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3.37 AVERAGE
3.37 AVERAGE
reflective
slow-paced
inspiring
mysterious
reflective
relaxing
sad
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
A surrealist romance. Beautiful. Easily gets in my list of books I wish I could write.
emotional
mysterious
reflective
sad
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Complicated
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Very philosophical and interesting auto biographical surrealist novel about his love for a woman called Nadja and how he can feel her presence at all times. Would highly recommend if you want something fast paced but that’ll make you think.
Also read this for class, enjoyed it more, wrote about it in my big essay for this class
!آندره
جزیره. من. "جهانِ بی ریشه. بادبادکی سرگردان." سرگردانی روحم جزیره ای بود که کلماتت خوابش را آشفته کرد. جزیره‌ی آشفته ای که در آن گیر افتاده ام و مرا از آن گریزی نیست. جزیره‌ای خالی از حیوانات درنده‌ی آشنا, و مملو اما از بیگانگان عجیبی که بر روی دو پا راه می‌روند و نگاه کردن, شنیدن, و حرف زدن نمی‌دانند. نگاهم کن, آندره! حرف بزن! ناگفتنی ها. نشنیدنی‌ها. کلمه. کلمه. کلمه. با کلماتِ "سرخ, سفید, و آبی": پنجره ای نیم‌باز و فراموش شده که طریقِ بستنش را دیگر به یاد نمی‌آورم. برگرد و این پنجره را بر هم بکوب!
آندره؟
کاشف ها فصل به فصل به جزیره‌ام می آیند و در هر بازگشت, تکه ای از مرا با خود به یادگار می‌برند. من روی ساحل نشسته ام و دور شدن کشتی‌ها را تماشا میکنم. من اجازه‌ی سوار شدن ندارم. اینجا بر روی ماسه ها نشسته ام و نامه‌ی بی‌جوابی می‌نویسم که نخواهی‌اش خواند.
!آندره
شب است. اینجا همیشه شب است, آندره. آخرین رد پاهای روی ساحل در حال ناپدید شدن هستند. رد پاهایی که از زنجیرهای جزیره تا رهایی در دل اقیانوس طوفانی ادامه دارد. رد پاهایی بی رحمانه که تو جا گذاشتی.
جزیره خوابیده. جزیره خود را به خواب زده؟ من روی ماسه های سرد دراز می کشم. خیره به دورترین فانوس دریایی. رد پایی وجود ندارد. جزیره سخت نفس می‌کشد. سایه ای شبیه تو از پشت فانوس دریایی دست تکان می‌دهد که "از این طرف... از این طرف!". سایه‌ای که تو نیستی محو می‌شود و من در ماسه ها فرو و فروتر می‌روم.
...آندره
سردم شده. خوابم گرفته. می ترسم. و زمانی باقی نمانده. باید پوست بیندازم. باید به آب بزنم. به دل طوفان. به سمت نوری که تو می‌تابانی. زنجیرهای جزیره به دست و پایم گره خورده‌اند، زخمی‌ام می‌کنند و مرا به عمق اقیانوس می کشانند. اگر شب تمام نشود؟ اگر نفسی نمانَد؟ باید به فریادهای پشت سرم بی اعتنا باشم. باید پا بزنم. به سمت نور. به سمت تو. به سمت نوری که تویی. می‌رسم روزی؟ تو می‌دانی. آن‌ها که پشت سرند, نمی‌دانند...
جزیره. من. "جهانِ بی ریشه. بادبادکی سرگردان." سرگردانی روحم جزیره ای بود که کلماتت خوابش را آشفته کرد. جزیره‌ی آشفته ای که در آن گیر افتاده ام و مرا از آن گریزی نیست. جزیره‌ای خالی از حیوانات درنده‌ی آشنا, و مملو اما از بیگانگان عجیبی که بر روی دو پا راه می‌روند و نگاه کردن, شنیدن, و حرف زدن نمی‌دانند. نگاهم کن, آندره! حرف بزن! ناگفتنی ها. نشنیدنی‌ها. کلمه. کلمه. کلمه. با کلماتِ "سرخ, سفید, و آبی": پنجره ای نیم‌باز و فراموش شده که طریقِ بستنش را دیگر به یاد نمی‌آورم. برگرد و این پنجره را بر هم بکوب!
آندره؟
کاشف ها فصل به فصل به جزیره‌ام می آیند و در هر بازگشت, تکه ای از مرا با خود به یادگار می‌برند. من روی ساحل نشسته ام و دور شدن کشتی‌ها را تماشا میکنم. من اجازه‌ی سوار شدن ندارم. اینجا بر روی ماسه ها نشسته ام و نامه‌ی بی‌جوابی می‌نویسم که نخواهی‌اش خواند.
!آندره
شب است. اینجا همیشه شب است, آندره. آخرین رد پاهای روی ساحل در حال ناپدید شدن هستند. رد پاهایی که از زنجیرهای جزیره تا رهایی در دل اقیانوس طوفانی ادامه دارد. رد پاهایی بی رحمانه که تو جا گذاشتی.
جزیره خوابیده. جزیره خود را به خواب زده؟ من روی ماسه های سرد دراز می کشم. خیره به دورترین فانوس دریایی. رد پایی وجود ندارد. جزیره سخت نفس می‌کشد. سایه ای شبیه تو از پشت فانوس دریایی دست تکان می‌دهد که "از این طرف... از این طرف!". سایه‌ای که تو نیستی محو می‌شود و من در ماسه ها فرو و فروتر می‌روم.
...آندره
سردم شده. خوابم گرفته. می ترسم. و زمانی باقی نمانده. باید پوست بیندازم. باید به آب بزنم. به دل طوفان. به سمت نوری که تو می‌تابانی. زنجیرهای جزیره به دست و پایم گره خورده‌اند، زخمی‌ام می‌کنند و مرا به عمق اقیانوس می کشانند. اگر شب تمام نشود؟ اگر نفسی نمانَد؟ باید به فریادهای پشت سرم بی اعتنا باشم. باید پا بزنم. به سمت نور. به سمت تو. به سمت نوری که تویی. می‌رسم روزی؟ تو می‌دانی. آن‌ها که پشت سرند, نمی‌دانند...
challenging
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
challenging
I finished this book in a single sitting and I am left with a hollow, dazed feeling. I have very little idea what just happened, but I am almost certain that I enjoyed it. This is a novel I will definitely be re-reading.
I really should have been the audience for this book, but I just couldn't help but think that he just wasn't that great of a writer. As I was working my way through it I found myself thinking that I'd rather be reading any of his contemporaries like Georges Bataille, Guillaume Apollinaire, Raymond Queneau, or Anton Artaud.
It's broken up into three parts. The first is Breton being an insufferable name-dropper. The whole first section reads like a poorly written live journal by a Williamsburg hipster from the aughts pointing out all the famous people that he knows and the edgy stuff he's into that you obviously haven't heard about yet. It was a chore to get through. It was written with disjointed open ended questions to give the perception that it was searching for something deep, but it didn't really offer any insight or reveal anything worthwhile to me other than who he was hanging out with.
The second section is a short obsessive "fling" with a woman who seemed to have better stories and ideas than he did. It was a better read because she was far more intriguing than he was. Breton was undoubtedly super successful at surrounding himself with inspired people, but I have to say I am not all that impressed by the man himself, this section just made him sound like a schmuck and/or a sucker. He was obsessed with the idea of this woman. Ignored his wife. Gave her a ton of money. Then became disenchanted by her because another man assaulted her.
The third section is a nicely written piece about Nadja as his muse. He seemed way more into his own inspiration by her than the woman herself. While he talks about her unfortunate turn, he doesn't do much other than rail at the system that she became embroiled in (including not visiting her to make sure she was ok). But hey, he immortalized her in his book, so who can complain about that kind of "exposure."
The guy traded on the ideas and talents of others (Jacques Vaché, Philippe Soupault, Yvan Goll). I kind of feel like this guy was more effective as a promotions guy and seemed like he was a positive influence to the male artists that he was friends with. His wives, who for me seemed to have more talent, got the short end of the stick and didn't benefit from his promotions, I guess they had to work to pay for his art and his bills.
For someone who's whole career was built on the surreal I was disappointed by how straightforward the prose was. It starts abstract revolving around wisps of ideas, but the imagery was missing through most of it, only to be substituted by some rather artless photographs (that he kind of apologized about at the end). I was hoping for a dreamlike fugue and instead it was a cerebral exercise in male obsession of what he wanted a woman to be, with only a couple lovely moments at the end. Eh.
It's broken up into three parts. The first is Breton being an insufferable name-dropper. The whole first section reads like a poorly written live journal by a Williamsburg hipster from the aughts pointing out all the famous people that he knows and the edgy stuff he's into that you obviously haven't heard about yet. It was a chore to get through. It was written with disjointed open ended questions to give the perception that it was searching for something deep, but it didn't really offer any insight or reveal anything worthwhile to me other than who he was hanging out with.
The second section is a short obsessive "fling" with a woman who seemed to have better stories and ideas than he did. It was a better read because she was far more intriguing than he was. Breton was undoubtedly super successful at surrounding himself with inspired people, but I have to say I am not all that impressed by the man himself, this section just made him sound like a schmuck and/or a sucker. He was obsessed with the idea of this woman. Ignored his wife. Gave her a ton of money. Then became disenchanted by her because another man assaulted her.
The third section is a nicely written piece about Nadja as his muse. He seemed way more into his own inspiration by her than the woman herself. While he talks about her unfortunate turn, he doesn't do much other than rail at the system that she became embroiled in (including not visiting her to make sure she was ok). But hey, he immortalized her in his book, so who can complain about that kind of "exposure."
The guy traded on the ideas and talents of others (Jacques Vaché, Philippe Soupault, Yvan Goll). I kind of feel like this guy was more effective as a promotions guy and seemed like he was a positive influence to the male artists that he was friends with. His wives, who for me seemed to have more talent, got the short end of the stick and didn't benefit from his promotions, I guess they had to work to pay for his art and his bills.
For someone who's whole career was built on the surreal I was disappointed by how straightforward the prose was. It starts abstract revolving around wisps of ideas, but the imagery was missing through most of it, only to be substituted by some rather artless photographs (that he kind of apologized about at the end). I was hoping for a dreamlike fugue and instead it was a cerebral exercise in male obsession of what he wanted a woman to be, with only a couple lovely moments at the end. Eh.
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated