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El último encuentro
En esta magistral novela, Sándor Márai plantea la búsqueda de la verdad como fuerza liberadora, como soporte ético imprescindible para sobrellevar el peso de una vida. La exactitud de su prosa, unida a la vigencia de sus propuestas morales, lo sitúa entre los grandes escritores europeos del siglo XX.
Un pequeño castillo de caza en Hungría, al pie de los Cárpatos, donde alguna vez se celebraron fastuosas veladas y la música de Chopin inundaba los elegantes salones decorados al estilo francés, ha cambiado radicalmente de aspecto. El esplendor de antaño se ha desvanecido, todo anuncia el final de una época.
En ese escenario cargado de vivencias, dos hombres se citan para cenar tras cuarenta años sin verse. De jóvenes habían sido amigos inseparables, pero luego sus caminos se bifurcaron: uno se marchó a Extremo Oriente y el otro, en cambio, permaneció hasta hoy en su propiedad. Sin embargo, ambos han vivido a la espera de este momento, pues entre ellos se interpone un secreto de una fuerza singular. Todo converge en un duelo sin armas, aunque tal vez mucho más cruel, cuyo punto en común es el recuerdo imborrable de una mujer.
Reseñas:
«Deslumbrante [...]. Un libro que no vacilo en calificar de soberbio, anclado en las profundidades del humanismo centroeuropeo postapocalíptico que revela a un escritor de auténtica envergadura en la onda de Joseph Roth, Stefan Zweig, Robert Walser o Fred Uhlman.»
Robert Saladrigas, La Vanguardia
«Un espléndido retrato de la decadencia del imperio austro-húngaro, una novela intensa.»
El País
«Una obra bellísima.»
Soledad Puértolas, Letra
«Un autor con una facultad deslumbrante para fijar siempre la mirada en las cosas que más importan.»
Revista de Libros
170 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1942
1384 people are currently reading
34130 people want to read
About the author
Sándor Márai
182 books1,229 followersSándor Márai (originally Sándor Károly Henrik Grosschmied de Mára) was a Hungarian writer and journalist.
He was born in the city of Kassa in Austria-Hungary (now Košice in Slovakia) to an old family of Saxon origin who had mixed with magyars through the centuries. Through his father he was a relative of the Ország-family. In his early years, Márai travelled to and lived in Frankfurt, Berlin, and Paris and briefly considered writing in German, but eventually chose his mother language, Hungarian, for his writings. He settled in Krisztinaváros, Budapest, in 1928. In the 1930s, he gained prominence with a precise and clear realist style. He was the first person to write reviews of the work of Kafka.
He wrote very enthusiastically about the Vienna Awards, in which Germany forced Czechoslovakia and Romania to give back part of the territories which Hungary lost in the Treaty of Trianon. Nevertheless, Márai was highly critical of the Nazis as such and was considered "profoundly antifascist," a dangerous position to take in wartime Hungary.
Marai authored forty-six books, mostly novels, and was considered by literary critics to be one of Hungary's most influential representatives of middle class literature between the two world wars. His 1942 book Embers (Hungarian title: A gyertyák csonkig égnek, meaning "The Candles Burn Down to the Stump") expresses a nostalgia for the bygone multi-ethnic, multicultural society of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, reminiscent of the works of Joseph Roth. In 2006 an adaptation of this novel for the stage, written by Christopher Hampton, was performed in London.
He also disliked the Communist regime that seized power after World War II, and left – or was driven away – in 1948. After living for some time in Italy, Márai settled in the city of San Diego, California, in the United States.
He continued to write in his native language, but was not published in English until the mid-1990s. Márai's Memoir of Hungary (1944-1948) provides an interesting glimpse of post World War II Hungary under Soviet occupation. Like other memoirs by Hungarian writers and statesmen, it was first published in the West, because it could not be published in the Hungary of the post-1956 Kádár era. The English version of the memoir was published posthumously in 1996. After his wife died, Márai retreated more and more into isolation. He committed suicide by a gunshot to his head in San Diego in 1989.
Largely forgotten outside of Hungary, his work (consisting of poems, novels, and diaries) has only been recently "rediscovered" and republished in French (starting in 1992), Polish, Catalan, Italian, English, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Czech, Danish, Icelandic, Korean, Dutch, and other languages too, and is now considered to be part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon.
He was born in the city of Kassa in Austria-Hungary (now Košice in Slovakia) to an old family of Saxon origin who had mixed with magyars through the centuries. Through his father he was a relative of the Ország-family. In his early years, Márai travelled to and lived in Frankfurt, Berlin, and Paris and briefly considered writing in German, but eventually chose his mother language, Hungarian, for his writings. He settled in Krisztinaváros, Budapest, in 1928. In the 1930s, he gained prominence with a precise and clear realist style. He was the first person to write reviews of the work of Kafka.
He wrote very enthusiastically about the Vienna Awards, in which Germany forced Czechoslovakia and Romania to give back part of the territories which Hungary lost in the Treaty of Trianon. Nevertheless, Márai was highly critical of the Nazis as such and was considered "profoundly antifascist," a dangerous position to take in wartime Hungary.
Marai authored forty-six books, mostly novels, and was considered by literary critics to be one of Hungary's most influential representatives of middle class literature between the two world wars. His 1942 book Embers (Hungarian title: A gyertyák csonkig égnek, meaning "The Candles Burn Down to the Stump") expresses a nostalgia for the bygone multi-ethnic, multicultural society of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, reminiscent of the works of Joseph Roth. In 2006 an adaptation of this novel for the stage, written by Christopher Hampton, was performed in London.
He also disliked the Communist regime that seized power after World War II, and left – or was driven away – in 1948. After living for some time in Italy, Márai settled in the city of San Diego, California, in the United States.
He continued to write in his native language, but was not published in English until the mid-1990s. Márai's Memoir of Hungary (1944-1948) provides an interesting glimpse of post World War II Hungary under Soviet occupation. Like other memoirs by Hungarian writers and statesmen, it was first published in the West, because it could not be published in the Hungary of the post-1956 Kádár era. The English version of the memoir was published posthumously in 1996. After his wife died, Márai retreated more and more into isolation. He committed suicide by a gunshot to his head in San Diego in 1989.
Largely forgotten outside of Hungary, his work (consisting of poems, novels, and diaries) has only been recently "rediscovered" and republished in French (starting in 1992), Polish, Catalan, Italian, English, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Czech, Danish, Icelandic, Korean, Dutch, and other languages too, and is now considered to be part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 4,807 reviews
November 9, 2025
I’ve been on a binge reading Hungarian authors lately and Sandor Marai is the master. This is the 6th book of his I have read.
The time is during the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1899. An isolated man has been waiting 41 years for a visit from his former best friend from army days and now he has appeared. His 90-year old nanny and man servant run the household and even hold hunts on the property, but the main character, ‘the general,’ as he is called, does not appear in public.
The ex-friend had an affair with his wife 40 years ago and he has one question to ask him: did his (now deceased) wife know that his friend intended to kill him while they were out hunting in 1899 and make it look like an accident? The friend obviously did not kill him and instead left the army and fled town.
The entire story takes place over one dusk to dawn night, largely as an extended monologue from the offended party speaking to his guest when he appears when they are now both in their 70’s.
They had been great friends in the army although the main character was a natural-born soldier while the other man, like his wife, was interested in music and culture, so somehow “different.”
Here’s an example of the style of writing:
“It was the moment that separates night from day, the underworld from the world above. And perhaps other things separate themselves out, too. It is the last second, when the depths and the heights, the dark and the light, of the world and the men still brush against each other, when sleepers waken with a start from troubling dreams, when the sick begin to groan because they sense that the nightly hell is nearing its end and now more distinct pain will begin again. Light and the natural ordering that accompanies the day will separate and tease out the layers of desire, the secret longings, the twitches of excitement that had been tangled in the darkness of the night. Both huntsmen and their game love this moment. It is no longer dark, it is not yet light. The forest smells so raw and wild, as if every living thing – plants, animals, people – were slowly coming back to consciousness in the dormitory of the world, exhaling all their secrets and bad thoughts.”
I liked these passages:
“As you know, one can look at things or a room in one of two ways: as if seeing them for the first time or seeing them for the last.”
“Every exercise of power incorporates a faint, almost imperceptible, element of contempt for those over whom the power is exercised. One can only dominate another human soul if one knows, understands, and with the utmost tact despises the person one is subjugating.”
A good read and really a classic masterpiece. The author (1900-1989) published 46 books and so far only a half-dozen or so have been translated into English so hopefully we have many more to look forward to.
I’ve enjoyed several other novels by Sandor Marai and here are links to my reviews of those:
Portraits of a Marriage
Casanova in Bolzano
Esther’s Inheritance
The Rebels
Austro-Hungarian cavalry uniforms from uniformology.com
Sketch of the author from cf.behance.net
The time is during the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1899. An isolated man has been waiting 41 years for a visit from his former best friend from army days and now he has appeared. His 90-year old nanny and man servant run the household and even hold hunts on the property, but the main character, ‘the general,’ as he is called, does not appear in public.
The ex-friend had an affair with his wife 40 years ago and he has one question to ask him: did his (now deceased) wife know that his friend intended to kill him while they were out hunting in 1899 and make it look like an accident? The friend obviously did not kill him and instead left the army and fled town.
The entire story takes place over one dusk to dawn night, largely as an extended monologue from the offended party speaking to his guest when he appears when they are now both in their 70’s.
They had been great friends in the army although the main character was a natural-born soldier while the other man, like his wife, was interested in music and culture, so somehow “different.”
Here’s an example of the style of writing:
“It was the moment that separates night from day, the underworld from the world above. And perhaps other things separate themselves out, too. It is the last second, when the depths and the heights, the dark and the light, of the world and the men still brush against each other, when sleepers waken with a start from troubling dreams, when the sick begin to groan because they sense that the nightly hell is nearing its end and now more distinct pain will begin again. Light and the natural ordering that accompanies the day will separate and tease out the layers of desire, the secret longings, the twitches of excitement that had been tangled in the darkness of the night. Both huntsmen and their game love this moment. It is no longer dark, it is not yet light. The forest smells so raw and wild, as if every living thing – plants, animals, people – were slowly coming back to consciousness in the dormitory of the world, exhaling all their secrets and bad thoughts.”
I liked these passages:
“As you know, one can look at things or a room in one of two ways: as if seeing them for the first time or seeing them for the last.”
“Every exercise of power incorporates a faint, almost imperceptible, element of contempt for those over whom the power is exercised. One can only dominate another human soul if one knows, understands, and with the utmost tact despises the person one is subjugating.”
A good read and really a classic masterpiece. The author (1900-1989) published 46 books and so far only a half-dozen or so have been translated into English so hopefully we have many more to look forward to.
I’ve enjoyed several other novels by Sandor Marai and here are links to my reviews of those:
Portraits of a Marriage
Casanova in Bolzano
Esther’s Inheritance
The Rebels
Austro-Hungarian cavalry uniforms from uniformology.com
Sketch of the author from cf.behance.net
July 26, 2023
Human beings may learn everything they want about the true nature of relationships, but this knowledge will make them not one whit the wiser.
Usually, it is reading a book that stirs up the memory of reading another book. This time it was a painting for a change.
During a museum visit, this painting by Rik Wouters (1882-1916) reminded me of a crucial, pivotal scene in Embers, a novel that I loved so much I re-read it several times after first listening to it in instalments on the radio. The resurgence of this glowing memory made me smile, because it reminded me how the aesthetic joy that the work of both the writer and the painter offered me in that period also were in some way connected. I fondly recall how delighted I was when I was gifted Portraits of a Marriage on the day my son was born, and on top of that discovering in it a bookmark with a painting of Rik Wouters, all in the year of visiting an exhibition presenting an overview of the art of Rik Wouters in Brussels which made quite an impression on me.
Passion has no footing in reason. Passion is indifferent to reciprocal emotion, it needs to express itself to the full, live itself to the very end, no matter if all it receives in return is kind feelings, courtesy, friendship, or mere patience. Very great passion is hopeless, if not it would be not passion at all but some cleverly calculated arrangement, an exchange of lukewarm interests. You have hated me, and that makes for as strong a bond as if you had loved me.
Reading Embers turned Sándor Márai (1900-1989) into a favourite writer, making me wish to read everything of his that had been translated into my mother tongue and eagerly await further translations because I noticed more of his work was translated into French and German - even if I was a little disappointed by some of his books because they merely seemed to mimic and echo the format of this beloved book which mostly consists of a soliloquy by an old aristocrat, Henrik addressed to a friend he knew since his youth, Konrad. That similarity in form for instance impaired Esther's Inheritance.
Glancing through it another time, my gaze hooks into underlined passages, and once again I savour the languid, melancholy sentences, Márai’s reflections on fate and friendship and on the power and wrecking impact of music which are reminiscent of Tolstoy’s novella 'The Kreutzer Sonata":
I hate music. I hate this incomprehensible, melodious language which select people can understand and use to say uninhibited, irregular things that are probably indecent and immoral. Because music’s power is inexpressible, it seems to carry a larger danger in that it has the power to arouse the deepest emotions in people who come together to listen to it and discover that it is their fate to belong to each other.
He came from a world where soft music lilted through dining rooms and ballrooms and salons, but not the way his friend liked it. It was played to make life sweeter and more festive, to make women’s eyes flash and men’s vanity throw sparks. Konrad’s music, on the other hand, didn’t offer forgetfulness; it aroused people to feelings of passions and guilt, and demanded that people be truer to themselves in heart and mind. Such music is upsetting.
A bitter and brilliant meditation on the human passions, illusions, fate, friendship, loyalty and betrayal this intense tale of love, rage and revenge gripped me like few other books ever did.
What is the value of a friendship in which one person loves the other for his virtue, his loyalty, his steadfastness? What is the value of a love that expects loyalty?
Usually, it is reading a book that stirs up the memory of reading another book. This time it was a painting for a change.
During a museum visit, this painting by Rik Wouters (1882-1916) reminded me of a crucial, pivotal scene in Embers, a novel that I loved so much I re-read it several times after first listening to it in instalments on the radio. The resurgence of this glowing memory made me smile, because it reminded me how the aesthetic joy that the work of both the writer and the painter offered me in that period also were in some way connected. I fondly recall how delighted I was when I was gifted Portraits of a Marriage on the day my son was born, and on top of that discovering in it a bookmark with a painting of Rik Wouters, all in the year of visiting an exhibition presenting an overview of the art of Rik Wouters in Brussels which made quite an impression on me.
Passion has no footing in reason. Passion is indifferent to reciprocal emotion, it needs to express itself to the full, live itself to the very end, no matter if all it receives in return is kind feelings, courtesy, friendship, or mere patience. Very great passion is hopeless, if not it would be not passion at all but some cleverly calculated arrangement, an exchange of lukewarm interests. You have hated me, and that makes for as strong a bond as if you had loved me.
Reading Embers turned Sándor Márai (1900-1989) into a favourite writer, making me wish to read everything of his that had been translated into my mother tongue and eagerly await further translations because I noticed more of his work was translated into French and German - even if I was a little disappointed by some of his books because they merely seemed to mimic and echo the format of this beloved book which mostly consists of a soliloquy by an old aristocrat, Henrik addressed to a friend he knew since his youth, Konrad. That similarity in form for instance impaired Esther's Inheritance.
Glancing through it another time, my gaze hooks into underlined passages, and once again I savour the languid, melancholy sentences, Márai’s reflections on fate and friendship and on the power and wrecking impact of music which are reminiscent of Tolstoy’s novella 'The Kreutzer Sonata":
I hate music. I hate this incomprehensible, melodious language which select people can understand and use to say uninhibited, irregular things that are probably indecent and immoral. Because music’s power is inexpressible, it seems to carry a larger danger in that it has the power to arouse the deepest emotions in people who come together to listen to it and discover that it is their fate to belong to each other.
He came from a world where soft music lilted through dining rooms and ballrooms and salons, but not the way his friend liked it. It was played to make life sweeter and more festive, to make women’s eyes flash and men’s vanity throw sparks. Konrad’s music, on the other hand, didn’t offer forgetfulness; it aroused people to feelings of passions and guilt, and demanded that people be truer to themselves in heart and mind. Such music is upsetting.
A bitter and brilliant meditation on the human passions, illusions, fate, friendship, loyalty and betrayal this intense tale of love, rage and revenge gripped me like few other books ever did.
What is the value of a friendship in which one person loves the other for his virtue, his loyalty, his steadfastness? What is the value of a love that expects loyalty?
September 23, 2023
An old man hiding in the castle… The General living a life of recluse in a single room… An inner hermit for forty one years…
He receives a letter with the news that his childhood friend will visit him today… He’s waiting and recalls his life…
He dreams of revenge… His friend arrives… They dine and have a long talk… The General's monologue sounds exactly like a confession… Recollections of the distant past… Three ruined lives…
Decades elapsed but the embers of the past are still smoldering.
He lived here as an invalid lives within the space he has learned to inhabit. As if the room had been tailored to his body. Years passed without him setting foot in the other wing of the castle, in which salon after salon opened one into the next, first green, then blue, then red, all hung with gold chandeliers.
He receives a letter with the news that his childhood friend will visit him today… He’s waiting and recalls his life…
Light and time erase the contours and distinctive shading of the faces. One has to angle the image this way and that until it catches the light in a particular way and one can make out the person whose features have been absorbed into the blank surface of the plate. It is the same with our memories. But then one day light strikes from a certain angle and one recaptures a face again.
He dreams of revenge… His friend arrives… They dine and have a long talk… The General's monologue sounds exactly like a confession… Recollections of the distant past… Three ruined lives…
All that was left was the waiting and the thirst for revenge – and now that the waiting is over and the time for revenge is here, I am amazed to feel how hopeless it all is, and the pointlessness of anything we could learn or admit or fight out between us. I understand the reality. Time is a purgatory that has cleansed all fury from my memories.
Decades elapsed but the embers of the past are still smoldering.
September 18, 2025
Romanul unei obsesii maladive...
Doi vechi prieteni se întîlnesc după 41 de ani într-un castel romantic, înconjurat de codri seculari. Sînt bătrîni, obosiți, s-au săturat de viață, nici ei nu mai știu dacă sînt vii. Probabil că au iubit aceeași femeie, pe Krisztina. Dar Krisztina a murit de mult. Acum se găsesc în aceeași sală cu lumînări albastre în care au stat ultima dată, în 2 iulie 1899. Vor avea o ultimă explicație. Decisivă...
În mare, Lumînările ard pînă la capăt (în engleză, romanul a fost intitulat aiurea: Ember) consemnează discursul inchizitorial (și țicnit) al gazdei, generalul Henrik. Oaspetele lui, Konrad, ascultă placid învinuirile și nu dă vreun semn că ar fi surprins sau că s-ar simți vinovat. Discursul generalului e plin de considerații filosofice, de digresiuni obositoare (înțelesul aristocrației, simbolismul vînătorii, sensul sacrificiului la arabi, definiția fidelității etc.), și se sprijină pe simple intuiții („eram cu spatele, dar am simțit precis”) și foarte puțin pe fapte. Nu vom ști niciodată dacă poliloghia lui interminabilă are vreun temei. Generalul pretinde că vrea adevărul și numai adevărul, dar distruge orice dovadă materială care l-ar ajuta să-l formuleze singur. De exemplu, cu un gest teatral și emfatic, aruncă în foc jurnalul Krisztinei, fără a-l citi:
Rechizitoriul e menit să introducă două întrebări capitale. Nu are rost să le menționez, aș strica surpriza. Konrad ar trebui să-i ofere gazdei un răspuns.
Finalul aduce aminte de întorsăturile ironice ale lui Franz Kafka. Oaspetele spune la sfîrșit: „Acum nu-ți mai răspund nici la această întrebare... Cred că am clarificat totul” (p.167). După plecarea lui Konrad, generalul mărturisește bătrînei sale doici, Nini, că se simte „mult mai liniștit” (p.172). A spus tot ce avea pe suflet, n-a primit nici un răspuns, poate că nici nu avea nevoie de el, fiindcă îl bănuia din capul locului.
Din păcate, romanul lui Sándor Márai își arată puternic vîrsta, așa cum „prin pielea aproape transparentă” a celor doi bătrîni „se văd oasele galbene” (p.168)...
Doi vechi prieteni se întîlnesc după 41 de ani într-un castel romantic, înconjurat de codri seculari. Sînt bătrîni, obosiți, s-au săturat de viață, nici ei nu mai știu dacă sînt vii. Probabil că au iubit aceeași femeie, pe Krisztina. Dar Krisztina a murit de mult. Acum se găsesc în aceeași sală cu lumînări albastre în care au stat ultima dată, în 2 iulie 1899. Vor avea o ultimă explicație. Decisivă...
În mare, Lumînările ard pînă la capăt (în engleză, romanul a fost intitulat aiurea: Ember) consemnează discursul inchizitorial (și țicnit) al gazdei, generalul Henrik. Oaspetele lui, Konrad, ascultă placid învinuirile și nu dă vreun semn că ar fi surprins sau că s-ar simți vinovat. Discursul generalului e plin de considerații filosofice, de digresiuni obositoare (înțelesul aristocrației, simbolismul vînătorii, sensul sacrificiului la arabi, definiția fidelității etc.), și se sprijină pe simple intuiții („eram cu spatele, dar am simțit precis”) și foarte puțin pe fapte. Nu vom ști niciodată dacă poliloghia lui interminabilă are vreun temei. Generalul pretinde că vrea adevărul și numai adevărul, dar distruge orice dovadă materială care l-ar ajuta să-l formuleze singur. De exemplu, cu un gest teatral și emfatic, aruncă în foc jurnalul Krisztinei, fără a-l citi:
„Încet, cu gesturi lente, generalul aruncă jurnalul îngust în șemineu... Flăcările se înalță tot mai sus, ceara sigiliului s-a topit deja..., o mînă nevăzută parcă ar răsfoi filele de culoarea pergamentului vechi, dintre flăcări se ivește brusc scrisul Krisztinei, literele ascuțite, colțuroase, așternute odinioară pe hîrtie de o mînă prefăcută între timp în praf, acum focul devorează literele, hîrtia, jurnalul dispare, la fel ca mîna care și-a scris în taină gîndurile pe aceste file. În mijlocul jăratecului rămîne numai un pumn de cenușă neagră - e mătăsoasă, la fel ca moarul, materialul fin al hainelor de doliu” (pp.166-167).
Rechizitoriul e menit să introducă două întrebări capitale. Nu are rost să le menționez, aș strica surpriza. Konrad ar trebui să-i ofere gazdei un răspuns.
Finalul aduce aminte de întorsăturile ironice ale lui Franz Kafka. Oaspetele spune la sfîrșit: „Acum nu-ți mai răspund nici la această întrebare... Cred că am clarificat totul” (p.167). După plecarea lui Konrad, generalul mărturisește bătrînei sale doici, Nini, că se simte „mult mai liniștit” (p.172). A spus tot ce avea pe suflet, n-a primit nici un răspuns, poate că nici nu avea nevoie de el, fiindcă îl bănuia din capul locului.
Din păcate, romanul lui Sándor Márai își arată puternic vîrsta, așa cum „prin pielea aproape transparentă” a celor doi bătrîni „se văd oasele galbene” (p.168)...
July 6, 2015
Beautiful words that form sentences that makes one stop and think. A exquisitely written story, very descriptive, one can picture the scenes down to the minutest of detail.
Friendship, the most expressive definition of a friendship between two men from different backgrounds that I have ever read. Betrayal, love, pride and at the last a definition of aging that is searing.
I cannot say enough about the experience of reading this book except to say it is one that I will long remember and that I must seek out more of this amazing author's work.
One quote from the book had me thinking about it on and off all day,
"It is not true that fate slips silently into our lives. It steps in through the door that we have opened, and we invite it to enter"
Friendship, the most expressive definition of a friendship between two men from different backgrounds that I have ever read. Betrayal, love, pride and at the last a definition of aging that is searing.
I cannot say enough about the experience of reading this book except to say it is one that I will long remember and that I must seek out more of this amazing author's work.
One quote from the book had me thinking about it on and off all day,
"It is not true that fate slips silently into our lives. It steps in through the door that we have opened, and we invite it to enter"
October 15, 2017
Embers presents some of the loveliest, most elegant writing I have encountered this year. At its core, however, it is an overlong ramble of a soliloquy that should have been reduced to a stunning short story. It's an easy enough read, full of the philosophical queries and conclusions of its aged General about the meaning of life, love, honor, killing, obligation, M-M friendship. But the guest is permitted only 5-8 lines. He can't get a word in edgewise. And Krisztina? She has no voice.
I would like to read the novel Marai might have written about the ninety-one year old Nini. She captured my interest as none of the other characters did. Early on, it seemed as if Marai intended to make her more central to the plot, but alas, he chose otherwise.
I am glad I read Embers and will look for others of Marai's novels as they become available in English translations; however, I will not press this one into friends' hands and insist that they do so.
I would like to read the novel Marai might have written about the ninety-one year old Nini. She captured my interest as none of the other characters did. Early on, it seemed as if Marai intended to make her more central to the plot, but alas, he chose otherwise.
I am glad I read Embers and will look for others of Marai's novels as they become available in English translations; however, I will not press this one into friends' hands and insist that they do so.
April 2, 2017
Sandor Marai was born in 1900 in the former Austrian-Hungarian Empire at a time when honor to one's country was of the upmost importance. A staunch anti-fascist following the rise of the iron curtain, Marai was forced to flee his homeland and lived out his remaining days in California. First published in 1942 and recovered with his other novels, Embers is fast becoming a modern classic. A throwback to a time when royalty living in isolated castles was a common practice in Europe, Embers reveals an intimate look at life and relationships.
Henrik has turned 75 and has lived with his nurse Nini, aged 91, in a castle outside of Vienna for the past 41 years. Upon hearing that his old friend Konrad will be arriving and joining him for dinner, Henrik looks back at the chapters of his life, focusing on how both he and Konrad have gotten to where they are at this moment. Once friends as close as twin brothers, the pair has not seen each other since a incident with Henrik's wife Krisztina forty one years ago. After the incident, Konrad fled to the Tropics while Henrik remained in his castle, alone.
A son of the landed aristocracy on both sides of his family, Henrik was expected to go into the military academy at a young age. Yet, the only person who he ever felt love and affection from was his nursemaid Nini. As a result, Henrik became depressed at the academy until he met Konrad. Henrik's father welcomed Konrad into the family yet cautioned his son that Konrad was a different type of person destined for a career other than military. The pair, although polar opposites, remained friends through their twenties.
Marai writes how Henrik's and Konrad's lives moved on divergent paths. All these years later, the men do not desire to rekindle their friendship as the title may imply, but to find out the answers to questions that have lingered for this long. Styling his prose by alternating between posing questions between the two with Henrik's recollections of the past had me desiring to find out the conclusion to this complicated web of emotions. Marai also posed an intriguing view on friendships and relationships that left me captivated by the novel through its closure.
Sandor Marai is a new author for me and I am glad that I uncovered this fascinating novel. His novels were considered bestsellers before Hungary fell into fascist hands, and are now being translated into English. I rate this hidden gem a solid 4 stars, and look forward to reading more of his works as they become available.
Henrik has turned 75 and has lived with his nurse Nini, aged 91, in a castle outside of Vienna for the past 41 years. Upon hearing that his old friend Konrad will be arriving and joining him for dinner, Henrik looks back at the chapters of his life, focusing on how both he and Konrad have gotten to where they are at this moment. Once friends as close as twin brothers, the pair has not seen each other since a incident with Henrik's wife Krisztina forty one years ago. After the incident, Konrad fled to the Tropics while Henrik remained in his castle, alone.
A son of the landed aristocracy on both sides of his family, Henrik was expected to go into the military academy at a young age. Yet, the only person who he ever felt love and affection from was his nursemaid Nini. As a result, Henrik became depressed at the academy until he met Konrad. Henrik's father welcomed Konrad into the family yet cautioned his son that Konrad was a different type of person destined for a career other than military. The pair, although polar opposites, remained friends through their twenties.
Marai writes how Henrik's and Konrad's lives moved on divergent paths. All these years later, the men do not desire to rekindle their friendship as the title may imply, but to find out the answers to questions that have lingered for this long. Styling his prose by alternating between posing questions between the two with Henrik's recollections of the past had me desiring to find out the conclusion to this complicated web of emotions. Marai also posed an intriguing view on friendships and relationships that left me captivated by the novel through its closure.
Sandor Marai is a new author for me and I am glad that I uncovered this fascinating novel. His novels were considered bestsellers before Hungary fell into fascist hands, and are now being translated into English. I rate this hidden gem a solid 4 stars, and look forward to reading more of his works as they become available.
October 18, 2020
Il libro che mi sento di di consigliare a chiunque.
Il libro che racchiude quella che, a mio avviso, rimane una delle essenze più pure della scrittura.
Marai ed il suo sguardo, il suo modo di aver visto visto con quegli occhi amore ed amicizia sotterra quei tanti libri per metà che ad oggi ci troviamo premiati in vetrina in libreria.
Le braci è un po' quell'anziano che sotto ogni ruga ti nasconde una storia che deve essere per forza tua.
Il libro che racchiude quella che, a mio avviso, rimane una delle essenze più pure della scrittura.
Marai ed il suo sguardo, il suo modo di aver visto visto con quegli occhi amore ed amicizia sotterra quei tanti libri per metà che ad oggi ci troviamo premiati in vetrina in libreria.
Le braci è un po' quell'anziano che sotto ogni ruga ti nasconde una storia che deve essere per forza tua.
February 28, 2023
"No, the secret is that there's no reward and we have to endure our character and our nature as best as can, because no amount of experience or insight is going to rectify our deficiencies, our self- regard or our cupidity. We have to learn that our desires do not find any real echo in the world. We have to accept that the people we love do not love us or not in the way we hope. We have to accept betrayal and disloyalty, and hardest of all, that someone is finer than us in character or intelligence."
This book is filled with beautiful thoughts provoking quotes like this one. Something that makes you stop reading and ponder upon what you have just read. Absolutely loved this one.
This book is filled with beautiful thoughts provoking quotes like this one. Something that makes you stop reading and ponder upon what you have just read. Absolutely loved this one.
August 2, 2025
Sinceramente non pensavo che questo libricino mi potesse entrare cosi sottopelle.
Ho passato tutto il tempo a sottolineare frasi, a rileggere passaggi che mi parlavano.
E pensare che l'ho letto solo perché era l'unico libro che abbiamo trovato condivisibile con un amico (È abbastanza rompipalle schizzinoso quando si parla di libri).
Quarantun anni , una vita intera preparandosi a qualcosa.
Un risentimento, una vendetta, un' attesa.
Oscuro, spietatamente profondo, bruciante.
Amore, tradimento, intrigo, amicizia.
Sembra tutto statico, triste, malinconico ed immobile, ma la tensione è palpabile, la smania di conoscere la verità, una verità che si comprende da sola mano a mano si procede con la lettura, senza avere mai una risposta concreta.
Infida, come le braci, la verità è un fuoco senza fiamme, sembra morta, ma arde ancora.
Un lavoro di autoanalisi durato quarant'anni.
Un libro sull'enigma impossibile delle relazioni umane.
"Tu hai ucciso qualcosa dentro di me, hai rovinato la mia vita, eppure sono ancora tuo amico".
Quanti amici veri abbiamo al nostro fianco? Quanti di loro resteranno per tutta la vita.
Ho rovinato un sacco di amicizie per cazzate o cose serie.
Persone che credevo potessero restarmi accanto per sempre sono sparite e io non le ho cercate. O sono sparita io e loro non mi hanno cercata?
Forse un giorno anche noi, ritrovandoci vecchie e rugose e, ormai stanche e deluse dalla nostra esistenza, ci riappacificheremo...forse.
L' amicizia è il rapporto più nobile che possa esistere tra gli esseri umani, va però coltivata, dobbiamo prendercene cura. Esige sincerità sempre e sarà per sempre!
Io oggi il castello me lo immagino silenzioso, avvolto nella nebbia.
Nini va a svegliare il generale, in 75 anni di servizio non è mai successo.
È mattina inoltrata e dalla sua stanza non arriva nessun rumore.
Lo trova finalmente in pace con sé stesso, abbandonato sul cuscino morbido di piume che sorride.
Si sdraia accanto a lui e lo abbraccia teneramente e sa che starà sempre accanto a lui. Accanto al bambino che si sentiva solo anche tra la gente, al bambino che non parlava di ciò che lo affliggeva, ma sopportava in silenzio ed il suo silenzio è durato quarantun' anni.
Ho passato tutto il tempo a sottolineare frasi, a rileggere passaggi che mi parlavano.
E pensare che l'ho letto solo perché era l'unico libro che abbiamo trovato condivisibile con un amico (È abbastanza rompipalle schizzinoso quando si parla di libri).
Quarantun anni , una vita intera preparandosi a qualcosa.
Un risentimento, una vendetta, un' attesa.
Oscuro, spietatamente profondo, bruciante.
Amore, tradimento, intrigo, amicizia.
Sembra tutto statico, triste, malinconico ed immobile, ma la tensione è palpabile, la smania di conoscere la verità, una verità che si comprende da sola mano a mano si procede con la lettura, senza avere mai una risposta concreta.
Infida, come le braci, la verità è un fuoco senza fiamme, sembra morta, ma arde ancora.
Un lavoro di autoanalisi durato quarant'anni.
Un libro sull'enigma impossibile delle relazioni umane.
"Tu hai ucciso qualcosa dentro di me, hai rovinato la mia vita, eppure sono ancora tuo amico".
Quanti amici veri abbiamo al nostro fianco? Quanti di loro resteranno per tutta la vita.
Ho rovinato un sacco di amicizie per cazzate o cose serie.
Persone che credevo potessero restarmi accanto per sempre sono sparite e io non le ho cercate. O sono sparita io e loro non mi hanno cercata?
Forse un giorno anche noi, ritrovandoci vecchie e rugose e, ormai stanche e deluse dalla nostra esistenza, ci riappacificheremo...forse.
L' amicizia è il rapporto più nobile che possa esistere tra gli esseri umani, va però coltivata, dobbiamo prendercene cura. Esige sincerità sempre e sarà per sempre!
Io oggi il castello me lo immagino silenzioso, avvolto nella nebbia.
Nini va a svegliare il generale, in 75 anni di servizio non è mai successo.
È mattina inoltrata e dalla sua stanza non arriva nessun rumore.
Lo trova finalmente in pace con sé stesso, abbandonato sul cuscino morbido di piume che sorride.
Si sdraia accanto a lui e lo abbraccia teneramente e sa che starà sempre accanto a lui. Accanto al bambino che si sentiva solo anche tra la gente, al bambino che non parlava di ciò che lo affliggeva, ma sopportava in silenzio ed il suo silenzio è durato quarantun' anni.
May 31, 2021
This book is good beyond words. The story line. How it is told. The writing.
And to think this was a lost masterpiece. Sándor Márai had died in relative obscurity in San Diego in 1989. It was only after the vice-president of Knopf, Carol Brown Janeway, got wind of it, read it (originally published in 1942), and translated it into English, that it got re-issued in 2002. It went through numerous printings…I have the 6th UK print edition. A wonderful painting on its front…captures the mood and story line of the book–’Bucherons’, bromil by Leonard Misonne, 1934. A dark forest and a man in it.
The story takes place one night in a castle at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains in Hungary. An old solider known as the General has a visitor coming, Viktor, who he has not seen in 41 years. Because of an event that occurred then. Involving a gun. The General and Viktor were the best of friends prior to that. The General has lived through WWI and WWII is currently going on…he has survived it all because of his burning need to meet Viktor one more time. He knew his friend would come to see him.
I can’t say anymore. Giving anything away could reduce the pleasure you will get from reading this book.
What’s ironic for me, if that is the right word, is that this is the second Hungarian writer who was unheard of for quite a long time before being pulled out of relative obscurity (outside of her country)–Magda Szabó. And thankfully her books have been well received. (Both Szabo and Márai were censored by the Communist government then ruling Hungary after WWII.)
In the copy of the book that I have I have a bunch of reviews I saved at the time I bought the book. Nary a negative thing said about the book. I urge you to get this book and read it. I read it in 2002 and re-read it in one sitting last night. It would be a hard book to put down.
Reviews:
• (read this after reading the novel, this reviewer gives way way way too much away! ( https://www.nytimes.com/2001/10/14/bo...
• Excellent review by Tibor Fischer with all sorts fo interesting stuff! https://www.theguardian.com/books/200...
• read after reading the book! https://www.hackwriters.com/embers.htm
• https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/20...
(https://www.google.com/search?q=%E2%8...). .
Notes:
From Wikipedia: Largely forgotten outside of Hungary, Sándor Márai’s work (consisting of poems, novels, and diaries) has only been recently "rediscovered" and republished in French (starting in 1992), Polish, Catalan, Italian, English, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Bulgarian, Czech, Slovak, Danish, Icelandic, Korean, Dutch, Urdu and other languages too, and is now considered to be part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon.
I am going to get my hands on some of his other works that have been translated into English. Here his translated works (from Wikipedia):
• The Rebels (1930, published in English in 2007, translation by George Szirtes), Hungarian title: A zendülők. ISBN 0-375-40757-X
• Esther's Inheritance (1939, published in English in 2008), Hungarian title: Eszter hagyatéka. ISBN 1-4000-4500-2
• Casanova in Bolzano (1940, published in English in 2004), Hungarian title: Vendégjáték Bolzanóban ISBN 0-375-71296-8
• Portraits of a Marriage (1941 & 1980, published in English in 2011), Hungarian titles: Az igazi (1941) and Judit... és az utóhang (1980) ISBN 978-1-4000-9667-1
• Embers (1942, published in English in 2001), Hungarian title: A gyertyák csonkig égnek. ISBN 0-375-70742-5
• Memoir of Hungary (1971, published in English in 2001), Hungarian title: Föld, föld...! ISBN 963-9241-10-5
• The Withering World: Selected Poems by Sandor Marai (Translations by John M. Ridland and Peter V. Czipott of 163 poems, published in English in 2013) ISBN 978-1-84749-331-6
And to think this was a lost masterpiece. Sándor Márai had died in relative obscurity in San Diego in 1989. It was only after the vice-president of Knopf, Carol Brown Janeway, got wind of it, read it (originally published in 1942), and translated it into English, that it got re-issued in 2002. It went through numerous printings…I have the 6th UK print edition. A wonderful painting on its front…captures the mood and story line of the book–’Bucherons’, bromil by Leonard Misonne, 1934. A dark forest and a man in it.
The story takes place one night in a castle at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains in Hungary. An old solider known as the General has a visitor coming, Viktor, who he has not seen in 41 years. Because of an event that occurred then. Involving a gun. The General and Viktor were the best of friends prior to that. The General has lived through WWI and WWII is currently going on…he has survived it all because of his burning need to meet Viktor one more time. He knew his friend would come to see him.
I can’t say anymore. Giving anything away could reduce the pleasure you will get from reading this book.
What’s ironic for me, if that is the right word, is that this is the second Hungarian writer who was unheard of for quite a long time before being pulled out of relative obscurity (outside of her country)–Magda Szabó. And thankfully her books have been well received. (Both Szabo and Márai were censored by the Communist government then ruling Hungary after WWII.)
In the copy of the book that I have I have a bunch of reviews I saved at the time I bought the book. Nary a negative thing said about the book. I urge you to get this book and read it. I read it in 2002 and re-read it in one sitting last night. It would be a hard book to put down.
Reviews:
• (read this after reading the novel, this reviewer gives way way way too much away! ( https://www.nytimes.com/2001/10/14/bo...
• Excellent review by Tibor Fischer with all sorts fo interesting stuff! https://www.theguardian.com/books/200...
• read after reading the book! https://www.hackwriters.com/embers.htm
• https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/20...
(https://www.google.com/search?q=%E2%8...). .
Notes:
From Wikipedia: Largely forgotten outside of Hungary, Sándor Márai’s work (consisting of poems, novels, and diaries) has only been recently "rediscovered" and republished in French (starting in 1992), Polish, Catalan, Italian, English, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Bulgarian, Czech, Slovak, Danish, Icelandic, Korean, Dutch, Urdu and other languages too, and is now considered to be part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon.
I am going to get my hands on some of his other works that have been translated into English. Here his translated works (from Wikipedia):
• The Rebels (1930, published in English in 2007, translation by George Szirtes), Hungarian title: A zendülők. ISBN 0-375-40757-X
• Esther's Inheritance (1939, published in English in 2008), Hungarian title: Eszter hagyatéka. ISBN 1-4000-4500-2
• Casanova in Bolzano (1940, published in English in 2004), Hungarian title: Vendégjáték Bolzanóban ISBN 0-375-71296-8
• Portraits of a Marriage (1941 & 1980, published in English in 2011), Hungarian titles: Az igazi (1941) and Judit... és az utóhang (1980) ISBN 978-1-4000-9667-1
• Embers (1942, published in English in 2001), Hungarian title: A gyertyák csonkig égnek. ISBN 0-375-70742-5
• Memoir of Hungary (1971, published in English in 2001), Hungarian title: Föld, föld...! ISBN 963-9241-10-5
• The Withering World: Selected Poems by Sandor Marai (Translations by John M. Ridland and Peter V. Czipott of 163 poems, published in English in 2013) ISBN 978-1-84749-331-6
February 10, 2017
My fingers were interlocked around my Baba’s arm and my head was resting on his shoulders. I was stealing a glimpse of his face every now and then, convinced that the lines of exhaustion were going to creep upto his tongue any moment, tendering me an apology to relieve him of our evening chatter for the day. However, my apprehensions were misplaced. The exhaustion stood defeated in the face of the radiance that slowly, ever so gradually, filled his visage, displacing the fatigue like a magic potion, as he reached for the cassette player and put one of his most favorite songs in loop. He also fondly went on to explain me its meaning. 'Smruti Tume', originally composed in Oriya language, is an ode to ‘memories’; in Oriya, the two words literally translate to ‘Memory, You’. The translated lyrics go like this:
Memory, You are the indiscernible breeze of a spring evening;
Memory, You are the seething ember beneath the ash;
Memory, You are the dancer’s teasing frill at a temple’s entrance;
Memory, You are the glimpse of tender moon from the mane of Casuarina trees;
Memory, You are the passionate note left behind in a traveller’s lodge;
Memory, You are the departed lover’s village…
Memory, You are the red stain on the stone guarding shoreline;
Memory, You are the dusk’s glow that lights up a dull widow’s countenance;
Memory, You are the paper boat on the river that won’t reappear;
Memory, are you not my treasured Beloved?
As I read Embers, this song hung heavily on my psyche due to its similar metaphorical luminosity:
In Embers, two boys forge the best kind of friendship, two young men test the toughest kind of friendship and two old men relive the only kind of friendship.
In an all-encompassing, surreal, lyrical, almost devastating monologue, Márai trounces everything supercilious, including answers, for a man at his twilight doesn’t require answers; he seeks peace. Words become mere instruments of wrapping time into bearable currents, getting their echoes despatched to silent death in the confines of a mind engaged in altering memories, if not erasing them. When a sigh can expel the biggest burden off the chest and impart purpose to one’s living, hypothesis await no longer the stamp of verification. Endurance of a life-time denudes all justifications and arguments, leaving a residue that intends to simply burn and become smoke.
Smoke they did become, the memories. But the vestiges persisted, like the embers; silent, hidden, simmering and expectant of revelation on yet another cold night, subjugating the breeze of words and emerging triumphant.
[Note: My apologies for any mistakes I might have committed in translating the Oriya song. My memories of it are a decade old and I might have faltered at few places in comprehension or recollection.]
Memory, You are the indiscernible breeze of a spring evening;
Memory, You are the seething ember beneath the ash;
Memory, You are the dancer’s teasing frill at a temple’s entrance;
Memory, You are the glimpse of tender moon from the mane of Casuarina trees;
Memory, You are the passionate note left behind in a traveller’s lodge;
Memory, You are the departed lover’s village…
Memory, You are the red stain on the stone guarding shoreline;
Memory, You are the dusk’s glow that lights up a dull widow’s countenance;
Memory, You are the paper boat on the river that won’t reappear;
Memory, are you not my treasured Beloved?
As I read Embers, this song hung heavily on my psyche due to its similar metaphorical luminosity:
With age, memory enlarges every detail and presents it in the sharpest outline.When the rhapsody of those evening lyrics dissolved into the heartbeat of these present words, I heard a tremor that wasn’t a simulacrum of a faint earthquake but the obstreperous throbbing of a vein - a matter of delicate urgency where an inflammation not arrested in time leaves a spot defunct; worse, violated. Such violated lumps of memory hover around a life like the spirit - unseen, unlit, frequently uncouth but always undone.
In Embers, two boys forge the best kind of friendship, two young men test the toughest kind of friendship and two old men relive the only kind of friendship.
Their friendship was deep and wordless, as are all the emotions that will last a lifetime. And like all great emotions, this one contained within itself both shame and a sense of guilt, for no one may isolate one of his fellows from the rest of humanity with impunity.Over a period of seventy-five years, the birth, maturity and death of every emotion is held between the tender palms of decision and indecision, truth and cowardice, fate and loss, and is flannelled against life filters. A single deed, thus crushed and sieved, comes to haunt one for forty-one years, enmeshing him in the web his exploring fingers had unsuspectingly sewn around his own house. Did the deed trickle down in the same abnegating, granular texture beneath the pillow of the other too, robbing his sleep for those very forty-one years? Márai invites us to find out over a course of a cold, dark night; lit exquisitely by one’s questions, suspended excruciatingly by another’s abstinence and held inadvertently by a few embers, standing witness to a debilitating relationship, slowly meeting her fate.
In an all-encompassing, surreal, lyrical, almost devastating monologue, Márai trounces everything supercilious, including answers, for a man at his twilight doesn’t require answers; he seeks peace. Words become mere instruments of wrapping time into bearable currents, getting their echoes despatched to silent death in the confines of a mind engaged in altering memories, if not erasing them. When a sigh can expel the biggest burden off the chest and impart purpose to one’s living, hypothesis await no longer the stamp of verification. Endurance of a life-time denudes all justifications and arguments, leaving a residue that intends to simply burn and become smoke.
Smoke they did become, the memories. But the vestiges persisted, like the embers; silent, hidden, simmering and expectant of revelation on yet another cold night, subjugating the breeze of words and emerging triumphant.
[Note: My apologies for any mistakes I might have committed in translating the Oriya song. My memories of it are a decade old and I might have faltered at few places in comprehension or recollection.]
May 29, 2008
I just didn't get this one.
This book is full of philosophical nonsense that fails to make an impact.
The main character is an uninteresting aristocrat with a victim mentality. He spends the entire book finding new and clumsy ways to say, "Woe is me."
The book is 213 pages long. It takes Sandor Marai 133 pages to pose his question, and another 70 pages to say that he doesn't need to hear the answer.
The real failure of this book is that Marai creates the background of a few other characters who are far more appealing than the silver spoon fed Henrik, but these take such a backseat to the bourgeous baby that I wondered why Marai bothered to go into such detail of them. I would much rather hear the story of Nini, Henrik's lifelong nurse, or Konrad, his conflicted best friend.
This book is full of philosophical nonsense that fails to make an impact.
The main character is an uninteresting aristocrat with a victim mentality. He spends the entire book finding new and clumsy ways to say, "Woe is me."
The book is 213 pages long. It takes Sandor Marai 133 pages to pose his question, and another 70 pages to say that he doesn't need to hear the answer.
The real failure of this book is that Marai creates the background of a few other characters who are far more appealing than the silver spoon fed Henrik, but these take such a backseat to the bourgeous baby that I wondered why Marai bothered to go into such detail of them. I would much rather hear the story of Nini, Henrik's lifelong nurse, or Konrad, his conflicted best friend.
May 1, 2023
Two old men, one dimly lit room, and the past awakening. That's pretty much the set up for Sándor Márai's solemn 1942 novel, which was originally titled 'Candles burn until the end' in Hungary. He has a growing popularity post-death, due to his work, but also his troubled life, that is mirrored by Hungary's grave misfortunes in the 20th century, and it's sad to think at the time he took his own life in California of all places in 1989, the literary world still knew little of him. Born in the then Austro-Hungarian empire, Márai grew up with war, revolution, and exile, before establishing himself as first a poet and then novelist, but then followed more war, revolution, and exile. He is not only regarded as one of the great Hungarian writers, but also a guardian of the nation's soul, a sort of talisman of the new, democratic Hungary. With a shining honour, and no interest in political games, he infuriated the Nazis and the communists, by refusing to have his work published in his native land whilst Soviet troops were present, thus sentencing himself to obscurity and poverty. At least he stood by his principles. I admire him for that.
Embers quickly sets the scene, then slowly arouses suspense keeping the reader on tenterhooks with uncertainty, but never changes it's subtle pace. It creeps around meticulously with a simple and elegant prose, and gradually builds a vivid picture. And it works, for the most part, beautifully. As well as being an evocative study of a tightly bonded friendship long gone, It is also an intriguing mystery, as Márai is clever in the way he goes about giving the reader something to chew on, but only enough as to keep us guessing of just what lies ahead. You may have an idea, but can't say for certain. Only that a major event took place in the lives of two dear friends many years ago. Not to do it disservice with too many key details, so the basics - An elderly aristocratic general haunted by bitter memories, invites his close childhood friend, Konrad, who disappeared with haste 41 years ago under mysterious circumstances, to a lavish dinner at his secluded castle of fading splendour. The general talks, Konrad simply listens, and in the eerie flickering glow and shadows of candlelight we soon realise the meal doubles up as a sort of trial for Konrad who faces that of Henrik's prosecution, which goes about reconstructing their past together. Schooldays, military academy, and the years leading up to Konrad's vanishing act.
The aged friends are talk about life's vagaries, their lost hopes and dreams, and redemptive love, and they are doing so as the world they grew up in is vastly disappearing for good, with the seriousness of men going into the final years of life with a score to settle, knowing fully well that death is tiptoeing ever closer. Some may be disappointed by the fact the final act goes out with a whimper rather than a wallop, but for the type of story Márai has written, It ends up being the right way to see it through, and give some sort of closure for the two men. The candles may have burned out, but the novel will flicker away in my thoughts ever now and then I'm sure.
Some modern readers may find the high style of conversation sententious, and despite liking so much about this I'm still torn between 3 and 4 stars as I think it would have worked better as a novella. 3.5
May 22, 2013
Embers is a tale of heart-breaking beauty. The kind of beauty which is not apparent right at the onset but which makes its omnipresence felt as you keep turning the pages and reach that state of involvement with the narrative, where you cannot wait to feast your eyes and senses on another delicately structured sentence.
It lies in the pall of gloom cast by the shadow of some tragedy unspoken of, lurking in the dark, cobwebbed nooks and corners of a secluded castle, the relentless flow of time the sense of which the book tries to capture quite successfully and in the hollowness of life itself.
There is no worthwhile story to be found at its core since a reflection on love, betrayal and the consequences of human folly is nothing new. But it is the handling of these themes which is.
Sándor Márai has a way of creating a mood consistent with the dreariness of the story within and it is this mood which metamorphoses into an important character itself. Like an invisible, guiding force, this mood becomes the reader's constant companion as he/she slowly navigates his/her way around the imperfect lives of Márai's characters.
He ends up imparting a restrained elegance even to the meanest of human tendencies like the insane urge to kill another and to the chilling finality in a man's feelings of disillusionment with life and the people he held dear to his heart.
It is as if Márai's aim from the beginning had been not to bestow significance on numerous life events of a handful of people but instead on an acute analysis of human actions and how individual acts of indiscretion feature in the greater scheme of things. How eventually everything dies out and ceases to matter, after creating a few evanescent ripples on the surface of the placid lake of human existence.
A few irritants have kept me from placing this book on my personal, metaphysical pedestal of absolute literary perfection - the objectification of women, a subtle nod of approval to medieval values like the appreciation of gender specific character traits, the seemingly endless and tedious monologue in the latter half of the book and a sense of perverse vanity the central characters seem to derive out of their European ancestry caused me to take away that 1 star.
Barring these minor causes of botheration, Embers is near perfect. It glows powerfully with the spirit of all actions and emotions so distinctly characteristic of life itself, before burning out and surrendering itself to the inevitability of an ending.
It lies in the pall of gloom cast by the shadow of some tragedy unspoken of, lurking in the dark, cobwebbed nooks and corners of a secluded castle, the relentless flow of time the sense of which the book tries to capture quite successfully and in the hollowness of life itself.
There is no worthwhile story to be found at its core since a reflection on love, betrayal and the consequences of human folly is nothing new. But it is the handling of these themes which is.
Sándor Márai has a way of creating a mood consistent with the dreariness of the story within and it is this mood which metamorphoses into an important character itself. Like an invisible, guiding force, this mood becomes the reader's constant companion as he/she slowly navigates his/her way around the imperfect lives of Márai's characters.
He ends up imparting a restrained elegance even to the meanest of human tendencies like the insane urge to kill another and to the chilling finality in a man's feelings of disillusionment with life and the people he held dear to his heart.
It is as if Márai's aim from the beginning had been not to bestow significance on numerous life events of a handful of people but instead on an acute analysis of human actions and how individual acts of indiscretion feature in the greater scheme of things. How eventually everything dies out and ceases to matter, after creating a few evanescent ripples on the surface of the placid lake of human existence.
A few irritants have kept me from placing this book on my personal, metaphysical pedestal of absolute literary perfection - the objectification of women, a subtle nod of approval to medieval values like the appreciation of gender specific character traits, the seemingly endless and tedious monologue in the latter half of the book and a sense of perverse vanity the central characters seem to derive out of their European ancestry caused me to take away that 1 star.
Barring these minor causes of botheration, Embers is near perfect. It glows powerfully with the spirit of all actions and emotions so distinctly characteristic of life itself, before burning out and surrendering itself to the inevitability of an ending.
July 12, 2014
Embers is perfect. I just cannot find anything not to like about this book. It’s a kind of book I have never quite read before. It’s a simple novel but will definitely stay in my memory for a long time. To think that it sat there, gathering dust, in my bookshelves for more than 2 years. What a pity if I died without reading this flawlessly engrossing work. I only picked this because it is thin and seemed to me like a quick read. I was behind by 8 books in my 2011 Reading Challenge here in Goodreads last weekend and I thought of catching up.
Sandor Marai (1900-1989), a Hungarian novelist and journalist, wrote Embers in Hungarian when he was 42 and already living in San Diego, CA. He had to flee Hungary during the Nazi occupation not because he was a Jew but because he was profoundly an anti-Fascist. Just like Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson and Richard Brautigan he committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. He was 89 years old. His works had been largely forgotten outside of Hungary and were only “rediscovered” in 1992 when Embers was re-published in France then translated to other European languages. In fact, Marai’s works are now considered as part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon. (Source: Wiki).
Embers or “The Candles Burn Down to the Stump” is written in a precise and clear realist-style narrative. It tells the story of two male friends: the rich man, Henrik and a poor man, Konrad. Their friendship started when they were in school and Henrik introduced Konrad to his rich father. They became best friends, almost like real brothers and inseparable. Kondrad was even the one who introduced a girl called Krisztina to him who later became Henrik’s wife. Then one day, when the two men were 34 years old, they went hunting and Henrik saw that Konrad was aiming his gun at him. Later that day, the three, Henrik, Konrad and Krisztina, had their last dinner together in Henrik’s castle. The following day, Konrad left to Singapore without saying goodbye. Henrik went to Konrad’s apartment and when he was about to leave, he saw Krisztina there and uttered her last word to Henrik: “Coward”. From that day on, Hendrik and Krisztina separated by living in the different buildings in Henrik’s property. They did not talk to each other until Krisztina’s death 8 years after. On her deathbed, Krisztina was calling for Henrik.
The novel opens when Henrik is 75 years old and Krisztina has been dead for 33 years. Henrik receives a letter from Konrad, also 75, saying that Konrad will come for dinner that same day. What follows next is the slow and engrossing unfolding of truth on what happened 41 years ago: during the hunt, the dinner and the day at Konrad’s apartment. The plot is this thin and almost no twists. The storytelling is dominated by Henrik’s monologue that is a mixture of lamentation, reminiscences and philosophy but delivered in composed, swift, firm yet almost in monotone. That style makes the mood of the novel as chilling, suspenseful and mind-boggling as it delves into the core of our being human: the pain of friendship, love, betrayal, revenge and acceptance. For 41 years, Hendrik only thought of that day and he waited for Konrad’s return to know the truth. The slow unfolding of it amidst the eerie locale - Hungarian castle in the middle of the forest – the silence, the dark and the image of the two old men talking to each other. The slowness of the development of the story strangely makes the reading interesting. It is like the slow opening of the castle’s door with all the creaking sound while the stillness of the night reverberates in one’s brain.
The only caution? If you are a type of a reader who wants fast-paced action and lots of twist, don’t go for this book. I guess you will appreciate this more if you are at least in your middle-age already and/or you’ve been wronged or hurt by a loved one before and you haven’t forgiven him or her. Marai’s words, uttered by Hendrik, can be a good start for you to find forgiveness lurking somewhere inside your heart.
Sandor Marai (1900-1989), a Hungarian novelist and journalist, wrote Embers in Hungarian when he was 42 and already living in San Diego, CA. He had to flee Hungary during the Nazi occupation not because he was a Jew but because he was profoundly an anti-Fascist. Just like Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson and Richard Brautigan he committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. He was 89 years old. His works had been largely forgotten outside of Hungary and were only “rediscovered” in 1992 when Embers was re-published in France then translated to other European languages. In fact, Marai’s works are now considered as part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon. (Source: Wiki).
Embers or “The Candles Burn Down to the Stump” is written in a precise and clear realist-style narrative. It tells the story of two male friends: the rich man, Henrik and a poor man, Konrad. Their friendship started when they were in school and Henrik introduced Konrad to his rich father. They became best friends, almost like real brothers and inseparable. Kondrad was even the one who introduced a girl called Krisztina to him who later became Henrik’s wife. Then one day, when the two men were 34 years old, they went hunting and Henrik saw that Konrad was aiming his gun at him. Later that day, the three, Henrik, Konrad and Krisztina, had their last dinner together in Henrik’s castle. The following day, Konrad left to Singapore without saying goodbye. Henrik went to Konrad’s apartment and when he was about to leave, he saw Krisztina there and uttered her last word to Henrik: “Coward”. From that day on, Hendrik and Krisztina separated by living in the different buildings in Henrik’s property. They did not talk to each other until Krisztina’s death 8 years after. On her deathbed, Krisztina was calling for Henrik.
The novel opens when Henrik is 75 years old and Krisztina has been dead for 33 years. Henrik receives a letter from Konrad, also 75, saying that Konrad will come for dinner that same day. What follows next is the slow and engrossing unfolding of truth on what happened 41 years ago: during the hunt, the dinner and the day at Konrad’s apartment. The plot is this thin and almost no twists. The storytelling is dominated by Henrik’s monologue that is a mixture of lamentation, reminiscences and philosophy but delivered in composed, swift, firm yet almost in monotone. That style makes the mood of the novel as chilling, suspenseful and mind-boggling as it delves into the core of our being human: the pain of friendship, love, betrayal, revenge and acceptance. For 41 years, Hendrik only thought of that day and he waited for Konrad’s return to know the truth. The slow unfolding of it amidst the eerie locale - Hungarian castle in the middle of the forest – the silence, the dark and the image of the two old men talking to each other. The slowness of the development of the story strangely makes the reading interesting. It is like the slow opening of the castle’s door with all the creaking sound while the stillness of the night reverberates in one’s brain.
The only caution? If you are a type of a reader who wants fast-paced action and lots of twist, don’t go for this book. I guess you will appreciate this more if you are at least in your middle-age already and/or you’ve been wronged or hurt by a loved one before and you haven’t forgiven him or her. Marai’s words, uttered by Hendrik, can be a good start for you to find forgiveness lurking somewhere inside your heart.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
September 20, 2017
“All that is left in the embers is ash, black ash, with the sheen of a mourning veil of watered silk.”
“Embers” is the ideal title to summon up the melancholic decadence that soaks the pages of this intense but short novella. Candles burn until they are totally consumed by the flickering nature of their essence, as it happens with life when confronted with its impending mortality.
Two old men, General Henrik and Kondrád, meet after forty years in a secluded castle in the heart of Hungary, where the splendorous music of Chopin and flourishing soirees with elegantly attired guests that once crowded its saloons are now replaced by the stale odor of ageing and the heavy weight of secrets.
What initially looked like a nostalgic encounter between close friends, gradually acquires shades of darker colors that escalate in intrigue and dramatic tension until the facts that ruined the lives of these two gentlemen are brought into full light by the ruthless evidence of words. A duel without weapons is about to take place, and the enduring memory of a woman will be the point into which both men’s destinies will converge.
But are facts or words for that matter enough to condemn a friend, almost a brother, for betrayal?
Does loyalty disable the unselfish love that should come with true friendship?
Is revenge satisfactory in front of a wasted life, overcast with doubt, guilt and rancor?
Márai’s characters emerge from the intrigue he dexterously surrounds them with rather than the convoluted tapestry of their psychological portraits. rscHenrik’s interrogation reads more like a philosophical monologue than a real conversation, and his guest remains a shadowy presence who listens passively to Henrik’s accusations. But a handicap in Márai’s hands becomes a valuable asset.
The counterpoint of the ghostly female characters, Kristina and Nini, presented in extreme roles; one as irresistible goddess that triggers wild passions, the other as the saintly figure of devoted surrogate mother, adds to the essence of the otherwise unoriginal tonality of the plotline.
Márai’s style is captivating and uniquely intimate. His fresh prose brims over with achingly beautiful passages that invoke the glory of old times drenched with woe and wonder, not exempt of nostalgia. Henrik’s discourse is paced and calmly delivered, with incisive meditations on the meaning of love, jealousy and duty, but the relentless pressure of his carefully selected words trap you and keep you turning pages with increasing frenzy until his past becomes your present and his mental landscape becomes your own.
Márai uses the word as a liberating force, as the ethic pillar on which the burden of a life that nears extinction can finally rest. Passion might be the real motor of existence, but Márai’s tale reminds us that reconciliation, and words, are required to give way to the future, regardless of how dark that future might be.
“Embers” is the ideal title to summon up the melancholic decadence that soaks the pages of this intense but short novella. Candles burn until they are totally consumed by the flickering nature of their essence, as it happens with life when confronted with its impending mortality.
Two old men, General Henrik and Kondrád, meet after forty years in a secluded castle in the heart of Hungary, where the splendorous music of Chopin and flourishing soirees with elegantly attired guests that once crowded its saloons are now replaced by the stale odor of ageing and the heavy weight of secrets.
What initially looked like a nostalgic encounter between close friends, gradually acquires shades of darker colors that escalate in intrigue and dramatic tension until the facts that ruined the lives of these two gentlemen are brought into full light by the ruthless evidence of words. A duel without weapons is about to take place, and the enduring memory of a woman will be the point into which both men’s destinies will converge.
But are facts or words for that matter enough to condemn a friend, almost a brother, for betrayal?
Does loyalty disable the unselfish love that should come with true friendship?
Is revenge satisfactory in front of a wasted life, overcast with doubt, guilt and rancor?
Márai’s characters emerge from the intrigue he dexterously surrounds them with rather than the convoluted tapestry of their psychological portraits. rscHenrik’s interrogation reads more like a philosophical monologue than a real conversation, and his guest remains a shadowy presence who listens passively to Henrik’s accusations. But a handicap in Márai’s hands becomes a valuable asset.
The counterpoint of the ghostly female characters, Kristina and Nini, presented in extreme roles; one as irresistible goddess that triggers wild passions, the other as the saintly figure of devoted surrogate mother, adds to the essence of the otherwise unoriginal tonality of the plotline.
Márai’s style is captivating and uniquely intimate. His fresh prose brims over with achingly beautiful passages that invoke the glory of old times drenched with woe and wonder, not exempt of nostalgia. Henrik’s discourse is paced and calmly delivered, with incisive meditations on the meaning of love, jealousy and duty, but the relentless pressure of his carefully selected words trap you and keep you turning pages with increasing frenzy until his past becomes your present and his mental landscape becomes your own.
Márai uses the word as a liberating force, as the ethic pillar on which the burden of a life that nears extinction can finally rest. Passion might be the real motor of existence, but Márai’s tale reminds us that reconciliation, and words, are required to give way to the future, regardless of how dark that future might be.
July 4, 2022
أسئلة الحياة تتغير إجاباتها بمرور العمر وجميعنا بطريقة أو بأخرى نفقد من نحب
اللقاء الأخير بين رجلين في السبعين بعد انتظار دام واحد وأربعين سنة
جلسة بوح طويلة لأحدهما تبدو وكأنها محاكمة أو مُساءلة لمعرفة الحقيقة
استعادة لتفاصيل الحياة والذكريات وتساؤلات عن الصداقة والحب والخيانة
لقاء للخلاص من ألم وفوضى النفس حتى بدون الوصول لإجابات حاسمة
اللقاء الأخير بين رجلين في السبعين بعد انتظار دام واحد وأربعين سنة
جلسة بوح طويلة لأحدهما تبدو وكأنها محاكمة أو مُساءلة لمعرفة الحقيقة
استعادة لتفاصيل الحياة والذكريات وتساؤلات عن الصداقة والحب والخيانة
لقاء للخلاص من ألم وفوضى النفس حتى بدون الوصول لإجابات حاسمة
April 22, 2025
Haunting, melancholic, nostalgic
Once upon a time two children had a friendship that bound them so delicately together, that they might have been living cradled in the huge dreaming pads of a great water lily.
Set in a dilapidated castle in Hungary, the story centers on Henrik and Konrád, two old estranged friends and their long-awaited reunion.
They were different, yet the same; they belonged together; they were allies; they were a community of two; they were indivisible; they were one.
But then, something happened and they weren’t friends anymore. Something happened and one of them left.
But now, after 41 years the once inseparable friends will meet, questions will be asked, secrets will be revealed and memories will be remembered.
I knew that one day you would come to me again. I waited you out, because everything that is worth waiting for has its own season and its own logic. And now the moment has come.
This elegant yet tense story or more aptly, philosophical ruminations, explores the themes of friendship, loyalty, passage of time and memories.
Once upon a time two children had a friendship that bound them so delicately together, that they might have been living cradled in the huge dreaming pads of a great water lily.
Set in a dilapidated castle in Hungary, the story centers on Henrik and Konrád, two old estranged friends and their long-awaited reunion.
They were different, yet the same; they belonged together; they were allies; they were a community of two; they were indivisible; they were one.
But then, something happened and they weren’t friends anymore. Something happened and one of them left.
But now, after 41 years the once inseparable friends will meet, questions will be asked, secrets will be revealed and memories will be remembered.
I knew that one day you would come to me again. I waited you out, because everything that is worth waiting for has its own season and its own logic. And now the moment has come.
This elegant yet tense story or more aptly, philosophical ruminations, explores the themes of friendship, loyalty, passage of time and memories.
August 25, 2021
C'era qualcosa su cui non riuscivano a comprendersi. Eppure si amavano.
1. Questo libro è scritto benissimo.
2. Questo libro è strutturato benissimo.
3. Alcuni passi e certe pagine raggiungono vette di poesia altissime.
Ma:
1. Questo libro è completamente raccontato, non presenta parti mostrate. Nemmeno nei romanzi più romantici del romanticismo c'è così poco show e così tanto tell.
2. Più di metà del romanzo è un monologo.
3. Per dire cose che si potevano dire in qualche riga, l'autore impiega decine di pagine ripetendo anche più volte lo stesso concetto, certo delle sue convinzioni tanto che pone domande e si risponde da solo.
A pagina centosessantasei su centosettantadue, l'interlocutore del generale - il protagonista autore del pedante monologo - dice: "Credo che ormai abbiamo parlato di tutto. È ora di andar via."
Che fai, mi prendi in giro? "Abbiamo parlato di tutto"? Ma se tu non hai niente. Ha fatto tutto Henrik, il generale. Ha detto per tutto il libro che voleva la verità e non ha fatto altro che dirla da solo! Allora non c'era nemmeno bisogno di scrivere il libro, scusa eh.
La prima parte mi è piaciuta perché mi ha ricordato molto "L'amico ritrovato" e mi sono sentito a casa. Anche se l'amiciza tra i due bambini assumeva toni ancora più rosa di quella narrata da Uhlman. Cioè, hanno pure fatto voto di castità (?) durante l'adolescenza.
Passiamo al monologo di Henrik. Aggiungiamo il fatto che se fossi stato Konrad, avrei ucciso l'amico con un candelabro seduta stante. Dopo un po' taci, insomma. Parli a vanvera per una notte intera, dici che mi devi fare delle domande e poi ti rispondi da solo? Sei scemo o mangi sassi?
E poi a volte fa delle riflessioni così petulanti, barbose, proprio da vecchio annoiato, che non puoi essere d'accordo nemmeno se ti piace alla follia il modo in cui sono scritte.
Detto questo, forse Màrai, con tutto quello che ha scritto, ha scritto di meglio. Gli darò un'altra occasione, più avanti. Lo stile lo merita. Il troppo raccontato e il mostrato inesistente non glielo farebbero meritare, ma quando mi piace com'è scritto qualcosa, ci sono sempre dei dettagli da salvare.
Ultima cosa: l'aspetto più positivo del romanzo è la balia Nini. L'unico personaggio veramente ben caratterizzato e interessante, è bello sentirne parlare. E poi è tenerissima.
1. Questo libro è scritto benissimo.
2. Questo libro è strutturato benissimo.
3. Alcuni passi e certe pagine raggiungono vette di poesia altissime.
Ma:
1. Questo libro è completamente raccontato, non presenta parti mostrate. Nemmeno nei romanzi più romantici del romanticismo c'è così poco show e così tanto tell.
2. Più di metà del romanzo è un monologo.
3. Per dire cose che si potevano dire in qualche riga, l'autore impiega decine di pagine ripetendo anche più volte lo stesso concetto, certo delle sue convinzioni tanto che pone domande e si risponde da solo.
A pagina centosessantasei su centosettantadue, l'interlocutore del generale - il protagonista autore del pedante monologo - dice: "Credo che ormai abbiamo parlato di tutto. È ora di andar via."
Che fai, mi prendi in giro? "Abbiamo parlato di tutto"? Ma se tu non hai niente. Ha fatto tutto Henrik, il generale. Ha detto per tutto il libro che voleva la verità e non ha fatto altro che dirla da solo! Allora non c'era nemmeno bisogno di scrivere il libro, scusa eh.
La prima parte mi è piaciuta perché mi ha ricordato molto "L'amico ritrovato" e mi sono sentito a casa. Anche se l'amiciza tra i due bambini assumeva toni ancora più rosa di quella narrata da Uhlman. Cioè, hanno pure fatto voto di castità (?) durante l'adolescenza.
Passiamo al monologo di Henrik. Aggiungiamo il fatto che se fossi stato Konrad, avrei ucciso l'amico con un candelabro seduta stante. Dopo un po' taci, insomma. Parli a vanvera per una notte intera, dici che mi devi fare delle domande e poi ti rispondi da solo? Sei scemo o mangi sassi?
E poi a volte fa delle riflessioni così petulanti, barbose, proprio da vecchio annoiato, che non puoi essere d'accordo nemmeno se ti piace alla follia il modo in cui sono scritte.
Detto questo, forse Màrai, con tutto quello che ha scritto, ha scritto di meglio. Gli darò un'altra occasione, più avanti. Lo stile lo merita. Il troppo raccontato e il mostrato inesistente non glielo farebbero meritare, ma quando mi piace com'è scritto qualcosa, ci sono sempre dei dettagli da salvare.
Ultima cosa: l'aspetto più positivo del romanzo è la balia Nini. L'unico personaggio veramente ben caratterizzato e interessante, è bello sentirne parlare. E poi è tenerissima.
October 26, 2017
L'ultimo duello
Siamo nel 1940, quando già divampa la Seconda Guerra Mondiale. Due uomini di 75 anni si fronteggiano nella sala del castello di uno di loro (il Generale). Sono ben 41 anni che i due non si vedono. Eppure erano intimi amici fin dall'adolescenza benché, o forse proprio perché, tanto diversi : uno ricco, razionale, militaresco; l'altro di famiglia non abbiente, di temperamento artistico, amante della musica.
Perché dunque un così lungo periodo di voluto allontanamento ?
Fra di loro c'è l'impalpabile presenza di una donna, ormai defunta da decenni : un 'bel fantasma' che ha segnato la vita dei due.
Ora il Generale ha delle questioni da porre, le quali da strettamente private diventano esistenziali. Ed è proprio la presenza di questo 'afflato cosmico' a collocare il celebre scrittore ungherese Sandor Marai fra i Grandi della letteratura.
In quel freddo salone del castello, le braci non ardono solo nel caminetto, ove pure sono presenze non solo metaforiche, pronte a divampare in fiamme che annientano.
Il ritmo incalzante della scrittura inchioda il lettore in un clima di progressiva tensione fino all'ultima pagina.
L'atmosfera, benché inquisitoria, potrebbe essere definita di sontuosa seduta analitica, dove la ragione non è sufficiente : le sue ragioni schiudono piuttosto nuovi interrogativi sullo scatenarsi delle passioni, sull'esile confine tra odio e amore...
C'è però un' altra figura femminile, nel contempo reale e simbolica, ad essere punto fermo e rifugio affettivo nella vita del Generale : una donna ancora viva; la vecchissima balia di età si direbbe leggendaria, ancora capace di accogliere, rassicurare, consolare : lei gli fa il Segno della Croce; lui le dà un bacio: "come tutti i baci umani, anche questo (...) è la risposta a una domanda che non è possibile affidare alle parole".
Siamo nel 1940, quando già divampa la Seconda Guerra Mondiale. Due uomini di 75 anni si fronteggiano nella sala del castello di uno di loro (il Generale). Sono ben 41 anni che i due non si vedono. Eppure erano intimi amici fin dall'adolescenza benché, o forse proprio perché, tanto diversi : uno ricco, razionale, militaresco; l'altro di famiglia non abbiente, di temperamento artistico, amante della musica.
Perché dunque un così lungo periodo di voluto allontanamento ?
Fra di loro c'è l'impalpabile presenza di una donna, ormai defunta da decenni : un 'bel fantasma' che ha segnato la vita dei due.
Ora il Generale ha delle questioni da porre, le quali da strettamente private diventano esistenziali. Ed è proprio la presenza di questo 'afflato cosmico' a collocare il celebre scrittore ungherese Sandor Marai fra i Grandi della letteratura.
In quel freddo salone del castello, le braci non ardono solo nel caminetto, ove pure sono presenze non solo metaforiche, pronte a divampare in fiamme che annientano.
Il ritmo incalzante della scrittura inchioda il lettore in un clima di progressiva tensione fino all'ultima pagina.
L'atmosfera, benché inquisitoria, potrebbe essere definita di sontuosa seduta analitica, dove la ragione non è sufficiente : le sue ragioni schiudono piuttosto nuovi interrogativi sullo scatenarsi delle passioni, sull'esile confine tra odio e amore...
C'è però un' altra figura femminile, nel contempo reale e simbolica, ad essere punto fermo e rifugio affettivo nella vita del Generale : una donna ancora viva; la vecchissima balia di età si direbbe leggendaria, ancora capace di accogliere, rassicurare, consolare : lei gli fa il Segno della Croce; lui le dà un bacio: "come tutti i baci umani, anche questo (...) è la risposta a una domanda che non è possibile affidare alle parole".
July 29, 2021
Great story and great writing!!!
March 5, 2017
“We will talk these things through once more, try to establish the truth and then go to our deaths, I in this house, you somewhere else…”
My impression of Hungarian authors so far has been that they really know how to write dark and depressing gems. Embers is just that, and possibly the saddest and loneliest little book I’ve read in a while.
What’s lonelier than an elderly recluse brooding for decades in an isolated castle?
Familiar themes abound here: love, betrayal, regret. But it’s done in such an almost perfect way that you’re right there in front of the fireplace, drenched in melancholy, as the dialogue backs you into a corner of nostalgia, fear, and oppression. This was a claustrophobic, beautiful-sad reading experience.
Interestingly, this was the first time that I recall reading something that made me understand, at least a little, what it must feel like for those who love a tortured soul. The strained, fruitless effort of it. I almost felt like apologizing.
My impression of Hungarian authors so far has been that they really know how to write dark and depressing gems. Embers is just that, and possibly the saddest and loneliest little book I’ve read in a while.
What’s lonelier than an elderly recluse brooding for decades in an isolated castle?
Familiar themes abound here: love, betrayal, regret. But it’s done in such an almost perfect way that you’re right there in front of the fireplace, drenched in melancholy, as the dialogue backs you into a corner of nostalgia, fear, and oppression. This was a claustrophobic, beautiful-sad reading experience.
Interestingly, this was the first time that I recall reading something that made me understand, at least a little, what it must feel like for those who love a tortured soul. The strained, fruitless effort of it. I almost felt like apologizing.
January 31, 2021
This is the last of the books I received as presents at Christmas 2020, and this novel, which I read in translation, is deservedly gaining the status of a modern classic. It’s based around the concept of two 75-year-old men, Henrik and Konrad, who are reunited after an absence of 41 years. In the novel Henrik is mostly referred to as “the General”. The two met as 10-year-old boys and stayed the closest of friends for 24 years, when suddenly Konrad resigned his Army Commission and disappeared.
This isn’t a book to read if you want a plot-driven novel. The bulk of it takes place over a dinner the two men have at the General’s castle. I was expecting it to take the form of a conversation, but it’s more of a monologue by the General, who has spent the last 41 years thinking about the day his friend disappeared. Slowly, gradually, the story of that day is unravelled, and is absolutely compelling. What’s left at the end are the life stories of two men who, in their last years, no longer have any reason to pretend.
This isn’t a book to read if you want a plot-driven novel. The bulk of it takes place over a dinner the two men have at the General’s castle. I was expecting it to take the form of a conversation, but it’s more of a monologue by the General, who has spent the last 41 years thinking about the day his friend disappeared. Slowly, gradually, the story of that day is unravelled, and is absolutely compelling. What’s left at the end are the life stories of two men who, in their last years, no longer have any reason to pretend.
January 4, 2012
Blah blah blah put on a puffed up high horse pedestal. I really hate this book. Pseudo "and this was happening cause that's how it happens" styling itself as meaning of shit you could read on a quote of the day site. I HATE books that think telling you this is the same as actually having any meaning. You don't get to just say it and tell me you said it, you awful book. Please, stop coming into my life if you are one of these books!
Or it is a greeting card. The greeting card is to give to the spineless seventy something year old man in your life to avoid coming over and listening to him beat about the bush until you feel as old as his ninety-one year old nursemaid. I don't want to wipe the spit off his weak chin because he's too much of a pussy to have a thought! He can wipe his own ass, I hope it goes without saying.
It's Of Human Bondage if it sucked, pretty much. OHB was essentially a series of conversations to tell the protagonist about life issues that mattered to the author. But they were good conversations! This was shoehorning into meaningless pontifications for... I have no idea. He probably loved to hear himself talk. I didn't need to be miserable to know that people talk up stuff to the point it resembles a bad soap opera with themselves as the lead (with looks and charm enough to rescue them from the fast paced world of fashion modeling for K-Mart fashions). I don't need to be bored into a black hole to know that there are people who are as boring as a black hole.
Ok, here's an example.
"From the first moment, they lived together like twins in their mother's womb. For this they had no need of one of those pacts of the kind that is common among boys their age, who swear friendship with comical solemn rituals and the sort of portentous intensity invoked by people when for the first time they experience, in unconscious and distorted forms, the need to remove another human being from the world, body and soul, and make him uniquely theirs. For that is the hidden force within both friendship and love, Their friendship was deep and wordless, as are all the emotions that will last a lifetime. And like all great emotions, this one contained within itself both shame and a sense of guilt, for no one may isolate one of his fellows from the rest of humanity with impunity."
It all reads like that. Nothing happens. Just that kind of happening which is shit. Don't think for yourself here.
I read on amazon that this was a translation from German (from Hungarian). Maybe the original was good. I'm not going to lose sleep over it. If I were a better reviewer I could be more graphic in my hate levels. I would need my own chin and ass wiped. Alas.
Or it is a greeting card. The greeting card is to give to the spineless seventy something year old man in your life to avoid coming over and listening to him beat about the bush until you feel as old as his ninety-one year old nursemaid. I don't want to wipe the spit off his weak chin because he's too much of a pussy to have a thought! He can wipe his own ass, I hope it goes without saying.
It's Of Human Bondage if it sucked, pretty much. OHB was essentially a series of conversations to tell the protagonist about life issues that mattered to the author. But they were good conversations! This was shoehorning into meaningless pontifications for... I have no idea. He probably loved to hear himself talk. I didn't need to be miserable to know that people talk up stuff to the point it resembles a bad soap opera with themselves as the lead (with looks and charm enough to rescue them from the fast paced world of fashion modeling for K-Mart fashions). I don't need to be bored into a black hole to know that there are people who are as boring as a black hole.
Ok, here's an example.
"From the first moment, they lived together like twins in their mother's womb. For this they had no need of one of those pacts of the kind that is common among boys their age, who swear friendship with comical solemn rituals and the sort of portentous intensity invoked by people when for the first time they experience, in unconscious and distorted forms, the need to remove another human being from the world, body and soul, and make him uniquely theirs. For that is the hidden force within both friendship and love, Their friendship was deep and wordless, as are all the emotions that will last a lifetime. And like all great emotions, this one contained within itself both shame and a sense of guilt, for no one may isolate one of his fellows from the rest of humanity with impunity."
It all reads like that. Nothing happens. Just that kind of happening which is shit. Don't think for yourself here.
I read on amazon that this was a translation from German (from Hungarian). Maybe the original was good. I'm not going to lose sleep over it. If I were a better reviewer I could be more graphic in my hate levels. I would need my own chin and ass wiped. Alas.
January 30, 2024
Sevgili Yapı Kredi Yayınları, böyle bir kitap varken neden tutup Sandor Marai'nin iki vasat metnini; Buda'da Bir Boşanma ile Eszter’in Mirası'nı bastınız acaba ya, soruyorum size. Teliflerle ilgili bir konudur diye düşünmek istiyorum zira bunun başka bir izahı olamaz. Yürek Yangını muhteşem, muhteşem bir kitap çünkü.
Kitabı anlatmaya geçmeden evvel bir not: şu anda kitabın baskısı yok ama, bir şekilde bulursanız ya da elinizde varsa, rica ediyorum arka kapağı zinhar okumayın. Zira 180 sayfalık kitabın 120. sayfasında öğreneceğiniz şeyi yayınevi bir güzel anlatıvermiş arka kapakta. Fiyat etiketinde 8.5 milyon lira yazan bu kitabın basıldığı 2003 yılından beri yayınevlerimizin en azından arka kapakta spoiler vermemeyi öğrenmiş olduğunu görmek sevindirici.
Neyse. Gelelim kitaba. Tıpkı Buda'da Bir Boşanma gibi bu kitap da bir uzun monolog aslında. Sene 1940. General Henrik'in, 41 yıldır görüşmediği en yakın arkadaşı Konrad ile yıllar sonra karşılaşması ve bir uzun gece boyunca konuşması... Farklı sınıflardan gelen bu ikili arasında (evet, elbette yine sınıf, çünkü Marai...) bir büyük sır var ve fakat General akla ilk gelecek soruları değil, bambaşka şeyleri soruyor. Konrad neredeyse hiç konuşmuyor; Henrik'in, cevapları içinde gizli olan olağanüstü sorularıyla gerçeği öğreniyoruz - yahut seziyoruz demeli belki. Bazı şeylerin kelimelerle anlatılamayacağını, kimi cevapların salt sessizlikte gizli olduğunu anlıyor insan okudukça. Öyle incelikli örülmüş, öyle iyi yazılmış ki metin... Anıların ve acıların demlendikçe nasıl biçim değiştirebildiğini, arkadaşlığın içinde ne tür zehirler barındırabileceğini, korkaklıkla kibirin nasıl birbirine yakınsayabileceğini öğrendim bu kitaptan.
Bir alıntıyla bitireyim, baskısı olmayan kitaba daha fazla özendirerek ayıp etmek istemem. 2024'ün Türk-Macar Kültür Yılı olmasından ötürü acaba bu kitabın yeni baskısını görebileceğimize dair bir umut besleyebilir miyiz acaba ya? Keşke olsa.
"O bana her şeyi anlatırdı. Karşısındakine her şeyi söylemeyi bu kadar şiddetle isteyen birinin aslında hayati önem taşıyan ciddi bir şeyden bahsetmek zorunda kalmamak için böylesine dürüst olduğunu hiç düşünmemiştim."
Çok büyük yazarsın Marai, çok. 🤍
Kitabı anlatmaya geçmeden evvel bir not: şu anda kitabın baskısı yok ama, bir şekilde bulursanız ya da elinizde varsa, rica ediyorum arka kapağı zinhar okumayın. Zira 180 sayfalık kitabın 120. sayfasında öğreneceğiniz şeyi yayınevi bir güzel anlatıvermiş arka kapakta. Fiyat etiketinde 8.5 milyon lira yazan bu kitabın basıldığı 2003 yılından beri yayınevlerimizin en azından arka kapakta spoiler vermemeyi öğrenmiş olduğunu görmek sevindirici.
Neyse. Gelelim kitaba. Tıpkı Buda'da Bir Boşanma gibi bu kitap da bir uzun monolog aslında. Sene 1940. General Henrik'in, 41 yıldır görüşmediği en yakın arkadaşı Konrad ile yıllar sonra karşılaşması ve bir uzun gece boyunca konuşması... Farklı sınıflardan gelen bu ikili arasında (evet, elbette yine sınıf, çünkü Marai...) bir büyük sır var ve fakat General akla ilk gelecek soruları değil, bambaşka şeyleri soruyor. Konrad neredeyse hiç konuşmuyor; Henrik'in, cevapları içinde gizli olan olağanüstü sorularıyla gerçeği öğreniyoruz - yahut seziyoruz demeli belki. Bazı şeylerin kelimelerle anlatılamayacağını, kimi cevapların salt sessizlikte gizli olduğunu anlıyor insan okudukça. Öyle incelikli örülmüş, öyle iyi yazılmış ki metin... Anıların ve acıların demlendikçe nasıl biçim değiştirebildiğini, arkadaşlığın içinde ne tür zehirler barındırabileceğini, korkaklıkla kibirin nasıl birbirine yakınsayabileceğini öğrendim bu kitaptan.
Bir alıntıyla bitireyim, baskısı olmayan kitaba daha fazla özendirerek ayıp etmek istemem. 2024'ün Türk-Macar Kültür Yılı olmasından ötürü acaba bu kitabın yeni baskısını görebileceğimize dair bir umut besleyebilir miyiz acaba ya? Keşke olsa.
"O bana her şeyi anlatırdı. Karşısındakine her şeyi söylemeyi bu kadar şiddetle isteyen birinin aslında hayati önem taşıyan ciddi bir şeyden bahsetmek zorunda kalmamak için böylesine dürüst olduğunu hiç düşünmemiştim."
Çok büyük yazarsın Marai, çok. 🤍
August 25, 2024
Sándor Marai es un escritor que nunca me ha defraudado, cada novela tiene su encanto y logra trasmitirme emociones.
Hablamos del tiempo, dos hombres han sido íntimos amigos desde la adolescencia por 20 años, un día cualquiera uno de ellos se va sin decir nada abandona su casa, trabajo, posesiones y se marcha con rumbo desconocido sin una palabra de despedida.
41 años y 43 días después el amigo reaparece.
¿Que se dirán en esta reunión?, hay muchas preguntas que rondan por ahí, habrá un reencuentro amistoso, se podrá continuar la amistad donde quedó.
Aunque el libro está conformado en su mayoría por reflexiones, disertaciones y recuerdos, parece que fluye de manera tranquila e inmutable todo lo que se dice tiene una implicación, un sentido, una belleza, no hay palabras desperdiciadas o vanas, no hay formulismos, ni tampoco obviedades, lo que hay es un diagnóstico, un examen, una forma de encarar una vida que ya se vivió, buena o mala.
La vejez es un tema extraño, siempre existe un cierto ensueño o imagen de personas ancianas disfrutando de su familia o del tiempo libre, pero cuál es la realidad de una persona que ha resistido el maratón de la vida, un recuento de pérdidas sin lugar a dudas, personas queridas, posesiones, oficios, aficiones, que queda al final, cuando la muerte acecha sin remedio, que vale la pena al final del camino, que acompaña día con día, a donde se recurre, llega la sabiduría y el reconocimiento de la verdad, de lo importante o de lo esencial, puede ser que si, pero en la mayoría de los casos ya se ha perdido casi todo, que de alguna manera lo aprendido se vuelve insustancial.
En medio de esta conversación, uno se siente implicado y retado a pensar en su propio recorrido por esta vida, analizar que tanto hemos perdido o ganado, como afrontamos los años y los sucesos que vamos enfrentando.
Es un libro que vale la pena leer, porque la sensibilidad del escritor permite sentirse identificado con uno u otro personaje, más allá de la época, del país, de la situación, los conceptos y temas son tratados de una manera tan inteligente que perduran y nos llevan a la introspección.
Hablamos del tiempo, dos hombres han sido íntimos amigos desde la adolescencia por 20 años, un día cualquiera uno de ellos se va sin decir nada abandona su casa, trabajo, posesiones y se marcha con rumbo desconocido sin una palabra de despedida.
41 años y 43 días después el amigo reaparece.
¿Que se dirán en esta reunión?, hay muchas preguntas que rondan por ahí, habrá un reencuentro amistoso, se podrá continuar la amistad donde quedó.
Aunque el libro está conformado en su mayoría por reflexiones, disertaciones y recuerdos, parece que fluye de manera tranquila e inmutable todo lo que se dice tiene una implicación, un sentido, una belleza, no hay palabras desperdiciadas o vanas, no hay formulismos, ni tampoco obviedades, lo que hay es un diagnóstico, un examen, una forma de encarar una vida que ya se vivió, buena o mala.
La vejez es un tema extraño, siempre existe un cierto ensueño o imagen de personas ancianas disfrutando de su familia o del tiempo libre, pero cuál es la realidad de una persona que ha resistido el maratón de la vida, un recuento de pérdidas sin lugar a dudas, personas queridas, posesiones, oficios, aficiones, que queda al final, cuando la muerte acecha sin remedio, que vale la pena al final del camino, que acompaña día con día, a donde se recurre, llega la sabiduría y el reconocimiento de la verdad, de lo importante o de lo esencial, puede ser que si, pero en la mayoría de los casos ya se ha perdido casi todo, que de alguna manera lo aprendido se vuelve insustancial.
En medio de esta conversación, uno se siente implicado y retado a pensar en su propio recorrido por esta vida, analizar que tanto hemos perdido o ganado, como afrontamos los años y los sucesos que vamos enfrentando.
Es un libro que vale la pena leer, porque la sensibilidad del escritor permite sentirse identificado con uno u otro personaje, más allá de la época, del país, de la situación, los conceptos y temas son tratados de una manera tan inteligente que perduran y nos llevan a la introspección.
April 20, 2017
This was a powerful read that pulled my heart along with the narrator Henrik’s soul-searching dialogue (perhaps monologue is more appropriate) with his best friend and enemy Konrad whom he has not seen for forty-one years. The story is set in the 1900s in the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
The speech evokes a past love triangle between the two and Henrik’s wife, long dead, and a murder attempt. Henrik chose to stay silent about the double betrayal and to live on stoically. Konrad chose to escape to the tropics. Henrik’s wife chose to die.
Henrik’s mordant observations about fidelity and betrayal between intimate man-friends, passionate and possessive man-and-woman relationship, dark human nature like arrogance and cowardice, and the solitude and sorrow of aging are beautifully woven into a web of silky smooth words that has the power of swallowing one’s heart and mind whole with no reprieve.
I find these passages especially striking:
It’s the moment when something happens not just deep among the trees but also in the dark interior of the human heart, for the heart, too, has its night and its wild surges, as strong an instinct for the hunt as a wolf or a stag. The human night is filled with the crouching forms of dreams, desires, vanities, self-interest, mad love, envy, and the thirst for revenge, as the desert night conceals the puma, the hawk and the jackal.
Every exercise of power incorporates a faint, almost imperceptible, element of contempt for those over whom the power is exercised. One can only dominate another human soul if one knows, understands, and with the utmost tact despises the person one is subjugating.
There is this question of otherness….So just as it is blood alone that binds people to defend one another in the face of danger, on the spiritual plane one person will struggle to help another only if this person is not ‘different’, and if, quite aside from opinions and convictions, they share similar natures at the deepest level.
Is the idea of fidelity not an appalling egoism and also as vain as most other human concerns? When we demand fidelity, are we wishing for the other person’s happiness? And if that person connot be happy in the subtle prison of fidelity, do we really prove our love by demanding fidelity nonetheless? And if we do not love that person in a way that makes her happy, do we have the right to expect fidelity or any other sacrifice?
Do you also believe that what gives our lives their meaning is the passion that suddenly invades our heart, soul and body, and burns in us forever, no matter what else happens in our lives?.... Is it indeed about desiring any one person, or is it about desiring desire itself? Or perhaps, is it indeed about desiring a particular person, a single, mysterious other, once and for always, no matter whether that person is good or bad, and the intensity of our feelings bears no relation to that individual’s qualities or behavior?
This novel forces one to ponder on one's own intimate relationships.
The speech evokes a past love triangle between the two and Henrik’s wife, long dead, and a murder attempt. Henrik chose to stay silent about the double betrayal and to live on stoically. Konrad chose to escape to the tropics. Henrik’s wife chose to die.
Henrik’s mordant observations about fidelity and betrayal between intimate man-friends, passionate and possessive man-and-woman relationship, dark human nature like arrogance and cowardice, and the solitude and sorrow of aging are beautifully woven into a web of silky smooth words that has the power of swallowing one’s heart and mind whole with no reprieve.
I find these passages especially striking:
It’s the moment when something happens not just deep among the trees but also in the dark interior of the human heart, for the heart, too, has its night and its wild surges, as strong an instinct for the hunt as a wolf or a stag. The human night is filled with the crouching forms of dreams, desires, vanities, self-interest, mad love, envy, and the thirst for revenge, as the desert night conceals the puma, the hawk and the jackal.
Every exercise of power incorporates a faint, almost imperceptible, element of contempt for those over whom the power is exercised. One can only dominate another human soul if one knows, understands, and with the utmost tact despises the person one is subjugating.
There is this question of otherness….So just as it is blood alone that binds people to defend one another in the face of danger, on the spiritual plane one person will struggle to help another only if this person is not ‘different’, and if, quite aside from opinions and convictions, they share similar natures at the deepest level.
Is the idea of fidelity not an appalling egoism and also as vain as most other human concerns? When we demand fidelity, are we wishing for the other person’s happiness? And if that person connot be happy in the subtle prison of fidelity, do we really prove our love by demanding fidelity nonetheless? And if we do not love that person in a way that makes her happy, do we have the right to expect fidelity or any other sacrifice?
Do you also believe that what gives our lives their meaning is the passion that suddenly invades our heart, soul and body, and burns in us forever, no matter what else happens in our lives?.... Is it indeed about desiring any one person, or is it about desiring desire itself? Or perhaps, is it indeed about desiring a particular person, a single, mysterious other, once and for always, no matter whether that person is good or bad, and the intensity of our feelings bears no relation to that individual’s qualities or behavior?
This novel forces one to ponder on one's own intimate relationships.
October 20, 2020
صداقة تجمع بين شخصين من طبقة مختلفة، واحد غني وابن مسـؤول والثاني عزيز نفس من عائلة ميسورة الحال. أحدهم رحل، ابتعد عن الشخص أو الشخصين اللذين يحب مرعوبًا من سر، وآخر بقي ملتزمًا الصمت وينتظر جوابًا خلال زمن كأنه الأبدية. بعد مرور واحد وأربعون عامًا يلتقي الصديقان من جديد.
الزوجة والصديق جمعتهما الخيانة، عدم الوفاء والخداع. بقي سؤال يؤرق الزوج المخدوع. هل كانت زوجته على علم بأن صديق زوجها ذهب لقتله في رحلة صيد!؟.
رواية عميقة، ساحرة ومدهشة عن فلسفة الحب والصداقة والخيانة. معزوفة موسيقية هادئة عن معاناة الروح من ألم الخيانة والخداع.
اقتباسات..
“يقضي المرء الحياة بكاملها وهو يحضّر نفسه لشيء ما. في البداية يتملكه الغضب. بعد ذلك يريد الانتقام. ثم ينتظر”.
“الحياة حفلة يائسة، حفلة مهيبة وتراجيدية، حين يعلن عن نهايتها بصوت البوق وبأمر ما مشؤوم“.
“في يوم ما جميعنا سنفقد من نحب”.
“يعرف المرء الحقيقة دائمًا، الحقيقة الأخرى، الحقيقة المخفية خلف المظاهر، خلف الأقنعة، خلف المواقف المختلفة التي تبديها لنا الحياة”.
“العزلة هي أيضًا حالة في منتهى الخصوصية. أحيانًا تَمثُل كغابة ممتلئة بالمخاطر والمفاجآت. أنا أعرف كل تنوعاتها. السأم الذي تحاول عبثًا جعله يتوارى مستعينًا بنسق حياة منظمة بشكل اصطناعي. الأزمات المتكررة وغير المتوقعة. العزلة هي مكان طافح بالأسرار، مثل الغابة”.
“كل كتاب يحتوي على ذرة من الحقيقة”.
“حياة المرء بأسرها هي التي تجيب دائمًا عن الأسئلة الأكثر أهمية”.
“الذي يبحث عن الحقيقة عليه أن يبدأ بالبحث في داخله”.
“المعنى الحقيقي للصداقة بين الرجال هو تمامًا الإيثار على النفس: ألا نريد تضحية الآخر، ألا نريد رقته، ألا نريد شيء على الإطلاق، فقط المحافظة على انسجام التحالف دون كلمات”.
“لحظة رفع السلاح لقتل أحد على الأرجح ليست هي لحظة الإثم القصوى. الإثم كان موجودًا قبل ذلك، الإثم كائن في الطوية”.
“ما من شيء في العالم يعوّض عن الصداقة. ولا حتى العاطفة الضارية تستطيع أن تقدم كل ذلك الرضا مثل صداقة صامتة ورزينة للذين حالفهم الحظ ولامستهم قوتها”.
“الصداقة ليست حالة مزاجية مثالية. الصداقة هي قانون إنساني شديد الصرامة”.
“الصداقة لا يمكن أن تقود إلى الخداع، إذ في الصداقة لا يأمل المرء شيئًا من الآخر”.
“في حالة الخطر هناك دائمًا شيء من الفتنة والسحر. حين يتوجه القدر صوبنا، بأي شكل كان، وينادينا بأسمائنا، في عمق غمّنا ووجلنا تتألق دائمً جاذبية معينة لأن المرء لا يريد العيش فقط بأي ثمن، إنما يريد أن يعرف ويقبل القدر برمته بأي ثمن، حتى على حساب الخوف والدمار”.
“عبر التفاصيل فقط نستطيع فهم الجوهر، هذا ما تعلمته من تجربتي في الكتب وفي الحياة”.
“يمكن أن يكون لديك كل شيء في الحياة، يمكنك التغلب على كل ما حولك وفي العالم، كل شيء يمكن أن تعطيك الحياة ويمكنك انتزاع كل شيء، لكن لا يمكنك تغيير الأذواق، الميول، الإيقاعات الحيوية لشخص محدّد، هذه الكيفية التي تجعلك خاصًا ومختلفًا التي تطبع الشخص الذي يهمك أمره، الشخص الذي أنت على علاقة به”.
“هناك شيء أسوأ من الموت، أسوأ من الألم، هو حين يفقد المرء حبه الخاص”.
يجرح ويحرق إلى درجة لا يستطيع حتى الموت إطفاءه وهو حين يجرح شخص أو اثنان هذا الحب الذي من دونه لا نستطيع أن نحيا حياة كريمة”.
“يشيخ المرء شيئًا فشيئًا، تشيخ أولاً رغبته في الحياة، بالآخرين، كل شيء يصبح حقيقيًا، معروفًا ومكررًا بشكل ممل وفظيع”.
“حين تنتهي الرغبة بالمتعة لا يبقى سوى الذكريات والغر��ر، حينئذ، يشيخ المرء بشكل حتمي ونهائي”.
“تغدو الحياة مثيرة تقريبًا حين تكون قد تعلمت أكاذيب الآخرين، وتبدأ بالاستمتاع وأنت تراقبهم وترى بأنهم دائمًا يقولون شيئًا آخر عما يفكرون، عما يريدون حقيقة. في يوم ما تتوصل إلى القبول بالحقيقة، وهذا يعني الشيخوخة والموت. لكن ذلك لم يعد يؤلم أيضًا”.
الزوجة والصديق جمعتهما الخيانة، عدم الوفاء والخداع. بقي سؤال يؤرق الزوج المخدوع. هل كانت زوجته على علم بأن صديق زوجها ذهب لقتله في رحلة صيد!؟.
رواية عميقة، ساحرة ومدهشة عن فلسفة الحب والصداقة والخيانة. معزوفة موسيقية هادئة عن معاناة الروح من ألم الخيانة والخداع.
اقتباسات..
“يقضي المرء الحياة بكاملها وهو يحضّر نفسه لشيء ما. في البداية يتملكه الغضب. بعد ذلك يريد الانتقام. ثم ينتظر”.
“الحياة حفلة يائسة، حفلة مهيبة وتراجيدية، حين يعلن عن نهايتها بصوت البوق وبأمر ما مشؤوم“.
“في يوم ما جميعنا سنفقد من نحب”.
“يعرف المرء الحقيقة دائمًا، الحقيقة الأخرى، الحقيقة المخفية خلف المظاهر، خلف الأقنعة، خلف المواقف المختلفة التي تبديها لنا الحياة”.
“العزلة هي أيضًا حالة في منتهى الخصوصية. أحيانًا تَمثُل كغابة ممتلئة بالمخاطر والمفاجآت. أنا أعرف كل تنوعاتها. السأم الذي تحاول عبثًا جعله يتوارى مستعينًا بنسق حياة منظمة بشكل اصطناعي. الأزمات المتكررة وغير المتوقعة. العزلة هي مكان طافح بالأسرار، مثل الغابة”.
“كل كتاب يحتوي على ذرة من الحقيقة”.
“حياة المرء بأسرها هي التي تجيب دائمًا عن الأسئلة الأكثر أهمية”.
“الذي يبحث عن الحقيقة عليه أن يبدأ بالبحث في داخله”.
“المعنى الحقيقي للصداقة بين الرجال هو تمامًا الإيثار على النفس: ألا نريد تضحية الآخر، ألا نريد رقته، ألا نريد شيء على الإطلاق، فقط المحافظة على انسجام التحالف دون كلمات”.
“لحظة رفع السلاح لقتل أحد على الأرجح ليست هي لحظة الإثم القصوى. الإثم كان موجودًا قبل ذلك، الإثم كائن في الطوية”.
“ما من شيء في العالم يعوّض عن الصداقة. ولا حتى العاطفة الضارية تستطيع أن تقدم كل ذلك الرضا مثل صداقة صامتة ورزينة للذين حالفهم الحظ ولامستهم قوتها”.
“الصداقة ليست حالة مزاجية مثالية. الصداقة هي قانون إنساني شديد الصرامة”.
“الصداقة لا يمكن أن تقود إلى الخداع، إذ في الصداقة لا يأمل المرء شيئًا من الآخر”.
“في حالة الخطر هناك دائمًا شيء من الفتنة والسحر. حين يتوجه القدر صوبنا، بأي شكل كان، وينادينا بأسمائنا، في عمق غمّنا ووجلنا تتألق دائمً جاذبية معينة لأن المرء لا يريد العيش فقط بأي ثمن، إنما يريد أن يعرف ويقبل القدر برمته بأي ثمن، حتى على حساب الخوف والدمار”.
“عبر التفاصيل فقط نستطيع فهم الجوهر، هذا ما تعلمته من تجربتي في الكتب وفي الحياة”.
“يمكن أن يكون لديك كل شيء في الحياة، يمكنك التغلب على كل ما حولك وفي العالم، كل شيء يمكن أن تعطيك الحياة ويمكنك انتزاع كل شيء، لكن لا يمكنك تغيير الأذواق، الميول، الإيقاعات الحيوية لشخص محدّد، هذه الكيفية التي تجعلك خاصًا ومختلفًا التي تطبع الشخص الذي يهمك أمره، الشخص الذي أنت على علاقة به”.
“هناك شيء أسوأ من الموت، أسوأ من الألم، هو حين يفقد المرء حبه الخاص”.
يجرح ويحرق إلى درجة لا يستطيع حتى الموت إطفاءه وهو حين يجرح شخص أو اثنان هذا الحب الذي من دونه لا نستطيع أن نحيا حياة كريمة”.
“يشيخ المرء شيئًا فشيئًا، تشيخ أولاً رغبته في الحياة، بالآخرين، كل شيء يصبح حقيقيًا، معروفًا ومكررًا بشكل ممل وفظيع”.
“حين تنتهي الرغبة بالمتعة لا يبقى سوى الذكريات والغر��ر، حينئذ، يشيخ المرء بشكل حتمي ونهائي”.
“تغدو الحياة مثيرة تقريبًا حين تكون قد تعلمت أكاذيب الآخرين، وتبدأ بالاستمتاع وأنت تراقبهم وترى بأنهم دائمًا يقولون شيئًا آخر عما يفكرون، عما يريدون حقيقة. في يوم ما تتوصل إلى القبول بالحقيقة، وهذا يعني الشيخوخة والموت. لكن ذلك لم يعد يؤلم أيضًا”.
October 21, 2017
Foi a primeira vez que li Sándor Márai, confesso que me aproximei do mesmo pelas análises que fui lendo no Goodreads, mas também por surgir em várias listas relativas à crise existencial da meia-idade, fase em que de momento me encontro. O principal elemento que retiro desta leitura não é novo porque é um dos principais princípios do budismo, mas é no entanto sempre bom ir sendo relembrado deste: Tudo é Impermanente. Nada do que façamos ou nos façam, bom ou mau, dura para sempre.
A narrativa está escrita por forma a criar grande impacto no início da terceira parte, já que desvela teias entre personagens até então completamente insuspeitas. Contudo até lá chegar o livro arrasta-se, como se nos estivesse a preparar, a criar embalo para o embate, que consegue que aconteça, e acredito ser uma das principais razões porque o livro é tão recordado. Contudo quando analisado mais friamente percebemos que se trata de um twist de enredo para nos agarrar, e assente num dos mais velhos tópicos do romance. Ainda assim, o modo como vamos desvelando a informação sobre o que aconteceu, os comos e os porquês num tom muito peculiar, vamos nos deixando levar pelo embalo do autor.
Márai escreveu esta obra com 42 anos, e isso é por demais evidente no tratamento realizado do tema. Se à superfície a leitura que este faz de alguém com 70 e poucos anos, já a sentir a morte ao virar de esquina, parece perfeitamente coerente, só o é para alguém que ainda não chegou lá. Existe um claro desencanto com a vida, uma profunda melancolia, ao mesmo tempo que se tenta ir em frente e esquecer tudo o que provocou esse mal estar, mas sem sucesso. Ao contrário da mensagem que se quer passar, de que o tempo tudo cura, no caso, quatro décadas não chegaram para sarar feridas.
Para mim isto coaduna-se mais com um Márai de 42 anos a tentar projetar o seu futuro assente nos problemas do seu presente. É verdade que Márai se suicidou com 89 anos, mas nessa altura vivia noutro país, sozinho e era pobre, um cenário bastante diferente do do nosso General. O reencontro passado décadas, vidas completas passadas, dificilmente se agarraria tanto a um ponto único de viragem no passado, exatamente pelo que é dito perto do final: “O fogo purificador do tempo extraiu das recordações toda a ira.”.
Apesar disto, existe qualquer coisa de particular na escrita e tom de Márai, que nos agarra e puxa para dentro do seu mundo. O discurso melancólico, num ritmo lento, com momentos de muito boa prosa, consegue criar um espaço ficcional para onde vamos, amiúde, tendo vontade de fugir e de nos instalar.
Publicado no VI
https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...
A narrativa está escrita por forma a criar grande impacto no início da terceira parte, já que desvela teias entre personagens até então completamente insuspeitas. Contudo até lá chegar o livro arrasta-se, como se nos estivesse a preparar, a criar embalo para o embate, que consegue que aconteça, e acredito ser uma das principais razões porque o livro é tão recordado. Contudo quando analisado mais friamente percebemos que se trata de um twist de enredo para nos agarrar, e assente num dos mais velhos tópicos do romance. Ainda assim, o modo como vamos desvelando a informação sobre o que aconteceu, os comos e os porquês num tom muito peculiar, vamos nos deixando levar pelo embalo do autor.
Márai escreveu esta obra com 42 anos, e isso é por demais evidente no tratamento realizado do tema. Se à superfície a leitura que este faz de alguém com 70 e poucos anos, já a sentir a morte ao virar de esquina, parece perfeitamente coerente, só o é para alguém que ainda não chegou lá. Existe um claro desencanto com a vida, uma profunda melancolia, ao mesmo tempo que se tenta ir em frente e esquecer tudo o que provocou esse mal estar, mas sem sucesso. Ao contrário da mensagem que se quer passar, de que o tempo tudo cura, no caso, quatro décadas não chegaram para sarar feridas.
Para mim isto coaduna-se mais com um Márai de 42 anos a tentar projetar o seu futuro assente nos problemas do seu presente. É verdade que Márai se suicidou com 89 anos, mas nessa altura vivia noutro país, sozinho e era pobre, um cenário bastante diferente do do nosso General. O reencontro passado décadas, vidas completas passadas, dificilmente se agarraria tanto a um ponto único de viragem no passado, exatamente pelo que é dito perto do final: “O fogo purificador do tempo extraiu das recordações toda a ira.”.
Apesar disto, existe qualquer coisa de particular na escrita e tom de Márai, que nos agarra e puxa para dentro do seu mundo. O discurso melancólico, num ritmo lento, com momentos de muito boa prosa, consegue criar um espaço ficcional para onde vamos, amiúde, tendo vontade de fugir e de nos instalar.
Publicado no VI
https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...
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