبعیت} معذور بدار، زیرا من مشتاق آموختنم ولی درختان و کشتزارها آماده نیستند چیزی به من بیاموزند، بلکه آرزوی مرا تنها آدمیانی میتوانند برآورند که در شهر بهسر میبرند. دفتر سوم افلاطون - فایدروس
از روزی که سقراط چنین جملهای را بر زبان آورده قریب به 2400 سال میگذرد و جمعیت جهان در طی این سالها حدودا 102 میلیون برابر شده است و تازه بخش اعظم این رشد در دویست سال اخیر اتفاق افتاده و طبیعت هرگز فرصت تطبیق خود با این رشد انفجاری حیوان دو پا را پیدا نکرده است. احتمالا اگر سقراط امروز در میان ما میزیست و با تنها یکی از پیامدهای ناگوار افزایش جمعیت (حجم آلایندههای تولیدی، گونههای منقرض شده، جنگلهای تخریبشده، جنگها، بیماریهای جسمی و روانی و میزان جنگ و خشونت و ....) مواجه میگردید هیچگاه چنین سخنی به زبان نمیآورد و چه بسا از دست آدمیان به دشت و جنگل و کوه و بیابان گریزان میشد
با در نظر گرفتن این شرایط، کوچ به نقطهای که هم از نظر آب و هوایی قابل سکونت باشد و هم آدمیزادی حداقل تا شعاع چند ده کیلومتری آن رویت نشود امری محال بهنظر میرسد. مگر امروز که دولتها در اندیشهی ایجاد سکونتگاه دائم در مریخ و ایجاد نیروی نظامی فضایی هستند، دیگر نقطهی قابل سکونتی هم روی زمین میتوان یافت که از دستبرد انسان در امان مانده باشد؟ شاید بتوان با صرف هزینهی هنگفت چنین شرایطی را مهیا کرد (مثلا خرید و ایجاد یک جزیرهی شخصی!)، اما حتی در مقایس بسیار پایینتر هم تنهایی خودخواسته نیاز به صرف هزینه، برنامهریزی و تدارکات بسیار (دارو، پنلهای خورشیدی، لباس، تجهیزات، ابزار و ...) دارد. از هجوم جمعی و جادهایِ مردمِ تحت فشار و اسیر در تعطیلات پایان هفته و روزهای بینالتعطیلین - که در حکم تنفسی ضروری و سر از زیر آب در آوردن است - بگذریم (اینها از میل درونی انسان به بازگشت به زندگی قبیلهای و دانهچینی و بعد شکارگری نشات میگیرد)، میخواهم بگویم خیلی از این گریزهای موقت که عکسهایش را میبینم و داستانش را میخوانیم یا صرفا با انگیزهی کسب تجربهای جدید و رمانتیک در طبقهی بورژوا صورت میپذیرد (به زبان خودمانی، خوشی زده زیر دلشان) یا جنبهی نمایشی، تجملاتی و مد جدید خرده بورژواهاست و اصالت چنین تجربهای برای من یکی که خندهآور و مضحک است، چرا که اینها نه مانند طغیانگران و عاصیان نظم معیوب تمدن هستند که موقع رفتن بر سر همه فریاد میزدند : "خوش بگذرد، ما دیگر نیستیم" و نه آرمانگرایان و تارک دنیاهای قرون نخستین که دنیا و متعلقاتش برایشان پشیزی اهعمیت نداشت
نویسندهی این کتاب هم از نگاه منِ مخاطب یقینا جزء دستهی دوم نیست و بنابراین نمیتواند و در جایگاهی نیست که بخواهد به دیگری درس گوشهنشینی و عشق به طبعیت بدهد. البته که من از دو بخش نخست لذت بردم، اما فلسفهبافیهای نویسنده که صرفا درجایگاه یک سیاح است ولی بهوفور به سخنوری میپردازد تا حد زیادی برایم شعارگونه و خستهکننده بود (بارها در دلم از سخنوری بیجای نویسنده غرولند کردم). مگر میشود از معایب جامعه مصرفی شکایت داشته باشی ولی در عین حال از مواهبش استفاده کنی و با چند چمدان پر از تجهیزات و وسایل (تلفن ماهوارهای، اسلحه، پنل خورشیدی، دارو، انواع تجهیزات و کنسروها و...) به وسط طبیعت بروی؟ مثلا در باب انرژی خاکستری و آب پنهانی که صرف یک استیک خوک میشود موعظه کنی (و این اصلا هم ارتباطی با این موضوع ندارد که خودش از گوشت دودی فک و ماهی بهوفور استفاده میکند) و بعد برای سفر دست به دامان هواپیما و اتوموبیل با سوخت فسیلی شوی؟ بماند که همین میزان توانایی سفر و خوشگذرانی ه�� صدقهسر نظام سرمایهداری است و تجربههای سیاحتی نویسنده هم جزیی از همین کالای لوکس مصرفی
January 2, 2021
Sylvain Tesson is never going to be one of my favorite authors, so much is clear to me now. I got angry, last year, after reading his Sur les chemins noirs (no English edition yet), because of his misanthropy and cancerous self-pity. This earlier work, "Six months in Siberian forests" is also a diary report, this time of a stay in a log cabin on Lake Bajkal, in Siberia in 2010. This book is more digestible, because Tesson is much more descriptive, and paints the harsh living conditions (especially in the winter) in that region. Occasionally there are charming sketches of the natural beauty of living near and on that massive lake (with the loud sounds of explosion, in the movement of the ice).
But once again I was annoyed by his continual attacks on modern civilization and humanity in general, his denigrating statements about other people (he both uplifts and downsets the habits of Russians), and his pathetic self-pity. His diary is filled with very superficial statements of wisdom, with continuous drinking bouts, and rather boring reports of his hiking trips. Also, from his description it is very clear he didn’t really live a hermit's life: he constantly got visits, or went to visit other people in the neighborhood (to drink and exchange very common opinions on life), and – through a computer and camera’s – he had a regular outside line. So it seems to me that Tesson doesn’t live up to the myth he creates himself. Only occasionally he has moments of clear insight in his escapism: "What am I? A coward that is terrified of the world and therefore has withdrawn into a log cabin in the forest. A funk who sinks in silence not to see the scenes of the time or to avoid bumping into his conscience as he walks along the shore".
When you want to read about solitary life, in a much deeper and authentic way, I’d advice to read Rebecca Solnit or Karl-Ove Knausgard, and - although a bit outdated now - even "Walden" by Thoreau captivates far more.
But once again I was annoyed by his continual attacks on modern civilization and humanity in general, his denigrating statements about other people (he both uplifts and downsets the habits of Russians), and his pathetic self-pity. His diary is filled with very superficial statements of wisdom, with continuous drinking bouts, and rather boring reports of his hiking trips. Also, from his description it is very clear he didn’t really live a hermit's life: he constantly got visits, or went to visit other people in the neighborhood (to drink and exchange very common opinions on life), and – through a computer and camera’s – he had a regular outside line. So it seems to me that Tesson doesn’t live up to the myth he creates himself. Only occasionally he has moments of clear insight in his escapism: "What am I? A coward that is terrified of the world and therefore has withdrawn into a log cabin in the forest. A funk who sinks in silence not to see the scenes of the time or to avoid bumping into his conscience as he walks along the shore".
When you want to read about solitary life, in a much deeper and authentic way, I’d advice to read Rebecca Solnit or Karl-Ove Knausgard, and - although a bit outdated now - even "Walden" by Thoreau captivates far more.
June 23, 2018
The potentially fascinating experience of a French dude living as a hermit in the Siberian wilderness, that turns out to be a superficial and inauthentic story due to his pretentious writing style and general snobbery.
June 17, 2013
Despite enjoying this book quite a bit, I think it's only fair for me to warn coming readers that Tesson can at times come across more than a little insufferable. Vast quantities of alcohol and self-satisfaction are Tesson's closest companions in his tiny cabin, and while the former makes for entertaining stories, the latter only offers us dull quasi-philosophical rambling.
When the intellectual snobbery abates, a few chapters into his stay, the book is delightful. This is Laura Ingalls Wilder in the heart of Russia - a world that is amazingly foreign and very interesting to read about. My advice to anyone who picks up the book: plough through Tesson's sickly self-congratulation and a very satisfying read awaits. Don't give up!
When the intellectual snobbery abates, a few chapters into his stay, the book is delightful. This is Laura Ingalls Wilder in the heart of Russia - a world that is amazingly foreign and very interesting to read about. My advice to anyone who picks up the book: plough through Tesson's sickly self-congratulation and a very satisfying read awaits. Don't give up!
March 15, 2017
On peut dire que j'ai pris mon temps, que j'ai traîné, que j'ai peiné pour achever ce livre. Mais ça n'est pas sa faute. Au contraire, c'est tout à son mérite que, malgré mon apathie littéraire du moment, je lui sois restée fidèle, y retournant quand l'envie revenait (ajoutons que lu dans le cadre du Club Lecture MS, j'avais aussi une motivation. Et qu'emprunté à la bibliothèque du coin, un impératif). Toujours est-il que Dans Les Forêts de Sibérie nous autorise à prendre son temps à la lecture. Ça se déguste, se picore, se relit aussi peut-être.
Mis à part ces considérations techniques, ce livre est un plaisir. J'ai entraperçu des paysages somptueux, mais surtout j'ai rencontré un homme. Un homme que je trouve plein de défauts, des défauts aussi graves que le sont ses qualités. Un homme dont les pensées m'inspirent. Mise en abime.
L'écriture et le rythme de Tesson semblent suivre le rythme des saisons, le chapitre d'avril est pareil au printemps, annonciateur d'une énergie nouvelle. Difficile de dire ce qui m'a tant plu dans cette lecture. Peut-être que (malgré) son propos éminemment intellectuel, nourri (pourri?) par les auteurs lus et les sentences sur le monde moderne, le livre est aussi une expérience sensible, une œuvre aussi sûre d'elle qu'elle est humble.
Points bonus pour : l'amour de Tesson pour les Russes et la Russie (et la vodka) / l'aspect "ultra-quotable" du livre (quelques pages grisées dans mon carnet) sans qu'on tombe dans l'aphorisme permanent / cette fin... je ne sais si j'aime ou je déteste, sûrement les deux, mais je n'irai pas choisir parce que c'est bien ainsi / le duo de chiens, presque un sidekick Disney^^
Mis à part ces considérations techniques, ce livre est un plaisir. J'ai entraperçu des paysages somptueux, mais surtout j'ai rencontré un homme. Un homme que je trouve plein de défauts, des défauts aussi graves que le sont ses qualités. Un homme dont les pensées m'inspirent. Mise en abime.
L'écriture et le rythme de Tesson semblent suivre le rythme des saisons, le chapitre d'avril est pareil au printemps, annonciateur d'une énergie nouvelle. Difficile de dire ce qui m'a tant plu dans cette lecture. Peut-être que (malgré) son propos éminemment intellectuel, nourri (pourri?) par les auteurs lus et les sentences sur le monde moderne, le livre est aussi une expérience sensible, une œuvre aussi sûre d'elle qu'elle est humble.
Points bonus pour : l'amour de Tesson pour les Russes et la Russie (et la vodka) / l'aspect "ultra-quotable" du livre (quelques pages grisées dans mon carnet) sans qu'on tombe dans l'aphorisme permanent / cette fin... je ne sais si j'aime ou je déteste, sûrement les deux, mais je n'irai pas choisir parce que c'est bien ainsi / le duo de chiens, presque un sidekick Disney^^
November 12, 2022
Apreciez cel mai mult la o carte ceea ce imi transmite, iar asta implica si o scriitura buna, caci altfel nu mi-ar ajunge la suflet.
Asa a fost si cu frumoasa "nebunie" a lui Sylvain Tesson, de aceea a primit 5 stelute. Iti trebuie cu adevarat curaj sa te incumeti sa traiesti singur la minus multe grade, printre salbaticiuni, chiar si cu multe provizii si carti bune, fie si pentru doar 6 luni.
Aventura l-a ajutat sa se regaseasca si sa guste fericirea adevarata : avem in carte o mostra din ea.
Multe cugetari frumoase asupra vietii decurg din aceasta experienta si lecturile sale, ca si momente care te fac sa razi, senzatii care mai de care, dar mai cu seama cea de libertate.
"Departe de lumea dezlantuita" el descopera bucuria momentelor simple : a te cuibari in camaruta ta, cu o carte buna si ceaiul aburind, a observa vietuitoarele din jur (o foca cu o privire de om batran m-a amuzat teribil), a strabate zeci de kilometri, a taia lemne, a-ti procura singur hrana, a cunoaste sufletul rus, a-ti bucura privirea cu privelisti de o frumusete pura, descrise intr-un fel simplu si profund in acelasi timp.
"Ma retrag in cutiuta mea tihnita, la marginea padurii, la poalele muntelui, pe malul lacului si ma cuprinde iubirea pentru tot ce ma-nconjoara."
"Cabana mea e un opait atarnat de acoperisul noptii."
In acelasi timp, aceasta sihastrie il face sa realizeze cat de nociva este viata in marile orase si societatea de consum, cat ne indeparteaza de adevarata noastra natura si cat de mult daunam Terrei.
"Am lasat fericirea sa-mi scape din mana. Cat traiesti ar trebui ca prin tot ce faci sa multumesti destinului pentru cel mai mic bine. Fericirea inseamna sa stii ca esti fericit."
Asa a fost si cu frumoasa "nebunie" a lui Sylvain Tesson, de aceea a primit 5 stelute. Iti trebuie cu adevarat curaj sa te incumeti sa traiesti singur la minus multe grade, printre salbaticiuni, chiar si cu multe provizii si carti bune, fie si pentru doar 6 luni.
Aventura l-a ajutat sa se regaseasca si sa guste fericirea adevarata : avem in carte o mostra din ea.
Multe cugetari frumoase asupra vietii decurg din aceasta experienta si lecturile sale, ca si momente care te fac sa razi, senzatii care mai de care, dar mai cu seama cea de libertate.
"Departe de lumea dezlantuita" el descopera bucuria momentelor simple : a te cuibari in camaruta ta, cu o carte buna si ceaiul aburind, a observa vietuitoarele din jur (o foca cu o privire de om batran m-a amuzat teribil), a strabate zeci de kilometri, a taia lemne, a-ti procura singur hrana, a cunoaste sufletul rus, a-ti bucura privirea cu privelisti de o frumusete pura, descrise intr-un fel simplu si profund in acelasi timp.
"Ma retrag in cutiuta mea tihnita, la marginea padurii, la poalele muntelui, pe malul lacului si ma cuprinde iubirea pentru tot ce ma-nconjoara."
"Cabana mea e un opait atarnat de acoperisul noptii."
In acelasi timp, aceasta sihastrie il face sa realizeze cat de nociva este viata in marile orase si societatea de consum, cat ne indeparteaza de adevarata noastra natura si cat de mult daunam Terrei.
"Am lasat fericirea sa-mi scape din mana. Cat traiesti ar trebui ca prin tot ce faci sa multumesti destinului pentru cel mai mic bine. Fericirea inseamna sa stii ca esti fericit."
February 5, 2025
کتاب روزانه نویسی های مردی فرانسویه که تصمیم میگیره برای مدت ۶ ماه به یکی از دورافتاده ترین مناطق روسیه بره جایی که هیچ خبری از تکنولوژی نیست،بدون آب و برق!!!
در زمانه امروز و جوری که همه درگیر اینترنت و تکنولوژی روز هستیم کار ترسناکی حساب میشه ولی نویسنده این کار رو میکنه و خیلی هم از این کار لذت میبره.
شاید اواسط کتاب یه مقدار خسته کننده بشه چون شخصیت های زیادی توی کتاب وجود نداره ولی حس و حال و فضاسازی کتاب خیلی قوی و دلچسبه
امتیاز من ۳/۵ از ۵
در زمانه امروز و جوری که همه درگیر اینترنت و تکنولوژی روز هستیم کار ترسناکی حساب میشه ولی نویسنده این کار رو میکنه و خیلی هم از این کار لذت میبره.
شاید اواسط کتاب یه مقدار خسته کننده بشه چون شخصیت های زیادی توی کتاب وجود نداره ولی حس و حال و فضاسازی کتاب خیلی قوی و دلچسبه
امتیاز من ۳/۵ از ۵
April 17, 2023
La felicità abiterà oltre il sessantesimo parallelo Nord
Libro calmante, come un latte con miele e Cognac alle tre del mattino, quando hai i brividi di freddo, di stanchezza o di incubi.
Ed è buffo perché ho cominciato a leggere il suo diario proprio il giorno in cui lui, Sylvain Tesson, cominciò a scriverlo il 9 febbraio, però del 2010, laggiù o, meglio, lassù in Siberia.
Sebbene io ritenga un privilegio di classe potersi ritirare dal mondo per sei mesi in una capanna in Siberia affacciata al lago di Bajkal (il più grande lago del pianeta, sicuramente il più profondo che raggiunge l'abisso di 1,5 km, ghiacciato per 6 mesi l'anno nel senso che sopra ci può scivolare anche una colonna di Suv come fosse un'autostrada) è un'esperienza che amerei molto fare.
Tesson scrittore, viaggiatore, geografo francese, lui, lo ha fatto veramente, portandosi poche essenziali cose tra cui un bagaglio di libri di cui fornisce dettagliato elenco soprattutto classici e molta filosofia, e tanta, tantissima vodka perché, si sa che in Russia la vodka scorre a fiumi, ma, si sa meno, che diventa anche bevanda da tutto pasto....
Riappropriarsi di se stessi, della libertà di disporre del tempo, completamente liberi di non avere nulla da fare, dove i gesti quotidiani si trasformano in piccole liturgie, acquistando un'importanza epica.
Lode anche all'immobilità perché, diversamente dal viaggio che dà fremito ed eccitazione e sfoga il bisogno di vedere e conoscere appagando i sensi, l'immobilità dà invece pace.
Ma anche nella solitudine c'è spazio per l'inatteso per l'evento che, anche se non avrà il crepitio luminoso di un bengala nella notte di ferragosto, potrà essere la cincia che ogni mattina arriva dietro la finestra a portare il suo saluto, o due ore a spaccare la legna con l'accetta, o sorbire un tè bollente mentre fuori imperversa la bufera di neve, o assistere al disgelo osservando come le venature del lago ghiacciato, meravigliosa architettura naturale, con piccoli schianti nella notte cominciano a liberare la massa d'acqua che si dibatte sotto il coperchio gelato che per sei mesi l'ha imprigionata.
Lode alla solitudine e alla bellezza di ritrovare la magia del genio di un luogo.
Salvo poi forse rendersi conto che, sì, non c'è niente di più bello della solitudine, ma, per essere completamente felici, manca una cosa: avere qualcuno a cui spiegarlo
Libro calmante, come un latte con miele e Cognac alle tre del mattino, quando hai i brividi di freddo, di stanchezza o di incubi.
Ed è buffo perché ho cominciato a leggere il suo diario proprio il giorno in cui lui, Sylvain Tesson, cominciò a scriverlo il 9 febbraio, però del 2010, laggiù o, meglio, lassù in Siberia.
Sebbene io ritenga un privilegio di classe potersi ritirare dal mondo per sei mesi in una capanna in Siberia affacciata al lago di Bajkal (il più grande lago del pianeta, sicuramente il più profondo che raggiunge l'abisso di 1,5 km, ghiacciato per 6 mesi l'anno nel senso che sopra ci può scivolare anche una colonna di Suv come fosse un'autostrada) è un'esperienza che amerei molto fare.
Tesson scrittore, viaggiatore, geografo francese, lui, lo ha fatto veramente, portandosi poche essenziali cose tra cui un bagaglio di libri di cui fornisce dettagliato elenco soprattutto classici e molta filosofia, e tanta, tantissima vodka perché, si sa che in Russia la vodka scorre a fiumi, ma, si sa meno, che diventa anche bevanda da tutto pasto....
Riappropriarsi di se stessi, della libertà di disporre del tempo, completamente liberi di non avere nulla da fare, dove i gesti quotidiani si trasformano in piccole liturgie, acquistando un'importanza epica.
Lode anche all'immobilità perché, diversamente dal viaggio che dà fremito ed eccitazione e sfoga il bisogno di vedere e conoscere appagando i sensi, l'immobilità dà invece pace.
Ma anche nella solitudine c'è spazio per l'inatteso per l'evento che, anche se non avrà il crepitio luminoso di un bengala nella notte di ferragosto, potrà essere la cincia che ogni mattina arriva dietro la finestra a portare il suo saluto, o due ore a spaccare la legna con l'accetta, o sorbire un tè bollente mentre fuori imperversa la bufera di neve, o assistere al disgelo osservando come le venature del lago ghiacciato, meravigliosa architettura naturale, con piccoli schianti nella notte cominciano a liberare la massa d'acqua che si dibatte sotto il coperchio gelato che per sei mesi l'ha imprigionata.
Lode alla solitudine e alla bellezza di ritrovare la magia del genio di un luogo.
Salvo poi forse rendersi conto che, sì, non c'è niente di più bello della solitudine, ma, per essere completamente felici, manca una cosa: avere qualcuno a cui spiegarlo
December 27, 2013
My book of the year? Quite possibly. If you are intrigued by the idea of living in a hut for six months by a lake in the depths of Siberia then this book is surely for you. Tesson is French and writes extremely well, he took 80 or so books with him (listed in the book), three or four crates of vodka and several large boxes of cigars. Sounds civilised to me. This is Tesson's only book in English, we need more!
May 19, 2018
Sylvain Tesson sucht die Ruhe und Abgeschiedenheit
und findet sie in und um einer Hütte am Baikalsee.
Vielleicht ein bisschen zu viel Lobhudelei um die Einsamkeit,
aber derjenige, welcher täglich Großstadtstress erlebt und ertragen muss,
wird den Autor um dieses halbe Jahr am Baikalsee beneiden.
und findet sie in und um einer Hütte am Baikalsee.
Vielleicht ein bisschen zu viel Lobhudelei um die Einsamkeit,
aber derjenige, welcher täglich Großstadtstress erlebt und ertragen muss,
wird den Autor um dieses halbe Jahr am Baikalsee beneiden.
July 1, 2020
Die sechs Monate in der Wildnis am Ufer des Baikalsees mögen für den Autor eine beeindruckende Erfahrung gewesen sein. Leider sind seine Tagebuchaufzeichnungen aus dieser Zeit weit weniger beeindruckend. Nach einem Drittel fing es an, angesichts der immer gleichen Tagesabläufe, langweilig zu werden. Holz hacken, Wandern, Angeln, Kajak fahren (im Winter Schlittschuh laufen), Wodka trinken, Lesen sind so die typischen Tätigkeiten mit denen er sich die Zeit vertreibt. Stets bedeutungsschwanger ausgeschmückt mit zahllosen Zitatschnipseln aus dem mitgebrachten Büchervorrat. Die dauernde Beschwörung des glücklichen Einsiedlerlebens im Einklang mit Mutter Natur, ist mir mit der Zeit gehörig auf die Nerven gegangen. Überhaupt konnte ich mit Tessons pathetischem Stil wenig anfangen. Zumindest etwas praktischen Wert erhält das Buch, durch die ausführliche Auflistung der gesamten Ausrüstung. Falls man selbst mal eine längere Auszeit in der sibirischen Einöde planen sollte.
February 17, 2019
بنظرم کتاب کتاب خوبیه. ولی به شروط مختلف. اگر اهل تنها سفر کردن باشید. اگر طبیعت دوست باشید. اگر انزوا و گوشه نشینی رو به هیاهو و شلوغی روز ترجیح بدید. اگر از آب و هوای خشن و طاقت فرسا لذت ببرید. در غیر اینصورت کتاب بخصوص از وسط به بعد تکراری و خسته کننده بنظر خواهد آمد. داستان، تصمیم راوی برای گذراندن ۶ ماه در کنار دریاچه بایکال در سختترین شرایط آب و هوایی و نوشتن خاطرات روزانه است. به شخصه از تمام قسمتهای مربوط به جنگل و تنهایی و .. لذت بردم. بالعکس بعضی قسمتها هم رو اعصاب بود. مثل بینش و قضاوت راوی نسبت به روسیه و مردمانش. یا نظریه پردازیهای بیمعنا و سطحی در مورد لزوم زندگی در انزوا. گاهی نویسنده به شدت کار خودش رو تحسین میکرد. در حالی که این تنهایی ۶ ماهه رو مدیون زندگی شهری و پر امکانات بود. (با توجه به لوازمی که در ابتدا با خود برده و یا بعد ۶ ماه بعد با خیال آسوده دوباره به آغوش زندگی قبلی باز میگردد).
April 10, 2016
L'auteur m'a très rapidement agacée avec ses grands airs. Je lui trouve un air de famille avec Elizabeth Gilbert : tous deux à la recherche d'une forme de transcendance, mais selon moi trop imbus d'eux mêmes pour la trouver avec humilité. Les descriptions de l'auteur de sa propre humilité et de son choix si particulier, si osé (selon ses dires) m'ont fait grincer des dents. Pour être humble, il faut avant tout oublier son nombril. Et arrêter de compter les verres de vodka avalés.
Par contre, je salue le style, tantôt presque télégraphique, tantôt enlevé, qui m'a révélé de belles images et de beaux paysages. Il m'a donné envie de rechercher des photos de la région.
Deux étoiles donc pour l'antipathie profonde du personnage, quelque peu rattrapée par son sens de l'observation et des mots.
Par contre, je salue le style, tantôt presque télégraphique, tantôt enlevé, qui m'a révélé de belles images et de beaux paysages. Il m'a donné envie de rechercher des photos de la région.
Deux étoiles donc pour l'antipathie profonde du personnage, quelque peu rattrapée par son sens de l'observation et des mots.
January 5, 2020
Ideální kniha někam na zimní dovolenou daleko od lidí. Úplně jsem dostala chuť jet alespoň do Skandinávie na nějakou chatičku :)
Vadilo mi pouze používání jména cedr pro borovici limbu (na Sibiři žádné cedry nejsou) a trochu se mi občas zajídal autorův až odpor k civilisaci, přičemž sám tam měl solární panely, počítač (který mu teda brzo zdechl), telefon a v poděkování produkční společnost a značku sportovního vybavení.
Vadilo mi pouze používání jména cedr pro borovici limbu (na Sibiři žádné cedry nejsou) a trochu se mi občas zajídal autorův až odpor k civilisaci, přičemž sám tam měl solární panely, počítač (který mu teda brzo zdechl), telefon a v poděkování produkční společnost a značku sportovního vybavení.
November 19, 2016
I'm going to be honest - I did not finish this book, so I am only reviewing the portion that I read (slightly less than half of the book).
Sylvian Tesson is completely insufferable, at least in this memoir. Have you ever met someone who is so full of him-or-herself that it is physically painful to be around that person, someone who talks about how great he/she is and, not so subtly, paints everyone who isn't at his/her level as inferior? Yes? Then don't bother reading this book, because Tesson is one of the worst cases of this I have ever read.
Most of the book that I read (like I said, I didn't read all of it - there was no way in hell I could force myself to do so) was pretty much Tesson patting himself on the back for being so worldly and well-read. He comes across as being incredibly proud that he drinks a great quantity of vodka (so the fuck what?) and no other liquor apparently is good enough to touch his lips. And his reading list - good god! He is spending six months in Siberia - I expect a book with self-inflection and treatises on nature and government and politics and communities in the wild (whether plant or animal). I suppose I was expecting another Thoreau (and Tesson actually throws a dig at Thoreau in the beginning of the book - you, sir, are NO Thoreau and you are in NO WAY close to his caliber).
Instead, I got Tesson talking about what he reads "for pleasure" and then the footnotes explain the general gist of said books, because obviously we lowly peons reading this masterpiece are too stupid to have read the books ourselves.
There is extremely little self-inflection to be found in these pages - instead, Tesson has a superior, self-congratulating air throughout. I wonder if he is even capable of self-inflection. Maybe he got over himself in the second half of the book and actually started talking about other things, but I seriously have doubts - and, honestly, I don't care. The first half of the book was so incredibly off-putting that I wouldn't finish this book if it was the last book available after a book apocalypse.
I suppose I could give Tesson a bit of the benefit of the doubt, as I read the English translation. Perhaps something got lost in translation or a tone was inserted into the memoir that wasn't there in the original? I also doubt those things.
The book is titled The Consolations of the Forest: Alone in a Cabin on the Siberian Taiga. It would be better titled something along the lines of I Am Superior to You: Let Me Tell You How Repeatedly as I Sip Vodka in a Cabin in Siberia as I Ignore the Nature Around Me.
Sylvian Tesson is completely insufferable, at least in this memoir. Have you ever met someone who is so full of him-or-herself that it is physically painful to be around that person, someone who talks about how great he/she is and, not so subtly, paints everyone who isn't at his/her level as inferior? Yes? Then don't bother reading this book, because Tesson is one of the worst cases of this I have ever read.
Most of the book that I read (like I said, I didn't read all of it - there was no way in hell I could force myself to do so) was pretty much Tesson patting himself on the back for being so worldly and well-read. He comes across as being incredibly proud that he drinks a great quantity of vodka (so the fuck what?) and no other liquor apparently is good enough to touch his lips. And his reading list - good god! He is spending six months in Siberia - I expect a book with self-inflection and treatises on nature and government and politics and communities in the wild (whether plant or animal). I suppose I was expecting another Thoreau (and Tesson actually throws a dig at Thoreau in the beginning of the book - you, sir, are NO Thoreau and you are in NO WAY close to his caliber).
Instead, I got Tesson talking about what he reads "for pleasure" and then the footnotes explain the general gist of said books, because obviously we lowly peons reading this masterpiece are too stupid to have read the books ourselves.
There is extremely little self-inflection to be found in these pages - instead, Tesson has a superior, self-congratulating air throughout. I wonder if he is even capable of self-inflection. Maybe he got over himself in the second half of the book and actually started talking about other things, but I seriously have doubts - and, honestly, I don't care. The first half of the book was so incredibly off-putting that I wouldn't finish this book if it was the last book available after a book apocalypse.
I suppose I could give Tesson a bit of the benefit of the doubt, as I read the English translation. Perhaps something got lost in translation or a tone was inserted into the memoir that wasn't there in the original? I also doubt those things.
The book is titled The Consolations of the Forest: Alone in a Cabin on the Siberian Taiga. It would be better titled something along the lines of I Am Superior to You: Let Me Tell You How Repeatedly as I Sip Vodka in a Cabin in Siberia as I Ignore the Nature Around Me.
December 4, 2019
Deze stond al een tijdje op me te wachten, en wanneer een vriend van me onlangs een soortgelijk verblijf van drie maanden in het gure Lapland aanvatte leek het een ideaal moment dit reisverslag ter hand te nemen.
Tesson besloot om zijn leven in het drukke Parijs zes maanden te verruilen voor een hutje aan het immense Baikalmeer - met zijn 31.500 vierkante kilometer het grootste zoetwaterreservoir ter wereld. Hij wil het kluizenaarschap uittesten: kan hij uit de vluchtigheid van het stedelijke bestaan stappen om zich te wentelen in eenzaamheid, natuurschoon en literatuur? Kan hij - en dat is volgens hem de meest essentiële vraag - zichzelf verdragen? Met die vraagstukken in het achterhoofd schrijft Tesson prachtige bespiegelingen over de glanzende breuklijnen in het ijs, het dartelen van mezen op de besneeuwde vensterbank, de schoonheid van de verstilling, de bruutheid van het Russische bestaan en de noden van de menselijke ziel. Inspirerende aanrader.
Tesson besloot om zijn leven in het drukke Parijs zes maanden te verruilen voor een hutje aan het immense Baikalmeer - met zijn 31.500 vierkante kilometer het grootste zoetwaterreservoir ter wereld. Hij wil het kluizenaarschap uittesten: kan hij uit de vluchtigheid van het stedelijke bestaan stappen om zich te wentelen in eenzaamheid, natuurschoon en literatuur? Kan hij - en dat is volgens hem de meest essentiële vraag - zichzelf verdragen? Met die vraagstukken in het achterhoofd schrijft Tesson prachtige bespiegelingen over de glanzende breuklijnen in het ijs, het dartelen van mezen op de besneeuwde vensterbank, de schoonheid van de verstilling, de bruutheid van het Russische bestaan en de noden van de menselijke ziel. Inspirerende aanrader.
September 23, 2013
Lettura incantevole, con la quale sono stato in consonanza e armonia dalla prima all'ultima parola. Il diario di un isolamento voluto. Un viaggio all'interno del Sé. Una presa di distanza, non solo fisica, dalla realtà che tutto travolge. Con l'intento di ascoltare, prima ancora che capire. Per recuperare il presente, spogliandosi delle proiezioni ossessive, cui siamo forzati dalla vita: il continuo, e ansioso, programmare un tempo che deve ancora venire; il malinconico vagheggiare il tempo che non è più. La riscoperta del legame ancestrale e vivifico con la natura. La constatazione della coincidenza (o estrema contiguità) tra la più cupa disperazione e la più luminosa felicità, e del loro filosofico annullarsi. Il senso di una reale serenità di fronte all'incomprensibile...
Per amare questo libro bisogna avere un'inclinazione alla solitudine; tanti onesti dubbi esistenziali; idee chiare che non siamo riusciti ad applicare (anche per colpa nostra, sia chiaro; non solo per colpa "della società"); un desiderio forte di recupero della Natura; fatalismo; determinismo; cultura; filosofia. Per banalizzarlo, bastano e avanzano gli argomenti logorroici di questa nostra società, che definisce scientificamente la propria inettitudine per sentirsi autorizzata a non vedere, a non vedersi. Per odiarlo basta una qualsiasi paura inespressa.
Per amare questo libro bisogna avere un'inclinazione alla solitudine; tanti onesti dubbi esistenziali; idee chiare che non siamo riusciti ad applicare (anche per colpa nostra, sia chiaro; non solo per colpa "della società"); un desiderio forte di recupero della Natura; fatalismo; determinismo; cultura; filosofia. Per banalizzarlo, bastano e avanzano gli argomenti logorroici di questa nostra società, che definisce scientificamente la propria inettitudine per sentirsi autorizzata a non vedere, a non vedersi. Per odiarlo basta una qualsiasi paura inespressa.
June 6, 2016
J'ai cru que je ne viendrai jamais à bout de ce livre...
J'ai trouvé le début très laborieux. Je n'aimais pas le côté prétentieux de l'auteur, il ne se passait rien, le style d'écriture ne me touchait pas...
Je l'ai finalement trouvé moins prétentieux en avançant dans le livre, est-ce l'habitude ou est-ce vraiment le cas, je n'en sais rien. La deuxième partie du roman est tout de même moins laborieuse à lire, mais je n'y ai toujours pas trouvé grand intérêt.
J'ai tout de même retenu des réflexions et citations intéressantes, mais noyées dans un tas de mots compliqués et des litres de vodka, elle perdent un peu de leur intérêt.
Bref, 2 mois pour lire ce livre, contente d'en être venue à bout !
J'ai trouvé le début très laborieux. Je n'aimais pas le côté prétentieux de l'auteur, il ne se passait rien, le style d'écriture ne me touchait pas...
Je l'ai finalement trouvé moins prétentieux en avançant dans le livre, est-ce l'habitude ou est-ce vraiment le cas, je n'en sais rien. La deuxième partie du roman est tout de même moins laborieuse à lire, mais je n'y ai toujours pas trouvé grand intérêt.
J'ai tout de même retenu des réflexions et citations intéressantes, mais noyées dans un tas de mots compliqués et des litres de vodka, elle perdent un peu de leur intérêt.
Bref, 2 mois pour lire ce livre, contente d'en être venue à bout !
October 27, 2014
Sylvain Tesson se lit écrire comme certains s'écouteraient parler.
J'ai les mêmes réflexions pseudo-philosophiques quand je m'ennuie, sauf que j'ai le bon goût de ne pas en faire un bouquin à 28€ pièce.
J'ai les mêmes réflexions pseudo-philosophiques quand je m'ennuie, sauf que j'ai le bon goût de ne pas en faire un bouquin à 28€ pièce.
March 10, 2018
Cette lecture a été pour moi l’une des plus belles de l’année (loin d’être révolue, donc la barre est haute désormais). Je n’attendais pourtant rien en particulier de ce livre et même si j’avais entendu parler de Sylvain Tesson, je n’avais jamais vraiment été tentée de lire ses écrits. Quelle bêtise ! J’ai maintenant envie de découvrir le reste de son œuvre, mais il me faudra une pile d’autres carnets pour consigner toutes les citations inspirantes que j’ai déjà glanées dans Dans Les Forêts de Sibérie.
Ce livre est d’une richesse incroyable : un brin d’aventure (le côté exploration en tant que tel n’est pas extrêmement présent puisqu’il s’agit de dépeindre une expérience érémitique), une bonne dose d’humour, un flot d’introspection grâce aux livres qu’il a emportés et cite constamment, et un torrent de réflexions sous forme d’aphorismes merveilleux – et souvent hilarants, là encore – sur les égarements de notre société à travers un détachement salvateur. (L’auteur avoue, non sans un soupçon d’ironie, qu’il manque de volonté et que vivre tel un ermite l’a aidé dans sa prise de distance, mais il est tout à fait possible de faire de même dans un appartement parisien sans avoir besoin de s’exiler dans une cabane en rondins au fin fond de la taïga !)
On pourrait peut-être s’étonner du paradoxe entre la forme du journal intime, tenu au jour le jour, et l’intemporalité des propos. Certains y trouveront un caractère répétitif, mais j’y vois la beauté d’une réflexion qui prend justement tout son sens dans cette immédiateté de l’universel, dans l’imminence d’un destin dont il faut prendre conscience.
L’auteur narrateur semble parfois se moquer de la nature même de son projet et de sa propre personne, lorsqu’il s’exclame, revenant aux choses simples et révélant une vision du monde presque animiste, "il y a plus de vérité dans les coups de ma hache et le ricanement des geais que dans les péroraisons psychologiques", mais aussi lorsqu’il pointe du doigt, se comparant à Robinson Crusoé, le risque de développer "un léger syndrome mégalomaniaque" et "le syndrome de la tour d’ivoire."
Le seul aspect qui me perturbe (qui n’est pas inhérent au texte, mais au personnage) est que Sylvain Tesson nous répète éprouver ce besoin de se poser, après une vie de baroudeur passée à voyager, à courir après le temps. Pourtant, son livre suivant est un récit de voyage, comme si son expérience érémitique n’avait été qu’une parenthèse et non une profonde remise en question de son quotidien. De plus, sa volonté de tester les limites en permanence, et parfois de manière complètement irréfléchie, a eu raison de lui, ne serait-ce que pour un temps, puisque cela lui a valu un grave accident. Or, à mon humble avis, le récit qu’il nous livre va à l’encontre d’une telle attitude ; l’ascèse aussi bien que l’hédonisme (cf. la vodka) mis en œuvre dans son épreuve solitaire étant des philosophies qui tendent plutôt à la connaissance des limites et à leur évitement au moyen d’un apprentissage ordonné.
Néanmoins, ces considérations plutôt périphériques ne remettent pas en question le plaisir que j’ai éprouvé à lire ce superbe livre.
Bon, trêve de bavardages ; après tant de pâtes au Tabasco et autres blinis carbonisés, je vais me rabattre sur un livre prônant le régime sans gluten ! ^^
Ce livre est d’une richesse incroyable : un brin d’aventure (le côté exploration en tant que tel n’est pas extrêmement présent puisqu’il s’agit de dépeindre une expérience érémitique), une bonne dose d’humour, un flot d’introspection grâce aux livres qu’il a emportés et cite constamment, et un torrent de réflexions sous forme d’aphorismes merveilleux – et souvent hilarants, là encore – sur les égarements de notre société à travers un détachement salvateur. (L’auteur avoue, non sans un soupçon d’ironie, qu’il manque de volonté et que vivre tel un ermite l’a aidé dans sa prise de distance, mais il est tout à fait possible de faire de même dans un appartement parisien sans avoir besoin de s’exiler dans une cabane en rondins au fin fond de la taïga !)
On pourrait peut-être s’étonner du paradoxe entre la forme du journal intime, tenu au jour le jour, et l’intemporalité des propos. Certains y trouveront un caractère répétitif, mais j’y vois la beauté d’une réflexion qui prend justement tout son sens dans cette immédiateté de l’universel, dans l’imminence d’un destin dont il faut prendre conscience.
L’auteur narrateur semble parfois se moquer de la nature même de son projet et de sa propre personne, lorsqu’il s’exclame, revenant aux choses simples et révélant une vision du monde presque animiste, "il y a plus de vérité dans les coups de ma hache et le ricanement des geais que dans les péroraisons psychologiques", mais aussi lorsqu’il pointe du doigt, se comparant à Robinson Crusoé, le risque de développer "un léger syndrome mégalomaniaque" et "le syndrome de la tour d’ivoire."
Le seul aspect qui me perturbe (qui n’est pas inhérent au texte, mais au personnage) est que Sylvain Tesson nous répète éprouver ce besoin de se poser, après une vie de baroudeur passée à voyager, à courir après le temps. Pourtant, son livre suivant est un récit de voyage, comme si son expérience érémitique n’avait été qu’une parenthèse et non une profonde remise en question de son quotidien. De plus, sa volonté de tester les limites en permanence, et parfois de manière complètement irréfléchie, a eu raison de lui, ne serait-ce que pour un temps, puisque cela lui a valu un grave accident. Or, à mon humble avis, le récit qu’il nous livre va à l’encontre d’une telle attitude ; l’ascèse aussi bien que l’hédonisme (cf. la vodka) mis en œuvre dans son épreuve solitaire étant des philosophies qui tendent plutôt à la connaissance des limites et à leur évitement au moyen d’un apprentissage ordonné.
Néanmoins, ces considérations plutôt périphériques ne remettent pas en question le plaisir que j’ai éprouvé à lire ce superbe livre.
Bon, trêve de bavardages ; après tant de pâtes au Tabasco et autres blinis carbonisés, je vais me rabattre sur un livre prônant le régime sans gluten ! ^^
November 16, 2020
Trigger warning : lots of swearing . This book makes me so mad - because it wasted too much of my time (a couple hours or less but way too much considering it is what it is). I haven't got into the habit of leaving books unrated, but if I had to choose one right now - this would be it.
Oh, boy. This book is a fucking joke. Who let this so-called 'writer' dripping sick with self-pity publish this? Who even let this so-called 'writer' who can't stop rubbing his bulging, pus-filled ego publish this? Can't believe I let my silly optimism drag me halfway through the book. It's 100% going into the bin (inserts satisfying sound of book hitting the bottom of an empty bin).
I've literally scribbled too many angry notes on the pages of the book, until I was like - that's it - it's a fucking waste of time. A few being like :
'Hemingway-fanboy romanticises war'
'egoistical fuck'
'privileged fuck'
'life back in Paris so comfortable he wanted to feel 'pain' - and he does that by spending a shit ton of money curating and living a temporary self-indulgent life in a cabin for 6-months. doesn't sound too different to celebrities escaping to their private islands during the global pandemic'
'self-indulgent; so intolerable; who is this privileged fuck? so predictable now that I get a gist of the kind of person he is. boring paragraph. why this?'
'pseudo-intellectual dick - brings all of Hemingway's books into his cabin in the wild (might as well call it a holiday home at this point), getting drunk on vodka and smoking cigars. fucking intolerable.'
'why does he talk about women like this? I worry for the women in his life. 'women announcer'? 'the Australian'? 'she left him' so he's entitled to be a fucking arsehole?'
I don't think I've ever left so many of my 'unpolished'/direct notes on a review. But none of the quotes in the book itself are worth quoting/remembering. I need a cup of strong and scalding tea to wash away the disgusting aftertaste that I'm left with after reading this book. Also, I realised that this is the harshest (but nonetheless true) review I've posted on GR.
Oh, boy. This book is a fucking joke. Who let this so-called 'writer' dripping sick with self-pity publish this? Who even let this so-called 'writer' who can't stop rubbing his bulging, pus-filled ego publish this? Can't believe I let my silly optimism drag me halfway through the book. It's 100% going into the bin (inserts satisfying sound of book hitting the bottom of an empty bin).
I've literally scribbled too many angry notes on the pages of the book, until I was like - that's it - it's a fucking waste of time. A few being like :
'Hemingway-fanboy romanticises war'
'egoistical fuck'
'privileged fuck'
'life back in Paris so comfortable he wanted to feel 'pain' - and he does that by spending a shit ton of money curating and living a temporary self-indulgent life in a cabin for 6-months. doesn't sound too different to celebrities escaping to their private islands during the global pandemic'
'self-indulgent; so intolerable; who is this privileged fuck? so predictable now that I get a gist of the kind of person he is. boring paragraph. why this?'
'pseudo-intellectual dick - brings all of Hemingway's books into his cabin in the wild (might as well call it a holiday home at this point), getting drunk on vodka and smoking cigars. fucking intolerable.'
'why does he talk about women like this? I worry for the women in his life. 'women announcer'? 'the Australian'? 'she left him' so he's entitled to be a fucking arsehole?'
I don't think I've ever left so many of my 'unpolished'/direct notes on a review. But none of the quotes in the book itself are worth quoting/remembering. I need a cup of strong and scalding tea to wash away the disgusting aftertaste that I'm left with after reading this book. Also, I realised that this is the harshest (but nonetheless true) review I've posted on GR.
February 22, 2022
Ik heb 168 blzn. van de 252 gelezen in dit boek. Op "iedereenleest" was bijna iedereen er wild enthousiast over. Maar ik zat mij bij het lezen nogal te ergeren aan die man. Wie gaat er nu als kluizenaar in de vrije natuur leven, op een plaats waar het 30° onder nul vriest ? Hij zit te kankeren op de maatschappij, maar hij heeft wel de nodige dikke kleren bij zich, door mensen vervaardigd. Hij heeft een pak boeken meegenomen naar zijn gezellige blokhut, omdat het leven in de vrije natuur zeer saai is. Hij wou even weg van de mensen (en van de verplichting om gesprekken te voeren), maar om de haverklap vallen er mensen ongevraagd binnen bij hem. Vele lezers vinden dat het zo mooi is geschreven. Ik vind het veel te korte zinnen. In de trant van : "Om half zeven 's morgens gunt Boerjatië ons de zon. Met gist smaken blini's heel anders. De honden hebben de kwikstaarten de oorlog verklaard. Door de dunne sneeuwlaag lijkt het meer op de zoutvlakte van Uyuni." (Deze zinnen staan echt zo achter elkaar, op blz 155).
Kortom, ik dacht dat het een rustgevend boek zou zijn, maar ik werd er gewoon nerveus van.
Ik had er veel meer van verwacht.
Kortom, ik dacht dat het een rustgevend boek zou zijn, maar ik werd er gewoon nerveus van.
Ik had er veel meer van verwacht.
January 6, 2020
This is a fascinating memoir of 6 months spent living basically alone in a cabin by Lake Baikal. The author is kind of a dick - pretentious, hyper-dudely, quasi-philosophical - but the landscapes and lifestyle he describes are spectacular. There are insights on the passage of time, the power of familiarity with place and the idea of self-sufficiency hidden among all the vodka and Nietzsche.
October 9, 2021
Nel gelo più duro, stare in quella capanna ti scalda.
RAGIONI PER LE QUALI MI SONO ISOLATO IN UNA CAPANNA
Parlavo troppo
Desideravo il silenzio
Troppa corrispondenza arretrata e troppa gente da incontrare
Ero geloso di Robinson
Fa più caldo qui che nella mia casa di Parigi
Perché sono stufo di fare acquisti
Per essere libero di urlare e vivere nudo
Perché detesto il telefono e il rumore dei motori.
LISTA DI LETTURE IDEALI COMPILATA A PARIGI CON MOLTA ATTENZIONE IN PREVISIONE DI UN SOGGIORNO DI SEI MESI NELLA FORESTA SIBERIANA
Quai des enfers, Ingrid Astier
L’amante di Lady Chatterley, D. H. Lawrence
Trattato sulla disperazione, Søren Kierkegaard
Des pas dans la neige, Érik L’Homme
Un théâtre qui marche, Philippe Fenwick
Des nouvelles d’Agafia, Vassilij Peskov
Indian Creek. Un inverno da solo sulle montagne rocciose, Pete Fromm
Les Hommes ivres de Dieu, Jacques Lacarrière
Venerdì, o il limbo del Pacifico, Michel Tournier
Un taxi color malva, Michel Déon
La filosofia nel boudoir, De Sade
Gilles, Drieu la Rochelle
Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe
A sangue freddo, Truman Capote
Un an de cabane, Olaf Candau
Nozze, Albert Camus
La caduta, Albert Camus
Da solo su un’isola deserta, Tom Neale
Le fantasticherie del passeggiatore solitario, Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Storia della mia vita, Giacomo Casanova
Le Chant du monde, Jean Giono
Il sole offuscato, Paul Morand
Carnets, Henry de Montherlant
Soixante-dix s’efface, tome 1, Ernst Jünger
Trattato del ribelle, Ernst Jünger
Il nodo di Gordio, Ernst Jünger
Avvicinamenti. Droghe ed ebbrezza, Ernst Jünger
Ludi africani, Ernst Jünger
I fiori del male, Charles Baudelaire
Il postino suona sempre due volte, James M. Cain
Il poeta, Michael Connelly
Luna di sangue, James Ellroy
Eva, James Hadley Chase
Gli stoici (Biblioteca della Pléiade)
Piombo e sangue, Dashiell Hammett
De rerum natura, Lucrezio
Il mito dell’eterno ritorno, Mircea Eliade
Il mondo come volontà e rappresentazione, Arthur Schopenhauer
Tifone, Joseph Conrad
Odes, Victor Segalen
Vita di Rancé, François-René de Chateaubriand
Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu
Elegia di Marienbad, Johann Wolfgang Goethe
Tutti i racconti, Ernest Hemingway
Ecce Homo, Friedrich Nietzsche
Così parlò Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
Il crepuscolo degli idoli, Friedrich Nietzsche
Vingt-cinq ans de solitude, John Haines
L’ultima frontiera, Grey Owl
Traité de la cabane solitaire, Antoine Marcel
Dal mondo intero, Blaise Cendrars
Foglie d’erba, Walt Whitman
Almanacco di un mondo semplice, Aldo Leopold
L’Opera al nero, Marguerite Yourcenar
Le Mille e una notte
Sogno di una notte di mezza estate, William Shakespeare
Le allegre comari di Windsor, William Shakespeare
La dodicesima notte, William Shakespeare
I cavalieri della tavola rotonda, Chrétien de Troyes
American Black Box, Maurice G. Dantec
American Psycho, B. E. Ellis
Walden. Vita nel bosco, Henry David Thoreau
L’insostenibile leggerezza dell’essere, Milan Kundera
Il padiglione d’oro, Yukio Mishima
La promessa dell’alba, Romain Gary
La mia Africa, Karen Blixen
I tre avventurieri, José Giovanni"
RAGIONI PER LE QUALI MI SONO ISOLATO IN UNA CAPANNA
Parlavo troppo
Desideravo il silenzio
Troppa corrispondenza arretrata e troppa gente da incontrare
Ero geloso di Robinson
Fa più caldo qui che nella mia casa di Parigi
Perché sono stufo di fare acquisti
Per essere libero di urlare e vivere nudo
Perché detesto il telefono e il rumore dei motori.
LISTA DI LETTURE IDEALI COMPILATA A PARIGI CON MOLTA ATTENZIONE IN PREVISIONE DI UN SOGGIORNO DI SEI MESI NELLA FORESTA SIBERIANA
Quai des enfers, Ingrid Astier
L’amante di Lady Chatterley, D. H. Lawrence
Trattato sulla disperazione, Søren Kierkegaard
Des pas dans la neige, Érik L’Homme
Un théâtre qui marche, Philippe Fenwick
Des nouvelles d’Agafia, Vassilij Peskov
Indian Creek. Un inverno da solo sulle montagne rocciose, Pete Fromm
Les Hommes ivres de Dieu, Jacques Lacarrière
Venerdì, o il limbo del Pacifico, Michel Tournier
Un taxi color malva, Michel Déon
La filosofia nel boudoir, De Sade
Gilles, Drieu la Rochelle
Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe
A sangue freddo, Truman Capote
Un an de cabane, Olaf Candau
Nozze, Albert Camus
La caduta, Albert Camus
Da solo su un’isola deserta, Tom Neale
Le fantasticherie del passeggiatore solitario, Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Storia della mia vita, Giacomo Casanova
Le Chant du monde, Jean Giono
Il sole offuscato, Paul Morand
Carnets, Henry de Montherlant
Soixante-dix s’efface, tome 1, Ernst Jünger
Trattato del ribelle, Ernst Jünger
Il nodo di Gordio, Ernst Jünger
Avvicinamenti. Droghe ed ebbrezza, Ernst Jünger
Ludi africani, Ernst Jünger
I fiori del male, Charles Baudelaire
Il postino suona sempre due volte, James M. Cain
Il poeta, Michael Connelly
Luna di sangue, James Ellroy
Eva, James Hadley Chase
Gli stoici (Biblioteca della Pléiade)
Piombo e sangue, Dashiell Hammett
De rerum natura, Lucrezio
Il mito dell’eterno ritorno, Mircea Eliade
Il mondo come volontà e rappresentazione, Arthur Schopenhauer
Tifone, Joseph Conrad
Odes, Victor Segalen
Vita di Rancé, François-René de Chateaubriand
Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu
Elegia di Marienbad, Johann Wolfgang Goethe
Tutti i racconti, Ernest Hemingway
Ecce Homo, Friedrich Nietzsche
Così parlò Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
Il crepuscolo degli idoli, Friedrich Nietzsche
Vingt-cinq ans de solitude, John Haines
L’ultima frontiera, Grey Owl
Traité de la cabane solitaire, Antoine Marcel
Dal mondo intero, Blaise Cendrars
Foglie d’erba, Walt Whitman
Almanacco di un mondo semplice, Aldo Leopold
L’Opera al nero, Marguerite Yourcenar
Le Mille e una notte
Sogno di una notte di mezza estate, William Shakespeare
Le allegre comari di Windsor, William Shakespeare
La dodicesima notte, William Shakespeare
I cavalieri della tavola rotonda, Chrétien de Troyes
American Black Box, Maurice G. Dantec
American Psycho, B. E. Ellis
Walden. Vita nel bosco, Henry David Thoreau
L’insostenibile leggerezza dell’essere, Milan Kundera
Il padiglione d’oro, Yukio Mishima
La promessa dell’alba, Romain Gary
La mia Africa, Karen Blixen
I tre avventurieri, José Giovanni"
October 11, 2017
كتاب براي خواننده اي گيراست كه آهنگ سفر و زيستِ تنهايي درون و با او باشه. تنها ميشود گوشههايي كمرنگ از مكاشفهي تسون را در كرانه هاي درياچه ي بايكال در سيبري خواند
خواندنش هم نياز دارد به تنهايي و خلوت و دوري كردن. همانگونه كه او به جنگل پناه برده است
ترجمه ي قابل قبول پريزاد تجلي هم كمك مي كند به نزديك شدن به متن اثر هر چند تسون گويا با نثري شاعرانه كتاب را نوشته كه خب بازگرداندنش به پارسي تقريبن ممكن نيست
با اين همه كتابي ست پر از مكاشفه در عين سكوت
The Solitude, The Void, The Silence...
Tesson is a agent of us to find those points.
خواندنش هم نياز دارد به تنهايي و خلوت و دوري كردن. همانگونه كه او به جنگل پناه برده است
ترجمه ي قابل قبول پريزاد تجلي هم كمك مي كند به نزديك شدن به متن اثر هر چند تسون گويا با نثري شاعرانه كتاب را نوشته كه خب بازگرداندنش به پارسي تقريبن ممكن نيست
با اين همه كتابي ست پر از مكاشفه در عين سكوت
The Solitude, The Void, The Silence...
Tesson is a agent of us to find those points.
January 23, 2023
Un batiburrillo de tópicos y filosofía barata con visión burguesa e ideales pseudo progresistas y esnobs, todo mal mezclado con dos tercios de vodka y bastante mal servido.
November 3, 2013
Living for six months. alone in an isolated cabin in the Siberian Taiga, not sure of the location or the intense cold but living and being alone sounds awfully good at times. The author arrives in February and stays until the end of July, so he deals with the intense cold first, but he has brought plenty of supplies, and plenty of reading material. I found is amusing that the only two contemporary authors on his list were James Ellroy and Michael Connelly, he calls them palette cleansers.
The prose and descriptions are amazingly beautiful. I could have picked quotes out on nearly every page. What he see and experiences, he writes down daily in his journal as well as his thoughts and quotes from other sources, books etc. They were wonderful and he experiences something few people ever will. By book end he almost persuaded me that maybe Siberia would be the place to be alone. Not quite though, I am not that brave.
At the end of his six months these were his thoughts. "I came here without knowing whether I'd find the strength to stay; I leave knowing that I will return. I've discovered that living within silence is rejuvenating. The virginity of time is a treasure. The parade of hours is busier than the plowing through of miles. The eye never tires of splendor.
The more one knows things, the more beautiful they become."
Every time I picked up this book to read I felt a calmness and peacefulness, not many books can do that.
The prose and descriptions are amazingly beautiful. I could have picked quotes out on nearly every page. What he see and experiences, he writes down daily in his journal as well as his thoughts and quotes from other sources, books etc. They were wonderful and he experiences something few people ever will. By book end he almost persuaded me that maybe Siberia would be the place to be alone. Not quite though, I am not that brave.
At the end of his six months these were his thoughts. "I came here without knowing whether I'd find the strength to stay; I leave knowing that I will return. I've discovered that living within silence is rejuvenating. The virginity of time is a treasure. The parade of hours is busier than the plowing through of miles. The eye never tires of splendor.
The more one knows things, the more beautiful they become."
Every time I picked up this book to read I felt a calmness and peacefulness, not many books can do that.
December 4, 2021
Jurnal de 6 luni de retragere în singurătatea siberiană, pe malurile lacului Baikal.
Un soi de test de supraviețuire dar și de regăsire de sine. Care pare să fi funcționat. Multe descrieri bune, inventare de cărți, alimente și obiecte necesare unei asemenea experiențe, anecdote cu ruși și occidentali, mici peripeții.
Un pic pretențios pe alocuri cu multe citate din cărțile luate cu el, citate „pompoase” din marea literatură și filozofia clasică. Altfel, o recomandare de lectură, cu siguranță.
Un soi de test de supraviețuire dar și de regăsire de sine. Care pare să fi funcționat. Multe descrieri bune, inventare de cărți, alimente și obiecte necesare unei asemenea experiențe, anecdote cu ruși și occidentali, mici peripeții.
Un pic pretențios pe alocuri cu multe citate din cărțile luate cu el, citate „pompoase” din marea literatură și filozofia clasică. Altfel, o recomandare de lectură, cu siguranță.
March 29, 2020
“Už hodinu sedím u stolu a sleduju postup slunečních paprsků po ubruse. Světlo zušlechťuje vše, co ozáří. Dřevo, ořízky knih, střenky nožů, křivku obličeje i času, kteřý běží, a dokonce i zrnka prachu ve vzduchu. Být zrnkem prachu v tomhle světě není vůbec nic bezvýznamného.
Vida, zajímám se o prach. Březen bude dlouhý.”
Bol.
Vida, zajímám se o prach. Březen bude dlouhý.”
Bol.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 767 reviews