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Blauwe maandagen
Het beurtelings hilarische en onthutsende relaas van een opgroeiende jongen die op zoek is naar de liefde. Zelf lijkt hij geen enkele liefde te kunnen voelen, noch voor zijn doodzieke vader noch voor zijn hysterische moeder noch voor zijn vriendinnetje. Hij vlucht in de betaalde liefde en uiteindelijk laat hij zich zelf voor zijn diensten betalen.
280 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1994
66 people are currently reading
1191 people want to read
About the author
Arnon Grunberg
158 books422 followersArnon Yasha Yves (Arnon) Grunberg is a Dutch writer. Some of his books were written using the heteronym Marek van der Jagt.
In 1989 Grunberg made his acting debut in Maria's Cunt (de Kut van Maria); a short film by Dutch enfant terrible filmmaker Cyrus Frisch.
Grunberg made his literary debut in 1994 with the novel Blauwe maandagen (Blue Mondays), which won the Dutch prize for the best debut novel that year. In 2000, under the heteronym Marek van der Jagt, he won the best debut prize again for his novel De geschiedenis van mijn kaalheid (The History of My Baldness).
Grunberg publishes novels about once a year but also writes columns and essays in a wide variety of Dutch and international newspapers and magazines. He does not restrict himself only to the written media, but also reads a story for the radio every week and for some time he was host of a cultural television program. He also writes a blog for the literary Internet magazine Words Without Borders and his own site ArnonGrunberg.com.
His novel Tirza won the Dutch Golden Owl Prize for Literature and the Libris Prize.[1] His books have been translated into many languages, including English, German, Japanese and Georgian.
From 2006 Grunberg wrote various journalistic reports, for example about working undercover in a Bavarian hotel and his visit to Guantánamo Bay. Also he visited the Dutch troops in Afghanistan and the US Army in Iraq. In 2009 these reports were collected in the book Chambermaids and Soldiers.
In 1989 Grunberg made his acting debut in Maria's Cunt (de Kut van Maria); a short film by Dutch enfant terrible filmmaker Cyrus Frisch.
Grunberg made his literary debut in 1994 with the novel Blauwe maandagen (Blue Mondays), which won the Dutch prize for the best debut novel that year. In 2000, under the heteronym Marek van der Jagt, he won the best debut prize again for his novel De geschiedenis van mijn kaalheid (The History of My Baldness).
Grunberg publishes novels about once a year but also writes columns and essays in a wide variety of Dutch and international newspapers and magazines. He does not restrict himself only to the written media, but also reads a story for the radio every week and for some time he was host of a cultural television program. He also writes a blog for the literary Internet magazine Words Without Borders and his own site ArnonGrunberg.com.
His novel Tirza won the Dutch Golden Owl Prize for Literature and the Libris Prize.[1] His books have been translated into many languages, including English, German, Japanese and Georgian.
From 2006 Grunberg wrote various journalistic reports, for example about working undercover in a Bavarian hotel and his visit to Guantánamo Bay. Also he visited the Dutch troops in Afghanistan and the US Army in Iraq. In 2009 these reports were collected in the book Chambermaids and Soldiers.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 207 reviews
March 4, 2010
I don't know why I feel like I have to be Arnon Grunberg's promoter on this site. And today of all days. It's been a dark, evil weekend in which I was excavating dark and evil feelings (for a creative project) and then... and then... I get a phone call from a coworker today. But today's Sunday. And you know what that means. Either they need you to come in early tomorrow or somebody's died. I didn't answer -- hoping for the former, but sucker-punched by the latter when I received a text message that a twenty-six-year-old coworker never woke up this morning. Of course, I can speculate -- underlying heart condition? drugs? carbon monoxide? -- but so what? Is that supposed to be a mitigating factor? Anyway I've wanted to vomit since then and not do much else. Not read. Not watch TV. And by the way, in case you haven't noticed, it's still February outside -- and the sky's the kind of steely gray overcast that makes absolutely everything look filthy. It's as if today were filmed for the mind's eye by Fassbinder's cinematographer. (And don't expect me to look up his name.)
What does this all have to do with Arnon Grunberg's first novel Blue Mondays? Nothing, I suppose. But maybe I can awkwardly contort a connection. Firstly (and this is only circumstantial), I'll never think about this book without thinking of death. Young death. Unexpected death. There were only about a dozen pages left and then *bing* the text came through. Secondly, I think this book is about the opposite of death, in a way. No not just life -- but the kind of youthful, idiotic, and ecstatic life that can't conceive of its own death.
Grunberg wrote Blue Mondays when he was twenty-two years old -- which is more than sufficient reason for me to hate him for all time. Do you know the kind of stuff I was writing when I was that age? I seem to recall a maudlin attempt at a novel that was nothing but A Separate Peace staged at a mental institution. Deplorable stuff. And there was the infamous -- and infamously humiliating -- gothsploitation story about the talking decapitated head. It was sort of like a cross between Poe and Señor Wences, I think, but even my memories are probably making it out as less horrendous than it was. So Arnon Grunberg writes his first novel Blue Mondays on a dare (!), the inside flap informs me. As in he wasn't really interested in writing a novel but he was somehow cajoled into doing it. Then it was published. Then it became a best seller in his native Netherlands. Then I read it sixteen years after it was published and decided that, yes, it is in fact very good.
The novel is about a character named Arnon Grunberg and his 'coming of age' -- which we all know is literary code for 'learning how to fuck and then doing it a lot.' It's not a instance of braggadocio in Grunberg's case, however, because all but one of his partners are hookers. And often strange and unattractive ones at that. So love is obviously not in the cards for young Grunberg, who (like his characters in the brilliant The Jewish Messiah) isn't quite in touch with his emotions. But we'll give him a pass. He is/was still young.
Arnon Grunberg (the author now) is the same age I am, roundabout. He's published a handful of novels, one of which a bunch of people on a booknerd site in America have read, while I've done nothing much at all except wait around. For what? One has to make a living so one works in an office and should be grateful for that much in this economy. At least I can read about what the Grunbergs of the world have accomplished. But then *beep* there's a text message. How much time do you have to wait? It makes you want to puke -- not dry-heave, but ralph until you're dried out like a strip of jerky -- if you spend too much time thinking about it. But don't. But do. What I mean is do both at the same time -- start doing something and puke, if need be, because it's the puking after all that makes you do something.
That's what this novel is about, in a weird way. (Or at least that's what it's about when refracted through my current mood.) It's about being alive thoroughly, dangerously, preposterously. Maybe a little too much alive; the young aren't known for their wisdom, after all, but it's a good motivational speech at least.
And yet. I don't think I can recommend this to you. I can recommend it to some indefinite, hypothetical 'you' but not to you specifically -- because (let's face facts) Arnon Grunberg isn't for everybody. This novel, for example, is filled with unfathomable non sequiturs. Trying to connect all the meanings is a task unto itself -- one that not many readers will probably feel is worth the time -- but I guess that's part of being young: refusing to make sense all the time. I'll gladly dabble in that world. From time to time.
What does this all have to do with Arnon Grunberg's first novel Blue Mondays? Nothing, I suppose. But maybe I can awkwardly contort a connection. Firstly (and this is only circumstantial), I'll never think about this book without thinking of death. Young death. Unexpected death. There were only about a dozen pages left and then *bing* the text came through. Secondly, I think this book is about the opposite of death, in a way. No not just life -- but the kind of youthful, idiotic, and ecstatic life that can't conceive of its own death.
Grunberg wrote Blue Mondays when he was twenty-two years old -- which is more than sufficient reason for me to hate him for all time. Do you know the kind of stuff I was writing when I was that age? I seem to recall a maudlin attempt at a novel that was nothing but A Separate Peace staged at a mental institution. Deplorable stuff. And there was the infamous -- and infamously humiliating -- gothsploitation story about the talking decapitated head. It was sort of like a cross between Poe and Señor Wences, I think, but even my memories are probably making it out as less horrendous than it was. So Arnon Grunberg writes his first novel Blue Mondays on a dare (!), the inside flap informs me. As in he wasn't really interested in writing a novel but he was somehow cajoled into doing it. Then it was published. Then it became a best seller in his native Netherlands. Then I read it sixteen years after it was published and decided that, yes, it is in fact very good.
The novel is about a character named Arnon Grunberg and his 'coming of age' -- which we all know is literary code for 'learning how to fuck and then doing it a lot.' It's not a instance of braggadocio in Grunberg's case, however, because all but one of his partners are hookers. And often strange and unattractive ones at that. So love is obviously not in the cards for young Grunberg, who (like his characters in the brilliant The Jewish Messiah) isn't quite in touch with his emotions. But we'll give him a pass. He is/was still young.
Arnon Grunberg (the author now) is the same age I am, roundabout. He's published a handful of novels, one of which a bunch of people on a booknerd site in America have read, while I've done nothing much at all except wait around. For what? One has to make a living so one works in an office and should be grateful for that much in this economy. At least I can read about what the Grunbergs of the world have accomplished. But then *beep* there's a text message. How much time do you have to wait? It makes you want to puke -- not dry-heave, but ralph until you're dried out like a strip of jerky -- if you spend too much time thinking about it. But don't. But do. What I mean is do both at the same time -- start doing something and puke, if need be, because it's the puking after all that makes you do something.
That's what this novel is about, in a weird way. (Or at least that's what it's about when refracted through my current mood.) It's about being alive thoroughly, dangerously, preposterously. Maybe a little too much alive; the young aren't known for their wisdom, after all, but it's a good motivational speech at least.
And yet. I don't think I can recommend this to you. I can recommend it to some indefinite, hypothetical 'you' but not to you specifically -- because (let's face facts) Arnon Grunberg isn't for everybody. This novel, for example, is filled with unfathomable non sequiturs. Trying to connect all the meanings is a task unto itself -- one that not many readers will probably feel is worth the time -- but I guess that's part of being young: refusing to make sense all the time. I'll gladly dabble in that world. From time to time.
February 7, 2022
Dit boek in één zin: Witte man heeft gekke seks met prostituees en praat ondertussen veel.
Niet de moeite waard.
Niet de moeite waard.
March 30, 2010
Blue Mondays and The Story of My Baldness are both winners of the same first novel award, and both written by Arnon Grunberg. Along with David's raving albeit depressing review for Blue Mondays it's this fact that made me want to read these two novels. I like the idea that someone was able to fool an award committee into giving him the same award twice, an award that by its nature can only be awarded once.
I meant at one point last night to ask David to explain why he loved Blue Mondays as much as he did, but I forgot. Maybe the same reason that he finds Brown Bunny to be a beautiful love story he loves this book. Personally out of the two novels I enjoyed The Story of My Baldness a bit more.
When I was in my early twenties, I probably would have enjoyed Blue Mondays more. I think it if had come across it during my Bukowski period I would have loved it. Not that it is much like Bukowski stylistically, instead they both have that same 'fuck you, I'm not going to compromise even if I am an utter failure as a result' feeling. Do both even romanticize that stance? Both, the Bukowski oeuvre and Blue Mondays both have quite a bit of sex in them with some very undesirable partners.
Maybe in my early twenties the appeal of living a fucked up life was stronger, or with the invincibility of youth felt that everything awful would be eventually overcome and be the material to turn into something uncompromising and great. Maybe as a coming-of-age novel, Blue Mondays would have held something out that I would have been more drawn to then.
Instead as a coming-of-age novel Blue Mondays has no relevance to me. Not that our coming-of-age entertainments should be personally relateable, I mean how many of us went from being high-school losers to popular winners because of one wild and wacky prom night, or by one magical summer somewhere or whatever other contrived romances are thought up sold and consumed from various cellulose based products?
The Story of My Baldness is another view of the coming-of-age novel.
I forgot to mention earlier that Grunberg doesn't write positive coming of age novels. Blue Mondays cinematic equivalent would be the geeky kid who doesn't become cool by winning the cheerleaders heart, but instead says fuck the cheerleader, and realizes that for fifty bucks he can get some skanky toothless trailer park wench to blow him in the truck stop bathroom up near exit 16 of the Thruway. Not exactly an ugly duckling into beautiful swan story.
Anyway, back to the penultimate paragraph. This book is like an anti coming of age novel, the one where sex isn't the great opener of the adult world where childish things go to the past, but it's there as some unsurmountable void, where there is nothing sublime and transcendent, or even ugly and Bukowski-esque, but rather it's the source of even more problems, in the epistemological kind of vein. ---Because isn't it possible that all of these coming-of-age stories are really an epistemological coming into being of an adult viewpoint of sex in its thingness as it relates to the object of the self and as an a priori ontology of the dynamics between the two sets of objects that some would call intersubjective(?), and what we can adulthood is really the reductionist view of our humanness be it through a proto-Freudian montage of psycho-babble or even through the anti-epistemology rules prescribed by Mystery and his cohorts of Game playing missionaries of this particular view point that has earned the euphemistic title of coming-of-age? ----
Does the bullshit immediately above some kind meaning in this review?
The Story of My Baldness is kind of like an extended joke about the narrators baldness and his failure to 'come of age'. The narrator is telling this story after the events took place and is now hiding safely from any attempts to 'come of age' by being a philosophy student (or the writer of paraphrases of paraphrases of the Great Philosophers, which is to say a Nietzschean take on the role of the philosophical scholar a couple of generations past Nietzsche's own generation). Needless to say the general eschewing of interpersonal relationships and the submersion into bullshit academic work instead of trying to get on with the real world has a slightly more personal appeal to me than a story about sleeping with lots of whores, an activity I must shamefully admit to having never engaged in even in the singular.
Once again I have failed in writing a coherent review and instead just rambled till I grew tired of typing anymore.
I meant at one point last night to ask David to explain why he loved Blue Mondays as much as he did, but I forgot. Maybe the same reason that he finds Brown Bunny to be a beautiful love story he loves this book. Personally out of the two novels I enjoyed The Story of My Baldness a bit more.
When I was in my early twenties, I probably would have enjoyed Blue Mondays more. I think it if had come across it during my Bukowski period I would have loved it. Not that it is much like Bukowski stylistically, instead they both have that same 'fuck you, I'm not going to compromise even if I am an utter failure as a result' feeling. Do both even romanticize that stance? Both, the Bukowski oeuvre and Blue Mondays both have quite a bit of sex in them with some very undesirable partners.
Maybe in my early twenties the appeal of living a fucked up life was stronger, or with the invincibility of youth felt that everything awful would be eventually overcome and be the material to turn into something uncompromising and great. Maybe as a coming-of-age novel, Blue Mondays would have held something out that I would have been more drawn to then.
Instead as a coming-of-age novel Blue Mondays has no relevance to me. Not that our coming-of-age entertainments should be personally relateable, I mean how many of us went from being high-school losers to popular winners because of one wild and wacky prom night, or by one magical summer somewhere or whatever other contrived romances are thought up sold and consumed from various cellulose based products?
The Story of My Baldness is another view of the coming-of-age novel.
I forgot to mention earlier that Grunberg doesn't write positive coming of age novels. Blue Mondays cinematic equivalent would be the geeky kid who doesn't become cool by winning the cheerleaders heart, but instead says fuck the cheerleader, and realizes that for fifty bucks he can get some skanky toothless trailer park wench to blow him in the truck stop bathroom up near exit 16 of the Thruway. Not exactly an ugly duckling into beautiful swan story.
Anyway, back to the penultimate paragraph. This book is like an anti coming of age novel, the one where sex isn't the great opener of the adult world where childish things go to the past, but it's there as some unsurmountable void, where there is nothing sublime and transcendent, or even ugly and Bukowski-esque, but rather it's the source of even more problems, in the epistemological kind of vein. ---Because isn't it possible that all of these coming-of-age stories are really an epistemological coming into being of an adult viewpoint of sex in its thingness as it relates to the object of the self and as an a priori ontology of the dynamics between the two sets of objects that some would call intersubjective(?), and what we can adulthood is really the reductionist view of our humanness be it through a proto-Freudian montage of psycho-babble or even through the anti-epistemology rules prescribed by Mystery and his cohorts of Game playing missionaries of this particular view point that has earned the euphemistic title of coming-of-age? ----
Does the bullshit immediately above some kind meaning in this review?
The Story of My Baldness is kind of like an extended joke about the narrators baldness and his failure to 'come of age'. The narrator is telling this story after the events took place and is now hiding safely from any attempts to 'come of age' by being a philosophy student (or the writer of paraphrases of paraphrases of the Great Philosophers, which is to say a Nietzschean take on the role of the philosophical scholar a couple of generations past Nietzsche's own generation). Needless to say the general eschewing of interpersonal relationships and the submersion into bullshit academic work instead of trying to get on with the real world has a slightly more personal appeal to me than a story about sleeping with lots of whores, an activity I must shamefully admit to having never engaged in even in the singular.
Once again I have failed in writing a coherent review and instead just rambled till I grew tired of typing anymore.
August 13, 2020
A while ago I decided to waste no more time on books that just not are for me: they get 100 pages to convince me and then it is irrevocable "lights out". This book, the debut of Grunberg, got 120 pages (close to halfway) and that is the merit of the literary talent this writer clearly has. Grunberg definitely shows us he can write. But I have already read too many books on the measly adventures of a typical adolescent. And the dry, never ending nihilistic atmosphere it is drenched in, is simply a letdown. Maybe this book is a nice antidote to chick lit or romantic panting, but it's no use for me, I think I'm really to old for this kind of rubbish.
March 12, 2025
Iedereen heeft zijn verhaal, ook de dommen en de onwetenden.
June 12, 2019
What the, everybody is so lukewarm about this !
Everybody is wrong, this is really great writing.
Perfect rhythm, never boring, honest, filthy & pathetic, 5 bags of popcorn.
Everybody is wrong, this is really great writing.
Perfect rhythm, never boring, honest, filthy & pathetic, 5 bags of popcorn.
October 25, 2024
Weer zo’n mannelijke hoofdpersoon die echt m’n strot uitkomt. Dit moet dus wel een Nederlandse klassieker zijn!!!!
Enige pluspunt dat het van mij krijgt is dat het zich in Amsterdam afspeelt, daar ben ik dan wel makkelijk in.
Enige pluspunt dat het van mij krijgt is dat het zich in Amsterdam afspeelt, daar ben ik dan wel makkelijk in.
October 4, 2022
Snap er geen kut van
August 31, 2008
The curly head of Arnon Grunberg pops up pretty often on Dutch television.
He is supposed to be an intellectual and a sophisticated conversationalist with a razor shaped sense of humour, an Amsterdam-born Woody Allen.
The editor who published Grunberg in Italy goes even further comparing him to Philip Roth and Salinger.
I don't get the point. Well, actually I do. Basically they want to sell more Grunberg. Good attempt, but no honesty.
Let's talk about this debut novel. Grunberg wrote 'Blue Mondays' when he was just 23. This may be a good alibi for the lack of a plot in 255 pages, but not for a confusional way of writing now and then.
The problem with Arnon Grunberg is that he is a very smart guy. He understood that the perfect formula to become an acclaimed young novelist is (and was and will be) writing about sex with a sprinkling of funny cynism.
Living in Amsterdam and having Jewish heritage he had two advantages to take and needless to say how in 'Blue Mondays' he took both.
Am I writing about stereotypes? I know, but Grunberg used these stereotypes to manufacture his early success.
I found 'Blue Mondays' very irritating with a few of occasional well written moments and just in its first part.
As soon as the protagonist (obviously an alter ego of the author) leaves behind his dead father the book has no future. Then for exactly 142 pages Grunberg narrates about having sex with different prostitutes while drinking beer and eating herring salad. He could have done it better. Tina, Sandra, Natasja, Marshalla & co. leave no trace. They simply don't have a personality of their own as well as the monodimensional protagonist.
The only positive note is that Grunberg, unlike, say, Gary Shteyngart, doesn't insist that much on ridiculizing the Jewish sexual complications. Good for us.
Somehow his way of writing reminded me two overrated novelists: the Icelandic Helgason Hallgrímur and the Norwegian Erlend Loe. These three share the same chaotic blindness in prose, also known as commercial smartness.
He is supposed to be an intellectual and a sophisticated conversationalist with a razor shaped sense of humour, an Amsterdam-born Woody Allen.
The editor who published Grunberg in Italy goes even further comparing him to Philip Roth and Salinger.
I don't get the point. Well, actually I do. Basically they want to sell more Grunberg. Good attempt, but no honesty.
Let's talk about this debut novel. Grunberg wrote 'Blue Mondays' when he was just 23. This may be a good alibi for the lack of a plot in 255 pages, but not for a confusional way of writing now and then.
The problem with Arnon Grunberg is that he is a very smart guy. He understood that the perfect formula to become an acclaimed young novelist is (and was and will be) writing about sex with a sprinkling of funny cynism.
Living in Amsterdam and having Jewish heritage he had two advantages to take and needless to say how in 'Blue Mondays' he took both.
Am I writing about stereotypes? I know, but Grunberg used these stereotypes to manufacture his early success.
I found 'Blue Mondays' very irritating with a few of occasional well written moments and just in its first part.
As soon as the protagonist (obviously an alter ego of the author) leaves behind his dead father the book has no future. Then for exactly 142 pages Grunberg narrates about having sex with different prostitutes while drinking beer and eating herring salad. He could have done it better. Tina, Sandra, Natasja, Marshalla & co. leave no trace. They simply don't have a personality of their own as well as the monodimensional protagonist.
The only positive note is that Grunberg, unlike, say, Gary Shteyngart, doesn't insist that much on ridiculizing the Jewish sexual complications. Good for us.
Somehow his way of writing reminded me two overrated novelists: the Icelandic Helgason Hallgrímur and the Norwegian Erlend Loe. These three share the same chaotic blindness in prose, also known as commercial smartness.
July 28, 2023
Ik vond het aanvankelijk wel grappig bij vlagen, maar toen verviel het in een 'kijk, ik betaal voor seks en praat heel de tijd terwijl ik dat doe'-herhaling en dat werd vermoeiend irritant.
October 5, 2019
*2.75
Op momenten heb ik hardop kunnen lachen, maar over het algemeen was dit niet mijn boek.
Op momenten heb ik hardop kunnen lachen, maar over het algemeen was dit niet mijn boek.
December 31, 2021
Het begin vond ik een tikkeltje moeilijk om in te komen, maar al snel werd ik gegrepen door de troosteloze, maar nooit saaie, dag- en nachtvulling van de hoofdpersoon. Vrolijk word je er niet van, maar dat is ook niet de bedoeling.
August 8, 2022
Een magere drie sterren
August 31, 2022
Ik denk dat ik de grap niet snap
January 2, 2023
Het beste hoe ik het kan beschrijven is dat het een auto biografie is van een zielig mannetje, die niet voor zichzelf kan zorgen, geen respect heeft voor anderen en niet weet hoe hij normaal moet functioneren in de maatschappij. Zijn schrijfstijl is heel grappig. En het feit dat iemand dit allemaal durft toe te geven in een boek is best wel interessant. Ik kan alleen niet geloven dat mensen hem nog steeds hoog hebben staan na het lezen van dit boek. (Het is ook aardig racistisch en seksistisch voor 1994)
September 3, 2020
ik had dit op zich ook niet willen lezen
May 2, 2023
Vrij dom verhaal, wel erg om gelachen
October 29, 2017
Op je 23e al zo'n geweldig debuut afleveren, is straf. Er zijn nog wat schoonheidsfoutjes, en niet elk deel is even interessant, maar over het algemeen zeker de moeite waard.
3,5*
3,5*
October 14, 2021
Ik heb echt m’n best gedaan, maar ik vind het niet zo wat.
October 10, 2025
‘Ik zag alle mensen die ik kende, dag in dag uit bedelen om een kruimeltje liefde dat ze elkaar vervolgens toewierpen als een stuk brood aan een schurftige hond. Ik zag mezelf van de ene naar de andere sjokken tot ik bezweek in de armen van een van hen die al niet meer wist hoe de man eruitzag met wie ze een uur geleden had gevreeën, en over een paar minuten zou ze ook niet meer weten hoe ik eruit had gezien, en wat ik had gezegd, en wat niet, en wat we hadden gedaan, en wat niet.’
September 10, 2022
I mean- I read it for school … it was good I guess. Except that it had no story line and it had a reallllyyyyyy rough language.
The MC was had a lack of love in his life which was sad I guess, but I can’t help but not have a very clear opinion on this book.
It was written with very blunt descriptions about people and he also had no remorse to be blunt to people such as his mom, his only girlfriend ever, his friends ect.
His took the people in his life for granted and told them things without thinking, he lost almost everybody.
It’s a sad book and it was easy to read. But yeah- as I said- I just cannot find a very clear way to react to this book.
The MC was had a lack of love in his life which was sad I guess, but I can’t help but not have a very clear opinion on this book.
It was written with very blunt descriptions about people and he also had no remorse to be blunt to people such as his mom, his only girlfriend ever, his friends ect.
His took the people in his life for granted and told them things without thinking, he lost almost everybody.
It’s a sad book and it was easy to read. But yeah- as I said- I just cannot find a very clear way to react to this book.
December 1, 2020
I only read this to improve my Dutch. Well, it hasn’t improved much. A white man’s adventures with prostitutes, plenty of sexism, empty “philosophies” about life, cynicism and sensational writing, no structure. It’s like Grunberg put whatever crossed his mind randomly on paper and published a book about it. I wouldn’t recommend this book to anyone, even for linguistic reasons.
Read
August 18, 2011Het boek begon niet zo slecht, het was best grappig zoals de cover belooft. Maar wanneer het verhaal zo klein wordt dat het enkel nog gaat over de prostituees die het hoofdpersonage over de vloer krijgt wordt het toch wel eentonig.
January 16, 2022
“Kom je voor anaal? Nee, voor Astrid”
Veel climaxen in het boek, maar niet in het verhaal.
Veel climaxen in het boek, maar niet in het verhaal.
Read
November 28, 2022Nou, niet echt enorm onder de indruk van dit boek. Ik meende de bejubelde debuutroman van een van de bekendste schrijvers van Nederland te lezen (wat het ook is natuurlijk), maar het betoverde me nu niet bepaald helemaal.
Het heeft eigenlijk wel alle ingrediënten van een boek dat ik erg leuk zou moeten vinden:
een hoop onzin, ratelende vertellers, doelloos door een stad/leven wandelen, veel drinken en het plukken van straatmadeliefjes.
Mix daarbij nog een soort vermakelijke apathie en je hebt wat mij betreft het recept voor een goed boek.
Ik heb er ook wel van genoten hoor, van dit boek. Maar van de andere kant had het ook zo een boek van Herman Brusselmans kunnen zijn. Één van zijn mindere boeken wel te verstaan. Herman slaagt namelijk beter in het maken van droge grappen, hij is ook sterker in z’n lompe uitspraken en over het algemeen een stuk overtuigender.
Bij Arnon heb ik toch vooral het idee dat het allemaal scènes zijn die hij zich inbeeldt wanneer hij ‘s avonds alleen thuis zit. Zo van ‘ah, ja, dat had ik moeten zeggen’. Die vibe zeg maar. Of zo van ‘ohja, naar de hoeren gaan om toch iets van liefde en gezelschap te vinden, dat is echt zoiets wat stoere binken doen, daar moet ik ook over schrijven’. Een beetje de ‘I’m not like other girls’-attitude.
Verder een zitten er een aantal elementen van zijn joodse achtergrond en identiteit in. Waarschijnlijk dat het boek daardoor wat meer highbrow is dan Brusselmans.
Al met al toch wel genoten, want het heeft de bovengenoemde elementen waar ik erg van houd.
Het heeft eigenlijk wel alle ingrediënten van een boek dat ik erg leuk zou moeten vinden:
een hoop onzin, ratelende vertellers, doelloos door een stad/leven wandelen, veel drinken en het plukken van straatmadeliefjes.
Mix daarbij nog een soort vermakelijke apathie en je hebt wat mij betreft het recept voor een goed boek.
Ik heb er ook wel van genoten hoor, van dit boek. Maar van de andere kant had het ook zo een boek van Herman Brusselmans kunnen zijn. Één van zijn mindere boeken wel te verstaan. Herman slaagt namelijk beter in het maken van droge grappen, hij is ook sterker in z’n lompe uitspraken en over het algemeen een stuk overtuigender.
Bij Arnon heb ik toch vooral het idee dat het allemaal scènes zijn die hij zich inbeeldt wanneer hij ‘s avonds alleen thuis zit. Zo van ‘ah, ja, dat had ik moeten zeggen’. Die vibe zeg maar. Of zo van ‘ohja, naar de hoeren gaan om toch iets van liefde en gezelschap te vinden, dat is echt zoiets wat stoere binken doen, daar moet ik ook over schrijven’. Een beetje de ‘I’m not like other girls’-attitude.
Verder een zitten er een aantal elementen van zijn joodse achtergrond en identiteit in. Waarschijnlijk dat het boek daardoor wat meer highbrow is dan Brusselmans.
Al met al toch wel genoten, want het heeft de bovengenoemde elementen waar ik erg van houd.
June 21, 2025
9 Mijn vader handelde in postzegels, in ieder geval dat dachten mijn moeder en ik.
Met deze geweldige openingszin opent dit debuut uit 1994. Arnon Grunberg was toen ongeveer 23. Ik herlees het omdat het een paar keer wordt genoemd in De geschiedenis van mijn seksualiteit van Sofie / Tobi Lakmaker. Net als dat boek heeft Blauwe maandagen een autobiografisch basis. De ik-figuur heet dan ook Arnon Grunberg. Ik kon me er behalve het veelvuldige hoerenbezoek niets meer van herinneren. Dat hoerenbezoek bestrijkt bijna de helft van het boek. En dat vind ik het minste gedeelte. De ouders van Arnon zijn holocaust overlevenden. De gekte die dat met zich meebracht is voelbaar in dit boek. Het boek is komisch en tragisch tegelijk. Het is inmiddels zijn handelsmerk. Zijn stijl is al heel herkenbaar in dit debuut. Knap. 3,5*
Humor had zijn vader ook:
118 Mijn vader had kaartjes laten drukken, waarop stond: ‘De familie Grunberg wenst u een aangename verpozing’. Die deelde hij uit als we visite hadden.
Over zijn moeder lezen we:
87 Ze was klein in die rode ochtendjas, nog kleiner dan ik. Ze waren allemaal kleiner dan ik en ik was toch echt niet groot. Die ochtendjas was al twintig jaar oud. Ze kocht namelijk geen nieuwe kleren. Ze wilde niets nieuws. ‘Voor wie zou ik nieuwe kleren moeten kopen,’ zei ze, ‘er kijkt toch niemand meer naar me.’ Alleen schoenen kocht ze nog weleens. Haar leven was afgelopen, zei ze, haar leven was al veertig jaar afgelopen. Daarom moest ik haar haren knippen. Een kapper vond ze ook zonde van het geld. Ik knipte haar haren als ze voor de televisie zat. Ik vond het leuk haar haren te knippen. Mijn vader vond het verschrikkelijk. ‘Hij takelt je toe,’ zei hij, ‘je ziet eruit als een kaalgeplukte kip.’
Met deze geweldige openingszin opent dit debuut uit 1994. Arnon Grunberg was toen ongeveer 23. Ik herlees het omdat het een paar keer wordt genoemd in De geschiedenis van mijn seksualiteit van Sofie / Tobi Lakmaker. Net als dat boek heeft Blauwe maandagen een autobiografisch basis. De ik-figuur heet dan ook Arnon Grunberg. Ik kon me er behalve het veelvuldige hoerenbezoek niets meer van herinneren. Dat hoerenbezoek bestrijkt bijna de helft van het boek. En dat vind ik het minste gedeelte. De ouders van Arnon zijn holocaust overlevenden. De gekte die dat met zich meebracht is voelbaar in dit boek. Het boek is komisch en tragisch tegelijk. Het is inmiddels zijn handelsmerk. Zijn stijl is al heel herkenbaar in dit debuut. Knap. 3,5*
Humor had zijn vader ook:
118 Mijn vader had kaartjes laten drukken, waarop stond: ‘De familie Grunberg wenst u een aangename verpozing’. Die deelde hij uit als we visite hadden.
Over zijn moeder lezen we:
87 Ze was klein in die rode ochtendjas, nog kleiner dan ik. Ze waren allemaal kleiner dan ik en ik was toch echt niet groot. Die ochtendjas was al twintig jaar oud. Ze kocht namelijk geen nieuwe kleren. Ze wilde niets nieuws. ‘Voor wie zou ik nieuwe kleren moeten kopen,’ zei ze, ‘er kijkt toch niemand meer naar me.’ Alleen schoenen kocht ze nog weleens. Haar leven was afgelopen, zei ze, haar leven was al veertig jaar afgelopen. Daarom moest ik haar haren knippen. Een kapper vond ze ook zonde van het geld. Ik knipte haar haren als ze voor de televisie zat. Ik vond het leuk haar haren te knippen. Mijn vader vond het verschrikkelijk. ‘Hij takelt je toe,’ zei hij, ‘je ziet eruit als een kaalgeplukte kip.’
May 14, 2018
"פחד ותיעוב באמסטרדם", "דפוק וזרוק ברובע החלונות האדומים" "התפסן היהודי". כל אחת מהכותרות האלה היתה יכולה לשמש שם הולם לספר. בקצרה מרד נעורים של נער יהודי הולנדי, דור שני לשואה. לא חסר כאן דבר – אהבת נעורים מטורפת, גירוש מבית הספר, אב גוסס, משפחה לא מתפקדת, זריקה מבית הספר ולקינוח מסעות שתיה ומפגשים עם נערות ליווי והכל טובל ביאוש מוקדם מהחיים ואבחנות קולעות ומרשימות שמשמיע הגיבור שנדמה מבוגר לגילו.
ארנון גרונברג, כותב היטב על נושאים שכבר קראנו עליהם. כותב ממש טוב. אבל כאן טמונה הבעיה הראשונה – בסרט הזה כבר היינו.
הבעיה השניה – אינפלציה באירועים ותיאורים. מצד אחד זה עוזר להעביר את האווירה של השוטטות, השיגעון, האקראיות וחוסר הטעם שבחיים. מצד שני זה מסחרר ומשאיר את הסיפור כולו על פני השטח, מוציא את החשק לנסות ולהבין סימבוליקה (אם יש כאן כזו בכלל) ואינו מספק אבחנות לגבי מניעי הדמויות והסיבות להתדרדרותם בפרט לגבי דמות המחבר (חוץ מהעובדה, שאינה מודגשת במיוחד, שהוא סובל מאיזו תסמונת דור שני לשואה ומורד בחברה בורגנית ומיאשת בדרכה הצפויה).
גרונברג הוא בן גילי. אני לא הייתי מרדן כזה (טוב אפילו לא במאית ממה שהוא מתאר). לכן הספר עורר בי סקרנות מעורבת בשעמום. מוזר. כיום אני כבר אולי מבוגר מדי לסוג כזה של ספרות. מעניין מה גרונברג עצמו חושב כיום על רומן נעוריו?
ארנון גרונברג, כותב היטב על נושאים שכבר קראנו עליהם. כותב ממש טוב. אבל כאן טמונה הבעיה הראשונה – בסרט הזה כבר היינו.
הבעיה השניה – אינפלציה באירועים ותיאורים. מצד אחד זה עוזר להעביר את האווירה של השוטטות, השיגעון, האקראיות וחוסר הטעם שבחיים. מצד שני זה מסחרר ומשאיר את הסיפור כולו על פני השטח, מוציא את החשק לנסות ולהבין סימבוליקה (אם יש כאן כזו בכלל) ואינו מספק אבחנות לגבי מניעי הדמויות והסיבות להתדרדרותם בפרט לגבי דמות המחבר (חוץ מהעובדה, שאינה מודגשת במיוחד, שהוא סובל מאיזו תסמונת דור שני לשואה ומורד בחברה בורגנית ומיאשת בדרכה הצפויה).
גרונברג הוא בן גילי. אני לא הייתי מרדן כזה (טוב אפילו לא במאית ממה שהוא מתאר). לכן הספר עורר בי סקרנות מעורבת בשעמום. מוזר. כיום אני כבר אולי מבוגר מדי לסוג כזה של ספרות. מעניין מה גרונברג עצמו חושב כיום על רומן נעוריו?
July 29, 2025
Also der Anfang war das desinteressierteste und unmotivierteste was ich seit einer Weile gelesen habe und ich weiß nicht wieso ich’s trotzdem bis zum Ende nicht weggelegt hab (Zwangsneurose).
Soll vielleicht der Stil sein weil Coming of Age und Rebellion, macht aber halt nicht so Spaß.
Zu viele lose Handlungsstränge und Niederländische Straßennamen (wem sollen die bitte was sagen). Immer wenn man denkt es passiert etwas relevantes verläuft sich die Geschichte (diese gottverdammten Straßennamen).
Im Endeffekt sucht man vergebens nach Befriedigung im Buch wie Arnon Grünberg selbst - was so ziemlich der ganze Plot ist. Und ja der Protagonist heißt wie der Autor, finde ich persönlich ja ziemlich uncool.
Naja schade für uns Beide.
Soll vielleicht der Stil sein weil Coming of Age und Rebellion, macht aber halt nicht so Spaß.
Zu viele lose Handlungsstränge und Niederländische Straßennamen (wem sollen die bitte was sagen). Immer wenn man denkt es passiert etwas relevantes verläuft sich die Geschichte (diese gottverdammten Straßennamen).
Im Endeffekt sucht man vergebens nach Befriedigung im Buch wie Arnon Grünberg selbst - was so ziemlich der ganze Plot ist. Und ja der Protagonist heißt wie der Autor, finde ich persönlich ja ziemlich uncool.
Naja schade für uns Beide.
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