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ivaelo's review against another edition
4.0
Трябаше ми допълнително да чета, за да успея донякъде да разбера идеята на "Книгата на Монел". Книгата е разделена на 3 части. Първата част е изпълнена с философски афоризми и определят идеите, които Швоб описва. Втората част са кратки чудати истории с различни героини вдъхновени от приказките и фолкора. Третата част на книгата познаството на разказвача с Монел.
"Книгата на Монел" е тъжна книга. История за неминуемата смърт и загубата.
"Книгата на Монел" е тъжна книга. История за неминуемата смърт и загубата.
aront's review
5.0
A moving, beautifully written, though very depressing book. Highly recommended. Look forward to reading the other translations by Schluter.
The afterword by the translator was useful and insightful.
The afterword by the translator was useful and insightful.
bugsybooks's review
dark
emotional
hopeful
reflective
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
5.0
emsemsems's review
5.0
‘Mix death with life, and divide them into moments.
Wait not for death: it is within you. Be its partner and hold it close to you; it is much like you.
Die your own death; envy not deaths of the past.
Vary the genres of death with the genres of life.
Take for living all that is uncertain, all that is certain for dead.’
In the concluding part of my review of Soseki’s [b:Kokoro|762476|Kokoro|Natsume Sōseki|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1327991553l/762476._SY75_.jpg|1977713] , I mentioned that I prefer to not know about the author’s biography. But even though I was shoved a whole chunk of Schwob’s in the afterword written by the translator I didn’t mind it, I devoured every crumb. The context of the book amplified the content. It was a glorious, transformative supplement to the text. If I want to be melodramatic about it, I would say I was hyperventilating and screaming in my head – so overwhelmed – by the seamless convergence of art and life – a beautiful blur. Is it alright to acknowledge the beauty and the grotesque – calling the beauty grotesque; grotesque, beauty. Schwob – a surrealist beast (flattering, complimentary). Poetic prose or prose poem? One can hardly tell. But having known that this book is so closely ‘inspired’ by real events, is it alright for me to judge it as a piece of wonderful fiction? The author probably didn’t intend for the readers to be privy to the ‘context’ anyway. Even though, to reiterate, it just makes everything in the book more ‘vibrant’ and ‘alive’ (which is everything the book is not, but for the lack of better words in my fully blown away mind at the moment, allow it). Makes everything feel a lot more ‘cohesive’, and it is just fucking brilliant. Seems to have stuffed my head with images of surrealist, dadaist art or what have you.
‘She was cutting into the poppies’ green heads with her fingernails. Her little playmate watched peacefully. They had played cops and robbers in the chestnut trees, bombarding the roses below with freshly picked nuts, and they had taken the caps off acorns and placed the yowling kitten up on the fence. The far end of the dark garden, where the forked tree sets its roots, had served as Robinson’s island. They had used the rose of the watering can as a conch bugle to sound the coming attack of the savages. Weeds with long, black heads were decapitated in captivity. A few blue and green rose chafers, captured in the hunt, gruelingly lifted their wing cases in the well bucket. They had ordered their army to pass over the land with drummer’s batons so many times that trenches had been worn deep into the sand of the paths. Now they had just launched an offensive on a grassy mound in the meadow. The setting sun coated their bodies in a glorious light.’
‘The cabin boy was gazing at the sea. It was solemn and misty. A curtain of rain veiled the entire bay. The reefs and the beacons could no longer be seen. Now and then, the moist, woven shroud of raindrops formed holes over bunches of black algae.’
All of the excerpts below are from the ‘Afterword’ by the translator. I thought, no, I know, I know they would be able to introduce Schwob’s text better. I wish there was a ‘Foreword’, and ‘Afterword’, instead of having everything in the back. I did not add those which might feel like ‘spoilers’ to the story. But I still feel like if I had read those (below) first, I would have experienced the story better instead of going in blindly and then fully getting the best experience and understanding of the text only with hindsight later on. A fantastic story (if I can even call it that) by Schwob, and an utterly brilliant translation work by the translator as well. While reading it, I kept forgetting that this is a book that was originally written in French, and on top of that it was written over a hundred years ago. The strange intimacy between the translator and the writer’s text is incredible especially considering that one of them is obviously ‘dead’. Not saying a ‘real’ and direct connection is needed to produce a beautiful work of literary translation, but am only too quickly (albeit involuntarily) comparing that to a few of my favourite books in translation – of which the writers and translators were able to actually talk to one another about their work. Of course, that would require both to be ‘alive’. And it would seem like I am about to go off on a tangent, I will end this here.
‘This book is a mirror: a distorting mirror of what is dead, a mirror of running water, a mirror with a body crawling out of it, a mirror of water and smoke, the true mirror, a mirror of blood, a mirror lit by a dying flame, a mirror that lies. And it is a mirror unlike anything else its maker ever crafted, for the event that inspired it was singular: the sort of event that teaches us to change, for fear of learning again the trauma of the unforeseen lesson.’
‘And although he frequented the literary circles of Paris with a particular aplomb, befriending and trading work with Stéphane Mallarmé, Colette, and André Gide, on the side, Schwob lived a life fit for his own stories.’
‘Schwob began to understand life as painfully transient, death as painfully permanent, and love, painfully brief; but Monelle was teaching him to unlearn these habitual understandings. All things are fleeting, but Monelle is the most fleeting, she said. As Louise coughed hoarsely on the other side of the room, Monelle spoke to him of how she must leave him, with a sweetness that made her all the more desirable: I pity you, I pity you, my love. Even so, I shall return to the night; for it is necessary that you lose me before you find me again. And if you find me again, I shall elude you once more. For I am she who is alone, she said again.’
‘This is not a book that was written intentionally. After the fact, it is certain, the arrangement of the stories was careful; but the sense of order and union that now bind the work hides its undesigned composition. In this light, we can read the book in two ways: we can read it in its current form, as Schwob wanted us to, or we can follow the order in which he actually wrote the stories. Read in its published form, the book is a masterpiece of order and symbolism. It is written with an intellectualised sorrow that anaesthetises the emotion with which Schwob, the individual, wrote the book, and highlights instead the depth of his emotion as craftsman. The book is spectral, conceived immaculately by a disembodied author. If we read the stories as they were written and published chronologically, however, The Book of Monelle becomes a thing of this world, a work written by hand, a hand that is perhaps too human. It is a collection of the fruits of life, gathered in sorrow and joy. It is the journal of a man coming to terms with the irreversibility of loss. It is a book inspired by impossible dreams and desires, the fantasy of bringing the dead back to life. It is the glass casket, not unlike that of Snow White, of a young girl named Louise, who is otherwise lost to time. Either way, it is a work of patience and impatience, the Ouroboros of literature and life. It is a work of overcoming and succumbing, of embrace and abandon.’
paeandbooks's review
4.0
my first read of 2023, and I’m glad I started with this.
this story revolves around Monelle and her advises to her sisters. she reference on Sonya (referring to Crime and Punishment), and how Desdemona is killed by insecurities (Othello), and tackling the fact on poverty and living.
monelle ended up passed away after seeing sufferings, and her death was weeped by sick child. i teared up.
the proses, the principles, the nihilism value..no wonder it was considered as unofficial bible for French symbolist movement.
this story revolves around Monelle and her advises to her sisters. she reference on Sonya (referring to Crime and Punishment), and how Desdemona is killed by insecurities (Othello), and tackling the fact on poverty and living.
monelle ended up passed away after seeing sufferings, and her death was weeped by sick child. i teared up.
the proses, the principles, the nihilism value..no wonder it was considered as unofficial bible for French symbolist movement.
devilmann69's review
5.0
A heartbreaking chronicle of loss and grief, elevated by imagination to utmost perfection. Made me cry throughout some parts, and halt in awe throughout the rest.
cdelorenzo's review against another edition
5.0
“Me dijo desde lo lejos:
Olvídame y te seré devuelta”.
“…sólo el año y la espera eran distintos. Avanzó con cuidado, todas las cosas eran semejantes a la primera vez, pero él esperaba, ¿no era acaso razón suficiente para que ella volviera?
(…)
¿Acaso los milagros no suceden dos veces?”
“—Ya no estoy sola, porque espero”.
Olvídame y te seré devuelta”.
“…sólo el año y la espera eran distintos. Avanzó con cuidado, todas las cosas eran semejantes a la primera vez, pero él esperaba, ¿no era acaso razón suficiente para que ella volviera?
(…)
¿Acaso los milagros no suceden dos veces?”
“—Ya no estoy sola, porque espero”.