کتاب مرگ یک کندودار

اثر لارس گوستافسون از انتشارات گل آذین - مترجم: قاسم صنعوی-دهه 1970 میلادی

؛«... نامه‌ی بیمارستان ناحیه‌ی واسترس رسید، نخواستم بازش کنم، آن را کنار گذاشتم و روزنامه‌ها و مجله‌ها را تندی خواندم و ... بعد سگم را به گردش مفصلی بردم... زندگی‌ئی که اکنون دارم، زندگی واقعی است. خوب یا بد، جدا از دیگران یا زیبا، زندگی واقعی من است... و اکنون چیزی قوی‌تر از تمام دادگاه‌ها، حکومت‌ها و مقام‌ها، در صدد است آن را از من بگیرد... عادلانه نیست... این نامه یا به من خبر می‌دهد که اصلا چیز مهمی نیست، یا اعلام می‌کند که من سرطان دارم و به زودی می‌میرم... بنابراین، عاقلانه‌ترین رفتار این است که آن را باز نکنم، زیرا تا وقتی که بازش نکنم باز هم امیدی باقی است...» گوستافسون: «سرطان هم در این رمان نوعی استعاره است. نسل من به شدت به آرمان‌شهرها اعتقاد یافته است. این‌ها می‌توانند انسان را به بردگی بکشانند. راه‌حل‌های گسترده اجتماعی بی‌خطر نیستند... پرسش چنین مطرح می‌شود که بدانیم آیا ترقی فکری توتالیتر نیست... »؛


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Não tinha expectativas nenhumas em relação a este livro. Encontrei-o numa biblioteca ambulante e escolhi-o cegamente (mas com a impressão - que mais tarde verifiquei estar errada - de que alguém me recomendara o autor ou mesmo este livro em particular); gerou-se uma relação interessante entre mim e o livro, respeitando e amando o objecto em si, senti que a minha leitura decorria de forma ligeira, desapegada, era agradável passear com ele. Regra geral compro os meus livros, sinto uma espécie de responsabilidade máxima e uma ligação íntima, quase inviolável, como se fossem meus filhos, sangue do meu sangue, carne da minha carne... ora, tudo isto é interessante e foi a impressão mais interessante que sobreviveu à leitura porque o conteúdo em si é decepcionante. Comecei por me interessar, a escrita epistolar seduz-me enormemente (diários, cartas, tudo o que se aproxime do estilo confessional), a ideia do escritor em criar esta divisão das entradas em diferentes cadernos/suportes pareceu-me insuflada de originalidade... mas esse encantamento cedo se dissipou. Todo o discurso se tornou insípido muito rapidamente, e mesmo o lado empático (mesmo em ficção, é-me difícil cultivar a indiferença face à dor, sofrimento, seja ele moral ou físico) desapareceu; a divisão por cadernos tornou-se absurda, não vi nenhum fio condutor que o justificasse (e eu bem que procurei, bem que voltei atrás e tentei ler apenas as entradas do caderno X), e o género de banalidades, de lugares-comuns, fizeram-me sentir que estava a ler Paulo Coelho, para o qual tenho pouca paciência. Por usar esse termo, ao chegar à página 122 perdi mesmo a paciência... esta é a fase em que a personagem decide enumerar as formas de arte segundo o grau de dificuldade. Enquanto lia o livro pensava frequentemente numa nota de Robert Bresson, @um conjunto de boas imagens pode ser detestável@, e transpunha esta lógica para a escrita e para a literatura: um conjunto de entradas, de parágrafos, de ideias alinhadas, não forma um livro, não origina uma obra total e coerente em si.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/1330786...

Last night I finished my reading of The Death of a Beekeeper. Its potential was off the charts, and I initially resisted my reading of this book because I thought it would be gut wrenching and hit too close to home for me. Plus I did not want to somehow invite my own new set of pain and disease to enter my consciousness, or my body. I want my death be kept at bay. At least for the time being. But ultimately the book disappointed me as it failed to disturb me in any way. I did like the ending, and was glad he shaped it that way. In addition, I was put off by the characters fiction included as another notebook. I was not stirred or connected to it in any way. The book was hard for me to follow at times, and that made me irritable. I own two other books by Gustafson and will attempt in my reading of them to find something redeemable in his writing. It goes to show how hard it is to write and how important it is to stay focused on the object from start to finish. I felt the author rambled, and I do like digression, but Gustafson failed to connect the dots for me. Too often the entries in his journal that included his fictions seemed foreign to the basic ideas behind his main text. I do enjoy an unrelenting supersaturation absent of repentance. In the second season, for example, the award-winning TV show The Newsroom veered off the path for me. Instead of staying put and keeping our gaze focused on the general vicinity of the newsroom set, the political and romantic tensions, too many of the main characters in the show have in this season taken different assignments and separated themselves from the up-close jeopardy of working together in such close quarters. It feels as if the show’s producers have backed away from the intensity so prevalent in the first season. Though the show is still of top quality, I think it fails in what it could have been. And is probably the reason behind its only lasting a total of three seasons. Lars Gustafson’s The Death of the Beekeeper could, as well, have remained constantly focused on his character’s cancer, its pain and discomfort, his living with it on a daily basis, and what his life had become for him now as he looked back into what he had made of his past instead of the other unnecessary and often silly narratives.


مشاهده لینک اصلی
I first discovered the writing of Lars Gustafsson several years ago when I found his novel, Bernard Foys Third Castling, in a neighborhood bookstore. It was such a quirky, interesting and arresting book that I have sought out other works by Gustafsson over the years.
One of these is The Death of a Beekeeper which opens with what Lars Gustafsson calls a “prelude” in which he says good-bye to the readers of this, the last part of his five-volume novel sequence. To some extent it probably reflects Gustafssons philosophical preoccupations (he is a professor of philosophy). Gustafsson uses a series of notebooks in this existential exploration of death. From the initial diagnosis to the apparent end, the reader travels through the beekeepers life in a series of reflections and painful ruminations in the present. While avoiding his reality, the beekeeper discovers the joys and sorrows of his journey in an exploration of the self. The notebooks left behind on Lars Lennart Westin’s death, tell the reader that the speaker to whom he now hands over the narrative suffers from cancer of the spleen. The story is thus told in the form a journal or diary of a man who was a schoolteacher, but now is dying; a man who is a beekeeper, and a man who is very human. We first read that he has received a letter from a local hospital, probably containing test results and the diagnosis of his ailment. He burns the letter. There are several notebooks: Yellow Notebook in which this retired divorced schoolmaster recorded household expenditure, notes about beekeeping, and reactions to certain external events; the Blue Notebook in which he placed newspaper cuttings, quotations from books hed been reading, and stories which hed tried to write; and the Damaged Notebook. This is where he set down not only urgent notes to himself but also his physical impressions of the disease.
This brief, quiet novel speaks with a courageous voice. Refusing to die with his life unclarified, unexamined, he rejects the sterile confines of a hospital and, for the few months left to him, retreats to the isolated Swedish countryside to work among his bees, to endure the progression of pain, and to record his accompanying, disquieting insights. It is his humanity and the way he faces life that makes his story touching and gives meaning to what might otherwise be seen as mundane everyday events. Gustafsson, by juxtaposing the beekeepers notes on his inner life, feelings, and memories, and his notes on his outer life, the daily running of the apiary, suggests by the inquiring, seemingly spontaneous entries the deep relatedness of life, death, and hope.


مشاهده لینک اصلی
This novel is the last of a pentalogy by the author over his time.

Original in its presentation as a transcription of three notebooks finded in the house of the dead it tells in a simple poetic and melacholic prose in short notes the lat days of a beekeper,a retired former, teacher,sick of terminal cancer.

The beekeper makes in this time ,ever sustaining resignation ,integrity and hope: a description of his progresive illnes an pain ,a review of his life with his chilhood,his life as a student,his marriage ,his social relations and his later lonely life and of the suedish way of life,till at the end the final journey to hospital.

Gustafsson as a philosopher makes in the novel reflections on the mistery of life and dead,over the purpose of pleasure and pain,the body as a prisson,the meaning of God and his role regarding humanity,the soul and the own identity.



مشاهده لینک اصلی
@Recomeçamos, não nos rendemos@

Este é certamente o motto que inspirou o autor.
Não conhecia o autor. Livros escandinavos é algo raro na minha micro-biblioteca e portanto foi interessante ler algo sueco, onde as paisagens geladas do inverno e o sol ténue da primavera estavam descritos de forma bela, quase poética, com recurso a muita adjectivação.
O livro retrata o final da vida de um homem com um cancro terminal (será que é mesmo?). A pergunta fica pendente, uma vez que Lars nunca se deu ao trabalho de confirmar. Houve sempre nele, até ao último instante, uma réstia de esperança, uma vontade de acreditar que afinal, todas as dores estridentes que tinha eram só consequência direta de um problema passageiro.
Entre ataques de dores, este homem (que se transformou em apicultor depois da reforma), vai tentado viver uma @vida normal@, anotando aquilo que sente, mas também aquilo que lhe vai na alma. É algo bizarro, mas Lars só se conheceu verdadeiramente depois de saber que estava condenado. Será que só nos descobrimos quando nos apercebemos que a nossa vida está no seu término?
Apesar de o achar de leitura fácil e de pequena dimensão, é um livro que mostra algo que sabemos, mas que recordamos muito menos do que aquilo que seria necessário: estamos confinados à biologia do nosso corpo, uma vez, que no fundo, não passamos disso. Não somos mais que um agregado complexo de células, e que, por motivos estranhos, se podem descontrolar e levar à morte do indivíduo, como se o mesmo entrasse num estado de pré-putrefação antes falecer.
Não é o meu tipo de livro, mas gostei da experiência.



@Curiosamente, pus-me a pensar sobre o paraíso. Também comecei a lixar a porta da rua; precisa de ser pintada de novo, porque a tinta estalou durante o inverno@

@A heresia comum consiste em negar a existência de um deus que nos criou. Mas uma heresia muito mais interessante consiste em pensar num deus que nos tenha criado e depois dizer que não devemos ficar impressionados com isso. E ainda menos gratos.
Se existe um deus, a nossa missão é dizer não.@

مشاهده لینک اصلی
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