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وقت رفتن
شاید بتوان یوزف وینکلر را توماس برنهارتی دیگر نامید. وینکلر نیز همانند برنهارت از خمودگی ذهنها در محیطهای روستای اتریش مینویسد و از ریاکاری آشکار و پنهان سیاسی که از دوران فاشیسم بهویژه در اذهان روستاییها باقی مانده است.
وقت رفتن شرححال دهقانزادهای است که دوران کودکیاش در ملک و مزرعهی پدری گذشته است، ملک و مزرعهای که او آن را جهانی بیزبان مینامد. در این جهان، محبت پدری سهم حیوانان مزرعه و خشونت سهم بچههاست. آن دهقانزاده خود وینکلر است که در این اثر با زبانی کوبنده، با آمیزهای از کفر و ایمان، آیینهای کلیسای کاتولیک را نقد میکند.
وقت رفتن شرححال دهقانزادهای است که دوران کودکیاش در ملک و مزرعهی پدری گذشته است، ملک و مزرعهای که او آن را جهانی بیزبان مینامد. در این جهان، محبت پدری سهم حیوانان مزرعه و خشونت سهم بچههاست. آن دهقانزاده خود وینکلر است که در این اثر با زبانی کوبنده، با آمیزهای از کفر و ایمان، آیینهای کلیسای کاتولیک را نقد میکند.
160 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1998
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September 6, 2021
در روزگاری که مرگ آسان و فراوان شده و انسان ها با دلیل یا بدون دلیل ، در کسری از ثانیه ، یا بیمار به مدت طولانی ، در جنگ و به دست هم نوع خویش ، یا با انواع بلایای طبیعی و غیر طبیعی جان شیرین خود را از دست می دهند ،خواندن کتاب وقت رفتن نوشته یوزف وینکلر نویسنده اتریشی که داستان مرگ افراد یک دهکده کوچک اتریش را بیان کرده است احتمالا انتخاب چندان مناسبی برای این دوران نباشد .
در این کتاب ، موضوع اصلی مرگ افراد دهکده است ، آقای وینکلر ابتدا مرگ افراد را با جزییات شرح داده و سپس به زندگی فرد جان باخته پرداخته است ، شیوه های مرگ افراد از خود کشی با طناب دار تا تصادف یا سکته قلبی متفاوت است . سپس در جملاتی که در سرتاسر کتاب به دفعات تکرار شده ، نویسنده از تغار سفالینی گفته که استخوان های درگذشتگان در آن قرار گرفته و سپس در طی فرآیندی به مایعی به نام پانداپیل تبدیل می شود .
یوزف وینکلر ، خواننده را با نام و شخصیت های زیاد گیج کرده وممکن است خواننده زمان زیادی برای کشف رابطه افراد با راوی داستان بگذارد ( البته درک این رابطه ها هم کمک چندانی به فهم داستان نمی کند ) ، به همین ترتیب تکرار جملات و ریتم کند و کسل کننده و موضوع نه چندان جالب داستان هم از دیگر دلایلی هستند که وقت رفتن را به کتابی نه چندان جذاب و سردرگم تبدیل می کند .
در این کتاب ، موضوع اصلی مرگ افراد دهکده است ، آقای وینکلر ابتدا مرگ افراد را با جزییات شرح داده و سپس به زندگی فرد جان باخته پرداخته است ، شیوه های مرگ افراد از خود کشی با طناب دار تا تصادف یا سکته قلبی متفاوت است . سپس در جملاتی که در سرتاسر کتاب به دفعات تکرار شده ، نویسنده از تغار سفالینی گفته که استخوان های درگذشتگان در آن قرار گرفته و سپس در طی فرآیندی به مایعی به نام پانداپیل تبدیل می شود .
یوزف وینکلر ، خواننده را با نام و شخصیت های زیاد گیج کرده وممکن است خواننده زمان زیادی برای کشف رابطه افراد با راوی داستان بگذارد ( البته درک این رابطه ها هم کمک چندانی به فهم داستان نمی کند ) ، به همین ترتیب تکرار جملات و ریتم کند و کسل کننده و موضوع نه چندان جالب داستان هم از دیگر دلایلی هستند که وقت رفتن را به کتابی نه چندان جذاب و سردرگم تبدیل می کند .
August 19, 2014
Review published in Numéro Cinq: http://numerocinqmagazine.com/2014/02...
Until recently, Anglophone readers wanting to investigate the fiction of Austrian writer Josef Winkler faced only one option: the exacting and elliptical novel The Serf (1987/1997; trans. Michael Mitchell). Published in English by Ariadne Press, The Serf joined Winkler's Flowers for Jean Genet (1992/1997; trans. Michael Roloff), his biographical and readerly homage to the French writer Jean Genet, whose influence is felt throughout Winkler's own fiction, as the only works available in English
But the reader requires an immersive education in Winkler before undertaking The Serf. And even Flowers for Jean Genet, while critical to comprehending Winkler's aesthetic—his queer appropriation of high camp, religious and perverse imagery; and his homoeroticism (I would suggest, from Ronald Firbank as well)—fails to give the reader a cogent glimpse into his creative output, an oeuvre for which Winkler has garnered many accolades including the Alfred Döblin Award in 2001, the Grand Austrian State Prize in 2007, and the Georg Büchner Prize in 2008.
Luckily, two additional fictions by Winkler were published in the past year by Contra Mundum, When the Time Comes (1998/2013) and Natura Morta: A Roman Novella (2001/2014), both translated assiduously by Adrian West, who, to use his own words (as applied to Winkler's prose), is able to render the painstaking "visual detail" and "attention to the musicality of phrases" found in the original German texts with a skill that honors Winkler's writing as a "writing-against."
Winkler eschews a traditional plot; instead, narrative fragments work together by means of repetition to complicate his vision of modern life. But single scenes can also be understood on their own terms, if one considers the images and their relation to the overall thematics of the text.
Subtitled A Roman Novella, Natura Morta is less a novella than a series of poetic vignettes, a succession of glimpses of life around the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele in Rome where various figures appear, disappear, and then reappear: people "festooned" with commodified and locally popular "colorful plastic pacifiers"; "two teenaged Moroccan rent boys"; and a man whose "eyelids and eyelashes [are] painted black with mascara" and who is taunted with the homophobic "Sida!" There are plenty of "bloody chicken heads and yellow chicken feet" in the marketplace juxtaposed with iconographic images like "a doll of the Christ child" parked in bowl surrounded by "dried pineapples, dates, and figs" and "the Virgin Mary ... look[ing] over the fingertips of her clasped hands toward a box of Mon Chéri chocolates." These images constitute a fixed yet fluid tableau, a natura morta, a still life echoing its literal translation: dead nature.
Winkler is primarily concerned with the fig vendor's son Piccoletto, "[a] black-haired boy, around sixteen years old, whose long eyelashes nearly grazed his freckle-studded cheeks." Piccoletto's function is to join the seemingly disparate images of the city and its inhabitants in a way that allows Winkler to explore the religious history of Rome, particularly as it deviates from contemporary vice and greed. "Sacred kitsch" litters the city; the text works by juxtaposing religious iconography and a marketplace saturated with "one crucified Lord after another," juxtapositions that in turn inform and reflect the distorted sexualities, the myriad "perversions" and vices paraded before the reader and the young, impressionable Piccoletto: from "[t]wo nuns ... lick[ing] the chocolate toes of an ice cream bar shaped like a child's foot" to Michelangelo's Pietà, "framed with bulletproof glass," an icon fetishized by "[a] toothless Pole" with the desire "to clasp the mother of God in her fingers."
Winkler's imagistic prose shows debts to the cinema. In one scene, Piccoletto spies a videocassette of "the film Sciuscià by Vittorio de Sica ... [a]top the apricots and white peaches" carried in a plastic bag by an anonymous woman on a streetcar. This mention of de Sica's first major work as a director—filmed in 1946 and translated in English as Shoeshine—reveals how images in Winkler function similarly to those in a neorealist film; not only do many of the series of images contain potent mixtures of the sacred and the profane, but they overvalue the image itself (in its repetition and in its recurrence) in ways also reminiscent of auteurs such as Michelangelo Antonioni.
Winkler has likened his authorial role to that of a human camera[2]: he would undoubtedly have had Antonioni's famous montage of images in mind—I am thinking of Antonioni's L'Eclisse (1962), with its stress on images as storytelling vehicles—when compiling his own scenes of natura morta. Consider the following two passages:
Even more crucial to Winkler's sexual vision of modernity is Piccoletto's interest in soliciting both male and female gazes, and how he can arouse and also express sexual interest across the gulf of gender. Winkler's aesthetic construction of modern-day Rome conjoins sex and the city, forcing individuals to confront the past in a present whose greed, lusts, and sensual pleasures—e.g., "Frocio wrapped fistfuls of ice chips in tin foil, pressing them into the form of a phallus, held the cold fetish at his hips, and squeezed the ice chips out of the tin foil in front of the fig vendor's son, as though releasing kilos of ejaculate"—contrast with the iconographic and architectural reminders of latter days: "a stone phallus" in the Piazza San Vittorio the scene where an ambulance "pick[s] up a young drug addict, passed out and foaming at the mouth"; "the exit of the papal tombs" of Saint Peter's Cathedral "leaking blood in the filthy streets," streets littered with pages of the Cronaco vera, "in which tragedies from throughout Italy—illustrated with hearses, eyewitnesses, chesty women, and Mafiosi...—are reported every week."
In contrast with Natura Morta's portraits of city life, Winkler's When the Time Comes takes rural Austria as its focus (Winkler's native Carinthia). But like Natura Morta, When the Time Comes centers on a young boy whose intellectual and sexual maturation are influenced by his attempts to compile the stories of those who have come before him. In When the Time Comes, the storyteller is "the bone collector" Maximilian, whose "black bone stock ... smell[s] of decay" and yet, because it contains the bones of the dead, has within it a history to decipher, record, fathom. Maximilian is Winkler's anchor point; other characters' stories are woven into his "clay vessel" of bones, creating a portrait of life in rural Austria spanning generations.
The town's pastor has erected a terrifying painting representing God's judgment at the town center, an icon that oversees the lives and deaths of the townspeople in a "town built in the form of a cross." It depicts a man "who dragged a life-sized statue of Jesus through the forest before the Second World War and threw it over a waterfall," causing Jesus to lose both arms; the painting shows the man's retribution in life, since he "lost his own arms in Hitler's war," and after, in the fires of Hell. The often vindictive Old Testament God's relationship with his flock, one built on fear as much as veneration, is a paradigm that repeats at the secular and personal levels. One is never free from one's history, and even rewriting history, placing bones upon bones—as is the bone collector's iterative, inscriptive task—cannot pry the individual from his or her community and the repressive social and religious structures of the past.
Winkler inverts the famous "begat" passages in the book of Genesis, opening the sections of When the Time Comes with his characters' often tragicomic deaths rather than with their births; because of this, their lives seem to take on a more purposeful and even allegorical meaning. For example,
Most of the narrative in When the Time Comes, however, is taken up with the story of two boys, Jonathan and Leopold, names that allude to religious and popular examples of queerness—the first, a reference to Jonathan's homoerotic relationship with David in the book of Samuel, and the second recalling Leopold of the Leopold and Loeb murder scandal in 1920s Chicago. It is typical of Winkler to fuse extremes: love alongside fear, pleasure alongside pain, and loyalty alongside greed: in this case, Jonathan and Leopold achieve an extreme jouissance combining pleasure (mutual masturbation) with pain (autoerotic asphyxiation):
W. G. Sebald notes that Winkler's use of repetition points to something personal in his work, an act of self-definition that requires sifting through and making sense of one's origins:
"Josef Winkler's entire, monomaniac oeuvre ... is actually an attempt to compensate for the experience of humiliation and moral violation by casting a malevolent eye on one's own origins." If repetition is the sole way to work through trauma, as Freud has suggested, the rural portraits in When the Time Comes suggest that trauma is as endemic to everyday life as is a kind of quiet joy, and the ways in which collective and personal traumas are eventually reconciled with one another are mediations intrinsically bound to the storyteller's sociocultural function.
Sebald's remarks on Winkler's work also point to a moral complicity that individuals need to recognize, one that carries the weight of the past and also points toward a future—though, just what that future constitutes is bleakly uncertain. The teleological aim of the future, as Winkler sees, points only toward death. Thus, the reader meets each character in When the Time Comes at the moment of his or her death, the narrative then working backward through the character's life. Winkler's vision privileges the figure of the artist as conduit between past origins and present traumas, interpreting "the flood of recollected images [as it] begins," but just what the artist or storyteller figure does with these "bones" is undefined, as is who will replace Maximilian when his own time comes.
Like Sebald and like his own Austrian compatriots Peter Handke, Elfriede Jelinek, and Thomas Bernhard, Winkler flags memory and history—collective and individual—as inescapable traps that affect present experience. Winkler is concerned with the individual's role in history, how it is necessary to acknowledge complicity with the past, and how one must grapple with the external forces of inhumanity, greed, and immorality and ultimately reconcile with that past. And yet, while it is essential to remember the stories of the dead, sadly, we erase all memory of them before we have had time to absorb all that they can offer us:
Until recently, Anglophone readers wanting to investigate the fiction of Austrian writer Josef Winkler faced only one option: the exacting and elliptical novel The Serf (1987/1997; trans. Michael Mitchell). Published in English by Ariadne Press, The Serf joined Winkler's Flowers for Jean Genet (1992/1997; trans. Michael Roloff), his biographical and readerly homage to the French writer Jean Genet, whose influence is felt throughout Winkler's own fiction, as the only works available in English
But the reader requires an immersive education in Winkler before undertaking The Serf. And even Flowers for Jean Genet, while critical to comprehending Winkler's aesthetic—his queer appropriation of high camp, religious and perverse imagery; and his homoeroticism (I would suggest, from Ronald Firbank as well)—fails to give the reader a cogent glimpse into his creative output, an oeuvre for which Winkler has garnered many accolades including the Alfred Döblin Award in 2001, the Grand Austrian State Prize in 2007, and the Georg Büchner Prize in 2008.
Luckily, two additional fictions by Winkler were published in the past year by Contra Mundum, When the Time Comes (1998/2013) and Natura Morta: A Roman Novella (2001/2014), both translated assiduously by Adrian West, who, to use his own words (as applied to Winkler's prose), is able to render the painstaking "visual detail" and "attention to the musicality of phrases" found in the original German texts with a skill that honors Winkler's writing as a "writing-against."
Winkler eschews a traditional plot; instead, narrative fragments work together by means of repetition to complicate his vision of modern life. But single scenes can also be understood on their own terms, if one considers the images and their relation to the overall thematics of the text.
Subtitled A Roman Novella, Natura Morta is less a novella than a series of poetic vignettes, a succession of glimpses of life around the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele in Rome where various figures appear, disappear, and then reappear: people "festooned" with commodified and locally popular "colorful plastic pacifiers"; "two teenaged Moroccan rent boys"; and a man whose "eyelids and eyelashes [are] painted black with mascara" and who is taunted with the homophobic "Sida!" There are plenty of "bloody chicken heads and yellow chicken feet" in the marketplace juxtaposed with iconographic images like "a doll of the Christ child" parked in bowl surrounded by "dried pineapples, dates, and figs" and "the Virgin Mary ... look[ing] over the fingertips of her clasped hands toward a box of Mon Chéri chocolates." These images constitute a fixed yet fluid tableau, a natura morta, a still life echoing its literal translation: dead nature.
Winkler is primarily concerned with the fig vendor's son Piccoletto, "[a] black-haired boy, around sixteen years old, whose long eyelashes nearly grazed his freckle-studded cheeks." Piccoletto's function is to join the seemingly disparate images of the city and its inhabitants in a way that allows Winkler to explore the religious history of Rome, particularly as it deviates from contemporary vice and greed. "Sacred kitsch" litters the city; the text works by juxtaposing religious iconography and a marketplace saturated with "one crucified Lord after another," juxtapositions that in turn inform and reflect the distorted sexualities, the myriad "perversions" and vices paraded before the reader and the young, impressionable Piccoletto: from "[t]wo nuns ... lick[ing] the chocolate toes of an ice cream bar shaped like a child's foot" to Michelangelo's Pietà, "framed with bulletproof glass," an icon fetishized by "[a] toothless Pole" with the desire "to clasp the mother of God in her fingers."
Winkler's imagistic prose shows debts to the cinema. In one scene, Piccoletto spies a videocassette of "the film Sciuscià by Vittorio de Sica ... [a]top the apricots and white peaches" carried in a plastic bag by an anonymous woman on a streetcar. This mention of de Sica's first major work as a director—filmed in 1946 and translated in English as Shoeshine—reveals how images in Winkler function similarly to those in a neorealist film; not only do many of the series of images contain potent mixtures of the sacred and the profane, but they overvalue the image itself (in its repetition and in its recurrence) in ways also reminiscent of auteurs such as Michelangelo Antonioni.
Winkler has likened his authorial role to that of a human camera[2]: he would undoubtedly have had Antonioni's famous montage of images in mind—I am thinking of Antonioni's L'Eclisse (1962), with its stress on images as storytelling vehicles—when compiling his own scenes of natura morta. Consider the following two passages:
A dog on its hind legs with a protuberant member snapped over and over at the small crucifix hanging from the wrist of an exhausted woman leaning with her eyes closed against the wall. A kneeling girl bumped her forearm against the thigh of a young monk holding a clear plastic bag of freshly watered cherries.And:
Aroused, staring into the girl's leg holes and sniffing at her map, the boy [Piccoletto] bit down on his tongue, coated in bits of fruit bar, then stopped as he became aware of the taste of blood filling his mouth and glanced self-consciously as the mincing red feet of the pigeons. Piccoletto stood, daubed his lip with a handkerchief, passed the city map of Rome to the girl with the words "Mille grazie!" and looked for the toilet.Winkler wants us to regard a teenaged boy, who is always "playing with his sex," as a Christ for our times, in a world comprised of tourists, clergy, tradespeople, sex workers, and drug addicts. The fragmentary glimpses of city life in Natura Morta are refracted through the sexualized consciousness of Piccoletto whose observation of two other boys "gnawing on a fig, fresh and purple" is followed up immediately by "[t]he two boys huddl[ing] together, whispering and giggling, eyeing Piccoletto's broad buttocks."
Even more crucial to Winkler's sexual vision of modernity is Piccoletto's interest in soliciting both male and female gazes, and how he can arouse and also express sexual interest across the gulf of gender. Winkler's aesthetic construction of modern-day Rome conjoins sex and the city, forcing individuals to confront the past in a present whose greed, lusts, and sensual pleasures—e.g., "Frocio wrapped fistfuls of ice chips in tin foil, pressing them into the form of a phallus, held the cold fetish at his hips, and squeezed the ice chips out of the tin foil in front of the fig vendor's son, as though releasing kilos of ejaculate"—contrast with the iconographic and architectural reminders of latter days: "a stone phallus" in the Piazza San Vittorio the scene where an ambulance "pick[s] up a young drug addict, passed out and foaming at the mouth"; "the exit of the papal tombs" of Saint Peter's Cathedral "leaking blood in the filthy streets," streets littered with pages of the Cronaco vera, "in which tragedies from throughout Italy—illustrated with hearses, eyewitnesses, chesty women, and Mafiosi...—are reported every week."
In contrast with Natura Morta's portraits of city life, Winkler's When the Time Comes takes rural Austria as its focus (Winkler's native Carinthia). But like Natura Morta, When the Time Comes centers on a young boy whose intellectual and sexual maturation are influenced by his attempts to compile the stories of those who have come before him. In When the Time Comes, the storyteller is "the bone collector" Maximilian, whose "black bone stock ... smell[s] of decay" and yet, because it contains the bones of the dead, has within it a history to decipher, record, fathom. Maximilian is Winkler's anchor point; other characters' stories are woven into his "clay vessel" of bones, creating a portrait of life in rural Austria spanning generations.
The town's pastor has erected a terrifying painting representing God's judgment at the town center, an icon that oversees the lives and deaths of the townspeople in a "town built in the form of a cross." It depicts a man "who dragged a life-sized statue of Jesus through the forest before the Second World War and threw it over a waterfall," causing Jesus to lose both arms; the painting shows the man's retribution in life, since he "lost his own arms in Hitler's war," and after, in the fires of Hell. The often vindictive Old Testament God's relationship with his flock, one built on fear as much as veneration, is a paradigm that repeats at the secular and personal levels. One is never free from one's history, and even rewriting history, placing bones upon bones—as is the bone collector's iterative, inscriptive task—cannot pry the individual from his or her community and the repressive social and religious structures of the past.
Winkler inverts the famous "begat" passages in the book of Genesis, opening the sections of When the Time Comes with his characters' often tragicomic deaths rather than with their births; because of this, their lives seem to take on a more purposeful and even allegorical meaning. For example,
Willibald, who had worked for decades in the Heraklith factory on the other bank of the Drava, was dead from long cancer. His hands in the air and his pants around his ankles, he stepped out of the bathroom and called [to his wife]: Hilde! Hilde! Help me! then fell over and died on the spot."Death is my life's theme," Winkler has stated, and its presence—impending or otherwise—is felt on every page of When the Time Comes.
Most of the narrative in When the Time Comes, however, is taken up with the story of two boys, Jonathan and Leopold, names that allude to religious and popular examples of queerness—the first, a reference to Jonathan's homoerotic relationship with David in the book of Samuel, and the second recalling Leopold of the Leopold and Loeb murder scandal in 1920s Chicago. It is typical of Winkler to fuse extremes: love alongside fear, pleasure alongside pain, and loyalty alongside greed: in this case, Jonathan and Leopold achieve an extreme jouissance combining pleasure (mutual masturbation) with pain (autoerotic asphyxiation):
The two boys tied the two ends of rope behind their ears and jumped into the emptiness, weeping and embracing, a few meters from the armless Christ who had once been rescued from a stream bed by the priest and painter of prayer cards. ... With their tongues out, their sexes stiff, their semen-flecked pants dripping urine, Jonathan in pajamas and Leopold in his quicklime-splattered bricklayer's clothes, they hung in the barn of the parish house until they were found by Jonathan's sixteen-year-old cousin...Neither the bone collector Maximilian nor the townspeople condemn the boys for their homosexuality; instead, the townspeople grumble about the senseless act itself, not its queer connotations ("those two idiots who did away with themselves together!" in "this godless village"), and Jonathan's mother Katharina grants her dead child unearthly powers, certain that he will return like the resurrected Christ to be again among his family. Whereas "[i]n death they were separable," the intermingling of "their tears, their urine, and their sperm" in life had rendered them inseparable: they can now be mourned as individuals, despite the fact that, curiously, "Leopold was buried in Jonathan's death mask."
W. G. Sebald notes that Winkler's use of repetition points to something personal in his work, an act of self-definition that requires sifting through and making sense of one's origins:
"Josef Winkler's entire, monomaniac oeuvre ... is actually an attempt to compensate for the experience of humiliation and moral violation by casting a malevolent eye on one's own origins." If repetition is the sole way to work through trauma, as Freud has suggested, the rural portraits in When the Time Comes suggest that trauma is as endemic to everyday life as is a kind of quiet joy, and the ways in which collective and personal traumas are eventually reconciled with one another are mediations intrinsically bound to the storyteller's sociocultural function.
Sebald's remarks on Winkler's work also point to a moral complicity that individuals need to recognize, one that carries the weight of the past and also points toward a future—though, just what that future constitutes is bleakly uncertain. The teleological aim of the future, as Winkler sees, points only toward death. Thus, the reader meets each character in When the Time Comes at the moment of his or her death, the narrative then working backward through the character's life. Winkler's vision privileges the figure of the artist as conduit between past origins and present traumas, interpreting "the flood of recollected images [as it] begins," but just what the artist or storyteller figure does with these "bones" is undefined, as is who will replace Maximilian when his own time comes.
Like Sebald and like his own Austrian compatriots Peter Handke, Elfriede Jelinek, and Thomas Bernhard, Winkler flags memory and history—collective and individual—as inescapable traps that affect present experience. Winkler is concerned with the individual's role in history, how it is necessary to acknowledge complicity with the past, and how one must grapple with the external forces of inhumanity, greed, and immorality and ultimately reconcile with that past. And yet, while it is essential to remember the stories of the dead, sadly, we erase all memory of them before we have had time to absorb all that they can offer us:
Tomorrow morning or the day after, they will scrape it [candlewax] off with a kitchen knife and sweep it up with the leftover flowers strewn about, then there will be no more traces of a dead man in the house, the mourning house will smell no more of rotten flowers, burnt spruce twigs, and wax candles.
August 21, 2020
يوزف وينكلر نويسنده ي اتريشي است كه در دوران كودكي ساكن دهكده ي كاتوليك نشيني بود و بعدا در آثارش به اين فضا و موضوعات به كرات مي پردازد.
در رمان " وقت رفتن" كه بر اساس تجربيات شخصي او شكل گرفته اند، ماكسيميان شخصيت اصلي در اصل خود وينكلر است كه دوران كودكي اش را شرح مي دهد.
رمانهاي او شخصيت محور نبوده و چندان خط داستاني ندارد و در واقع با رماني كلاسيك مواجه نيستيم.
در اين اثر با روايت هاي كوتاه مرگ انسانها مواجه هستيم كه در فضاي راز آلود دهكده اي كاتوليك توصيف شده است. جملات و عبارت هايي كه چندين بار تكرار شده و با ريتمي آهنگين در ذهن خواننده باقي مي ماند. ماكسيميان شخصيت اصلي رمان استخوان جمع كن همه ي مردگان هست كه خاكسترهاي باقيمانده از انسانها را روي هم جمع كرده است.
قسمتي از كتاب:
" بچه ها را در تابوت سفيد و آبي در سكوت به گورستان مي بردند. افراد بالغي كه نشان جنگي و مدال لياقت در سينه داشتند در تابوت سياه به آرامگاه ابدي ميرفتند. آتش نشان ها با يونيفرم آبي با مارش عزا جنازه را همراهي مي كردند. زن ها را كه نمي توانستند مدالي را روي بالشتكي از مخمل بنفش بگذارند و جلوي تابوت حمل كنند،مثل بچه ها در سكوت به گورستان مي بردند.
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در تغار سفاليني كه در آن از استخوان هاي حيوانات آب استخوان مي گرفتند و آن را با پركلاغ به دور چشم ها، اطراف سوراخ هاي دماغ و به شكم اسب ها مي ماليدند تا از نيش پشه ها و آزار خرمگس هاي خون آشام در امان بمانند. استخوان هاي كودك روي استخوان هاي مرده ي قبلي قرار دارد.
...
در رمان " وقت رفتن" كه بر اساس تجربيات شخصي او شكل گرفته اند، ماكسيميان شخصيت اصلي در اصل خود وينكلر است كه دوران كودكي اش را شرح مي دهد.
رمانهاي او شخصيت محور نبوده و چندان خط داستاني ندارد و در واقع با رماني كلاسيك مواجه نيستيم.
در اين اثر با روايت هاي كوتاه مرگ انسانها مواجه هستيم كه در فضاي راز آلود دهكده اي كاتوليك توصيف شده است. جملات و عبارت هايي كه چندين بار تكرار شده و با ريتمي آهنگين در ذهن خواننده باقي مي ماند. ماكسيميان شخصيت اصلي رمان استخوان جمع كن همه ي مردگان هست كه خاكسترهاي باقيمانده از انسانها را روي هم جمع كرده است.
قسمتي از كتاب:
" بچه ها را در تابوت سفيد و آبي در سكوت به گورستان مي بردند. افراد بالغي كه نشان جنگي و مدال لياقت در سينه داشتند در تابوت سياه به آرامگاه ابدي ميرفتند. آتش نشان ها با يونيفرم آبي با مارش عزا جنازه را همراهي مي كردند. زن ها را كه نمي توانستند مدالي را روي بالشتكي از مخمل بنفش بگذارند و جلوي تابوت حمل كنند،مثل بچه ها در سكوت به گورستان مي بردند.
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در تغار سفاليني كه در آن از استخوان هاي حيوانات آب استخوان مي گرفتند و آن را با پركلاغ به دور چشم ها، اطراف سوراخ هاي دماغ و به شكم اسب ها مي ماليدند تا از نيش پشه ها و آزار خرمگس هاي خون آشام در امان بمانند. استخوان هاي كودك روي استخوان هاي مرده ي قبلي قرار دارد.
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June 4, 2019
Enorme. Carintia es otra parte de Alemania, rural y supersticiosa, con una voz narrativa enorme en la mejor tradición del Este, recogiendo el testigo de Herta Muller, Krasznahorkai, Hrabal o Salvatore Satta. Un libro genial.
May 6, 2016
4'5
Fantástico este primer Winkler. Hay otra Austria lejos de Viena y Salzsburgo. La Austria de Josef Winkler, su Carintia natal. Una Austria rural, católica hasta el extremo, tenebrosa y macabra. Me cuesta recordar una novela con tantas muertes como esta de Winkler. Tal vez la Antología de Spoon River de Edgar Lee Masters.
Kamering fue arrasado por el fuego en el siglo XIX y reconstruido en forma de cruz. Allí es donde ambienta Winkler este catálogo lírico-fúnebre donde sus habitantes van cayendo como moscas -suicidios, ataques cardíacos, cánceres, atropellos- y en el que describe con prosa machacona y repetitiva las costumbres mortuorias y el cáracter de estos rurales austriacos, tan alejados del envarado culturalismo de las grandes ciudades del país centroeuropeo.
La narración está impregnada de religión, ruralismo, superstición, culto a la muerte, desesperación y estancamiento. Como ritornelos, la tinaja donde se cuecen los huesos para fabricar el caldo con olor a podredumbre con el que se embadurna, pluma de corneja mediante, los ollares, orejas, el contorno de los ojos y el vientre de los caballos para evitar que sean masacrados por tábanos, moscas y mosquitos. La materia prima que son los huesos sedimentados de todos los muertos del pueblo. En segundo lugar, el Cristo mutilado, solo torso y cabeza, que un blasfemo lanzó tiempo atrás por el torrente de un río y que sirve de inspiración para la pintura infernal que adorna el calvario cuya amenazada silente traspasa las ventanas de la escuela.
Fantástico este primer Winkler. Hay otra Austria lejos de Viena y Salzsburgo. La Austria de Josef Winkler, su Carintia natal. Una Austria rural, católica hasta el extremo, tenebrosa y macabra. Me cuesta recordar una novela con tantas muertes como esta de Winkler. Tal vez la Antología de Spoon River de Edgar Lee Masters.
Kamering fue arrasado por el fuego en el siglo XIX y reconstruido en forma de cruz. Allí es donde ambienta Winkler este catálogo lírico-fúnebre donde sus habitantes van cayendo como moscas -suicidios, ataques cardíacos, cánceres, atropellos- y en el que describe con prosa machacona y repetitiva las costumbres mortuorias y el cáracter de estos rurales austriacos, tan alejados del envarado culturalismo de las grandes ciudades del país centroeuropeo.
La narración está impregnada de religión, ruralismo, superstición, culto a la muerte, desesperación y estancamiento. Como ritornelos, la tinaja donde se cuecen los huesos para fabricar el caldo con olor a podredumbre con el que se embadurna, pluma de corneja mediante, los ollares, orejas, el contorno de los ojos y el vientre de los caballos para evitar que sean masacrados por tábanos, moscas y mosquitos. La materia prima que son los huesos sedimentados de todos los muertos del pueblo. En segundo lugar, el Cristo mutilado, solo torso y cabeza, que un blasfemo lanzó tiempo atrás por el torrente de un río y que sirve de inspiración para la pintura infernal que adorna el calvario cuya amenazada silente traspasa las ventanas de la escuela.
November 3, 2014
Books that don't have some sort directional unity rarely impress me: I want to feel like I'm going somewhere. I recognize that this is terribly [insert your favorite theoretical term of condemnation here] of me, but I think books are objects that should have some kind of drive to them.
The drive in Winkler's book is pretty weak, though the conceit is glorious. He tells the history of a small Austrian town from the nineteenth century through to the, roughly, 1980s, but he does so by describing the ways in which the town's inhabitants have died. After they die, they're put into a cooking pot, and the resulting goo is used to keep flies away from horses' orifices. That's pretty grim.
So are the individual tales, and I should, by all rights, have found this a pretty easy book to skim. But Winkler, and his translator Adrian West, have done something special. The repetitions and other structuring devices (snatches of a Baudelaire poem; Catholic songs and prayers) work as a good refrain or poetic form should work, helping the reader forward rather than making her roll her eyes; many of the individual stories are heart-breaking and/or hilarious; and the book's narrator is filled with both loathing and almost superhuman compassion for a group of people who are oppressed by their religion, but also find their only consolation in it.
The drive in Winkler's book is pretty weak, though the conceit is glorious. He tells the history of a small Austrian town from the nineteenth century through to the, roughly, 1980s, but he does so by describing the ways in which the town's inhabitants have died. After they die, they're put into a cooking pot, and the resulting goo is used to keep flies away from horses' orifices. That's pretty grim.
So are the individual tales, and I should, by all rights, have found this a pretty easy book to skim. But Winkler, and his translator Adrian West, have done something special. The repetitions and other structuring devices (snatches of a Baudelaire poem; Catholic songs and prayers) work as a good refrain or poetic form should work, helping the reader forward rather than making her roll her eyes; many of the individual stories are heart-breaking and/or hilarious; and the book's narrator is filled with both loathing and almost superhuman compassion for a group of people who are oppressed by their religion, but also find their only consolation in it.
December 16, 2020
یک ستاره هم زیادیشه!
June 17, 2021
کتاب از ابتدا تا انتها شرحِ مرگ و میر افرادِ یک روستا است و در این بین گریزی هم به زندگی اجتماعیِ مردمِ آن روستا زده می شود. نویسنده خود شاهدِ حوادث بوده و شخصیتِ اصلیِ قصّه هم خودِ اوست.
اما در مورد داستان باید گفت که تقریباً هیچ کششی نداشت(حداقل برای من) ، جز اینکه خواننده منتظر است ببیند فردِ بعدی که قرار است بمیرد چه کسی است.فضایِ داستان بسیار سرد است و حوصله سَربَر.
اما در مورد داستان باید گفت که تقریباً هیچ کششی نداشت(حداقل برای من) ، جز اینکه خواننده منتظر است ببیند فردِ بعدی که قرار است بمیرد چه کسی است.فضایِ داستان بسیار سرد است و حوصله سَربَر.
Want to read
November 18, 2025read the review in The Guardian: https://www.theguardian.com/books/201... - that must convince you he is an author you must read.
November 16, 2019
دوست دارم ده سال دیگر زندگی کنم، آن وقت دیگر جهنم پر شده، و من میروم بهشت.
October 10, 2019
دوست دارم ده سال دیگر زندگی کنم، آن وقت دیگر جهنم پر شده و من می روم بهشت...
December 16, 2020
من اصلا دلیل شهرت این کتاب رو متوجه نشدم، سرگذشت مرگ عدهای چطور میتونه جذاب باشه؟!
April 6, 2021
Interesting novelette about the role of death in our lives, about Austrian countryside and its traditions, about repeating the same mistakes and stories over generations. Nicely written but hasn't filled my expectations.
November 10, 2021
No es un libro de fácil lectura. Toda su potencia radica en la reiteración de párrafos, ritos y la suceción de muertes que esbozan la vida de un pueblo rural que sin ser brutal, tampoco es amable. Recomendable para un momento de tranquilidad en el que se pueda masticar la lectura.
January 21, 2020
I need more Austrian literature and I loved how repetitive this one was with the theme of death.
September 23, 2024
Such a mean little book — but how else can you violently repudiate the pastoral novel? Glad I read this after reading Énard’s Gravediggers Banquet, there’s surely some connections to be made there
Read
April 24, 2025I'm tapping out 50 pages in. Sick of reading about bone stock applied with a feather in some really gross version of The Rattlin' Bog.
August 17, 2019
دوست دارم ده سال دیگر زندگی کنم، آن وقت دیگر جهنم پر شده و من می روم بهشت!!...
Want to read
December 2, 2013great review in the Guardian, piqued my interest..
March 24, 2017
The Time is always present...
Displaying 1 - 21 of 21 reviews