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Grove
An unnamed narrator, recently bereaved, travels to Olevano, a small village southeast of Rome. It is winter, and from her temporary residence on a hill between village and cemetery, she embarks on walks and outings, exploring the banal and the sublime with equal dedication and intensity. She recalls her travels in 1970s Italy, which she often visited as a child with her father. Fragmented impressions and memories - of Communist party rallies, roadside restaurants, film sequences, bird life, and the ubiquitous Etruscan necropoli - combine into a peculiar mosaic of a bygone era. Then the narrators visits Northern Italy, between Ferrara and the Po estuary, some years after the bereavement. She looks for the garden of the Finzi-Contini family, walks along deserted canals and explores abandoned seaside resorts. Seeing, describing, naming the world around her is her way of redefining her place within it. Written in a rich and poetic style, GROVE is an exquisite novel of grief, love and landscapes.
280 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2018
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1443 people want to read
About the author
Esther Kinsky
65 books60 followersEsther Kinsky, geboren 1956, hat Slawistik und Anglistik in Bonn und Toronto studiert. Sie arbeitet als Übersetzerin aus dem Polnischen, Englischen und Russischen. Ihr übersetzerisches Oeuvre umfasst u. a. Werke von Ida Fink, Hanna Krall, Ryszard Krysnicki, Aleksander Wat, Joseph O'Connor und Jane Smiley.
Kinksy lebt in Berlin. 2009 wurde sie mit dem Paul-Celan-Preis ausgezeichnet und 2011 erhielt sie den Karl-Dedecius-Preis.
Kinksy lebt in Berlin. 2009 wurde sie mit dem Paul-Celan-Preis ausgezeichnet und 2011 erhielt sie den Karl-Dedecius-Preis.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 91 reviews
May 9, 2020
When I am not reading books, I am taking photographs: I took early retirement about 3 years ago to try to make a business out of a hobby. One of the techniques I sometimes use when taking pictures is to de-focus my lens. This lets me see how the colours in the picture I am thinking about work together without seeing the detail. Then, when I am happy, I can bring the image back into focus (I don’t always bother with this bit) and take the picture.
Or, alternatively, think of a mosaic. This is an allusion used several times in this novel. Lots of different, small pieces are put together by someone who understands the bigger picture so that when a viewer looks at the result they see a single image.
As I read Grove, I felt both of these things. Kinsky presents us with a series of vignettes that feel like small tiles in a much larger mosaic. As I read, it felt very much as though an image was being constructed: it was out of focus and impressionistic until the final few pages where things come back into focus.
This is an elegiac novel about grieving and bereavement. But it is also about nature. The narrator is unnamed but it quickly becomes clear that it is Kinsky herself. We begin in a Romanian church where there are two niches for candles: one on the left for the living and one on the right for those who have died. Our narrator watches a film in which a man moves a candle from left to right. A few months later, the narrator’s partner dies. He is only referred to as M. but we assume that refers to Martin Chalmers who was Kinsky’s husband until his death in 2014.
In the first part of the book, we are in Olevano, Italy with our narrator, where she stays for a period of time. She is trying to come to terms with the death of M. At the beginning, there are often references to the local cemetery (on the left of her house) and the local village (on the right), but, as the novel progresses, our narrator sees these landmarks in different configurations, from different perspectives. At the same time, she observes the natural world around her. Observing is her way of trying to find her place. Changing perspectives, seeking for a way to settle into a new world.
In the second part of the book, we go back to our narrator’s childhood and her relationship with her father. Her father was fascinated by all thing Etruscan and they often went to visit Etruscan sites, many of which had a necropolis. As in part one, our narrator observes and uses those observations to help define her place in the world.
In the third part, our narrator takes a trip to the Po Valley. For a lot of this part, I struggled to see how it fits with the first two, but the final few pages which describe a painting by Fra Angelico do that “bringing it all into focus” thing.
Not a lot happens in this book. Well, that’s not true, really. There isn’t really a plot, but there is a lot of stuff happening around our narrator which she is watching and absorbing. Dealing with death and bereavement is a constant through the novel, but so is nature and its impact on our narrator and others around her.
This is a novel for those who like books that work by impression rather than detail. It is actually full of details, but they details in the way that an individual tile in a mosaic is a detail. The reader collects details until gradually a bigger picture emerges.
Or, alternatively, think of a mosaic. This is an allusion used several times in this novel. Lots of different, small pieces are put together by someone who understands the bigger picture so that when a viewer looks at the result they see a single image.
As I read Grove, I felt both of these things. Kinsky presents us with a series of vignettes that feel like small tiles in a much larger mosaic. As I read, it felt very much as though an image was being constructed: it was out of focus and impressionistic until the final few pages where things come back into focus.
This is an elegiac novel about grieving and bereavement. But it is also about nature. The narrator is unnamed but it quickly becomes clear that it is Kinsky herself. We begin in a Romanian church where there are two niches for candles: one on the left for the living and one on the right for those who have died. Our narrator watches a film in which a man moves a candle from left to right. A few months later, the narrator’s partner dies. He is only referred to as M. but we assume that refers to Martin Chalmers who was Kinsky’s husband until his death in 2014.
In the first part of the book, we are in Olevano, Italy with our narrator, where she stays for a period of time. She is trying to come to terms with the death of M. At the beginning, there are often references to the local cemetery (on the left of her house) and the local village (on the right), but, as the novel progresses, our narrator sees these landmarks in different configurations, from different perspectives. At the same time, she observes the natural world around her. Observing is her way of trying to find her place. Changing perspectives, seeking for a way to settle into a new world.
In the second part of the book, we go back to our narrator’s childhood and her relationship with her father. Her father was fascinated by all thing Etruscan and they often went to visit Etruscan sites, many of which had a necropolis. As in part one, our narrator observes and uses those observations to help define her place in the world.
In the third part, our narrator takes a trip to the Po Valley. For a lot of this part, I struggled to see how it fits with the first two, but the final few pages which describe a painting by Fra Angelico do that “bringing it all into focus” thing.
Not a lot happens in this book. Well, that’s not true, really. There isn’t really a plot, but there is a lot of stuff happening around our narrator which she is watching and absorbing. Dealing with death and bereavement is a constant through the novel, but so is nature and its impact on our narrator and others around her.
This is a novel for those who like books that work by impression rather than detail. It is actually full of details, but they details in the way that an individual tile in a mosaic is a detail. The reader collects details until gradually a bigger picture emerges.
August 8, 2020
Books about nothing are especially in vogue lately. I've read a few myself, and generally quite liked them, Karl Ove Knausgaard's six-part "My Struggle" series in particular, but Jon Fosse's recent The Other Name: Septology I-II wasn't bad either.
Like those books, "Grove" is essentially plotless and features a protagonist who's a thinly veiled version of the author. But unlike those books, "Grove" isn't worth the slog. And a slog it most certainly is.
If Knausgaard's "My Struggle" is about nothing, then "Grove" is about less than nothing. It's the literary equivalent of watching paint dry. Each page goes on, and on, and on, seemingly without end, blending one into another.
I like cemeteries a lot. I'm always up to visit a good cemetery, and Kinsky never misses the chance to visit a cemetery either. Or to write about it. The problem is, she writes about them all, except she's not writing, she's just describing.
Whereas a trip through a cemetery in "My Struggle" would have resulted in a digression on the nature of life and death and the odd habit we in the Western world have of embalming our dead before burying them, Kinsky writes when it seems what she really wants to do is take a photo. She describes this tombstone, that tombstone, the flowers on the tombstone, the birds that are chirping in the trees above the tombstones, it's all surface. It's all outer details.
In short, it's boring. It teaches us nothing. We've all seen a tombstone before. We've all seen a flower. We know how they look. What we want, when reading a novel, is to know how these things make our protagonist feels. Instead, "Grove" just tells us what our protagonist sees.
"Grove" isn't "A Field Novel," it's a field journal, the kind of thing you might take with you on a walk through the countryside. You'd stop and sit, making notes along the way, and — I don't think I'm going out on a limb saying this — yours would almost certainly be more interesting.
Because have I mentioned yet how uninteresting all this is? Here are 277 pages — which feel more like 677 — full of descriptions of cemeteries, trees, grass, crumbling Italian facades. That's it. There is nothing here to enlighten, nothing here that you couldn't have written yourself.
I did stop and think before writing that last sentence, because there is nothing more annoying than the person who, glancing quickly from artwork to artwork in a world class museum, claims, "I could paint that."
But there is nothing here that makes me think that a person who scored reasonably well in a college English exam could not write a few pages about their local park and make it sound at least as interesting as Esther Kinsky manages to make the Italian countryside sound.
Italy is a beautiful country, an inspiring country, but you wouldn't guess it from reading this dull tome. I'm not saying that there aren't people who may enjoy this kind of writing. There are people, after all, who enjoy golfing. People who think the most thrilling thing in life is having their toes sucked. And, most horrifying of all, people who support Donald Trump. The point is, I can't speak for the entirety of our bewildering species.
Let's just put it this way. If you're one of those people who really like listening to the sound of rain falling, but not when you're trying to fall asleep, and you don't actually like listening to it, you like reading about it, then this is the book for you.
Yes, a book about the sound of rain falling. Nothing more. Because you find reading about the sound of falling rain soothing, comforting somehow.
Here it is at last. A book about the sound of falling rain, except you can't hear it. You just see it, written on the page over and over and over again for 277 pages.
This is what falling rain sounds like when you read about it in a book.
Is it pointless? Sure. Does it put you to sleep? Yes. But not because it's pleasant. Nothing about it really is.
Like those books, "Grove" is essentially plotless and features a protagonist who's a thinly veiled version of the author. But unlike those books, "Grove" isn't worth the slog. And a slog it most certainly is.
If Knausgaard's "My Struggle" is about nothing, then "Grove" is about less than nothing. It's the literary equivalent of watching paint dry. Each page goes on, and on, and on, seemingly without end, blending one into another.
I like cemeteries a lot. I'm always up to visit a good cemetery, and Kinsky never misses the chance to visit a cemetery either. Or to write about it. The problem is, she writes about them all, except she's not writing, she's just describing.
Whereas a trip through a cemetery in "My Struggle" would have resulted in a digression on the nature of life and death and the odd habit we in the Western world have of embalming our dead before burying them, Kinsky writes when it seems what she really wants to do is take a photo. She describes this tombstone, that tombstone, the flowers on the tombstone, the birds that are chirping in the trees above the tombstones, it's all surface. It's all outer details.
In short, it's boring. It teaches us nothing. We've all seen a tombstone before. We've all seen a flower. We know how they look. What we want, when reading a novel, is to know how these things make our protagonist feels. Instead, "Grove" just tells us what our protagonist sees.
"Grove" isn't "A Field Novel," it's a field journal, the kind of thing you might take with you on a walk through the countryside. You'd stop and sit, making notes along the way, and — I don't think I'm going out on a limb saying this — yours would almost certainly be more interesting.
Because have I mentioned yet how uninteresting all this is? Here are 277 pages — which feel more like 677 — full of descriptions of cemeteries, trees, grass, crumbling Italian facades. That's it. There is nothing here to enlighten, nothing here that you couldn't have written yourself.
I did stop and think before writing that last sentence, because there is nothing more annoying than the person who, glancing quickly from artwork to artwork in a world class museum, claims, "I could paint that."
But there is nothing here that makes me think that a person who scored reasonably well in a college English exam could not write a few pages about their local park and make it sound at least as interesting as Esther Kinsky manages to make the Italian countryside sound.
Italy is a beautiful country, an inspiring country, but you wouldn't guess it from reading this dull tome. I'm not saying that there aren't people who may enjoy this kind of writing. There are people, after all, who enjoy golfing. People who think the most thrilling thing in life is having their toes sucked. And, most horrifying of all, people who support Donald Trump. The point is, I can't speak for the entirety of our bewildering species.
Let's just put it this way. If you're one of those people who really like listening to the sound of rain falling, but not when you're trying to fall asleep, and you don't actually like listening to it, you like reading about it, then this is the book for you.
Yes, a book about the sound of rain falling. Nothing more. Because you find reading about the sound of falling rain soothing, comforting somehow.
Here it is at last. A book about the sound of falling rain, except you can't hear it. You just see it, written on the page over and over and over again for 277 pages.
This is what falling rain sounds like when you read about it in a book.
Is it pointless? Sure. Does it put you to sleep? Yes. But not because it's pleasant. Nothing about it really is.
August 28, 2021
I am finally catching up on some of the Fitzcarraldo books I bought in the May sale (just in time for the latest one). To some extent I knew what to expect after reading River, and this book is in the same grey area between memoir and fiction, but this book is mostly set in Italy and is dominated by the loss of the narrator's partner (M.).
This book is in three parts. In the first, the recently bereaved narrator travels to the hinterland of Rome, where her desultory expeditions explore the landscape and history, its old cemeteries (and the olive groves that give the book its titles).
In the second part, she recalls her father, and the many family trips to Italy they made during her childhood, pursuing his obsession with the Etruscans.
The third continues the modern day trip and is set in Ferrara and the Po delta, and the dominant ghost this time is Giorgio Bassani (I have read all of his Ferrara novels so these references were both familiar and interesting).
This book is in three parts. In the first, the recently bereaved narrator travels to the hinterland of Rome, where her desultory expeditions explore the landscape and history, its old cemeteries (and the olive groves that give the book its titles).
In the second part, she recalls her father, and the many family trips to Italy they made during her childhood, pursuing his obsession with the Etruscans.
The third continues the modern day trip and is set in Ferrara and the Po delta, and the dominant ghost this time is Giorgio Bassani (I have read all of his Ferrara novels so these references were both familiar and interesting).
February 12, 2021
La narradora de ‘Arboleda’ viaja de Alemania a Italia tras la pérdida de un ser querido y se instala por un tiempo en Olevano, un pueblo medieval en los montes cercanos a Roma, de la que por la noche le parece ver su resplandor en el cielo nocturno. En el pueblo mira al paisaje y a las gentes un poco esquivas, compra naranjas al vendedor siciliano en su motocarro, observa a los vendedores ambulantes africanos, anota una y otra vez detalles sobre el cementerio, aislado y en alto.
.
Viaja a Roma en autobús y sólo acierta, quizás agobiada por los recuerdos, a entrar a más camposantos, a andar por las periferias. “Tierra de Pasolini, me dije, sin pensar en ninguna escena concreta, sólo era la hierba amarillenta de tallo sembrado que crece en los baldíos terrenos palustres malos y que, tal vez, roza las piernas de un personaje en alguna película (...) el pálido yermo de lo mítico en las orillas de los arrasados barrios de la miseria del este de Roma”. Sale caminando por la via Apia, allí donde el camino antiguo se mezcla con la carretera moderna y las tumbas romanas con las casas actuales: “Los caminos de los vivos, las calzadas de los romanos hacia el exterior, el ancho mundo, y las que discurrían en sentido inverso hasta el límite de la ciudad, estaban salpicados por los enclaves de los muertos, y ellos escoltaban a los vivos, y sólo cabía detenerse en los márgenes de las calzadas si era para la eternidad (...) Las viejas vías estaban marcadas por los muertos como lugares donde no había que detenerse mientras quedaran caminos por transitar”.
.
Después de leer a Wittkop no se me ocurre autora más opuesta que Esther Kinsky y sin embargo, de repente, hay relaciones inesperadas entre ambas: observaciones sobre los pájaros, la visión de la muerte, Italia, y el tránsito diario por las estaciones a lo largo de un año. La literatura, siempre infinita y siempre hablando de lo mismo
.
Viaja a Roma en autobús y sólo acierta, quizás agobiada por los recuerdos, a entrar a más camposantos, a andar por las periferias. “Tierra de Pasolini, me dije, sin pensar en ninguna escena concreta, sólo era la hierba amarillenta de tallo sembrado que crece en los baldíos terrenos palustres malos y que, tal vez, roza las piernas de un personaje en alguna película (...) el pálido yermo de lo mítico en las orillas de los arrasados barrios de la miseria del este de Roma”. Sale caminando por la via Apia, allí donde el camino antiguo se mezcla con la carretera moderna y las tumbas romanas con las casas actuales: “Los caminos de los vivos, las calzadas de los romanos hacia el exterior, el ancho mundo, y las que discurrían en sentido inverso hasta el límite de la ciudad, estaban salpicados por los enclaves de los muertos, y ellos escoltaban a los vivos, y sólo cabía detenerse en los márgenes de las calzadas si era para la eternidad (...) Las viejas vías estaban marcadas por los muertos como lugares donde no había que detenerse mientras quedaran caminos por transitar”.
.
Después de leer a Wittkop no se me ocurre autora más opuesta que Esther Kinsky y sin embargo, de repente, hay relaciones inesperadas entre ambas: observaciones sobre los pájaros, la visión de la muerte, Italia, y el tránsito diario por las estaciones a lo largo de un año. La literatura, siempre infinita y siempre hablando de lo mismo
June 12, 2020
Another “it’s not you it’s me" reading experience this week.
Esther Kinsky’s unnamed, presumably autobiographical narrator spends time in Italy mourning the recent death of her partner. She describes everything around her at length; particularly the cemetery and the birds, but also the town, bus rides to different cities and villages, people outside bars and inside grocery stores, African migrants hawking packs of underwear.
In part II she recalls family trips to Italy and her father, who died many years before and who had an abiding fascination with the country and with the Etruscans. Part III knots the various strands together, although that could be overstating it; it could just be read as more of the same. The back cover tells us that “seeing, describing, naming the world around her is her way of redefining her place within it.” This isn’t entirely obvious from the text, but it’s plausible.
I felt immense sympathy with the narrator, crushed by bereavement. And among her short descriptive vignettes were some real standouts; particularly a running thread about eels which I found really very striking. Her descriptions of a semi-deserted Italian town were very evocative too – I’ve spent time in winter in Olevano’s Spanish equivalents and there is a certain cold, bird-inflected emptiness that really comes across on the page.
It is also, however, a glacially slow book, endlessly interior, really with very little in the way of epiphany or reward for the reader. Perhaps it would be most fair to say that this is a book for a very specific reader. I could be that reader if Grove were half the length it is, but I found myself losing the will to live (ironically) every time the narrator visited a new cemetery, and every time the word “Etruscan” appeared on the page. I don’t regret reading this, but I wish it had been a slightly different experience.
Esther Kinsky’s unnamed, presumably autobiographical narrator spends time in Italy mourning the recent death of her partner. She describes everything around her at length; particularly the cemetery and the birds, but also the town, bus rides to different cities and villages, people outside bars and inside grocery stores, African migrants hawking packs of underwear.
In part II she recalls family trips to Italy and her father, who died many years before and who had an abiding fascination with the country and with the Etruscans. Part III knots the various strands together, although that could be overstating it; it could just be read as more of the same. The back cover tells us that “seeing, describing, naming the world around her is her way of redefining her place within it.” This isn’t entirely obvious from the text, but it’s plausible.
I felt immense sympathy with the narrator, crushed by bereavement. And among her short descriptive vignettes were some real standouts; particularly a running thread about eels which I found really very striking. Her descriptions of a semi-deserted Italian town were very evocative too – I’ve spent time in winter in Olevano’s Spanish equivalents and there is a certain cold, bird-inflected emptiness that really comes across on the page.
It is also, however, a glacially slow book, endlessly interior, really with very little in the way of epiphany or reward for the reader. Perhaps it would be most fair to say that this is a book for a very specific reader. I could be that reader if Grove were half the length it is, but I found myself losing the will to live (ironically) every time the narrator visited a new cemetery, and every time the word “Etruscan” appeared on the page. I don’t regret reading this, but I wish it had been a slightly different experience.
May 9, 2020
Were I ever to come back here, everything would be different to how I had stored it my memory, what I’d read in the developed, printed photographs. No photograph is a copy. Once chosen, the frame determines the boundaries of a world, which the eye, while contemplating the finished picture, is forever reinterpreting, forever extending beyond the limits of its frame with new imaginings.
Esther Kinsky’s Hain: Geländeroman was published in 2018, and has been translated from the German by Caroline Schmidt, as Grove (or Grove: A Field Novel) by one of the UK’s finest publishers, Fitzcarraldo Editions, whose distinctive blue colours echo the lapis lazuli that is a recurring theme in this novel.
Fitzcarraldo also published the translation, River, by Iain Galbraith of her Sebaldesque 2014 novel Am Fluß (my review: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...).
Grove, is narrated by a woman, German but now living in London, mourning the loss of her partner, who she refers to simply as M,, placing us immediately in the hybrid auto-fictional form (Kinsky’s own husband, translator Martin Chalmers, died in 2014).
The book is written in three sections, and in the first the first-person narrator has gone, in January, two months and a day after M.’s funeral, to stay for 2-3 months in Olevano, a town about 45km east of Rome. Her narration consists of a series of short (2-4 pages) vignettes describing the town, its people, its flora and fauna (particularly the birdlife), and its environs, in lyrical fashion, based on her walks and short trips in the surrounding area. She is also a keen photographer.
The author included on Fitzcarraldo’s website a series of pictures that inspired the novel; http://blog.fitzcarraldoeditions.com/... and I’ve linked below two of them to an excerpt of the opening pages from the novel (itself taken from a longer piece on the publisher’s website):
In Olevano Romano I’m staying for a time in a house on a hill. When approaching town on the winding road that leads up from the plain, the building is recognizable in the distance. To the left of the hill with the house is the old village, vaulting the steep slope. It is the colour of cliffs, a different shade of grey in every light and weather. To the right of the house, somewhat farther uphill, is the cemetery – angular, whitish cement-grey, surrounded by tall, slender black trees. Cypresses. Sempervirens, the everlasting tree of death; a defiant answer to the unexacting pines, projected sharply into the sky.
I walk along the cemetery wall until the road forks. To the southeast it leads through olive groves, becomes a dirt road between a bamboo thicket and vineyards, and grazes a sparse birch grove. Three or four birch trees, scattered messengers, vagrants among olive trees, holm oaks and vines, stand at a slant on a kind of protuberance, which rises up beside the path. From this protuberance one looks to the hill with the house. The village lies once again on the left, the cemetery on the right. A small car moves through the village lanes, while someone hangs laundry on a line beneath the windows. The laundry says: vii.
In the nineteenth century, this protuberance might have served as a good lookout point for those who came here to paint. Perhaps the painters, pulling their handkerchiefs from their jacket pockets, carelessly and unwittingly scattered birch seeds brought from their northern-coloured homelands. A birch blossom, picked in passing and long forgotten, spread rootlets here between blades of grass. The painters would have wiped the sweat from their brows and continued painting. The mountains, the village, perhaps the small columns of smoke rising above the plain as well. Where was the cemetery then? The oldest grave that I can find in the cemetery belongs to a German from Berlin, who died here in 1892. The second-oldest grave is for a man with a bold expression and a hat, of Olevano, born in 1843, died in 1912.
Below the vagrant birch trees, a man works in his vineyard. He cuts bamboo, trims the stalks, burns off the ragged wisps, brings the lengths of the stalks into line. He’s building scaffolding out of them, complicated structures made of poles, formed around the burgeoning grapevines. He weighs down with stones the points where the interlocked stalks meet. Here the viti thrive between the vii in the distance, on the left, and the morti, somewhat nearer, on the right.
It is winter, evening comes early. When darkness falls, the old village of Olevano lies in the yellow warmth of streetlights. Along the road to Bellegra, and throughout the new settlements on the northern side, stretches a labyrinth of dazzling white lamps. Above on the hillside the cemetery hovers in the glow of countless perpetually burning small lights, which glimmer before the gravestones, lined up on the ledges in front of the sepulchres. When the night is very dark, the cemetery, illuminated by luce perpetuae, hangs like an island in the night. The island of the morti above the valley of the vii.
Her bereavement is ever present in the background, such as when she loses a piece of camera equipment, while photographing a graveyard.
I was distressed not at the loss of the cable per se, but of the cable as witness to one day two years ago in winter – the grey mild, mistletoe-winter without abnormalities – when we wandered through the streets, thinking about ‘next year’ and ‘in two years’ and the ‘future’ in general and I bought it at a shop with used camera accessories, to replace a lost one. We both ran our fingers through the slack knot of cable releases, which lay in a basket, twisted into one another like half-hibernating, languid, fearless snakelets, and M eventually pulled out this especially robust, light-grey coated one, which I took and used and now had lost. My distress over the cable falls under one of the potential curses of bereavement that I gradually became familiar with: weighting objects qua testimony. The attribution of participation in a moment past. A small piece of back-then, which should act as if it could moor the past tense onto the broken backs of the present. Idle lists of a forlornness that knows not what to do with itself.
Her personal connection to Italy gradually emerges as a common childhood holiday destination with her Italian-speaking Etruscan-obsessed father (although “we had neither family nor place there”) and the second section of the novel takes us back in time to the aftermath of another death, that of her father, and from there on to her memories of those family holidays in 1970s Italy.
Neatly, some of the incidents and sights related explain her reaction to certain sights in the first section – indeed this recollection and reinterpretation of sights seems key to Kinsky’s aim (see the opening quote to my review, which comes towards the end of the novel).
The third section is set a year or two after the first, in another January the narrator returns to Italy, this time to the area around Ferrera (with echoes of the novels of Giorgio Bassani) and the Po Delta. There are echoes of trips with her father, indeed she undertakes a pilgrimage of sorts to where she suspects was his last trip to the country and to sights he had extolled, but also of a river scene which she comes to realise was actually one enacted in the Thames Estuary near London with M., which for this reader linked my thoughts back to the novel Am Fluß / River.
Although this novel lacks the weirdness, and at times surreal, element of River, with only a hint of this in the recurrent image of eels in Parts II and III.
A codicil (as Neil pointed out to me - I'd missed it on my first read) links the three mourning centred parts of the book back to a praedella by Fra Angelico below his triptych of the Last Judgement, the pradella focused on the lamentation on the death of Francis of Assisi, two of the panels with a distinctive flash of lapis lazuli.
In this picture of mourning, the blue triangle above the towers and walls of the monastery courtyard catches no one's eye, means something to no one, just hangs there like a small obligatory exercise on the upper edge - the precious lapis lazuli was painstakingly extracted and pounded into a powder in vain, it bestowed no consolation in bereavement.
Overall, an impressive novel – so why only 3.5 stars? The novel didn’t really come at the right time for me. There are beautiful descriptions of nature but that isn’t a particular interest of mine in normal times, and in Covid-19 lockdown what I really miss are buzzing city centres and crowded tube trains, so I struggled to connect with those parts of the novel.
Esther Kinsky’s Hain: Geländeroman was published in 2018, and has been translated from the German by Caroline Schmidt, as Grove (or Grove: A Field Novel) by one of the UK’s finest publishers, Fitzcarraldo Editions, whose distinctive blue colours echo the lapis lazuli that is a recurring theme in this novel.
Fitzcarraldo also published the translation, River, by Iain Galbraith of her Sebaldesque 2014 novel Am Fluß (my review: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...).
Grove, is narrated by a woman, German but now living in London, mourning the loss of her partner, who she refers to simply as M,, placing us immediately in the hybrid auto-fictional form (Kinsky’s own husband, translator Martin Chalmers, died in 2014).
The book is written in three sections, and in the first the first-person narrator has gone, in January, two months and a day after M.’s funeral, to stay for 2-3 months in Olevano, a town about 45km east of Rome. Her narration consists of a series of short (2-4 pages) vignettes describing the town, its people, its flora and fauna (particularly the birdlife), and its environs, in lyrical fashion, based on her walks and short trips in the surrounding area. She is also a keen photographer.
The author included on Fitzcarraldo’s website a series of pictures that inspired the novel; http://blog.fitzcarraldoeditions.com/... and I’ve linked below two of them to an excerpt of the opening pages from the novel (itself taken from a longer piece on the publisher’s website):
In Olevano Romano I’m staying for a time in a house on a hill. When approaching town on the winding road that leads up from the plain, the building is recognizable in the distance. To the left of the hill with the house is the old village, vaulting the steep slope. It is the colour of cliffs, a different shade of grey in every light and weather. To the right of the house, somewhat farther uphill, is the cemetery – angular, whitish cement-grey, surrounded by tall, slender black trees. Cypresses. Sempervirens, the everlasting tree of death; a defiant answer to the unexacting pines, projected sharply into the sky.
I walk along the cemetery wall until the road forks. To the southeast it leads through olive groves, becomes a dirt road between a bamboo thicket and vineyards, and grazes a sparse birch grove. Three or four birch trees, scattered messengers, vagrants among olive trees, holm oaks and vines, stand at a slant on a kind of protuberance, which rises up beside the path. From this protuberance one looks to the hill with the house. The village lies once again on the left, the cemetery on the right. A small car moves through the village lanes, while someone hangs laundry on a line beneath the windows. The laundry says: vii.
In the nineteenth century, this protuberance might have served as a good lookout point for those who came here to paint. Perhaps the painters, pulling their handkerchiefs from their jacket pockets, carelessly and unwittingly scattered birch seeds brought from their northern-coloured homelands. A birch blossom, picked in passing and long forgotten, spread rootlets here between blades of grass. The painters would have wiped the sweat from their brows and continued painting. The mountains, the village, perhaps the small columns of smoke rising above the plain as well. Where was the cemetery then? The oldest grave that I can find in the cemetery belongs to a German from Berlin, who died here in 1892. The second-oldest grave is for a man with a bold expression and a hat, of Olevano, born in 1843, died in 1912.
Below the vagrant birch trees, a man works in his vineyard. He cuts bamboo, trims the stalks, burns off the ragged wisps, brings the lengths of the stalks into line. He’s building scaffolding out of them, complicated structures made of poles, formed around the burgeoning grapevines. He weighs down with stones the points where the interlocked stalks meet. Here the viti thrive between the vii in the distance, on the left, and the morti, somewhat nearer, on the right.
It is winter, evening comes early. When darkness falls, the old village of Olevano lies in the yellow warmth of streetlights. Along the road to Bellegra, and throughout the new settlements on the northern side, stretches a labyrinth of dazzling white lamps. Above on the hillside the cemetery hovers in the glow of countless perpetually burning small lights, which glimmer before the gravestones, lined up on the ledges in front of the sepulchres. When the night is very dark, the cemetery, illuminated by luce perpetuae, hangs like an island in the night. The island of the morti above the valley of the vii.
Her bereavement is ever present in the background, such as when she loses a piece of camera equipment, while photographing a graveyard.
I was distressed not at the loss of the cable per se, but of the cable as witness to one day two years ago in winter – the grey mild, mistletoe-winter without abnormalities – when we wandered through the streets, thinking about ‘next year’ and ‘in two years’ and the ‘future’ in general and I bought it at a shop with used camera accessories, to replace a lost one. We both ran our fingers through the slack knot of cable releases, which lay in a basket, twisted into one another like half-hibernating, languid, fearless snakelets, and M eventually pulled out this especially robust, light-grey coated one, which I took and used and now had lost. My distress over the cable falls under one of the potential curses of bereavement that I gradually became familiar with: weighting objects qua testimony. The attribution of participation in a moment past. A small piece of back-then, which should act as if it could moor the past tense onto the broken backs of the present. Idle lists of a forlornness that knows not what to do with itself.
Her personal connection to Italy gradually emerges as a common childhood holiday destination with her Italian-speaking Etruscan-obsessed father (although “we had neither family nor place there”) and the second section of the novel takes us back in time to the aftermath of another death, that of her father, and from there on to her memories of those family holidays in 1970s Italy.
Neatly, some of the incidents and sights related explain her reaction to certain sights in the first section – indeed this recollection and reinterpretation of sights seems key to Kinsky’s aim (see the opening quote to my review, which comes towards the end of the novel).
The third section is set a year or two after the first, in another January the narrator returns to Italy, this time to the area around Ferrera (with echoes of the novels of Giorgio Bassani) and the Po Delta. There are echoes of trips with her father, indeed she undertakes a pilgrimage of sorts to where she suspects was his last trip to the country and to sights he had extolled, but also of a river scene which she comes to realise was actually one enacted in the Thames Estuary near London with M., which for this reader linked my thoughts back to the novel Am Fluß / River.
Although this novel lacks the weirdness, and at times surreal, element of River, with only a hint of this in the recurrent image of eels in Parts II and III.
A codicil (as Neil pointed out to me - I'd missed it on my first read) links the three mourning centred parts of the book back to a praedella by Fra Angelico below his triptych of the Last Judgement, the pradella focused on the lamentation on the death of Francis of Assisi, two of the panels with a distinctive flash of lapis lazuli.
In this picture of mourning, the blue triangle above the towers and walls of the monastery courtyard catches no one's eye, means something to no one, just hangs there like a small obligatory exercise on the upper edge - the precious lapis lazuli was painstakingly extracted and pounded into a powder in vain, it bestowed no consolation in bereavement.
Overall, an impressive novel – so why only 3.5 stars? The novel didn’t really come at the right time for me. There are beautiful descriptions of nature but that isn’t a particular interest of mine in normal times, and in Covid-19 lockdown what I really miss are buzzing city centres and crowded tube trains, so I struggled to connect with those parts of the novel.
November 23, 2022
Esther Kinsky’s books cannot be rushed. I began this book when it came out but was dealing with the effects of a medication that hindered my focus. So it waited for me. This meditation on grief is fiction but bound to real experience in life and location. I don’t know to what extent. The narrator, like Kinsey herself has recently lost her husband after a serious illness and is travelling to Italy in an effort to make sense of her life. But she is drawn to death, to cemeteries, and to the countryside during the subdued months of winter. Her husband haunts her dreams but details of their life together are not the focus. The second part takes her back to the many family holidays spent in Italy throughout her childhood where her late father who spoke Italian and loved Etruscan history was drawn year after year. The final section finds her back in Italy once more, in the North, a year after her first visit after her husband’s death. The beauty of this work lies in the prose, in the sensitive observations and in the relationship between self and landscape. And finding one’s reflection in foreign landscape.
This book had me searching for images of the locations she visited and relating to her descriptions of her father, remembering my own father who is also gone. A more meditative, slower flowing work than her last novel “River” I am certain this one will stay with just as firmly. A wonderful writer who rewards patience.
A longer review can be found here: https://roughghosts.com/2022/11/22/th...
This book had me searching for images of the locations she visited and relating to her descriptions of her father, remembering my own father who is also gone. A more meditative, slower flowing work than her last novel “River” I am certain this one will stay with just as firmly. A wonderful writer who rewards patience.
A longer review can be found here: https://roughghosts.com/2022/11/22/th...
April 7, 2023
Grove is the third novel I've read by Esther Kinsky. Having loved the previous two, I was pretty excited for this one. However, something about it didn't connect with me as much as her other two. I can't exactly put my finger on it, though. All the familiar ingredients are there: meandering, beautiful descriptions of nature; random connections with locals in the area; some memories of times past. Unfortunately, I did not find myself enraptured like previous reads. I did enjoy some of the reflections on her father and his loss, but I found myself wanting more reflections on the loss of the partner, M. (In that way, it reminded me of Oh, William!, another book that left me mildly unsatisfied.) Since I can't identify what didn't work as well, I'll have to be satisfied accepting there is an ineffable quality to certain books that makes me love them. River and Rombo had this quality in abundance; unfortunately, Grove didn't. Still dug it, and am glad I read it. I wouldn't recommend it as a starting point into Kinsky's work; I'm not sure I would have mad her a priority like I have if this was the first book I read by her.
April 11, 2021
"Kreupelhout", van Esther Kinsky, wordt door de schrijfster zelf een "terreinroman" genoemd. Inderdaad kijk je drie delen lang naar allerlei winterse Italiaanse landschappen, door de melancholieke ogen van iemand die dingen ziet die anderen nooit zouden zien. Haar blik is omfloerst door verdriet over de dood van haar echtgenoot en haar vader: precies die omfloerste blik kleurt de terreinen die ze ziet, en die terreinen en bezienswaardigheden (dorpjes, kerkhoven, landschappen, religieuze mozaïeken, stadse taferelen) kleuren weer haar stemming en daarmee haar blik. Behalve een terreinroman is dit dus ook een stemmingenroman. Bovendien is het een rouw-roman, een roman over verloren herinneringen, een roman over het vanuit meerdere perspectieven beschouwen van landschappen en alle subtiele veranderingen die zich dan voordoen in de landschappen en de beschouwer, een roman over het dwalen in onbestemde leegte en stilte, een roman vol filosofische mijmerring en verwondering, en mogelijk ook een deels autobiografische roman. Soms is het eerder een dichtbundel dan een roman, want de vele korte hoofdstukjes in dit boek lezen als prozagedichten, vol sfeer en poëtische schoonheid en vol prachtzinnen die zich niet in andere woorden laten parafraseren. Tegelijk kun je die prozagedichten ook lezen als tastende essays. 'Kreupelhout" is kortom een fascinerend ongrijpbaar boek, dat het niet moet hebben van plot maar juist wel van sfeer en stijl. En die stijl is geweldig, ook in deze vertaling van Josephine Rijnaarts.
De naamloze ik- figuur van "Kreupelhout" is in rouw: ze heeft haar man verloren, en ook haar vader. Daarover zegt ze, aan het begin van deel I van dit boek: "Ik werd nabestaande. Voordat je toetreedt tot het gilde der nabestaanden komt wellicht het woord 'dood' bij je op, maar nog niet 'afwezigheid'. Afwezigheid is ondenkbaar zolang er nog aanwezigheid is. Voor nabestaanden wordt de wereld bepaald door afwezigheid". Veel later, tegen het eind van deel III, zegt ze: "Jaren na de dood van mijn vader had ik in de Salines van Comacchio, met dagelijks uitzicht op de stille stroom vrachtwagens van en naar Ravenna, opeens het gevoel gekregen dat ik een taak moest vervullen. Iets moest doen wat me was opgedragen. Plaatsen bezoeken, terreinen bewandelen, op de tast mijn weg zoeken langs de sporen die zich als dunne draden tussen mijn herinneringen en beelden, plaatsen en namen spanden". Inderdaad, de ik- figuur bezoekt plaatsen en bewandelt terreinen in Italië: plaatsen en terreinen waar ze eerder was met haar man, of met haar vader. Met bijna ongelofelijke intensiteit bekijkt en beschrijft ze elk detail, en op heel poëtisch- suggestieve wijze evoceert ze dan hoe die details resoneren met haar herinnering, met haar verbeelding (want m.n. Ferrara kent ze niet alleen uit jaar jeugd maar ook uit het prachtig- weemoedige werk van Giorgio Bassani, dat zij en haar echtgenoot zo graag hebben gelezen) en met haar gevoelens van verlies. Met werkelijk prachtige beschrijvingen als resultaat. Want de poëtische en erg gevoelige pen van Kinsky laat ons perspectieven en details zien die je in andere boeken zelden zult zien. Zowel de visuele veelvormigheid van wat de ik- figuur waarneemt als de geschakeerde werking van het geheugen glanzen daardoor volop. Maar tegelijk is het boek doorregen met veel zwaarmoedige droefheid, soms zelfs met regelrechte troosteloosheid. Want tussen de regels door evoceert Kinsky even indringend als suggestief de leegte, de stilte, het gevoel van afwezigheid dat nabestaanden kenmerkt. Zonder ooit sentimenteel te worden, zonder dat gevoel ooit in platitudes te versimpelen, vaak zelfs zonder het te expliciteren, en steeds de ongrijpbaarheid van dat gevoel respecterend. Steeds kiezend voor poëtische beelden die het geheim bewaren, en niet voor verklaringen of eenduidige conclusies.
Vaak gaan zwaarmoedige troosteloosheid en suggestieve schoonheid hand in hand. Alsof de treurnis, net als de lens van haar geliefde fototoestel, een lens is die de blik van de altijd observerende ik- figuur scherpt. Of alsof die treurnis haar net die afstand en die positie van buitenstaander geven die voor scherpe observaties nodig is. Zie de volgende passage: "De tas was licht, maar op weg naar huis voelde mijn hart zo zwaar aan dat ik dacht dat ik het nooit meer thuis zou krijgen. Ik bleef telkens staan en keek ontdaan over mijn zwakheid naar de lucht en de bomen. Zo ontdekte ik in een paar naaldbomen wittige kluwens in het hooggelegen takwerk, heldere weefsels, naar boven toe iets smaller wordende kokervormige sluiers, cocons van wolkenresten, waarin wellicht zeldzame vlinders tot wasdom kwamen, die in de zomer uit de pop zouden kruipen om in god ik weet welke kleuren hun vleugels te spreiden en onmerkbaar trillend op de fornetti neer te strijken, naast de eeuwig brandende lampjes, waarvan het schijnsel oplichtte in het felle zonlicht.". Prachtig, hoe juist de zwaarmoedige blik en het zware hart de weg vrij maken voor dat wonderlijk tere en fantasievolle beeld van cocons van wolkenresten waaruit ooit veelkleurige vlinders geboren zullen worden. En wat een onverwachte lichtheid heeft dit beeld! Maar tegelijk wordt ook de zwaarte van het hart suggestief beschreven, alsook hoe die zwaarte elke blik op het landschap doordesemt: "Dat zware hart werd kenmerkend voor mijn toestand in Olevano. Als ik vanuit het dorp naar boven klom, naar het huis. Als ik van het huis naar het kerkhof liep. Ik stelde me een grijs hart voor, lichtgrijs met een goedkope glans, als lood. Dat loden hart raakte vergroeid met alles wat ik zag en wat zich in mijn binnenste vastzette. Met het beeld van de olijfgaarden in de mist, de schapen op de helling, het steeneikenbos, de soms stilletjes achter het kerkhof grazende paarden. Met het uitzicht over de vlakte en de glinsterende veldjes, op koude ochtenden blauwig berijpt. Met de dagelijkse rookkolommen van brandende olijftakken, de schaduwen van de wolken, het winters vale kreupelhout en de paarse braamranken langs de kant van de weg".
Indrukwekkend, hoeveel stemmigheid en rouw Kinsky weet te suggereren met dit beeld van een met alles wat zij ziet en voelt vergroeid loden hart. En tegelijk is er ook die gevoelvolle aandacht voor alle details in het landschap, en die attente en fantasievol- dichterlijke blik op wolkenresten hoog in het takwerk. "Kreupelhout" zit vol met dat soort passages. En dus vol met stemmige rouw en onverwachte schoonheid. Fascinerend is ook hoe de onbestemde leegtes in dit boek vaak vol zijn met ongrijpbare en juist daardoor verlokkende verschieten, en hoe landschappen zich vaak ontvouwen als een geheimschrift dat zijn geheim blijft verhullen. Bovendien is "Kreupelhout" op alle pagina's anders dan andere boeken. Daar hou ik wel van. Dus over enige tijd ga ik "Langs de rivier" proberen, het tweede in het Nederlands vertaalde boek van Esther Kinsky.
De naamloze ik- figuur van "Kreupelhout" is in rouw: ze heeft haar man verloren, en ook haar vader. Daarover zegt ze, aan het begin van deel I van dit boek: "Ik werd nabestaande. Voordat je toetreedt tot het gilde der nabestaanden komt wellicht het woord 'dood' bij je op, maar nog niet 'afwezigheid'. Afwezigheid is ondenkbaar zolang er nog aanwezigheid is. Voor nabestaanden wordt de wereld bepaald door afwezigheid". Veel later, tegen het eind van deel III, zegt ze: "Jaren na de dood van mijn vader had ik in de Salines van Comacchio, met dagelijks uitzicht op de stille stroom vrachtwagens van en naar Ravenna, opeens het gevoel gekregen dat ik een taak moest vervullen. Iets moest doen wat me was opgedragen. Plaatsen bezoeken, terreinen bewandelen, op de tast mijn weg zoeken langs de sporen die zich als dunne draden tussen mijn herinneringen en beelden, plaatsen en namen spanden". Inderdaad, de ik- figuur bezoekt plaatsen en bewandelt terreinen in Italië: plaatsen en terreinen waar ze eerder was met haar man, of met haar vader. Met bijna ongelofelijke intensiteit bekijkt en beschrijft ze elk detail, en op heel poëtisch- suggestieve wijze evoceert ze dan hoe die details resoneren met haar herinnering, met haar verbeelding (want m.n. Ferrara kent ze niet alleen uit jaar jeugd maar ook uit het prachtig- weemoedige werk van Giorgio Bassani, dat zij en haar echtgenoot zo graag hebben gelezen) en met haar gevoelens van verlies. Met werkelijk prachtige beschrijvingen als resultaat. Want de poëtische en erg gevoelige pen van Kinsky laat ons perspectieven en details zien die je in andere boeken zelden zult zien. Zowel de visuele veelvormigheid van wat de ik- figuur waarneemt als de geschakeerde werking van het geheugen glanzen daardoor volop. Maar tegelijk is het boek doorregen met veel zwaarmoedige droefheid, soms zelfs met regelrechte troosteloosheid. Want tussen de regels door evoceert Kinsky even indringend als suggestief de leegte, de stilte, het gevoel van afwezigheid dat nabestaanden kenmerkt. Zonder ooit sentimenteel te worden, zonder dat gevoel ooit in platitudes te versimpelen, vaak zelfs zonder het te expliciteren, en steeds de ongrijpbaarheid van dat gevoel respecterend. Steeds kiezend voor poëtische beelden die het geheim bewaren, en niet voor verklaringen of eenduidige conclusies.
Vaak gaan zwaarmoedige troosteloosheid en suggestieve schoonheid hand in hand. Alsof de treurnis, net als de lens van haar geliefde fototoestel, een lens is die de blik van de altijd observerende ik- figuur scherpt. Of alsof die treurnis haar net die afstand en die positie van buitenstaander geven die voor scherpe observaties nodig is. Zie de volgende passage: "De tas was licht, maar op weg naar huis voelde mijn hart zo zwaar aan dat ik dacht dat ik het nooit meer thuis zou krijgen. Ik bleef telkens staan en keek ontdaan over mijn zwakheid naar de lucht en de bomen. Zo ontdekte ik in een paar naaldbomen wittige kluwens in het hooggelegen takwerk, heldere weefsels, naar boven toe iets smaller wordende kokervormige sluiers, cocons van wolkenresten, waarin wellicht zeldzame vlinders tot wasdom kwamen, die in de zomer uit de pop zouden kruipen om in god ik weet welke kleuren hun vleugels te spreiden en onmerkbaar trillend op de fornetti neer te strijken, naast de eeuwig brandende lampjes, waarvan het schijnsel oplichtte in het felle zonlicht.". Prachtig, hoe juist de zwaarmoedige blik en het zware hart de weg vrij maken voor dat wonderlijk tere en fantasievolle beeld van cocons van wolkenresten waaruit ooit veelkleurige vlinders geboren zullen worden. En wat een onverwachte lichtheid heeft dit beeld! Maar tegelijk wordt ook de zwaarte van het hart suggestief beschreven, alsook hoe die zwaarte elke blik op het landschap doordesemt: "Dat zware hart werd kenmerkend voor mijn toestand in Olevano. Als ik vanuit het dorp naar boven klom, naar het huis. Als ik van het huis naar het kerkhof liep. Ik stelde me een grijs hart voor, lichtgrijs met een goedkope glans, als lood. Dat loden hart raakte vergroeid met alles wat ik zag en wat zich in mijn binnenste vastzette. Met het beeld van de olijfgaarden in de mist, de schapen op de helling, het steeneikenbos, de soms stilletjes achter het kerkhof grazende paarden. Met het uitzicht over de vlakte en de glinsterende veldjes, op koude ochtenden blauwig berijpt. Met de dagelijkse rookkolommen van brandende olijftakken, de schaduwen van de wolken, het winters vale kreupelhout en de paarse braamranken langs de kant van de weg".
Indrukwekkend, hoeveel stemmigheid en rouw Kinsky weet te suggereren met dit beeld van een met alles wat zij ziet en voelt vergroeid loden hart. En tegelijk is er ook die gevoelvolle aandacht voor alle details in het landschap, en die attente en fantasievol- dichterlijke blik op wolkenresten hoog in het takwerk. "Kreupelhout" zit vol met dat soort passages. En dus vol met stemmige rouw en onverwachte schoonheid. Fascinerend is ook hoe de onbestemde leegtes in dit boek vaak vol zijn met ongrijpbare en juist daardoor verlokkende verschieten, en hoe landschappen zich vaak ontvouwen als een geheimschrift dat zijn geheim blijft verhullen. Bovendien is "Kreupelhout" op alle pagina's anders dan andere boeken. Daar hou ik wel van. Dus over enige tijd ga ik "Langs de rivier" proberen, het tweede in het Nederlands vertaalde boek van Esther Kinsky.
September 12, 2020
2.5 stars rounded up
I am not sure I have ever read a novel where so little happens. There are some lovely, painterly descriptions of landscapes and nature and cemeteries but absolutely no plot to speak of. At times I enjoyed this as a soothing and calming read and can recommend it in that regard but I am afraid to say that for the most part, I found myself really rather bored :-(
I am not sure I have ever read a novel where so little happens. There are some lovely, painterly descriptions of landscapes and nature and cemeteries but absolutely no plot to speak of. At times I enjoyed this as a soothing and calming read and can recommend it in that regard but I am afraid to say that for the most part, I found myself really rather bored :-(
October 15, 2023
Vad jag lever för, Läsupplevelserna. För alla som längtar till Rom, Ravenna och Trieste - långt bortom Lonely Planet - och inte har något emot lite litterär melankoli.
Har ju trasslat in mig här på goodreads med att namnge ett helt galet antal bokhyllor, men den här passar in på väldigt många. Till och med i kategorin 'chiaroscuro' och med det menar jag att texterna rör sig mellan binära element som ljus och mörker, liv och död, ung och gammal, nu och då, stillhet och rörelse...
Tack, #boblmaf-Caroline, för ännu en jättefin läsidé. Och tack, insta-@jennymerina för det också italienrelaterade bok&film-tipset Finzi-Contini. Lustigt nog förekom de flera ggr här hos Kinsky.
Författaren har för övrigt bott i London i 12 år samt jobbat med översättning av Thoreau, inte konstigt att jag trivdes i hennes litterära landskap.
... däremot kan man ingalunda påstå att den här skulle kunna ingå i utmaningen #färggladahyllvärmare2021 just i maj p.g.a. monokromt Kleinblå. Fitzcarraldos signum.
NRK talar med Kinsky ombord på ett tåg på väg till litteraturfestial i Bergen:
https://radio.nrk.no/podkast/bok_i_p2...
Podden Unsound Method intervjuar Kinsky:
https://unsoundmethods.co.uk/2018/03/...
Har ju trasslat in mig här på goodreads med att namnge ett helt galet antal bokhyllor, men den här passar in på väldigt många. Till och med i kategorin 'chiaroscuro' och med det menar jag att texterna rör sig mellan binära element som ljus och mörker, liv och död, ung och gammal, nu och då, stillhet och rörelse...
Tack, #boblmaf-Caroline, för ännu en jättefin läsidé. Och tack, insta-@jennymerina för det också italienrelaterade bok&film-tipset Finzi-Contini. Lustigt nog förekom de flera ggr här hos Kinsky.
Författaren har för övrigt bott i London i 12 år samt jobbat med översättning av Thoreau, inte konstigt att jag trivdes i hennes litterära landskap.
... däremot kan man ingalunda påstå att den här skulle kunna ingå i utmaningen #färggladahyllvärmare2021 just i maj p.g.a. monokromt Kleinblå. Fitzcarraldos signum.
NRK talar med Kinsky ombord på ett tåg på väg till litteraturfestial i Bergen:
https://radio.nrk.no/podkast/bok_i_p2...
Podden Unsound Method intervjuar Kinsky:
https://unsoundmethods.co.uk/2018/03/...
November 10, 2024
Grove by German author Esther Kinsky (1956) is a contemplative, easy-paced narrative reminiscent of
Everyday Madness
by Lisa Appignanesi or
Flights
by Olga Tokarczuk. Perhaps worried readers wouldn’t recognise its genre, the publisher found it necessary to label it a ‘field novel’ – a marketing trick I am happy to disregard.
Centred on a woman retreating to the Italian countryside after her husband’s death, Kinsky structures the story into three parts. In the first, the narrator primarily observes the village of Olevano and its surroundings. I was particularly struck by her perception of immigrant communities integrated into traditional Italian life. The observations never lead to judgments, though they remain on the surface – an effect inherent to the outsider’s perspective. In the second part, the narrator reflects on memories from her youth with her father, especially their holidays in Italy. (Here, I couldn’t help but think of Strangers I Know by Claudia Durastanti.) Finally, the narrator returns to the present, now in the Emilia-Romagna region.
The narrative is somewhat mellow, mirroring the mood of a woman dealing with loss. Despite some beautiful reflections, I did have two reservations. First, the memories felt too personal. I often wondered why they would be of interest to others. Second, the image of an older woman aimlessly wandering around, taking care of dead birds, comes across as a little clichéd. That said, Grove offers plenty of substance to make it a worthwhile read.
Centred on a woman retreating to the Italian countryside after her husband’s death, Kinsky structures the story into three parts. In the first, the narrator primarily observes the village of Olevano and its surroundings. I was particularly struck by her perception of immigrant communities integrated into traditional Italian life. The observations never lead to judgments, though they remain on the surface – an effect inherent to the outsider’s perspective. In the second part, the narrator reflects on memories from her youth with her father, especially their holidays in Italy. (Here, I couldn’t help but think of Strangers I Know by Claudia Durastanti.) Finally, the narrator returns to the present, now in the Emilia-Romagna region.
The narrative is somewhat mellow, mirroring the mood of a woman dealing with loss. Despite some beautiful reflections, I did have two reservations. First, the memories felt too personal. I often wondered why they would be of interest to others. Second, the image of an older woman aimlessly wandering around, taking care of dead birds, comes across as a little clichéd. That said, Grove offers plenty of substance to make it a worthwhile read.
July 1, 2020
the unnamed narrator is really having a moment. review to follow.
March 10, 2021
“En las iglesias rumanas hay dos lugares, separados uno de otro, donde los creyentes encienden velas. Puede tratarse de dos nichos en la pared, de dos repisas o de un par de candeleros metálicos con velas que flamean. El lado izquierdo alberga las velas para los vivos; el lado derecho, las velas para los muertos. Cuando fallece una persona por la que, en vida, se encendió una vela en el lado izquierdo, la vela ardiente es trasladada a la derecha. De los vii a los morti.” Este es el primer párrafo de la “Arboleda” de Esther Kinsky.
Y no es un primer párrafo casual (como ningún primer párrafo debería ser casual). A partir de aquí, y en las siguientes páginas, descubriremos que la autora escribe desde su retiro en Italia, en una pequeña casita que, mirada de frente, tiene el pueblo a la izquierda y el cementerio a la derecha. Vive, literalmente, en un espacio intermedio que le ofrece un limbo pluscuamperfecto en el que recuperarse de la reciente muerte de su pareja.
La imagen es tan poderosa que parece bien claro cuál va a ser el leit motiv de “Arboleda“: el proceso de duelo en el que Kinksy debería trasladar la vela por su pareja muerta desde el lado izquierdo (el pueblo) al derecho (el cementerio). Pero resulta que no. Que, tan pronto como esta base metafórica queda fijada y establecida, la autora prefiere detenerse a describir todo lo que la rodea: el paisaje italiano de Olevano, los cielos, las plantas, los árboles, los ríos, los pájaros (en especial, un pájaro que escucha pero es incapaz de ver), el pueblo, las liturgias cotidianas de la gente.
Porque, cuando no queremos enfrentarnos a un duelo, cuando no tenemos fuerzas para encarar la titánica empresa de pasar página, cuando nos cuesta aceptar la realidad que nos ha sido impuesta, cada uno opta por el escapismo que mejor le convenga… Y el escapismo de Esther Kinsky es la descripción vívida de todo lo que la rodea. Una descripción que, a la vez, entronca con sus propios recuerdos. Sobre todo, con los recuerdos que conciernen a su padre, que fue quien le abrió los ojos a la belleza del paisaje italiano.
También a la belleza y al poder sublime de las palabras y el lenguaje: “Mi padre me leía en voz alta, pero en italiano, que yo no entendía. No hay que entenderlo todo, decía él, y seguía leyendo; con el tiempo, las palabras adquirieron un efecto sosegador, las encontraba bellas y las interpretaba a mi manera. A veces le preguntaba una palabra, y él la soltaba, escueto, en alemán: Hier. Vielleicht. Links. Berg. No sé qué libro me leyó, probablemente una guía de viaje, porque en una ocasión le pregunté por una palabra que tuve que repetir varias veces: altiplano. Hochebene, dijo por fin mi padre, y al voz me resultó tan extraña como altiplano. Mas no insistí, pues las explicaciones de mi padre eran interminables y poco esclarecedoras. Preferí escuchar el italiano“.
Su padre es el que, en su obsesión profunda por el color azul, le descubre a Kinsky que mirar a tu alrededor puede ser un ejercicio mucho más complejo de lo que el común de los mortales suele permitirse. Dime tú, que lees esta reseña: ¿serías capaz de describir la diferencia del color del cielo de tu ciudad en primavera y en otoño? Probablemente, no. A lo mejor, sí. Pero, sea como sea, en ambos cosas quedarás atrapado en la lectura de esta “Arboleda” que no podía llegar hasta el lector español en un momento más ideal, justo cuando viajar a Italia (o a cualquier lugar del planeta) es algo totalmente impensable por culpa de la pandemia del coronavirus.
Pero, cuidado, porque este no es un libro de viajes. Es un libro de paisajes. Un libro en el que Esther Kinsky se vuelca en los paisajes a su alrededor para intentar sanar, para intentar reconciliar la vida junto a su pareja con la muerte de este mismo, para intentar que un viaje hacia su pasado, hacia los recuerdos de su padre, le ayude a moverse hacia adelante, hacia un futuro que es incierto porque la escritora no quiere alcanzarlo. De Olevano pasa a Chiavenna y de Chiavenna a Comacchio… Pero, por mucho que se mueva a través del mapa de Italia, no se mueve ni un centímetro dentro de su paisaje interior.
Porque, de la misma forma en la que cierta parte de la ficción post-moderna ha puesto en jaque el concepto de narratividad anteponiéndole el prefijo “ante”, Kinsky aniquila su propia narratividad y (casi) no se detiene a hablar de su pareja muerta. Prefiere usar la descripción naturalista y poética para construir gigantescas catedrales de ámbar en las que quedar atrapada. Porque, atrapada en el ámbar, el tiempo se detiene, la vida se detiene… e incluso el dolor se detiene.
Y no es un primer párrafo casual (como ningún primer párrafo debería ser casual). A partir de aquí, y en las siguientes páginas, descubriremos que la autora escribe desde su retiro en Italia, en una pequeña casita que, mirada de frente, tiene el pueblo a la izquierda y el cementerio a la derecha. Vive, literalmente, en un espacio intermedio que le ofrece un limbo pluscuamperfecto en el que recuperarse de la reciente muerte de su pareja.
La imagen es tan poderosa que parece bien claro cuál va a ser el leit motiv de “Arboleda“: el proceso de duelo en el que Kinksy debería trasladar la vela por su pareja muerta desde el lado izquierdo (el pueblo) al derecho (el cementerio). Pero resulta que no. Que, tan pronto como esta base metafórica queda fijada y establecida, la autora prefiere detenerse a describir todo lo que la rodea: el paisaje italiano de Olevano, los cielos, las plantas, los árboles, los ríos, los pájaros (en especial, un pájaro que escucha pero es incapaz de ver), el pueblo, las liturgias cotidianas de la gente.
Porque, cuando no queremos enfrentarnos a un duelo, cuando no tenemos fuerzas para encarar la titánica empresa de pasar página, cuando nos cuesta aceptar la realidad que nos ha sido impuesta, cada uno opta por el escapismo que mejor le convenga… Y el escapismo de Esther Kinsky es la descripción vívida de todo lo que la rodea. Una descripción que, a la vez, entronca con sus propios recuerdos. Sobre todo, con los recuerdos que conciernen a su padre, que fue quien le abrió los ojos a la belleza del paisaje italiano.
También a la belleza y al poder sublime de las palabras y el lenguaje: “Mi padre me leía en voz alta, pero en italiano, que yo no entendía. No hay que entenderlo todo, decía él, y seguía leyendo; con el tiempo, las palabras adquirieron un efecto sosegador, las encontraba bellas y las interpretaba a mi manera. A veces le preguntaba una palabra, y él la soltaba, escueto, en alemán: Hier. Vielleicht. Links. Berg. No sé qué libro me leyó, probablemente una guía de viaje, porque en una ocasión le pregunté por una palabra que tuve que repetir varias veces: altiplano. Hochebene, dijo por fin mi padre, y al voz me resultó tan extraña como altiplano. Mas no insistí, pues las explicaciones de mi padre eran interminables y poco esclarecedoras. Preferí escuchar el italiano“.
Su padre es el que, en su obsesión profunda por el color azul, le descubre a Kinsky que mirar a tu alrededor puede ser un ejercicio mucho más complejo de lo que el común de los mortales suele permitirse. Dime tú, que lees esta reseña: ¿serías capaz de describir la diferencia del color del cielo de tu ciudad en primavera y en otoño? Probablemente, no. A lo mejor, sí. Pero, sea como sea, en ambos cosas quedarás atrapado en la lectura de esta “Arboleda” que no podía llegar hasta el lector español en un momento más ideal, justo cuando viajar a Italia (o a cualquier lugar del planeta) es algo totalmente impensable por culpa de la pandemia del coronavirus.
Pero, cuidado, porque este no es un libro de viajes. Es un libro de paisajes. Un libro en el que Esther Kinsky se vuelca en los paisajes a su alrededor para intentar sanar, para intentar reconciliar la vida junto a su pareja con la muerte de este mismo, para intentar que un viaje hacia su pasado, hacia los recuerdos de su padre, le ayude a moverse hacia adelante, hacia un futuro que es incierto porque la escritora no quiere alcanzarlo. De Olevano pasa a Chiavenna y de Chiavenna a Comacchio… Pero, por mucho que se mueva a través del mapa de Italia, no se mueve ni un centímetro dentro de su paisaje interior.
Porque, de la misma forma en la que cierta parte de la ficción post-moderna ha puesto en jaque el concepto de narratividad anteponiéndole el prefijo “ante”, Kinsky aniquila su propia narratividad y (casi) no se detiene a hablar de su pareja muerta. Prefiere usar la descripción naturalista y poética para construir gigantescas catedrales de ámbar en las que quedar atrapada. Porque, atrapada en el ámbar, el tiempo se detiene, la vida se detiene… e incluso el dolor se detiene.
May 13, 2018
"Гай". Роман, який отримав головну премію на цьогорічному Ляйпцизькому ярмарку.
Меланхолійний (в доброму розумінні), трохи тужливий і дуже поетичний (врешті Кінскі - поетка). Про примирення зі смертю, прощання з дорогими людьми і віднайдення себе - через проживання ландшафтів, природу, спогади, врешті мистецтво (яке великою мірою теж є тут спогадами і продовженням діалогу з тими, кого вже немає).
Власне, формальний сюжет доволі простий. Оповідачка мандрує Італією. Маленькими містечками, куди в дитинстві неодноразово їздила разом із батьками і куди планувала поїхати з М. Про нього мало що відомо, крім того, що він був їй дуже близьким (коханим? партнером?) Колись вони жили в Лондоні, подорожували разом. Принагідно виринають нечисленні фотокартки, фрагменти з минулого; часом (особливо спершу) він з"являється в снах, коли тривожних, а коли - світлих, хоч і не зовсім спокійних. У її валізі його одяг, що досі зберігає запах. Так, М. помер, здається, зовсім недавно. І тепер вона мандрує сама.
Але це не Італія з "Eat, pray, love" чи, скажімо, з "Під сонцем Тоскани", де гостинна земля й місцеві обіцяють якщо не швидке зцілення, то принайнмні дозу фотогенічної романтики. Це переважно північні містечка в долині ріки По, в доволі "нетуристичну" погоду (часто хмарну і дощову, а навіть коли сонячну, то радше важко спекотну), де іноді вона виявляється єдиною чужинкою. Вона затримується всюди трохи довше, ніж звичайні туристи, але не достатньо довго, щ��б тут якось вкорінитися. Вона бродить старими цвинтарями, читає написи, шукає слідів; в одному містечку кілька днів носить квіти на могилу, до якої вже ніхто не приходить; спостерігає за тамтешнім життям, у тому числі, птахів і природи.
В другій частині виринає давніший шар спогадів - про батька і дитячі мандри. Так, батько вже теж помер, здається, не надто давно (принаймні вже в її дорослому віці). Але тут, в Італії, і він поруч, бо ж саме він показував їм "свою" Італію (хоч був стопроцентним німцем), розповідав про красу синього lapis lazulli на картинах Фра ��нджеліко, як і про етрусків, яких любив особливо. А наприкінці вона таки знаходить мозаїку в Равенні, яку батько під час їхньої останньої зустрічі радив обов"язково побачити.
Власне, всі відвідані старовинні некрополі й новіші цвинтарі, єврейські та італійські (ледь не в кожному містечку) існують тут в одній площині, хоч їх і розділяють іноді купа століть. Це її усвідомлена мандрівка поміж "землею живих" і "землею мертвих". Мандрівка з тим, щоб побути зі своїми померлими, але потім іще повернутися.
Дуже хороша книжка. Можливо, ще й потрапила до рук саме тоді, коли треба.
Але насправді тут набагато більше, аніж сказано в цій куцій анотації. Просто переказувати це - майже як переказувати поетичні тексти.
Меланхолійний (в доброму розумінні), трохи тужливий і дуже поетичний (врешті Кінскі - поетка). Про примирення зі смертю, прощання з дорогими людьми і віднайдення себе - через проживання ландшафтів, природу, спогади, врешті мистецтво (яке великою мірою теж є тут спогадами і продовженням діалогу з тими, кого вже немає).
Власне, формальний сюжет доволі простий. Оповідачка мандрує Італією. Маленькими містечками, куди в дитинстві неодноразово їздила разом із батьками і куди планувала поїхати з М. Про нього мало що відомо, крім того, що він був їй дуже близьким (коханим? партнером?) Колись вони жили в Лондоні, подорожували разом. Принагідно виринають нечисленні фотокартки, фрагменти з минулого; часом (особливо спершу) він з"являється в снах, коли тривожних, а коли - світлих, хоч і не зовсім спокійних. У її валізі його одяг, що досі зберігає запах. Так, М. помер, здається, зовсім недавно. І тепер вона мандрує сама.
Але це не Італія з "Eat, pray, love" чи, скажімо, з "Під сонцем Тоскани", де гостинна земля й місцеві обіцяють якщо не швидке зцілення, то принайнмні дозу фотогенічної романтики. Це переважно північні містечка в долині ріки По, в доволі "нетуристичну" погоду (часто хмарну і дощову, а навіть коли сонячну, то радше важко спекотну), де іноді вона виявляється єдиною чужинкою. Вона затримується всюди трохи довше, ніж звичайні туристи, але не достатньо довго, щ��б тут якось вкорінитися. Вона бродить старими цвинтарями, читає написи, шукає слідів; в одному містечку кілька днів носить квіти на могилу, до якої вже ніхто не приходить; спостерігає за тамтешнім життям, у тому числі, птахів і природи.
В другій частині виринає давніший шар спогадів - про батька і дитячі мандри. Так, батько вже теж помер, здається, не надто давно (принаймні вже в її дорослому віці). Але тут, в Італії, і він поруч, бо ж саме він показував їм "свою" Італію (хоч був стопроцентним німцем), розповідав про красу синього lapis lazulli на картинах Фра ��нджеліко, як і про етрусків, яких любив особливо. А наприкінці вона таки знаходить мозаїку в Равенні, яку батько під час їхньої останньої зустрічі радив обов"язково побачити.
Власне, всі відвідані старовинні некрополі й новіші цвинтарі, єврейські та італійські (ледь не в кожному містечку) існують тут в одній площині, хоч їх і розділяють іноді купа століть. Це її усвідомлена мандрівка поміж "землею живих" і "землею мертвих". Мандрівка з тим, щоб побути зі своїми померлими, але потім іще повернутися.
Дуже хороша книжка. Можливо, ще й потрапила до рук саме тоді, коли треба.
Але насправді тут набагато більше, аніж сказано в цій куцій анотації. Просто переказувати це - майже як переказувати поетичні тексти.
January 5, 2022
"I stood still and stared through a large window, in the manner of Jane Eyre staring into the redemptive cottage on the moor. It was a sports bar with men crowded around a pool table; a television was on and guests stood at the bar in small groups, talking, drinking coffee or beer, looking up at the screen. It looked like warmth, like life, like a scene that I could have witnessed in Italy during my childhood. In the middle of this lost, abandoned small town in the Po delta, a window opened into a world, familiar from a distance, which had never been accessible to me, frequented only by men; briefly it consoled me over what I had experienced, while I wandered through the northern Italian streets during these weeks, vaguely and unnamed, as absence and loss." (p.239)
December 20, 2020
Beautiful and exciting for those who love places and photography.
November 2, 2025
-melancholic, quiet
-grove/grave
-a certain pervading dullness,sense of the mundane, heaviness
-sparse
-grove/grave
-a certain pervading dullness,sense of the mundane, heaviness
-sparse
March 23, 2021
This is another of those meditative novels reminding me of W. G. Sebald. Like him, Esther Kinsky writes about memory and about a character wandering landscapes in search of impressions and the meanings of her recent past which include the death of her partner, called M. The book's in 3 parts linked more closely than is apparent at first. The landscapes she immerses herself in are Italian, 1st in Olevano, a village on the southeastern outskirts of Rome. It's here she brings up the major topic of her thought, the great dichotomy between life and death and where she finds their representations in a cemetery and a grove of pines on opposite sites of the road approaching the house she rents. The 2d part is memories of childhood trips through Italy with her family, from Milan to Rome. Her father was interested in the Etruscans. The necropolises they visit and the stories told of Etruscan culture are central to her family memories. In the 3d part she visits Ferrara and the Po River estuary in the middle of winter. She's a careful, methodical observer of nature and Italian life. Everywhere she goes she studies the land and the way light and weather, animals and humans fit into it. She's in search of her own fit into the world following the loss of her partner. The seam between life and death is on her mind constantly. The herons and flamingoes looming in the landscape around Ferrara amidst scattered groves of trees and marsh grass are opposites in her thinking just as the cemetery and grove in Olevano. I remember that birds are often thought agents of death in our stories, ancient and modern, while groves are traditionally sacred sites and are repositories of memory. Certainly the novel's story most concerns grief, summed up elegantly in the final chapter, "Lamentatio," in which the character closely relates to a 600-year old painting of Francis of Assisi.
It's not exactly clear to me whether or not she's choosing between life and death. She does leave the Po delta, traveling through Bologna and Milan into the Alps, and her outlook seems to brighten along the way. Nor is it clear why this is called "A Field Novel." I wondered if we're meant to think of field in the context of an anthropologist doing fieldwork within a particular society to study its culture and mores.
This is a beautiful novel. I'm drawn to these kinds of introspective, inner-directed passages where characters discover meaning and order through observation. Last year I read Kinsky's earlier, similarly-toned novel River and thought it probably the best new thing I read all year. I imagine this pair of books can provide the same pleasures over and over again.
It's not exactly clear to me whether or not she's choosing between life and death. She does leave the Po delta, traveling through Bologna and Milan into the Alps, and her outlook seems to brighten along the way. Nor is it clear why this is called "A Field Novel." I wondered if we're meant to think of field in the context of an anthropologist doing fieldwork within a particular society to study its culture and mores.
This is a beautiful novel. I'm drawn to these kinds of introspective, inner-directed passages where characters discover meaning and order through observation. Last year I read Kinsky's earlier, similarly-toned novel River and thought it probably the best new thing I read all year. I imagine this pair of books can provide the same pleasures over and over again.
March 22, 2021
Amo molto i romanzi che, apparentemente, non parlano di niente. Adoro la Cusk, ho amato Pond della Bennet, insomma non sono una che si lascia influenzare dalla trama, ma credo ci sia un limite. Il mio limite è la prosa: se non parli altro che dei tuoi pensieri, lo devi fare in maniera perfetta, come al Cusk, solo l'ultima che mi viene in mente.
Questo libro invece racconta di un mesto peregrinare attraverso l'Italia e i ricordi, di una protagonista che cerca di superare un lutto, camminando, facendo foto e visitando cimiteri. Sono volutamente riduttiva perché, con queste basi di partenza, mi sarei potuta interessare moltissimo a questo libro. Invece, fin dai primissimi capitoli, ho trovato la scrittura lenta, senza fascino, meramente descrittiva di posti per la maggior parte desolati. Capisco tutto, e capisco che sia una scelta precisa dell'autrice. Ma se scrivi 769 pagine (sul mio Kobo) presumo che tu voglia farti leggere fino in fondo. Invece è subentrata, dopo poco, una noia costante e leggera che mi ha accompagnato fino alla fine solo perché lo leggevo di notte e mi lasciavo scivolare dentro il sonno.
Tisana in accompagnamento, perché è l'unica bevanda che può reggere il confronto.
Questo libro invece racconta di un mesto peregrinare attraverso l'Italia e i ricordi, di una protagonista che cerca di superare un lutto, camminando, facendo foto e visitando cimiteri. Sono volutamente riduttiva perché, con queste basi di partenza, mi sarei potuta interessare moltissimo a questo libro. Invece, fin dai primissimi capitoli, ho trovato la scrittura lenta, senza fascino, meramente descrittiva di posti per la maggior parte desolati. Capisco tutto, e capisco che sia una scelta precisa dell'autrice. Ma se scrivi 769 pagine (sul mio Kobo) presumo che tu voglia farti leggere fino in fondo. Invece è subentrata, dopo poco, una noia costante e leggera che mi ha accompagnato fino alla fine solo perché lo leggevo di notte e mi lasciavo scivolare dentro il sonno.
Tisana in accompagnamento, perché è l'unica bevanda che può reggere il confronto.
April 15, 2018
Das Buch ist bestimmt das Lesen wert. Als eine Reise zwischen den Reichen der Lebenden und der Toten, zeigt es den Umgang mit Trauer, Desillusionierung und lässt das Gelände, das sehr genau beobachtet wird, für sich sprechen. Es ist teilweise sehr schön geschrieben und arbeitet gut mit den verbindenden Motiven zwischen den Teilen, vor allem Teile I und III haben mir gefallen.
Doch so richtig überzeugen konnte es mich nicht. Zu oft wurde immer wieder das gleiche auf nur leicht unterschiedliche Art gesagt und die Beschreibungen führten oft zu nichts. Es wirkte, als ob das Buch schon nach Teil I kein eigentliches Ziel mehr verfolgt.
Doch so richtig überzeugen konnte es mich nicht. Zu oft wurde immer wieder das gleiche auf nur leicht unterschiedliche Art gesagt und die Beschreibungen führten oft zu nichts. Es wirkte, als ob das Buch schon nach Teil I kein eigentliches Ziel mehr verfolgt.
abandoned
August 11, 2020I read the first 40 pages about absolutely nothing and could not go on. It reminded me of Claire-Louise Bennett's Pond which was painful enough to read. I feared more of the same here.
Read
August 22, 2020Grove is a novel for lovers of contemplative fiction that explores ideas and emotions and for those who love travel and nature writing. The protagonist is mourning the recent loss of “M” while living in a small town near Rome. In later sections she travels through other parts of Italy, thinks about the loss of her father, and remembers childhood visits to the region. The narrator’s descriptions of the Italian landscape are saturated with grief and thoughts about death—she visits many cemeteries—even as they are beautifully evocative. She captures a version of Italy that brims with details of modern life while also holding deeply personal meaning.
https://bookriot.com/summer-indie-pre...
https://bookriot.com/summer-indie-pre...
December 15, 2023
Ein außergewöhnlicher Roman, der als "Geländeroman" eingeordnet wird. Der Roman besteht hauptsächlich aus Beschreibungen und Beobachtungen der Umgebung. Als Szenerie dienen verschiedene Orte Italiens. Eine schöne Ideen und teilweise fühlte es sich wie Urlaub an, allerdings fehlte mir eine Handlung doch deutlich und es fiel mir schwer dran zu bleiben.
September 8, 2025
Don’t read if you’re into general fiction and not willing to explore a different structure for writing. A beautiful, meditative read.
May 26, 2022
Es el momento del duelo en el que no puedes comprender cómo el mundo sigue su curso si tu ser amado ya no está. Esther Kinsky se refugia en Italia, realizando el viaje planeado con su pareja aunque él ya no la pueda acompañar.
Como si de un pintor se tratase, llena el lienzo del papel blanco con su continua observación del paisaje, su fauna y su flora, las rutinas de sus gentes y sus obsesivas visitas al cementerio. Cada día, cada hora encuentra un nuevo detalle que la nueva luz le brinda.
En el tránsito de esta aceptación de la ausencia, la evocación de sus agridulces recuerdos de la infancia y, sobre todo, de un peculiar padre que le enseñó a amar el paisaje italiano.
La narración se abre y cierra con dos poderosas imágenes que condensan el doloroso misterio de este libro. Por un lado, como "En las iglesias rumanas hay dos lugares, separados uno de otro, donde los creyentes encienden sus velas. Puede tratarse de dos nichos en la pared, de dos repisas o de un par de candeleros metálicos con velas que flamean. El lado izquierdo alberga las velas para los vivos; el lado derecho, las velas para los muertos. Cuando fallece una persona por la que, en vida, se encendió una vela en el lado izquierdo, la vela ardiente es trasladada a la derecha. De los 'vii' a los 'morti'."
Por otro, el cuadro de Fra Angelico que representa la 'lamentatio' de Francisco de Asis. "Es un cuadro centrado en la muerte: a su izquierda está la vida, a su derecha el duelo."
De como la muerte forma parte de la vida.
Al final, despertar del sueño y llegar a puerto.
"Había aprendido a marcharme, a borrar huellas, a guardar lo acumulado y recolectado, a establecer en la memoria una imagen de espacios interiores que nunca llegaría a imprimirse. Lo que acabará asentándose en el recuerdo es algo que nunca se sabe por adelantado, algo que se sustrae a todo propósito. Si alguna vez volviera allí, todo sería distinto a como se conservaba en la memoria, distinto también a como se leía en las fotografías reveladas, reproducidas. Ninguna fotografía es una copia de la realidad."
Como si de un pintor se tratase, llena el lienzo del papel blanco con su continua observación del paisaje, su fauna y su flora, las rutinas de sus gentes y sus obsesivas visitas al cementerio. Cada día, cada hora encuentra un nuevo detalle que la nueva luz le brinda.
En el tránsito de esta aceptación de la ausencia, la evocación de sus agridulces recuerdos de la infancia y, sobre todo, de un peculiar padre que le enseñó a amar el paisaje italiano.
La narración se abre y cierra con dos poderosas imágenes que condensan el doloroso misterio de este libro. Por un lado, como "En las iglesias rumanas hay dos lugares, separados uno de otro, donde los creyentes encienden sus velas. Puede tratarse de dos nichos en la pared, de dos repisas o de un par de candeleros metálicos con velas que flamean. El lado izquierdo alberga las velas para los vivos; el lado derecho, las velas para los muertos. Cuando fallece una persona por la que, en vida, se encendió una vela en el lado izquierdo, la vela ardiente es trasladada a la derecha. De los 'vii' a los 'morti'."
Por otro, el cuadro de Fra Angelico que representa la 'lamentatio' de Francisco de Asis. "Es un cuadro centrado en la muerte: a su izquierda está la vida, a su derecha el duelo."
De como la muerte forma parte de la vida.
Al final, despertar del sueño y llegar a puerto.
"Había aprendido a marcharme, a borrar huellas, a guardar lo acumulado y recolectado, a establecer en la memoria una imagen de espacios interiores que nunca llegaría a imprimirse. Lo que acabará asentándose en el recuerdo es algo que nunca se sabe por adelantado, algo que se sustrae a todo propósito. Si alguna vez volviera allí, todo sería distinto a como se conservaba en la memoria, distinto también a como se leía en las fotografías reveladas, reproducidas. Ninguna fotografía es una copia de la realidad."
May 4, 2023
„Mir wurde schwindlig beim Betrachten dieser ausgebreiteten Gegend, die sich so offenlegte und mir doch so unverständlich blieb. Ein unebenes Gelände von unstetem Anschein, weil es sich von jeder Seite anders bot. Von jeder Seite zogen die Wege eine andere Schrift, warfen die Berge andere Schatten, verschoben sich die Ebenen, die Vorder-, Mittel-, Hintergründe. Ein Gelände, das in mir seine Spuren hinterließ, ohne dass von mir eine lesbare Spur blieb. Etwas an dem Verhältnis zwischen Sehen und Gesehenem, zwischen der Bedeutung des Sehens und der des Gesehenseins oder Gesehenwerdens als tröstlicher Bestätigung der Existenz erschien mir plötzlich als ein brennendes Rätsel, das sich jedem Namen entzog. Hätte mir jemand dort an diesem Hang gesagt, dass man an der Unfähigkeit, dieses Rätsel zu lösen und überhaupt nur zu benennen, sterben konnte, ich hätte es geglaubt.“
- mit diesem abschnitt hat esther kinsky selbst auf den punkt gebracht, was ich beim lesen ihres geländeromans verspürt habe. zweifelsohne ist der roman außergewöhnlich. zweifelsohne ist kinsky eine hochtalentierte autorin. ich sehe das, und würdige es. mein geschmack war es allerdings eher nicht. ich frage mich, ob sie eine handlung negiert, oder, ob sie weichen muss angesichts der vorrückenden naturalistischen beschreibungen von landschaften aller art. wahrscheinlich eher letzteres. und obwohl es wirklich interessant war, diese akribischen, feinen beobachtungen nachzubilden, war meine vorstellungskraft stellenweise massiv überfordert. diesen roman lesen bedeutet wohl eher: malen. nachmalen im kopf, was kinksy da rezipiert und rezitiert. meine palette war dafür oft zu klein; eigentlich hätte ich das nicht von mir erwartet (kunststudium und so). wenn man sowas mag: bestimmt spitzenklasse. für mich reicht es für solide drei stars
- mit diesem abschnitt hat esther kinsky selbst auf den punkt gebracht, was ich beim lesen ihres geländeromans verspürt habe. zweifelsohne ist der roman außergewöhnlich. zweifelsohne ist kinsky eine hochtalentierte autorin. ich sehe das, und würdige es. mein geschmack war es allerdings eher nicht. ich frage mich, ob sie eine handlung negiert, oder, ob sie weichen muss angesichts der vorrückenden naturalistischen beschreibungen von landschaften aller art. wahrscheinlich eher letzteres. und obwohl es wirklich interessant war, diese akribischen, feinen beobachtungen nachzubilden, war meine vorstellungskraft stellenweise massiv überfordert. diesen roman lesen bedeutet wohl eher: malen. nachmalen im kopf, was kinksy da rezipiert und rezitiert. meine palette war dafür oft zu klein; eigentlich hätte ich das nicht von mir erwartet (kunststudium und so). wenn man sowas mag: bestimmt spitzenklasse. für mich reicht es für solide drei stars
February 23, 2020
"..., het rook in de straatjes naar februari, het niet-meer-helemaal-winterse aroma uit mijn kindertijd, ..."
Het boek rook, wat mij betreft, dan weer naar Claude Simon. Maar dan in een verzakelijkte, Duitse versie. Dus ook geschikt voor wie het niet zo begrepen heeft op het maniërisme van de nouveau roman.
Bij mij gaf het interview waarin de auteur uitlegde waarom ze Olga Tokarczuks niet meer zou vertalen, de aanzet om haar eigen werk te lezen.
Ze vond de boeken van die Nobelprijs-laureaat niet goed genoeg geschreven.
Schrijven, dat kan ze zelf ook. En nog niet een klein beetje.
Lezen dus, deze roman.
Het boek rook, wat mij betreft, dan weer naar Claude Simon. Maar dan in een verzakelijkte, Duitse versie. Dus ook geschikt voor wie het niet zo begrepen heeft op het maniërisme van de nouveau roman.
Bij mij gaf het interview waarin de auteur uitlegde waarom ze Olga Tokarczuks niet meer zou vertalen, de aanzet om haar eigen werk te lezen.
Ze vond de boeken van die Nobelprijs-laureaat niet goed genoeg geschreven.
Schrijven, dat kan ze zelf ook. En nog niet een klein beetje.
Lezen dus, deze roman.
September 4, 2023
I loved the language and introspection of this atmospheric novel. I wouldn’t recommend it to people who want plot and I’m sure some of my friends will think me macabre, but I liked the description of the grief process. The beautiful observations on nature provided the narrator with a sense of hope as her life continued without the people she loved. I should not have read it through, however. It just seemed to have gone on too long for me and I became bored about half way through. It is a book that needs to be savored.
September 2, 2021
Prachtige roman, waarin rouw over haar man en haar vader zich uitdrukt in nauwkeurige tekeningen van het landschap.
“Jaren na de dood van mijn vader had ik in de salines van Comacchio (…) opeens het gevoel gekregen dat ik een taak moest vervullen. Iets moest doen wat me was opgedragen. Plaatsen bezoeken, terreinen bewandelen, op de tast mijn weg zoeken langs de sporen die zich als dunne draden tussen mijn herinneringen en beelden, plaatsen en namen spanden.” Blz 277
“Jaren na de dood van mijn vader had ik in de salines van Comacchio (…) opeens het gevoel gekregen dat ik een taak moest vervullen. Iets moest doen wat me was opgedragen. Plaatsen bezoeken, terreinen bewandelen, op de tast mijn weg zoeken langs de sporen die zich als dunne draden tussen mijn herinneringen en beelden, plaatsen en namen spanden.” Blz 277
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