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سور
Para que podria servir saber de memoria y recordar con precisión anecdótica, a lo largo de los años, los nombres de las familias del pueblo? Un sábado por la noche, en el barrio de Pringles, el sesentón fracasado de celibato ya irremediable visita con su madre al amigo rico. Después de la cena, fallida, y tras una extravagante función con juguetes diminutos de complejos mecanismos, podrá comprobar hasta que punto haberse negado, en la infancia, a esa incomprensible taquigrafía de apellidos, parentescos y vecindades, puede resultar en extrañas danzas de muertos vivos bajo el lunático resplandor de la televisión. En el fondo, siempre, una sed oscura de vida.
141 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2006
30 people are currently reading
836 people want to read
About the author
César Aira
260 books1,148 followersCésar Aira was born in Coronel Pringles, Argentina in 1949, and has lived in Buenos Aires since 1967. He taught at the University of Buenos Aires (about Copi and Rimbaud) and at the University of Rosario (Constructivism and Mallarmé), and has translated and edited books from France, England, Italy, Brazil, Spain, Mexico, and Venezuela. Perhaps one of the most prolific writers in Argentina, and certainly one of the most talked about in Latin America, Aira has published more than eighty books to date in Argentina, Mexico, Colombia, Venezuela, Chile, and Spain, which have been translated for France, Great Britain, Italy, Brazil, Portugal, Greece, Austria, Romania, Russia, and now the United States. One novel, La prueba, has been made into a feature film, and How I Became a Nun was chosen as one of Argentina’s ten best books. Besides essays and novels Aira writes regularly for the Spanish newspaper El País. In 1996 he received a Guggenheim scholarship, in 2002 he was short listed for the Rómulo Gallegos prize, and has been shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 131 reviews
May 15, 2022
English: Dinner
César Aira brings the zombie apocalypse to Argentina - but the undead are not the only ones enjoying a strange dinner here. The novella, first published in 2006, is set in Aira's hometown of Coronel Pringles, and split in three parts: A dinner party, a zombie meltdown, and the aftermath. In the beginning, our narrator is a bankrupt sixty-year-old bachelor who lives with his mother. The pair dines with (as the protagonist believes) a wealthy friend who flexes his money, tells over-the-top stories, shows his strange toys and contraptions, and gossips with the mother about acquaintances and neighbours. The narrator, one the other hand, sees himself as colorless, he holds no interest in his surroundings, although, as the text says, in a place like Pringles, interest in your surroundings represents life itself: In a way, the broke bachelor is dead.
Back home, the protagonist channel surfs, and catches a live reporter who heads to the cemetery, where the dead rise from the graves to suck the endorphines from the living - suddenly, the voice changes from the first person to an omniscient narrator, which leaves readers unsure what (if anything at all) is real or not. Aira employs an improvisational, avantgarde writing style, he describes grotesque and bizarre scenes full of random twists and turns. The disturbing imagery is often hilarious while the plot starts to merge memory, dream, media, gossip, and realism.
The text is also fun because it is so self-referential: In the first chapter, the narrator accuses the mother and the friend of talking in a non-linear, illogical manner - which pretty much captures the whole novella. Then, an old man is referenced who enjoys walking to the cemetery because it sets free endorphines - only to the switch to zombies who eat those endorphines. And we get a lot of these little tidbits: The narrator ponders the thing and its representation as well as the meaning of names (zombie exegesis, anyone?); the theme of "craziness" is explored; nightmares feature; offers for interpretation are given.
The history of zombie tales is long and interesting: Society drains indviduals, which prompts the question who is alive and who/what comes back to haunt us. Aira adds an aesthetically interesting, particularly playful entry to the list, and it's well worth reading.
César Aira brings the zombie apocalypse to Argentina - but the undead are not the only ones enjoying a strange dinner here. The novella, first published in 2006, is set in Aira's hometown of Coronel Pringles, and split in three parts: A dinner party, a zombie meltdown, and the aftermath. In the beginning, our narrator is a bankrupt sixty-year-old bachelor who lives with his mother. The pair dines with (as the protagonist believes) a wealthy friend who flexes his money, tells over-the-top stories, shows his strange toys and contraptions, and gossips with the mother about acquaintances and neighbours. The narrator, one the other hand, sees himself as colorless, he holds no interest in his surroundings, although, as the text says, in a place like Pringles, interest in your surroundings represents life itself: In a way, the broke bachelor is dead.
Back home, the protagonist channel surfs, and catches a live reporter who heads to the cemetery, where the dead rise from the graves to suck the endorphines from the living - suddenly, the voice changes from the first person to an omniscient narrator, which leaves readers unsure what (if anything at all) is real or not. Aira employs an improvisational, avantgarde writing style, he describes grotesque and bizarre scenes full of random twists and turns. The disturbing imagery is often hilarious while the plot starts to merge memory, dream, media, gossip, and realism.
The text is also fun because it is so self-referential: In the first chapter, the narrator accuses the mother and the friend of talking in a non-linear, illogical manner - which pretty much captures the whole novella. Then, an old man is referenced who enjoys walking to the cemetery because it sets free endorphines - only to the switch to zombies who eat those endorphines. And we get a lot of these little tidbits: The narrator ponders the thing and its representation as well as the meaning of names (zombie exegesis, anyone?); the theme of "craziness" is explored; nightmares feature; offers for interpretation are given.
The history of zombie tales is long and interesting: Society drains indviduals, which prompts the question who is alive and who/what comes back to haunt us. Aira adds an aesthetically interesting, particularly playful entry to the list, and it's well worth reading.
August 6, 2024
Normally, if I’d read the words on the blurb like this “the dead are rising from their graves … - leaving the cemetery as zombies, and eagerly sucking the brains out of the living.” I wouldn’t bother. But this is Cesar Aira. And he’s at home, in Coronel Pringles, a small dull rural city in Argentina, where he actually came from. And anyway, no one would read Cesar Aira for his zombie apocalypse story-telling.
Every Aira sentence carries the sensation of expectation, no sentence can be guessed at. I love that. What’s next? I don’t know. That is the experience of reading Cesar Aira. Everything is in motion. But what a dull storyline we have here, man nearly sixty, no prospects no job, no family, no home, lives with his mother. He listens to his mother and her stories all day long as ancestral accounting:
These names made the stories believable though their effect on me was to provoke more admiration than conviction. I was impressed that my mother always had the names right on the tip of her tongue; it’s true, she had a lot of practice, because all her conversations (and presumably all her thoughts) revolved around the people of the town.
His life was limited, this story needs a zombie living dead drama to uplift it:
Television had become my only preoccupation
Coronel Pringles even has a low budget cable TV channel, it’s so bad:
Everything was precarious, poorly lit, badly filmed, badly edited as well as predictable and repetitive
In each of his works, Aira focuses on some area of artistic practice to write about. Television and media, the source of information about the rising dead zombies feeding on endorphins, becomes the artistic domain of enquiry. As news spreads, it does so unenthusiastically. The effect of media itself.
Even though the information was spreading quickly, panic was building up slowly. The movies and, before the movies, the ancestral legends those movies were based on had produced in the population a basic state of incredulity; at the same time it prepared them for an emergency (they had only to remember what the protagonists of those movie had done); it also prevented them from reacting because everyone knew, or thought they knew that fiction was not reality. They had to see with their own eyes somebody who had seen them (with their own eyes) to be convinced of the terror or reality, and even then, they weren’t convinced.
So naturally, questions will arise about the story at the centre of the book as well. But it’s a fun ride, hardly horrifying. How could it be, it happens in Coronel Pringles a place so small and dull one habit of the natives is to cruise the entire city at night in a car.
The story is perfectly constructed in three parts: before the zombies where the events of the storytelling involves visiting people, a sense of the town, dinner out at the narrator’s rich friend’s house, how low our narrator feels. The second part covers the night of the living dead and the saviour of the town. The final part is an aftermath, which makes everything feel like a late-night hangover with bad indigestion thrown in and doubts about everything. It’s beautifully balanced, the action steady, well-crafted merging the themes of art and story-telling with story-telling itself.
Every Aira sentence carries the sensation of expectation, no sentence can be guessed at. I love that. What’s next? I don’t know. That is the experience of reading Cesar Aira. Everything is in motion. But what a dull storyline we have here, man nearly sixty, no prospects no job, no family, no home, lives with his mother. He listens to his mother and her stories all day long as ancestral accounting:
These names made the stories believable though their effect on me was to provoke more admiration than conviction. I was impressed that my mother always had the names right on the tip of her tongue; it’s true, she had a lot of practice, because all her conversations (and presumably all her thoughts) revolved around the people of the town.
His life was limited, this story needs a zombie living dead drama to uplift it:
Television had become my only preoccupation
Coronel Pringles even has a low budget cable TV channel, it’s so bad:
Everything was precarious, poorly lit, badly filmed, badly edited as well as predictable and repetitive
In each of his works, Aira focuses on some area of artistic practice to write about. Television and media, the source of information about the rising dead zombies feeding on endorphins, becomes the artistic domain of enquiry. As news spreads, it does so unenthusiastically. The effect of media itself.
Even though the information was spreading quickly, panic was building up slowly. The movies and, before the movies, the ancestral legends those movies were based on had produced in the population a basic state of incredulity; at the same time it prepared them for an emergency (they had only to remember what the protagonists of those movie had done); it also prevented them from reacting because everyone knew, or thought they knew that fiction was not reality. They had to see with their own eyes somebody who had seen them (with their own eyes) to be convinced of the terror or reality, and even then, they weren’t convinced.
So naturally, questions will arise about the story at the centre of the book as well. But it’s a fun ride, hardly horrifying. How could it be, it happens in Coronel Pringles a place so small and dull one habit of the natives is to cruise the entire city at night in a car.
The story is perfectly constructed in three parts: before the zombies where the events of the storytelling involves visiting people, a sense of the town, dinner out at the narrator’s rich friend’s house, how low our narrator feels. The second part covers the night of the living dead and the saviour of the town. The final part is an aftermath, which makes everything feel like a late-night hangover with bad indigestion thrown in and doubts about everything. It’s beautifully balanced, the action steady, well-crafted merging the themes of art and story-telling with story-telling itself.
August 1, 2021
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.اولین تجربه آشناییِ من با سزار آیرا، نویسنده قدرتمندِ آرژانتینی با این کتاب، یعنی "شام" رقم خورد. دروغ چرا؟ کتاب را اینبار برای طرح جلد جذاب و علاقه ویژهای که به ونداد جلیلی و انتخابهای او دارم، مطالعه کردم.
کتاب داستان کوتاهی بود که در جریان واقعهای سورئال و آخرالزمانی از امید و شور زندگی میگفت. داستان از یک مهمانی شام آغاز میشود. پسر مجرد و میانسالی تجسم شکست و درماندگی؛ که ساکن خانه مادر است و از حقوق بازنشستگی او ارتزاق میکند، به مهمانی مجللی که دوستش ترتیب داده است دعوت میشود. پس از پایان مهمانی، مادر با تحقیر دوستِ ثروتمند و موفق او، سعی در سرپوش گذاشتن بر ناکامی فرزند دارد؛ اما روند داستان بهگونهای پیش میرود که این حسادتِ ترحم برانگیزِ مادرانه رنگ تفسیر شومی از حقیقت بهخود خواهد گرفت. در میانه این اتفاقات ارتباط خواننده با مادر و پسر قطع شده و ناگهان به واقعه مهیب دیگری میپردازیم که گویی موازی با این مهمانی بهوقوع پیوسته است. مردگان شهر از گورها برمیخیزند و تشنه نوشیدن هورمون "آندورفین" به مغزهای شهر حملهور میشوند. هورمون آندورفین در مواقع شادی، غم، هیجان و امید توسط مغز ترشح میشود؛ پس جای تعجب نیست که مردگان، چه از جانِ این زندگان لاابالی میخواهند. حوادث کاملاً سینمایی و مهیج بر پایه منطق فراواقعگرایانه پیش میرود. آیرا مردگان را با اسم رمزی به خانه گورهای سرد و نمورشان باز میگرداند که نشان میدهد نقد او، نقد به "بحران هویت" است. مردگان آیرا نمودی از جامعه سنگی و تکهپاره امروز بود که جز تعلقاتِ مادی و فناپذیر دلبستگی دیگری ندارند. مردمانی سطحی و بیریشه که به مردگان متحرکی میمانند که زامبیوار در پی نوشیدن آندورفین به مغز این و آن حملهور میشوند، زیرا انگیزهای شخصی برای ترشح آندورفین ندارند. زمانی که ارتباط ما با مادر و فرزند برقرار میشود، همهچیز تمام شده! انگار مردگان از گور برخاسته بودند تا بگویند حق با مادر است. علیرغم کلکسیونی از تمام ثروتهای دلنواز دنیایی؛ بدون یک "نام"، ریشه یا هویتی اصیل، شکی نیست که یک ورشکسته تمام عیاری!
.اولین تجربه آشناییِ من با سزار آیرا، نویسنده قدرتمندِ آرژانتینی با این کتاب، یعنی "شام" رقم خورد. دروغ چرا؟ کتاب را اینبار برای طرح جلد جذاب و علاقه ویژهای که به ونداد جلیلی و انتخابهای او دارم، مطالعه کردم.
کتاب داستان کوتاهی بود که در جریان واقعهای سورئال و آخرالزمانی از امید و شور زندگی میگفت. داستان از یک مهمانی شام آغاز میشود. پسر مجرد و میانسالی تجسم شکست و درماندگی؛ که ساکن خانه مادر است و از حقوق بازنشستگی او ارتزاق میکند، به مهمانی مجللی که دوستش ترتیب داده است دعوت میشود. پس از پایان مهمانی، مادر با تحقیر دوستِ ثروتمند و موفق او، سعی در سرپوش گذاشتن بر ناکامی فرزند دارد؛ اما روند داستان بهگونهای پیش میرود که این حسادتِ ترحم برانگیزِ مادرانه رنگ تفسیر شومی از حقیقت بهخود خواهد گرفت. در میانه این اتفاقات ارتباط خواننده با مادر و پسر قطع شده و ناگهان به واقعه مهیب دیگری میپردازیم که گویی موازی با این مهمانی بهوقوع پیوسته است. مردگان شهر از گورها برمیخیزند و تشنه نوشیدن هورمون "آندورفین" به مغزهای شهر حملهور میشوند. هورمون آندورفین در مواقع شادی، غم، هیجان و امید توسط مغز ترشح میشود؛ پس جای تعجب نیست که مردگان، چه از جانِ این زندگان لاابالی میخواهند. حوادث کاملاً سینمایی و مهیج بر پایه منطق فراواقعگرایانه پیش میرود. آیرا مردگان را با اسم رمزی به خانه گورهای سرد و نمورشان باز میگرداند که نشان میدهد نقد او، نقد به "بحران هویت" است. مردگان آیرا نمودی از جامعه سنگی و تکهپاره امروز بود که جز تعلقاتِ مادی و فناپذیر دلبستگی دیگری ندارند. مردمانی سطحی و بیریشه که به مردگان متحرکی میمانند که زامبیوار در پی نوشیدن آندورفین به مغز این و آن حملهور میشوند، زیرا انگیزهای شخصی برای ترشح آندورفین ندارند. زمانی که ارتباط ما با مادر و فرزند برقرار میشود، همهچیز تمام شده! انگار مردگان از گور برخاسته بودند تا بگویند حق با مادر است. علیرغم کلکسیونی از تمام ثروتهای دلنواز دنیایی؛ بدون یک "نام"، ریشه یا هویتی اصیل، شکی نیست که یک ورشکسته تمام عیاری!
November 4, 2015
Damn near impossible to rate. I'm convinced most of it was a piss-take, but still, Aira is the world champion of disposable literature. Could anyone do it? No, not anyone, but definitely someone can. Is his rambling freestyle-style a cop out? Sometimes. Is it profound? No. Not on purpose. It falls in that nebulous territory of qausi-satire that preys on the goodwill and idiocy of most readers, much like the zombies described in this novella. But hey, I bought it (for the cover) and read it. I've got a few endorphins left to suck.
January 9, 2016
The dead arise from their graves, the walking corpses aim to feed on endorphin from the living.
"nowhere was safe. not inside or out, not in front or behind or to the sides, not up or down."
Nothing is as it seems, it's one of the most peculiar books I've ever read!
"nowhere was safe. not inside or out, not in front or behind or to the sides, not up or down."
Nothing is as it seems, it's one of the most peculiar books I've ever read!
July 16, 2015
at the stage of life i was in, i had reached the conclusion that i would never be the protagonist of any story. the only thing i could hope for was to make an appearance in somebody else's.another genre-shifting gem from the argentine master of the novella, dinner (la cena) finds césar aira applying his literary gifts to the living dead. when the deceased arise from their cemetery dwellings in coronel pringles (aira's hometown and a frequent setting for his fictional works), the town is besieged by "poorly-assembled bags of bones scantily covered by the remains of entrails and putrid jellies." these walking corpses (never once, thankfully, referred to as 'zombies') have as their sole aim to feed nocturnally on (or "slurp"!) endorphins from the living. as with so many of aira's imaginative stories, things aren't always at they appear, however. yet another wonderful outing (best digested in a single sitting), dinner is epitomical aira.
nowhere was safe. not inside or out, not in front or behind or to the sides, not up or down. there was only night, shadows convulsed by fear and traversed by random rows of streetlights; around the edges of this light, which only made the darkness denser, slipped an unshrouded goose-stepping killer, preceded by a sour scent and heralded by the panting of a hungry beat.
*translated from the spanish by katherine silver (castellanos moya, adán, giralt torrente, sada, bernal, borges, et al.)
September 20, 2019
داستان جذاب بود و ترجمه هم خوب بود. لحن جالبی درآورده بود و توانسته بود در همهی کتاب لحن را حفظ کند. فقط نمیدانم این لحن تناسبی هم با اصل کتاب دارد یا نه.
January 9, 2021
۶ ماه پیش:
عصبی و به طرز وحشتناکی خسته(یا آنطور که در داستان میگوید، انگار که آندروفین مغزم را بلعیده باشند) به جزوه های فارماکولوژی نگاه میکردم و نمیدانم چه طور شد که این کتاب را باز کردم و شروع به خواندن کردم،تا میانه های کتاب خواندم و از قساوت توصیفات و حجم عظیم اتفاقات غیرقابل تصور لذت بردم،داستان پیچیده نبود و حتی کاملا قابل پیشبینی و گاهی آبکی بود ولی صحنه هایی که در ذهنم میساخت،خشن و برای ذهن خسته و مازوخیست من که از شدت فشار فرمول داروها به حد جنون رسیده بود،آرام بخش بودند. تا نیمه کتاب خواندم و حالم بهتر شد و همان لحظه تصمیم گرفتم نیم دیگر کتاب را بگذارم برای روز مبادا!!
امر��ز:
عصبی بودم، چرا؟! نمیدونم!!
یاد این کتاب افتادم،برگشتم سراغش و تمومش کردم، باهاش لبخند زدم، بعضی حرفاش رو عمیقا درک میکردم و بعضی آدمایی که توصیف میکردو انگار میشناختم!!
پایان داستانو میشه گفت دوست داشتم، نمیگم در اوج بود ولی شفاف بود و باز هم ذهن آشفته ی منو آروم کرد!
ترجمه ونداد جلیلی ( نشر چشمه):
یه جاهاییش خوب بود ولی بعضی جاها یهو نثرش قدیمی و ادبی میشد و فعل های از رده خارج به کار میبرد!! و اصلا به بافت داستان نمیخورد!!
عصبی و به طرز وحشتناکی خسته(یا آنطور که در داستان میگوید، انگار که آندروفین مغزم را بلعیده باشند) به جزوه های فارماکولوژی نگاه میکردم و نمیدانم چه طور شد که این کتاب را باز کردم و شروع به خواندن کردم،تا میانه های کتاب خواندم و از قساوت توصیفات و حجم عظیم اتفاقات غیرقابل تصور لذت بردم،داستان پیچیده نبود و حتی کاملا قابل پیشبینی و گاهی آبکی بود ولی صحنه هایی که در ذهنم میساخت،خشن و برای ذهن خسته و مازوخیست من که از شدت فشار فرمول داروها به حد جنون رسیده بود،آرام بخش بودند. تا نیمه کتاب خواندم و حالم بهتر شد و همان لحظه تصمیم گرفتم نیم دیگر کتاب را بگذارم برای روز مبادا!!
امر��ز:
عصبی بودم، چرا؟! نمیدونم!!
یاد این کتاب افتادم،برگشتم سراغش و تمومش کردم، باهاش لبخند زدم، بعضی حرفاش رو عمیقا درک میکردم و بعضی آدمایی که توصیف میکردو انگار میشناختم!!
پایان داستانو میشه گفت دوست داشتم، نمیگم در اوج بود ولی شفاف بود و باز هم ذهن آشفته ی منو آروم کرد!
ترجمه ونداد جلیلی ( نشر چشمه):
یه جاهاییش خوب بود ولی بعضی جاها یهو نثرش قدیمی و ادبی میشد و فعل های از رده خارج به کار میبرد!! و اصلا به بافت داستان نمیخورد!!
July 30, 2022
شام اثر سزار آیرا. داستان کتاب کوتاهه و حول و حوش اتفاقی عجیب و سورئال میگذره. اتفاقی که راوی به صورت زنده از تلویزیون میبینه و تعریف میکنه. زنده شدن مردهها و خوردن اندورفین زندهها برای حفظ بقا. موضوع اولیه جالبه و با توجه به حجم کمی که داره شاید فکر کنید خوندنش بد نباشه. اما نکته اصلی ترجمه افتضاح کتابه. چیزی که داستان رو خراب کرده و خوندنش رو محال!!!!! داستان کتاب آنچنان تاثیرگذار نبود و ترجمه هم ضربه بدی بهش زده بود. من این کتابو اصلا پیشنهاد نمیدم و اگر یه وقت خواستید بخونید این ترجمه رو اصلا نخونید.
June 6, 2019
Who or why or what is Coronel Pringles? Actually, it’s a medium-sized town of no particular distinction in the Province of Buenos Aires, not too far north of Bahía Blanca. It is perhaps best known not only as the birthplace of Argentinian novelist César Aira, but the scene of several of his stories. One of these stories is Dinner (or Cena in Spanish), first published in 2006.
The story starts slowly enough with a penniless bachelor in his sixties who has moved back in with his mother. Together, they visit an unnamed friend of the unnamed narrator and view some of his collections. When they return home, the mother expresses dissatisfaction with the evening; and the son turns on the television … only to learn that the dead of Coronel Pringles are rising from their graves and attacking the living:
What do these undead do? They go for the brains of the living (as expected), but what interests them most are the endorphins contained therein, which they suck out with ghoulish glee. Is there nothing that can stop these delinquent ancestors from decimating all of Coronel Pringles? Well, yes, there is, but you’ll have to read this short (101 pages) but delightful book for yourself to find out. Be prepared for a completely surprising dénouement in Part III.
The story starts slowly enough with a penniless bachelor in his sixties who has moved back in with his mother. Together, they visit an unnamed friend of the unnamed narrator and view some of his collections. When they return home, the mother expresses dissatisfaction with the evening; and the son turns on the television … only to learn that the dead of Coronel Pringles are rising from their graves and attacking the living:
This was as improbable as an adolescent fantasy. It was, however, true. The guard who sounded the alarm first heard some rustling sounds that kept getting louder and spreading across the graveyard. He came out of the lodge to take a look and hadn’t even made it across the tiled courtyard to where the first lane of cypeses ended when, in addition to the worrisome rustlings, he began to hear the loud banging of stone and metal, which seconds later spread and combined into a deafening roar that reverberated near and far, from the first wing of the wall of niches to the rows of graves extending for more than a mile.At first the newly risen dead show a lack of coordination, but they begin to pick up speed. “No two were the same, except in how horrible they were, in the conventional way corpses are horrible: shards of greenish skin, bearded skulls, remnants of eyes shining in bony sockets, sullied shrouds.”
What do these undead do? They go for the brains of the living (as expected), but what interests them most are the endorphins contained therein, which they suck out with ghoulish glee. Is there nothing that can stop these delinquent ancestors from decimating all of Coronel Pringles? Well, yes, there is, but you’ll have to read this short (101 pages) but delightful book for yourself to find out. Be prepared for a completely surprising dénouement in Part III.
March 4, 2022
Aira es como un flujo delirante que no se detiene. A mi particularmente me da ansiedad su velocidad y el no saber a donde me lleva pero en este libro me relajé un poco. Tal vez hayan sido los zombies que me pusieron de buen humor.
Es innegable la genialidad creativa de Aira, su capacidad de contar mil cosas en 100 páginas y volver coherente lo incoherente. Mi único inconveniente es lo vertiginoso de todo, se me hace difícil detenerme a pensar en lo que propone. Pero ese ya es un problema mío.
Es innegable la genialidad creativa de Aira, su capacidad de contar mil cosas en 100 páginas y volver coherente lo incoherente. Mi único inconveniente es lo vertiginoso de todo, se me hace difícil detenerme a pensar en lo que propone. Pero ese ya es un problema mío.
November 27, 2015
I've started 5 or 6 of Aira's tiny books. This is the only one I've managed to complete. Their charm is undeniable, there's plenty of droll humor and antic improvisation – but as stories their novelty quickly fades. I think my new rule has to be: if I pick one up I must finish it in the first reading. Otherwise it will join the stack with a bookmark 20 pages from the end. I find Aira's writing wonderful as an idea and unexceptional in fact.
September 14, 2015
Great humour, an interesting set-up, and a twist at the end. Not as philosophically speculative as some other Aira titles, but full of mystery and his cheerful disregard for conventions. More to say in a while.
Here's more:
http://quarterlyconversation.com/dinn...
Here's more:
http://quarterlyconversation.com/dinn...
October 17, 2024
Aira me enloquece😵 Aún no descifro si en el buen, o en el mal sentido ¿Qué significa esto? Qué necesito leer más sobre él. Es un autor que sin duda desconcierta y al tener poco leído, no termino de entender su estilo. Pero sin duda moviliza y genera curiosidad. En "La cena" la historia comienza con él y su madre siendo invitados por un amigo suyo para cenar. Allí la madre y el amigo hablan trivialidades, básicamente chusmerío de pueblo (referencias constantes al pueblo natal del autor, Pringles). En esta conversación el narrador se siente algo excluído y engancha el estilo ensayo preguntándose ¿qué tan importante es recordar los nombres de cada persona y cada historia de cada persona? Esto se deja pausa. En un segundo capítulo salta a algo completamente diferente: un apocalipsis zombie que azota el pueblo de Pringles. Zombies que atancan la ciudad pero no buscan órganos si no endorfinas. Quieren sacarle la "hormona de la felicidad a los ciudadanos" Sí, así de loco. Ahí es cuando el autor descoloca y no sabemos hasta el final qué relación hay entre esto y lo anterior. No sabemos si lo está imaginando, si es real, porqué está sucediendo o porqué lo está imaginando. Lo que parece no tener sentido está muy bien relatado generando suspenso y al final se conecta y se explica. Conclusión Aira está un poco loco y eso me gusta. Por eso se gana mi respeto (? por lo que voy a seguir leyéndolo a ver de qué loco se trata.
May 3, 2019
Een aantal jaren geleden las ik alles van César Aira wat in Nederlandse of Engelse vertaling te krijgen was. Vaak met veel plezier: boekjes als "Varamo", "A period in the life of a landscape painter", "How I became a nun" of "The seamstres and the wind" verrukten mij door hun originele vreemdheid en hun combinatie van idiote humor en eigenzinnige filosofie. Zelfs zijn nogal tegenvallende, al te melige boekjes (zoals "Conversations" of "Shantytown") vond ik best amusant, al was het maar door hun vleugjes van vreemde poëzie en het rare licht dat zij werpen op onze wereld. En nu las ik dan "Dinner", ook weer zo'n heerlijk maf Airaatje van krap 100 bladzijden, en ik vermaakte mij weer opperbest.
Aira samenvatten is ten eerste heel pret bedervend omdat je dan zijn maffe plotwendingen verraadt, en ten tweede heel reductief omdat je nooit recht kan doen aan de zo charmante vreemdheid van zijn stijl en plot. Maar het boekje bestaat uit drie, ogenschijnlijk niet verbonden scenes. Aan het begin een diner van de ik- figuur bij een vriend, waarin hij zich verbaast over de vele bizarre en fantasievolle speelgoedautomaatjes in diens huis, en waarin hij wat mijmert over hoe namen voor iedereen hele verhalen oproepen terwijl namen hem niks zegge. Aan het eind een scene waarin de ik- figuur telefoneert met diezelfde vriend en mijmert over zijn deprimerende leven en het al te geestdodend- prozaïsche stadje waarin hij woont. En tussenin een relatief lang stuk vol hilarische horror over levende doden die datzelfde stadje aanvallen, om alle endorfine op te zuigen uit alle hoofden van de levenden.
Dat lange middenstuk zit vol fraaie passages: soms inderdaad best horror- achtig, soms dolkomisch door de groteske uitvergroting van die horror- effecten of door het contrast ervan met werkelijk gortdroog ironische irrelevante details, en soms ronduit poëtisch of filosofisch. Wat te midden van alle hilarische horror best verrassend is, en intrigerend bovendien. Zo voelde ik wel enige bewondering voor zinnen als: "He had to admit that the view was splendid and defied the imagination; beyond that, everything was ambiguity.The full moon spread its white light impartially over the darkness of town, making it seem to rise to the surface, like the checkerboard skin of an antediluvian sperm whale ". Alsof wat de hij- figuur ziet alleen maar te voorschijn gehaald wordt door de aandacht waarmee hij kijkt, en alsof die hij- figuur vervolgens nauwelijks gelooft wat hij ziet. Of: "The sector he was watching was much closer, though he was well aware that at night the illusory plains of contiguity could become stuck together, like the pages of a book. His attention separated the pages, and there the aberration of nocturnal vision coincided with the monstruous visions of nightmare". Mooi hoe hier ineens een heel filosofisch vocabulaire de taal van de horror doorkruist, wat de vreemdheid van de scene nog vreemder maakt. En mooi hoe juist dat benadrukt dat de hij- figuur de waargenomen horrortaferelen niet kan bevatten, en dat hij ze door hun onbevattelijkheid zelfs nauwelijks kan zien. Iets wat ook een ander personage ervaart, zodra ze oog in oog met een zombie staat midden in een kerk: "Now, on the other hand, the only figure she was approaching was Christ presiding over the altar, and she continued precisely because of how fascinated she was by that statue, which she didn't remember ever having seen in the church in Pringles. It was a Christ Crucified, suffering, expressionistic, twisted, frankly putrefied - the work, one might say, of an insane imagination that had melded the concept of Calvary with that of Auschwitz and the aftermath of a nuclear or bacteriological apocalyps. In the tremulous half light, more than see him, she imagined him, and it was too late when she realized she had imagined him wrong, when the Crucified One leaped at her and snorted - with diabolical bellowing- and fell upon her". Fraaie passage, ook door het contrast tussen Christus, de mensgeworden God die het Goddelijke door die menswording menselijk en voorstelbaar maakt, en de zombie als onvoorstelbare vorm van de al even onvoorstelbare in- humane verschrikking. Zo onvoorstelbaar en anders- dan- menselijk dat de zombie aanvankelijk alleen als groteske uitvergroting van die Christus- figuur kan worden herkend.
Pagina's lang vermaakt Aira ons met horror die behoorlijk gruwelijk is, maar ook over the top en daardoor erg komisch. Maar door die horror te vermengen met dit soort meer beschouwelijke passages geeft Aira mij ook het gevoel dat hij meer wil bieden dan grappige horror alleen. Dat gevoel wordt nog versterkt door het perspectief: alles wordt verteld door de ik- figuur, die dit onmogelijk allemaal gezien kan hebben en dus een deel hiervan heeft gefantaseerd. Of, wat ook kan: hij heeft een deel gezien via de TV, en een deel gefantaseerd. En die fantasie interpreteer ik dan (vanwege allerlei details die ik jullie zelf laat ontdekken) als een levendige, maar afgestorven verbeeldingskracht, die zich met extreme beelden voedt: zoals de levende doden zich voeden met endorfine van de levenden, zo voedt de door depressies geplaagde ik- figuur zich door zich over te geven aan de meest barokke grilligheden van zijn eigen fantasie. Anders dan zijn vriend, met wie hij later telefoneert, die het hele gebeuren achteraf duidt als een ongelofelijk slechte TV- show van een terecht tot faillissement gedoemd TV- station. En ook anders dan de andere bewoners van Pringles, die de zombies uiteindelijk temmen door ze bij naam te noemen, en zo weer tot het bekende en vertrouwde te herleiden. Want ook hun orgaan voor het volkomen vreemde is vervormd geraakt, door de sleur van alledag en omdat ze te veel TV hebben gekeken. Levende doden hadden in oude mythen nog een grote kracht, als personificaties van het onvoorstelbare, maar in onze moderne tijd is alles zogenaamd voorstelbaar en leven dat soort mythen alleen nog voort als clichés. Behalve dan voor even in het hoofd van Aira's ik- figuur, die ze voor even oproept met een tijdelijke ontremming van zijn normaal zo geremde verbeeldingskracht. En daardoor is hij een levende dode die zichzelf met zijn fantasie tot leven oppept, terwijl zijn medeburgers gewoon als zombies rondlopen en dat niet eens beseffen. Althans, zo ben ik geneigd "Dinner" te interpreteren.
Maar ja, misschien doe ik met deze interpretatie veel te weinig recht aan de vreemdheid van "Dinner". Misschien normaliseer ik daarmee de fundamentele grilligheid van dit boek. Want misschien hebben de levende doden in "Dinner" geen enkele betekenis, ook niet de psychologische en symbolische betekenis die ik hierboven beschrijf. Misschien gaat het hier gewoon om barokke fantasie zonder enige verklaring, zoals in griezelverhalen voor kinderen. Misschien wil Aira ons gewoon enkele tientallen pagina's laten geloven in het ongelofelijke, zonder dit weg te verklaren met ons zogenaamde gezonde verstand. Misschien zoekt Aira ook in "Dinner" wel de ultieme vrijheid als schrijver, de vrijheid om alle kanten op te mogen bewegen en verhalen te bedenken zonder eenheid, consistentie of verklaarbare thematiek. Eigenlijk vind ik dat best een aantrekkelijke gedachte. Zoals ik het ook een aantrekkelijke gedachte vind dat "Dinner", een boekje van krap 100 bladzijden, voor mij te ambigu is om in een sluitende interpretatie te kunnen worden gevat. Misschien moet ik mij nog veel meer laten meevoeren door het rare ritme en de maffe muziek van Aira's proza, zonder te zoeken naar grijpbare referenties en tastbare betekeniskernen...…
Want ja, mensen, de korte romans van Aira bewegen zich allemaal van de ene arbitraire associatie naar de andere. Alles gebeurt at random, zonder dwingende reden, zonder enig causaal verband, zonder te passen in enig ordenend verhaal. Zodat zijn proza erg uitnodigt om vol pret stil te staan bij alle grillige facetten van elke geïsoleerde scene, zonder die scenes te duiden of te interpreteren. En om vol pret te kijken naar de puur associatieve overgangen van de ene scene naar de andere, en te genieten van de pure vrijheid die samengaat met een dergelijke totaal associatieve wijze van kijken die zich aan geen enkele conventie stoort. En zo kun je dan veel plezier hebben van de uitgebreide beschrijving van een miniatuur-automaatje met twee opwindmechanieken, dat ons het even ongerijmde als rijke tafereel toont van iemand die in het Frans een tango zingt voor een blinde dame op een bed. Of van het paradoxale verhaal van iemand die steeds naar het kerkhof wandelt omdat hij door die wandelingen zich levendiger voelt, omdat hij meer endorfinen kweekt door die lichaamsbeweging. Wat natuurlijk later weer associaties oproept met de levende doden, die immers endorfine willen slurpen uit het hoofd van de levenden, maar dat verhaal ontstaat net zo goed uit allerlei arbitraire associaties met de eindeloos eentonige beelden van een nachtelijke TV-show waar niemand naar kijkt. In de verhaalwerelden van Aira is kortom alles ongerijmd, zonder reden, zonder causaal verband, en puur op zichzelf verbazingwekkend. Wie weet is de 'echte wereld' volgens hem wel net zo ongerijmd, en leven we ons leven allemaal at random. Misschien zijn Aira's korte romans vooral uitnodigingen om alle patronen en interpretaties in ons hoofd tussen haakjes te zetten, en als een kind zo onbevangen te genieten van de grillige ongerijmdheid van de hele wereld. Misschien is zijn proza dus puur bedoeld om er verbaasd van te genieten, en juist niet om het te begrijpen.
Hoe dan ook, Aira lezen was dus weer pure pret. En ik zie dat er inmiddels nog meer van hem is vertaald!
Aira samenvatten is ten eerste heel pret bedervend omdat je dan zijn maffe plotwendingen verraadt, en ten tweede heel reductief omdat je nooit recht kan doen aan de zo charmante vreemdheid van zijn stijl en plot. Maar het boekje bestaat uit drie, ogenschijnlijk niet verbonden scenes. Aan het begin een diner van de ik- figuur bij een vriend, waarin hij zich verbaast over de vele bizarre en fantasievolle speelgoedautomaatjes in diens huis, en waarin hij wat mijmert over hoe namen voor iedereen hele verhalen oproepen terwijl namen hem niks zegge. Aan het eind een scene waarin de ik- figuur telefoneert met diezelfde vriend en mijmert over zijn deprimerende leven en het al te geestdodend- prozaïsche stadje waarin hij woont. En tussenin een relatief lang stuk vol hilarische horror over levende doden die datzelfde stadje aanvallen, om alle endorfine op te zuigen uit alle hoofden van de levenden.
Dat lange middenstuk zit vol fraaie passages: soms inderdaad best horror- achtig, soms dolkomisch door de groteske uitvergroting van die horror- effecten of door het contrast ervan met werkelijk gortdroog ironische irrelevante details, en soms ronduit poëtisch of filosofisch. Wat te midden van alle hilarische horror best verrassend is, en intrigerend bovendien. Zo voelde ik wel enige bewondering voor zinnen als: "He had to admit that the view was splendid and defied the imagination; beyond that, everything was ambiguity.The full moon spread its white light impartially over the darkness of town, making it seem to rise to the surface, like the checkerboard skin of an antediluvian sperm whale ". Alsof wat de hij- figuur ziet alleen maar te voorschijn gehaald wordt door de aandacht waarmee hij kijkt, en alsof die hij- figuur vervolgens nauwelijks gelooft wat hij ziet. Of: "The sector he was watching was much closer, though he was well aware that at night the illusory plains of contiguity could become stuck together, like the pages of a book. His attention separated the pages, and there the aberration of nocturnal vision coincided with the monstruous visions of nightmare". Mooi hoe hier ineens een heel filosofisch vocabulaire de taal van de horror doorkruist, wat de vreemdheid van de scene nog vreemder maakt. En mooi hoe juist dat benadrukt dat de hij- figuur de waargenomen horrortaferelen niet kan bevatten, en dat hij ze door hun onbevattelijkheid zelfs nauwelijks kan zien. Iets wat ook een ander personage ervaart, zodra ze oog in oog met een zombie staat midden in een kerk: "Now, on the other hand, the only figure she was approaching was Christ presiding over the altar, and she continued precisely because of how fascinated she was by that statue, which she didn't remember ever having seen in the church in Pringles. It was a Christ Crucified, suffering, expressionistic, twisted, frankly putrefied - the work, one might say, of an insane imagination that had melded the concept of Calvary with that of Auschwitz and the aftermath of a nuclear or bacteriological apocalyps. In the tremulous half light, more than see him, she imagined him, and it was too late when she realized she had imagined him wrong, when the Crucified One leaped at her and snorted - with diabolical bellowing- and fell upon her". Fraaie passage, ook door het contrast tussen Christus, de mensgeworden God die het Goddelijke door die menswording menselijk en voorstelbaar maakt, en de zombie als onvoorstelbare vorm van de al even onvoorstelbare in- humane verschrikking. Zo onvoorstelbaar en anders- dan- menselijk dat de zombie aanvankelijk alleen als groteske uitvergroting van die Christus- figuur kan worden herkend.
Pagina's lang vermaakt Aira ons met horror die behoorlijk gruwelijk is, maar ook over the top en daardoor erg komisch. Maar door die horror te vermengen met dit soort meer beschouwelijke passages geeft Aira mij ook het gevoel dat hij meer wil bieden dan grappige horror alleen. Dat gevoel wordt nog versterkt door het perspectief: alles wordt verteld door de ik- figuur, die dit onmogelijk allemaal gezien kan hebben en dus een deel hiervan heeft gefantaseerd. Of, wat ook kan: hij heeft een deel gezien via de TV, en een deel gefantaseerd. En die fantasie interpreteer ik dan (vanwege allerlei details die ik jullie zelf laat ontdekken) als een levendige, maar afgestorven verbeeldingskracht, die zich met extreme beelden voedt: zoals de levende doden zich voeden met endorfine van de levenden, zo voedt de door depressies geplaagde ik- figuur zich door zich over te geven aan de meest barokke grilligheden van zijn eigen fantasie. Anders dan zijn vriend, met wie hij later telefoneert, die het hele gebeuren achteraf duidt als een ongelofelijk slechte TV- show van een terecht tot faillissement gedoemd TV- station. En ook anders dan de andere bewoners van Pringles, die de zombies uiteindelijk temmen door ze bij naam te noemen, en zo weer tot het bekende en vertrouwde te herleiden. Want ook hun orgaan voor het volkomen vreemde is vervormd geraakt, door de sleur van alledag en omdat ze te veel TV hebben gekeken. Levende doden hadden in oude mythen nog een grote kracht, als personificaties van het onvoorstelbare, maar in onze moderne tijd is alles zogenaamd voorstelbaar en leven dat soort mythen alleen nog voort als clichés. Behalve dan voor even in het hoofd van Aira's ik- figuur, die ze voor even oproept met een tijdelijke ontremming van zijn normaal zo geremde verbeeldingskracht. En daardoor is hij een levende dode die zichzelf met zijn fantasie tot leven oppept, terwijl zijn medeburgers gewoon als zombies rondlopen en dat niet eens beseffen. Althans, zo ben ik geneigd "Dinner" te interpreteren.
Maar ja, misschien doe ik met deze interpretatie veel te weinig recht aan de vreemdheid van "Dinner". Misschien normaliseer ik daarmee de fundamentele grilligheid van dit boek. Want misschien hebben de levende doden in "Dinner" geen enkele betekenis, ook niet de psychologische en symbolische betekenis die ik hierboven beschrijf. Misschien gaat het hier gewoon om barokke fantasie zonder enige verklaring, zoals in griezelverhalen voor kinderen. Misschien wil Aira ons gewoon enkele tientallen pagina's laten geloven in het ongelofelijke, zonder dit weg te verklaren met ons zogenaamde gezonde verstand. Misschien zoekt Aira ook in "Dinner" wel de ultieme vrijheid als schrijver, de vrijheid om alle kanten op te mogen bewegen en verhalen te bedenken zonder eenheid, consistentie of verklaarbare thematiek. Eigenlijk vind ik dat best een aantrekkelijke gedachte. Zoals ik het ook een aantrekkelijke gedachte vind dat "Dinner", een boekje van krap 100 bladzijden, voor mij te ambigu is om in een sluitende interpretatie te kunnen worden gevat. Misschien moet ik mij nog veel meer laten meevoeren door het rare ritme en de maffe muziek van Aira's proza, zonder te zoeken naar grijpbare referenties en tastbare betekeniskernen...…
Want ja, mensen, de korte romans van Aira bewegen zich allemaal van de ene arbitraire associatie naar de andere. Alles gebeurt at random, zonder dwingende reden, zonder enig causaal verband, zonder te passen in enig ordenend verhaal. Zodat zijn proza erg uitnodigt om vol pret stil te staan bij alle grillige facetten van elke geïsoleerde scene, zonder die scenes te duiden of te interpreteren. En om vol pret te kijken naar de puur associatieve overgangen van de ene scene naar de andere, en te genieten van de pure vrijheid die samengaat met een dergelijke totaal associatieve wijze van kijken die zich aan geen enkele conventie stoort. En zo kun je dan veel plezier hebben van de uitgebreide beschrijving van een miniatuur-automaatje met twee opwindmechanieken, dat ons het even ongerijmde als rijke tafereel toont van iemand die in het Frans een tango zingt voor een blinde dame op een bed. Of van het paradoxale verhaal van iemand die steeds naar het kerkhof wandelt omdat hij door die wandelingen zich levendiger voelt, omdat hij meer endorfinen kweekt door die lichaamsbeweging. Wat natuurlijk later weer associaties oproept met de levende doden, die immers endorfine willen slurpen uit het hoofd van de levenden, maar dat verhaal ontstaat net zo goed uit allerlei arbitraire associaties met de eindeloos eentonige beelden van een nachtelijke TV-show waar niemand naar kijkt. In de verhaalwerelden van Aira is kortom alles ongerijmd, zonder reden, zonder causaal verband, en puur op zichzelf verbazingwekkend. Wie weet is de 'echte wereld' volgens hem wel net zo ongerijmd, en leven we ons leven allemaal at random. Misschien zijn Aira's korte romans vooral uitnodigingen om alle patronen en interpretaties in ons hoofd tussen haakjes te zetten, en als een kind zo onbevangen te genieten van de grillige ongerijmdheid van de hele wereld. Misschien is zijn proza dus puur bedoeld om er verbaasd van te genieten, en juist niet om het te begrijpen.
Hoe dan ook, Aira lezen was dus weer pure pret. En ik zie dat er inmiddels nog meer van hem is vertaald!
January 26, 2018
I'm just now beginning to work my way through Aira's collection of odd little books ("odd" meant in the best way), and so far I find Dinner to be the most memorable. It's a structurally brilliant book: the middle section chronicling a zombie attack bookended by the quotidian thoughts of a depressed post-middle-aged man. As do the best works of speculative fiction, the outlandish elements are literally rendered emotions and themes. The out-of-the-blue zombie attack is a physical manifestation of the narrator's depression. While Aira clearly has a good time writing these zombie scenes (they're often hilarious), he's always working back towards his narrator's interiority. What seems like a random divergence turns out to be inextricably linked to this individual's feelings. My only real criticism is that, at the end, Aira throws a lifeline to the realists in the room, planting a small seed that will allow some reders to dismiss the reality of the zombie attack, interpreting it instead as either a fantasy of the narrator or a War of the Worlds-style TV production. As a reader, however, I'm always willing to suspend my disbelief, and by the end of the zombie attack, belief had been so thoroughly suspended that even a minor implication of normalcy proved far more upsetting that even the most ridiculous fantasy could ever be. Let me believe, without question, the weirdness to the end.
December 27, 2015
What is the inverse of embodied/personified/incarnate? I'd like to say something along the lines of, "This book is my friend Adam enparched/scribified/enlibrate."
I'd rather not ruin any of the delightful surprises of this book for anyone, so I'll simply leave you with the advice that Adam gave to me: read it. You can finish it in one or two leisurely afternoons, and it will be well worth your while.
Do you think we can possibly match Aira's pace by reading his peculiar and wonderful works as quickly as he produces them?
I'd rather not ruin any of the delightful surprises of this book for anyone, so I'll simply leave you with the advice that Adam gave to me: read it. You can finish it in one or two leisurely afternoons, and it will be well worth your while.
Do you think we can possibly match Aira's pace by reading his peculiar and wonderful works as quickly as he produces them?
October 25, 2015
"Even though the information was spreading quickly, panic was building up slowly. The movies and, before the movies, the ancestral legends those stories are based on, had produced in the population a basic state of incredulity; at the same time it prepared them for an emergency (they had only to remember what the protagonists of those movies had done); it also prevented them from reacting because everybody knew, or thought they knew, that fiction was not reality. They had to see with their own eyes somebody who had seen them (with their own eyes) to be convinced of the terror of reality, and even then they weren’t convinced. It was one of those cases in which the real is irreplaceable and not representable. Unfortunately for them, the real was also instantaneous and without future."
Aira's jokes play on philosophy of language and the weight of dread, which means they have always landed with me.
Aira's jokes play on philosophy of language and the weight of dread, which means they have always landed with me.
September 24, 2019
Tuhle knížku musel napsat Pavel Poulíček, protože to byl opravdovej kolotoč. Prvně se člověk vžije do poklidné rodinné večeře, jen aby po třetině hodil Cézar blinkr a švihl to do full zombie apokalypsy, ve které zombíci napadnou školní ples a sejmou 300 studentů. Co pracuju se studentama, tak tuto pasáž opravdu oceňuji. To vše pak hodí ještě další turny, takže knížka na cestu do Turnova jako dělaná. 8/10.
April 9, 2020
3.54
I kept waiting for the zombies to appear, but by the time they did, I missed the dinner table conversation and the events leading up to the “disaster.” There were some nice anecdotes in there.
Thanks for introducing me to a new word, César by way of Katherine, the translator: oneiric (used twice).
Now I just want Pringles. Sour cream and onion, please.
I kept waiting for the zombies to appear, but by the time they did, I missed the dinner table conversation and the events leading up to the “disaster.” There were some nice anecdotes in there.
Thanks for introducing me to a new word, César by way of Katherine, the translator: oneiric (used twice).
Now I just want Pringles. Sour cream and onion, please.
June 30, 2019
خیلی کتاب جالبی نبود مخصوصا قسمتهای حمله ی مردگان و هرچی تلاش کردم نتونستم مفهوم یا پیام کتاب رو بفهمم چون تلاشی داشت که فلسفی باشه اما اسیر داستان شد
در مجموع کتاب جالبی نبود که به کسی پیشنهاد بدم
در مجموع کتاب جالبی نبود که به کسی پیشنهاد بدم
January 18, 2017
Only planned on reading a few pages of this last night and ended up finishing it. Proof that zombies as political/social allegory is alive and well.
July 18, 2019
I finished this short book feeling like the author was having a joke on. But I wasn't sure about what? About me? About the kind of person who pick up a book like this? About television and the inability to separate fact from fantasy? I don't even know.
The story, such as it is, is told in three parts. It stars with a dinner party -- a 60-something failure in life and his mother have dinner at his friend's house. I vaguely liked this part -- the friend and the mother appear to know the names and history of everyone & everything in town; the friend tells disjointed stories poorly; the mother hates everything about the evening; there's a world atlas that freaks everyone out because it is "too big".
But that's really the end of it, as far as it goes. In the second part of the book there's a zombie outbreak in town (which the narrator of the first section watches on TV). This section just dragged on and on. It didn't do anything interesting, novel, clever, or funny with the zombies. If you're going to pull in an overdone trope like zombies you'd better be pretty sure you're going to do something interesting with them.
Then there's the third section, the days after the night of zombies. The narrator calls his friend to thank him for dinner. The friend starts complaining about how business is run in this small town. And...the end. Like, in the middle of the conversation. I actually had to flip back a page to make sure it was really over.
I didn't understand this, which is okay, it happens sometimes. But when you combine that with the overlong & boring zombie section....it was tough for to me to find much merit in this. A few flashes in the first section just weren't enough for me.
The story, such as it is, is told in three parts. It stars with a dinner party -- a 60-something failure in life and his mother have dinner at his friend's house. I vaguely liked this part -- the friend and the mother appear to know the names and history of everyone & everything in town; the friend tells disjointed stories poorly; the mother hates everything about the evening; there's a world atlas that freaks everyone out because it is "too big".
But that's really the end of it, as far as it goes. In the second part of the book there's a zombie outbreak in town (which the narrator of the first section watches on TV). This section just dragged on and on. It didn't do anything interesting, novel, clever, or funny with the zombies. If you're going to pull in an overdone trope like zombies you'd better be pretty sure you're going to do something interesting with them.
Then there's the third section, the days after the night of zombies. The narrator calls his friend to thank him for dinner. The friend starts complaining about how business is run in this small town. And...the end. Like, in the middle of the conversation. I actually had to flip back a page to make sure it was really over.
I didn't understand this, which is okay, it happens sometimes. But when you combine that with the overlong & boring zombie section....it was tough for to me to find much merit in this. A few flashes in the first section just weren't enough for me.
September 6, 2015
Dinner is a very short work, running to just 108 pages, but it is definitely not a flimsy work. Our story opens with our first person narrator discussing memory and his earliest childhood memories containing pits:
This recurrence of memories of pits, so primitive and maybe purely fantastical, had maybe come to symbolize “holes” in memory, or rather holes in stories, that not only don’t exist in the stories I tell but that I am always filling in to stories others tell me. I find fault in everybody else’s narrative art, almost always with good reason. My mother and my friend were particularly deficient in the respect, perhaps because of their passion for names, which prevented the stories’ normal development.
Our narrator is bankrupt, no assets and living with his mother off of her pension. They dine at a friend of his place where miniature toys are collected and displayed. The night ends with photographs being taken of our narrator wearing a huge elephant mask, surely this will be relevant later on….
Upon returning home, listening to his mother’s grumbles, our narrator decides to channel surf and comes across the local television station broadcasting live, they are riding their motorbikes to the local cemetery where corpses are returning from the dead:
For my full review go to http://messybooker.blogspot.com.au/20...
This recurrence of memories of pits, so primitive and maybe purely fantastical, had maybe come to symbolize “holes” in memory, or rather holes in stories, that not only don’t exist in the stories I tell but that I am always filling in to stories others tell me. I find fault in everybody else’s narrative art, almost always with good reason. My mother and my friend were particularly deficient in the respect, perhaps because of their passion for names, which prevented the stories’ normal development.
Our narrator is bankrupt, no assets and living with his mother off of her pension. They dine at a friend of his place where miniature toys are collected and displayed. The night ends with photographs being taken of our narrator wearing a huge elephant mask, surely this will be relevant later on….
Upon returning home, listening to his mother’s grumbles, our narrator decides to channel surf and comes across the local television station broadcasting live, they are riding their motorbikes to the local cemetery where corpses are returning from the dead:
For my full review go to http://messybooker.blogspot.com.au/20...
June 15, 2020
“Cada mañana, y cada noche, me proponía empezar una nueva vida, pero siempre fui postergador…”.
El protagonista de esta novela es un hombre que ha perdido todo en la vida y a sus sesenta años debe volver a la casa de su madre, la cual se niega a verlo como el fracasado que es.
Un hombre que no sabe relacionarse con los demás porque no adquirió la capacidad de tejer en su memoria la red de nombres y apellidos propia de los pueblos, cualquiera sea.
"Un nombre traía a otro, conducido por una práctica de toda la vida ya que la gente pueblerina efectuaba toda su educación intelectual y afectiva hablando unos de otros, y sin los nombres habría sido difícil hacerlo."
Una noche, un sábado, la tranquilidad de Pringles se interrumpe: los muertos comienzan a escapar de sus tumbas, vuelven al pueblo del que formaron parte en busca de algo...
“...legiones y legiones, oleadas terribles de cadáveres cojos y espásticos que seguían desplegándose en desorden…” .
El protagonista de esta novela es un hombre que ha perdido todo en la vida y a sus sesenta años debe volver a la casa de su madre, la cual se niega a verlo como el fracasado que es.
Un hombre que no sabe relacionarse con los demás porque no adquirió la capacidad de tejer en su memoria la red de nombres y apellidos propia de los pueblos, cualquiera sea.
"Un nombre traía a otro, conducido por una práctica de toda la vida ya que la gente pueblerina efectuaba toda su educación intelectual y afectiva hablando unos de otros, y sin los nombres habría sido difícil hacerlo."
Una noche, un sábado, la tranquilidad de Pringles se interrumpe: los muertos comienzan a escapar de sus tumbas, vuelven al pueblo del que formaron parte en busca de algo...
“...legiones y legiones, oleadas terribles de cadáveres cojos y espásticos que seguían desplegándose en desorden…” .
August 4, 2018
The worst of the Aira books i've read but still I take some things from it.
It's a meditation and metaphor on TV. How TV fragments existence and makes it difficult to encode reality and non-reality. How people sit sucking endorphins from the TV on their weekends and how this isolates the person from the real-world. How it makes a person think they are not observable themselves. How it makes it harder to be with real people who watch back. Something like this.¨
The part of the waking dead was too long. I got very bored there.
The part of the miniature model with the blind old woman in the bed picking up pieces of dust. That was lucid.
I feel as thought there are a few other things i may have missed in this but I blame this on the book not working like I expect it wanted.
It's a meditation and metaphor on TV. How TV fragments existence and makes it difficult to encode reality and non-reality. How people sit sucking endorphins from the TV on their weekends and how this isolates the person from the real-world. How it makes a person think they are not observable themselves. How it makes it harder to be with real people who watch back. Something like this.¨
The part of the waking dead was too long. I got very bored there.
The part of the miniature model with the blind old woman in the bed picking up pieces of dust. That was lucid.
I feel as thought there are a few other things i may have missed in this but I blame this on the book not working like I expect it wanted.
November 13, 2019
This lurid novel about the invasion of zombies in a small Buenos Aires town brings about a sense of wonder as to how the commoner would deal with such a catastrophe. Veiled in the delusion of a 60 year old man who has come to terms with his deteriorating life we see that there is the possibility of survival in the midst of the zombie attack. As each class of people get picked off by the zombie hoard we learn about their priorities while the attack is happening. This illuminates the authors keen eye toward the political and helps us understand the dichotomy of small town life in South America and how this affects its ability to survive the zombie apocalypse.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 18, 2016
This slim novel by Argentina Aira, I read in one night, and really enjoyed the book, most esp the ending. The town of Pringle is over run with walking corpses, risen out of their burials.....no one is safe as they demolish everyone in their path to crack their skills and suck out the endorphins. Nothing stops them or slows their pace.........I really liked this book. Familiar but not so familiar......Scarry but not terrifying,unless you live in Pringle......and the ending is so worth the ride for me. Loved it.
October 29, 2019
Might be more like 4.5?
Sometimes I have trouble with César, much as I love him -- he just requires ~such~ a particular mood and mindset. Still, once you're in it... well, it's a delight. And this one paid off, despite the weird early goings-on: it ended up being a true zombie novel, full of slurped brains and existential horrors.
Or... did it? I found myself smirking happily at the end and damned if that isn't what I always hope for with an Aira: feeling smart and happy and ready to read something else.
Sometimes I have trouble with César, much as I love him -- he just requires ~such~ a particular mood and mindset. Still, once you're in it... well, it's a delight. And this one paid off, despite the weird early goings-on: it ended up being a true zombie novel, full of slurped brains and existential horrors.
Or... did it? I found myself smirking happily at the end and damned if that isn't what I always hope for with an Aira: feeling smart and happy and ready to read something else.
November 1, 2020
آنچنان برام لذت بخش نبود حتی با وجود حجم پایین کتاب تو دو روز خوندم اونم به زحمت، قطعا کلید واژه "نام" کلید حل پیام اصلی داستان بود به نظرم ولی من برداشت خیلی خاصی نتونستم از کتاب داشته باشم، در حالت کلی زیاد دوستش نداشتم و توصیه هم نمیکنم به دیگران.
تعریف هایی که از نویسنده شده بود مثل اینکه بعد بورخس ایشون تو اون جایگاه و مقام هستن و خلاصه کوتاه داستان برام جالب بود و جذب کتاب شدم ولی با تصوراتی که داشتم همخوانی نداشت واقعا.
تعریف هایی که از نویسنده شده بود مثل اینکه بعد بورخس ایشون تو اون جایگاه و مقام هستن و خلاصه کوتاه داستان برام جالب بود و جذب کتاب شدم ولی با تصوراتی که داشتم همخوانی نداشت واقعا.
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