| Title | : | So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 054463506X |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780544635067 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Hardcover |
| Number of Pages | : | 160 |
| Publication | : | First published October 2, 2014 |
| Awards | : | Europese Literatuurprijs (2016) |
In the stillness of his Parisian apartment, Jean Daragane has built a life of total solitude. Then a surprising phone call shatters the silence of an unusually hot September, and the threatening voice on the other end of the line leaves Daragane wary but irresistibly curious. Almost at once, he finds himself entangled with a shady gambler and a beautiful, fragile young woman, who draw Daragane into the mystery of a decades-old murder. The investigation will force him to confront the memory of a trauma he had all but buried. With So You Don’t Get Lost in the Neighborhood Patrick Modiano adds a new chapter to a body of work whose supreme psychological insight and subtle, atmospheric writing have earned him worldwide renown — including the Nobel Prize in Literature. This masterly novel, now translated into twenty languages, penetrates the deepest enigmas of identity and compels us to ask whether we ever know who we truly are.
So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood Reviews
-
The wise man makes his own heaven while the foolish man creates his own hell here and hereafter. Could one create one’s own Paris?
When I was young I used to visit Paris twice a year, fatally in love with the city, and with my beloved. Driving at night to Paris, smoking, listening to Beethoven, John Cale and Cocteau Twins, I still just couldn’t believe that he had set eyes on a bookwormish house sparrow like me, abducting me to Paris the first week we were together, skipping all courses we had to attend. Paris enraptured me even more in winter time, in the snow and mist, stone-cold. I remember our childishly sneaking into the musée d’Orsay by entering a staff door in the basement, or pretending we were art students to get free access to the musée national d’art moderne at the Centre Pompidou. I felt like G.F. Handel’s Semele before burning to death:Endless pleasure, endless love,
Semele enjoys above!
On her bosom Jove reclining,
Useless now his thunder lies;
To her arms his bolts resigning,
And his lightning to her eyes.
For hours we roamed the streets, willingly getting lost, dazed by the city’s splendour, imbibing its beauty in the daytime, somewhat silenced by its unrivalled ambience at night. An atmosphere beyond description to me, but magnificently evoked by Patrick Modiano’s transporting prose. Like some of his other novels I read (apart from
La Place de l’Étoile) So You Don’t Get Lost in the Neighbourhood is once more a brilliantly styled, melancholic dance to the music of memory, on ’memories drifting away like bubbles of soap or fragments of a dream that vanished on waking’.
Modiano composes a minimalist soundtrack of recurrent themes, leitmotifs, endless variations on melancholic, dreamlike tunes, entrancing all too susceptible souls who dare to enter his uncanny universe.
How could I possibly not get carried away by Modiano’s Paris and by his mesmerizing music? Even if he apparently writes the same novel over and over at first sight, each time he seems to come across a different approach to reconsider and rewrite his murky past by means of enigmatic characters and likewise mysterious events.
To be haunted by fading, harrowing, aching memories, real and imagined, one tries simultaneously to run from and desperately needs to cling to, pointless ramblings through obscure, deserted streets in search of lost time and mysteries to be solved, evading certain places and people, all the self-deceptive strategies to cope with the hurting - the opaque stardust his novels are made of. The fragility of memory. The self-imposed isolation. All that and (rather atypical for Modiano) a heartrending finale, made this one of the most poignant and melancholic books I read of him so far.These words had travelled a long way. An insect bite, very slight to begin with, and it causes you an increasingly sharp pain, and very soon a feeling of being torn apart. The present and past merge together, and that seems quite natural because they were only separated by a cellophane partition. An insect bite was all it took to pierce the cellophane.
We’ll always have Paris.
Last time I visited Paris, half of a lifetime later, a promenade to the Panthéon and the Jardin de Luxembourg involuntarily ended up in the Rue Saint-Jacques, finding the old fleabag hotel where we stayed so many times gone, gone like my late beloved, leaving only behind unreliable memories, evaporating the moment I try to catch them in my paltry words, reminding me of Tamina in Kundera’s
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, falling into despair because the past was becoming more and more faint and his image irrevocably slipping away.
But all this past had become so translucent with time....a mist that dissipated in the sunlight.
(In loving memory of Koen B. (January 24, 1969- December 8, 1997))
(Photographs by André Kertész)
-
I was in a Paris café the other day. There’s something about waiters in Paris cafés. They like to strike a pose as if they know people watch them. They also have a way of appearing not to listen to your order yet return with exactly the type of coffee you wanted, wearing a smirk. But that’s a stereotype description, you say? Well, yes, perhaps, as in a ‘noir’ novel where the characters are often little more than types, but familiar types.
There’s a couple of noirish types at the beginning of Modiano’s book—one is a would-be blackmailer and the other, his ‘moll’. We’ve met these two before if we’ve ever read a detective story. They arrange to meet the main character, Daragane, in a café—hey, that’s a coincidence! Actually this book is full of coincidences. Here's two more: the blackmailer lives in the same apartment block Daragane lived in years before and the moll has the same name as a friend of Daragane’s from that time. How many such coincidences can we take?
Another little one? When I was sitting watching the waiter in the Paris café the other day, I had this book in my bag! I took it out and began to read it when I grew tired of watching the waiter.
Some backstory about how I acquired the book might be in order at this point—Modiano does backstory too, hopping back and forth in Daragane's life, multiplying the coincidences in the process. Anyway, I received this book two months ago as part of my Christmas present from my partner. For Christmas and birthdays, he always goes to a small bookshop he likes (which is called after a noir movie featuring Jean Gabin meeting a girl in a café) and asks the owner for ideas about what is current in literary fiction (he doesn't read fiction himself). The owner comes up with some hits and some misses. This one is a little bit hit and a little bit miss but it entertained me as I sat in that café.
So, as I’m reading the book in the café, the waiter suddenly stops being a stereotype waiter. He pulls out his smartphone and gets busy, moving his thumbs frantically, a deep frown on his handsome forehead. Then he disappears into the back somewhere.
The book also stops being a stereotype noir story just at that point in my reading. After the meeting with the blackmailer in the café on the corner of rue des Arcades and boulevard Haussmann, a neighbourhood familiar to Daragane from his childhood and in which he would never get lost (the title means 'so that you don't get lost in the neighbourhood'), the blackmailer disappears from the story and the book takes an unexpected turn. Daragane's secrets begin to be revealed in a series of more and more amazing coincidences.
Perhaps it's time for this review to take an unexpected turn too, and for the final coincidence of my Modiano reading experience to be revealed:
(not a plot spoiler) -
Call this a book of mirages and mirrors that distort the contours of visible reality all the time. Call it a lament for the inevitability of change that erases all the landmarks to a place that anchors one to a past self. Call it a psychological thriller, a faux-noir in which people materialize out of thin air to serve as clues to lead the joyless protagonist to a truth too terrible for him to comprehend all at once. (Faux noir because Modiano ingeniously deploys its signature leitmotifs to subvert the genre. The token crook is merely a shady character, the token gangster's moll/seductive siren becomes a sympathetic confidante and the token mystery transforms into a disconcerting odyssey through the maze of time and memory.) But an adroitly spun yarn as this one transcends the imposed boundaries of any such labeling with ease and surprising grace.
One can tell the Nobel committee usually doesn't mess around at least when it comes to this greatest of honours reserved for literary achievement. Only pure artistry could have produced something as perfect as this - a combination of strategically placed expository bits, a dreamy, sublime narrative voice reflecting both a subconscious longing and antipathy for lost time, a melding together of reality and delusion, an overlapping of the worlds of 'was' and 'is', and a cautious but sure-footed unravelling of plot. The last time something this unambiguously postmodern in tone and form had brought me such pure reading pleasure was when I happily surrendered before Ali Smith's rhetorical playfulness in
There But for The.There, on the pavement, in the light of the Indian summer that lent the Paris streets a timeless softness, he once again had the feeling that he was floating on his back.
Author Jean Daragane's world is populated by ghosts - ghost-like individuals who hover over his reality to lead him to places and people he has forgotten and, in all likelihood, does not want to recall, the specter of self-written words that elude his feeble grasp on memory, ghost of a city's turbulent past intruding on the equanimity of the present, ghost of those nauseous years of the Occupation that one cannot shake off despite best efforts. And these myriad ghosts proliferate at the back of his mind to warp his sense of time, creating a stark dissonance between reality and memory that usher in a renewed sense of dislocation. In a way, he seems like a vagrant spirit himself, adrift in life like flotsam after a devastating tsunami, alienated from the rituals of work, love, relationships. But this deceptive placidity of the surface of his consciousness is disturbed by a phone call out of the blue which sets into motion a chain of fated meetings and ridiculous coincidences which eventually allow him to find a way back into his past, a journey he undertakes with considerable reluctance and disguised trepidation. I'll leave you to summon the curiosity to find out where this journey eventually leads him.It would appear, he often used to say to himself, that children never ask themselves any questions. Many years afterwards, we attempt to solve puzzles that were not mysteries at the time and we try to decipher half-obliterated letters from a language that is too old and whose alphabet we don't even know.
Like a true master of the craft, Modiano only ever mentions the War in passing, subtly inserting roadsigns which point to the ineffaceable marks of damage on a Paris which itself appears like a figment of Daragane's imagination at times, as if it might flicker out of focus any moment to reappear in a pale imitation of an unrecognizable former avatar. But the memory of war lingers on in the desolation of rue de l'Arcade and the boulevard of Champs-Élysées witnessing the flow of time like a dispirited sentinel, in Daragane's uneasy perambulations through the courtyard of Louvre and the mist-laden autumn air of the rue de l'Ermitage. An amnesia sets in when the currents of time gradually whittle down the tangible reminders of a tragic event into unfamiliar forms but reality forgotten is never reality expunged....And yet he now wondered whether he had not dreamed this journey, which had taken place over forty years ago.
Daragane's Paris is tied inextricably to the past just as he finds himself colliding with the vision of an abandoned, forgotten child navigating the unfamiliar nooks and corners of an unknown neighborhood, perhaps, pained and relieved in equal measure to have finally remembered that which he was so intent on forgetting. I could not have wished for a more befitting sense of closure for our traumatized narrator. -
[Revised 6/27/22]
A novel about memory. Like other novels by Modiano, winner of the 2014 Nobel Prize, it’s heavy with references to Paris and specific neighborhoods of the city. I guess the main theme is, do we ever know who we really are?
The main character, a writer who lives in almost total isolation, is suddenly confronted by his past. A strange man calls him. (Otherwise his phone never rings). The writer had lost his address book a few months ago and this person on the phone and his woman friend want to meet with him to return it. They start asking him about people in his phone directory and appear to have been “investigating him.” Are they blackmailers of some kind? If so, what does he have to be blackmailed about? They have a dossier in which he recognizes a passport photo of himself taken as a child. How did they get that?
The story takes off from there, or perhaps “takes off,” is too strong a phrase – it plods along from there. He starts remembering traumatic events from his weird childhood involving these people the couple brings up. I say “weird” childhood, because basically his parents didn’t want to be bothered with him. Before he was old enough to be sent away to boarding schools, they gave him to a woman to raise. He doesn’t even know if the woman was a relation of his parents. He recalls a lot of changing of residences and comings and goings of various people during the night. Eventually the police investigate a crime involving all these people. Was it a murder? If so, who was murdered?
I found it hard to get interested in the mystery and I note that the book has a very low rating on GR – 3.25. It’s hard to get interested in the mystery because the main character seems not to be very interested in it himself. One example: he meets with the now older lady who raised him forty years ago. Obviously she knows all the answers. He never asks her because he thinks ‘I know she won’t tell me.’
A second example of how the main character seems uninterested in solving the mystery: his first published novel was about his childhood. He remembers very little of the book but he thinks there might be clues to his past in it, but he no longer has a copy. Hey, I’ve got an idea: GO TO A LIBRARY!
The ending left me flat. To be honest, there is no ending. The prose simply stops. Another reason why it left me flat is
A passage I liked about meeting people by accident: “He was aware that you very seldom met anyone you really had wanted to meet. Twice or three times in a lifetime?”
Much of Modiano’s writing is quasi-autobiographical. A recurring theme in his novels is a young man whose parents send him off to boarding schools to get rid of him, as is the case in this story, and in another novel of his I read, Honeymoon. This was true of Modiano himself. I have previously enjoyed three of his books: Honeymoon, Young Once and In the Café of Lost youth. All of those I have read are short novels or novellas.
Top photo of a Paris street from gettyimages.com
The author from nytimes.com -
Modiano’s contemplative exploration on the elusiveness of memory revolves around the concept of getting lost. The main idea of this detectivesque novel is that no matter how well acquainted we are with a physical space, no matter how precise our recollections of the past we believe to be, we are condemned to lose our way in the mist of time. Cities change, our identities morph and personal experiences wax and wane us into shapeless creatures that grope in the obscurity of the subconscious.
Captivating Paris and its underrated outskirts.
A haunting past.
An enigmatic woman.
A boy’s fear to be abandoned, to get lost, to be deprived of his surname and his story.
An old writer who digs into an unhealed wound, into a traumatic event that was erased from his mind…or he thought it was.
Can words seize the unfocused image of treacherous memory and seal it for good, frame it in suspended time?
A fragmented account of a life intuited by blurry snapshots and recurrent patterns brings all the echoes, fragrances and sounds of an old movie recorded in evanescent landscapes and phantasmagoric characters. We can replay it in our mind as many times as we want, but we can’t never fully grasp the tangibility of the real experience again... But what is real and what is a figment of our imagination, of our deepest desires...or fears? Are the versions we tell ourselves any close to the truth?
It’s the taste that matters, not the texture, Modiano seems to say. His magnetic prose recurs to a silent leitmotiv that soothes and disturbs at once, leaving an ambiguous flavor in the reader’s mouth, slightly sweet but lingering in its vicious bite.
Why is it that certain memories seem to belong to an earlier life but remain embedded in our mental horizon while others dissipate like fog under the thawing heat of the morning sun?
Modiano’s novels take on the role of beaming searchlights that defy the relentless tide of summoned or unsummoned forgetfulness. Allow yourself to be carried away by the evocative tune of his low keyed narration, stop seeking for answers, and bask in the crackling sound of pieces falling into place. Get lost in order to find yourself, like Modiano does, like masterful writers do when they reinvent themselves when faced with the blank page, “the color of oblivion”, over and over again. -
I do not know why this book works for me that way. Maybe because it is December and the end of the year, moment for summary and yearly settlement. The time when we look back at what we had done and where we have failed. At this time of the year I feel more vulnerable than usual, more willingly to lower my guard. Well, maybe I’m just getting sentimental with age but this moment makes me think about things that have happened to me and these whom I let get away, about people I met, about possible friendships that couldn’t fully develop since my reclusive habits, about ties that loosened because no one had strength or willingness enough to tighten them again.
For me Modiano with his nostalgic, calmed prose, unsettling message and hanging mystery is an author of elusive moments and hallucinatory aura, something what exists only on the borderline of dream and real life. And there is a strange beauty in it , in this oneiric landscapes of our past, in forgotten events that by some odd caprice are back in the present, in fragmentary and selective memory, even amnesia from reality, full of fantasies and distortions.
There are books we read in search of wisdom and food for thoughts, in purpose to find some order in life while other readings choose a simple way to our hearts and touch a raw nerve with us. And so it is with Modiano and me here. When I’m tired with my daily cynical/practical self or I’m fed up with this dull order and aim in life I fancy then for something surreal. I like to be a daydreamer now and then and get lost in unreal world from my dreams, enter the labyrinth of imagination and traverse alleys that exist only in my mind, meet people who remember me from my previous life. People whom I knew and loved, places I used to visit, scents and colours, everything I denied and got rid off and what sometimes haunts me when I drift into a half-sleep. Once heard melody, light scent of perfume, muffled laughter. All fleeting and impermanent, fragile like a thread of gossamer. Illusion. Sweet amnesia. -
متاهة البحث والعودة للماضي واستحضار الذكريات ... تيمات أساسية في أدب باتريك موديانو
أسلوبه متفرد .. هادئ وغامض أحيانا, تعبيراته موجزة ولا يهتم بالنهايات الواضحة المحددة
سرد مشوق يبدأ عندما يسترد الكاتب الستيني المنعزل مفكرته الخاصة الضائعة
يعود لعالمه القديم ويستعيد تفاصيل الشخصيات والأحداث المُتوارية في الذاكرة
ومن خلال رؤية مشوشة يقوم بتفكيك الذكريات ومحاولة الفصل بين الحقيقة والأوهام
يُصور موديانو بطل روايته في حالة من التيه المُثقل بألم التخلي والخذلان
ويأتي الختام بدون اكتمال للأحداث العالقة بين صفحات الرواية -
Στις τελευταίες σελίδες επιτέλους αισθάνεσαι κάτι παραπάνω απο μια κουραστική ψυχαναλυτική συνεδρία όπου ο αναλυόμενος-αφηγητής ηλικιωμένος τώρα,μέσα απο αρνήσεις και φοβίες θυμάται γεγονότα και καταστάσεις που τα απωθούσε απο παιδί για μια ολόκληρη ζωή.
Κάπου προς το τέλος α��χίζει να γίνεται ξεκάθαρο και ενδιαφέρον το νόημα μιας υποτυπώδους υπόθεσης,αφηρημένης και άνευρης.
Πλοκή,δράση,κάθαρση και ιστορία είναι επιλεκτικά ανύπαρκτα και βαθιά θαμμένα στοιχεία του βιβλίου που υπονοούνται σε βαθμό αποσπασματικής προσοχής.
Σε αυτό το βιβλίο τίποτα δεν εξελίσσεται,τίποτα δεν κορυφώνεται,τίποτα δε σε ταξιδεύει προς την αναγνωστική έξαρση και σε πτυχές βαθύτερες και λογοτεχνικά φωτισμένες ως προς το νόημα που υποβόσκει.
Το τηλέφωνο χτυπάει. Ο ηλικιωμένος συγγραφέας Ζαν Νταραγκάν μετά βίας το απαντάει και συνομιλεί με
έναν άγνωστο που έχει βρει τη χαμένη ατζέντα του.
Συναντιούνται, για να του επιστραφεί η παλιά του ατζέντα και μαζί της όλα τα παιδικά του κατάλοιπα,οι θαμμένες αναμνήσεις και η ζωή του που θα μπορούσε να έχει τίτλο " Ιστορία απώθησης και λήθης".
Αρχίζει το γλυκόπικρο χρονικό της ψυχανάλυσης που μας παει σχεδόν εξήντα χρόνια πίσω. Μια ομολογουμένως συγκινητική ιστορία παιδικής εγκατάλειψης,τραυμάτων απο θραύσματα μνήμης, αγάπης,θύμησης,νοσταλγίας και ψυχαναγκαστικής απώθησης.
Αυτά όλα γραμμένα με μεγάλη μαεστρία αλλά αποσπασματικά και επιφανειακά.
Δεν σε καταπίνει η θλίψη του εγκαταλειμμένου παιδιού. Δε σε πονάει η αταυτοποίητη ζωή του. Δε σε παρασέρνει μέσα σε οικείες επικράτειες συναισθημάτων.
Συμβιβάζεσαι σε μια λιτότητα χλιαρή και αποσύρεσαι εκούσια σε μια παθητική κατάδυση, μαζί με τον περιπλανώμενο ήρωα.
Μας αρκεί λοιπόν η αίσθηση πως κάποτε στο Παρίσι ένα παρατημένο απο τους γονείς του παιδάκι,έχει ως προστάτες μια νεαρή πόρνη και διάφορους κακοποιούς.
Σαν άλλος κοντορεβυθούλης,ο μικρός μας ήρωας εξερευνεί την πόλη που μεγαλώνει με μόνη ασφάλεια ένα χαρτάκι διπλωμένο στα τέσσερα μέσα στην τσέπη του,όπου με "γυναικεία" και ανεξίτηλα στη μνήμη του γράμματα αποτυπώνεται η διεύθυνση του στο εσωτερικό του χαρτιού και στο εξωτερικό η φράση κλειδί:
"ΓΙΑ ΝΑ ΜΗ ΧΑΝΕΣΑΙ ΣΤΗ ΓΕΙΤΟΝΙΑ".
Δεν μπορώ να παραβλέψω την συγγραφική αρετή του Μοντιανό αλλά σίγουρα δεν θα καταχωρηθεί στους αγαπημένους.
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς ασπασμούς. Για να μη χανόμαστε. -
I was curious about this French Nobel Prize winner whose books are slowly being translated into English. This read was short, atmospheric, and baffling. It deals with the fallibility of memory and the sources of personal identity. It reminded me a bit of Barnes’ “Sense of an Ending”, but it too murky to enthrall me very much.
A reclusive,elderly novelist, Jean Daragane, gets an invasive phone call from someone wanting to return his personal phone book which he must have dropped somewhere. The man, Gilles, returns it at a meeting in a Paris café, where he asks about one of the entries, which corresponds to a name of a character in one of Jean’s early novels. Later, Gilles girlfriend shares a “dossier” Gilles has been putting together about people from Jean’s past, which he has walled off in his memories. Jean’s first presumption is that these people are into some kind of blackmail scheme. As a reader, we are primed from then on to wonder what Jean might have to hide, something either scandalous or criminal. It’s as if Jean begins to create himself out of threads of elusive memory. We follow his pathways of thought, visitations of places he used to live, and recovery of knowledge gained about 15 years earlier when he tracked down a woman whom he lived with for a period as a child. What happened to Jean’s parents and why did he end up in her care? His novels seemed to have a lot to do with these personal mysteries, but somehow, by choice or dementia, has ended up in a position of letting that all slide.
This all reminds me of an alternative to the line from the song Bobbie McGee, “If you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose”, which is if you have very little, you are in big danger of losing a lot. And if you lost significant people as a child, it’s a tough choice between seeking to remember what you had or avoidance of any reminders of the loss. And does that make you become someone who clings to people who count or a person who makes an attempt not to need others?
This book was provided by the publisher through the ARC Netgalley program. -
If you're more into atmosphere than story, this is the book for you.
If you like mysterious women in strange black dresses, but don't care that their plotlines are not resolved or even continued past the middle of the book, this book is for you.
If you like overrated French deconstructionists who care little about coherent --or even basic -- conclusions to novels, this book is for you. -
This is my first Modiano, and I've clearly started from the wrong end. This is the novel he wrote, (published 2014) just before he won the Nobel Prize in 2014 - but he's won many prizes throughout his career - 31 novels and multiple screenplays!
I say started at the wrong end because reading Modiano is like being a detective; when you pay attention to the details of dates and places you realise that most of it refers to his life. Our protagonist, an old man, lives alone in his apartment in Paris; he hasn't spoken to anyone for 3 months and he prefers it that way. We quickly learn that the novel's setting is current - he refers to his telephone but Chantal has a mobile and there is a computer for the searching of lost names. Later Jean Daragane is a little more specific and says, 'we are already in the second decade of the new millenium' and then as we progress through the novel, even more specific - 'that day in December 2012 when I asked the taxi driver to cut through Rue Coustou.'
It's sort of necessary to read the novel with both parts of your brain - separately - first one side, then the other; a little tricky, but doable. My left brain looked up all the street names on Google Maps - Rue Puget for example is less than a stone's throw from the infamous Moulin Rouge - Jean does tell us as his memories return, that 'he could see the Moulin Rouge from the road he had walked up from, no. 6 Rue Laferrière' - when he is 6 years old! Sometimes the memories are very confusing - for a reader, but we learn equally so for our protagonist, Jean. My reaction was the same as his -Wow! not a nice area for a 6 year old.
The novel can be confusing, because Jean has blocked nearly all his memories of his early childhood. It is the phone call from Gilles Ottolini and then the visits from Chantal that start to jog disconnected images back into the present. There is a photo in Gilles' dossier of a child with dark hair; it takes Jean long moments before he realises it is himself.
Ottolini and Chantal quickly disappear from the story, they are simply the tools, jarring impositions that have started this unravelling of buried secrets. Is it the right brain that likes emotions and music - because this is what first emerged as I quickly - in just two brief sittings read my way through this wonderful and disturbing story. My right brain responded strongly to the mysterious and erotic nature of that central scene when he finds Annie again. It happens I think after a gap of several years, from when he is writing his first novel, when he is just 21. Jean (67) remembers that he put a secret message into the book, which he knows only Annie will understand and then he must wait for her. He describes a scene when he is quite young, when Annie takes him to a Photobooth; he blinks his eyes and they have to try again. The little scene has nothing to do with the rest of that first novel - Le Noir de l'été.
Annie had written the address of their 'home', no. 6 Rue Laferrière, on a piece of paper and bid him keep it safe - 'So That You Don't Get Lost in this Neighbourhood'. Jean walks south from the café in Rue Puget, where he writes - the building he lives in, is too noisy - he walks through place Blanche and south, along the main boulevards looking for his old home, certain that Rue Laferrière is not too far away. The story skips to the elderly man remembering that walk, of himself as a 21 year old remembering himself as a 6-year-old.
We follow Jean's struggle to put the pieces together. There are more than 40 years between the present, the now of the story and the writing of that first book. So many things he has buried, but why? The story gradually becomes clearer, as we move backwards and forwards, in fits and starts, as one buried image connects to another.
There is a wonderful scene when Jean 21, returns to the house, La Maladrerie, in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. He knocks on the door of the house opposite, where he remembers there was a doctor; that same man opens the door, and allows Jean to interview him, on the pretext that Jean is writing a pamphlet about this suburb of the North East. The doctor recognizes Jean but Jean persists with his role as writer/journalist. La Maladrerie, is the home he shared with Annie Astrand, as a very young boy.
In the course of the conversation with Dr Voustratt, I also had a memory activated. Jean presses the doctor for information about the inhabitants of the house in the past.
"I can see that you are well acquainted with the history of
our little town."
And Dr Voustratt stared at him with his blue eyes and
smiled at him, as he had done fifteen years years ago when he had
listened to his chest in his bedroom in the house opposite.
Was it for a bout of flu or for one of those childhood illnesses
with such complicated names?
"I shall need other information that may not be historical,"
said Daragane. "Some anecdotes, for example, concerning
certain inhabitants of the town. . ."
He astonished himself at having been able to complete a
sentence of such length, and with confidence.
Dr Voustratt appeared thoughtful, his eyes focused on a
log that was burning gently in the grate.
"We have had artists at Saint-Leu," he said as he nodded,
looking as though he was jogging his memory. "The pianist
Wanda Landowska . . . And also the poet Olivier Larronde. . ."
"Would you mind if I made a note of the names?" Daragane
asked.
And that's where I had an 'Oh' moment. 'I know that name; why do I know that name? Simultaneously I thought refugees? Jewish - something I hadn't picked up until then. I don't know the poet, but Yes, Wanda Landowska - a Polish, pianist. She prefers the harpsichord, because she plays Bach and other composers from the Baroque period. My piano teacher, referred me to Landowska. 'Listen to Wanda Landowska' she told me.
I loved this book, this novel, because of its structure slowly opening, like the proverbial layers of an onion, but it is also written with such beauty. It is full of melancholia, and that erotic sensation; and ultimately a very great sadness.
I suggest everyone read - Jean Patrick Modiano - completely deserving, in my humble opinion of the Nobel Prize. And I will go on to read his other novels. I am intrigued, both by the story of his life and his parents' lives and by the way Modiano has presented the very realistic process of trying to capture what has been of necessity buried in the past. -
The past is always with us. The future may be unknown, the present may be unappreciated at times, but the past is always there. We may try to forget the past. We may try to ignore it. We may even try to bury it, but it's always there.
Jean Daragane, the protagonist of So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood, is a man who has tried to avoid dealing with his past. He has a locked suitcase filled with memorabilia from his past, and tells us several times that he has lost the key to unlock it. The fact that he keeps mentioning the lost key makes it rather obvious that he's trying to avoid opening that suitcase of the past.
Like the shadows of memories, two personages, one male and one female, enter into Daragan's life, bringing with them physical mementos from his past. He portrays them as blackmailers or extortionists. I tended to regard them as figments of his imagination, since they disappeared from the narrative as soon as Daragane begins to (re)search his past.
At the end of the novel, Daragane is left with a memory that perhaps will provide an ending for him. But not the ending. The past is always there.
So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood is a novel I'll probably never reread, but it left such a strong impression that it will be a part of my past that I'll never forget.
October 7, 2019 - For some reason, I was thinking about this book today - I was correct in writing that it would be one I wouldn't forget - and thought about my two favorite Goodreads reviews of it. For me, they're as memorable as the novel.
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
Many thanks to Ilse and Fionnuala. -
What is life but an endless chain of Déjà vu´s …
The words of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel turns up in my mind.
Is it a kind of dream,
Floating out on the tide,
Following the river of death downstream?
Oh, is it a dream?
There's a fog along the horizon,
A strange glow in the sky,
And nobody seems to know where you go,
And what does it mean?
Oh, is it a dream?
I recognize Modiano´s longing for an uncomplicated existence from some of his other novels.
Even in an English translation, there is so much melancholy and despair, delivered in such beauty that you can´t help falling a little bit in love with Jean Darange.
You may know the road to travel, but even you want to start your journey, you are afraid the map is not accurate, that you may be lead astray, and your own doubts will only make the journey even more cumbersome.
This is the case for Jean Daragane.
How carefully did he leave little signs in his novel, secrets only to be grasped by the few, in the hope that his past would find him.
But that was another time, another life. Now the signs and secrets are outdated, and Jean is not in the mood to relive the past, not if it came knocking on his door!
Which is exactly what it one day does, and Jean slowly begins to see the signs mounting in front of him.
Or maybe it was just a bad dream? -
نمیشود گفت کتاب بدی است با اینهمه قلم نویسنده و مهارتش در نوشتن من را برای خواندن کتابهای دیگرش جذب نکرده. به علاوه باید اضافه کنم نسخهای که من خواندم ترجمه بسیار بدی داشت و این سوال برایم پیش آمد که آیا واقعاً ناشران کسی را به عنوان ویراستار استخدام نمیکنند؟! کسی که بیاید جای فعل و فاعل و مفعول را در جملههای ترجمه شده اصلاح کند طوری که آدم خیالهای بدی دربارهی روش ترجمه به سرش نزند!؟
-
This novella is Modiano’s first publication since he won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2014. Translated into twenty-five languages, it allows readers to become familiar with the haunting style that I predict is Modiano’s signature. In 2016 I plan to read the novel
Villa Trieste, and the screenplay Modiano collaborated on with the filmmaker Louis Malle, called
Lacombe Lucien.
This is a novel of remembrance, forgetting, and foreboding, aligning the present with the past and the future. Modiano illuminates how the shadows of memory keep us from knowing who we are.I cannot provide the reality of events,
Monsieur Jean Daragane was dozing in his study on a hot summer day in Paris when the insistent ring of his telephone shatters his isolation.
I can only convey their shadow.
--STENDHAL, Modiano’s epigraph"Almost nothing. Like an insect bite that initially strikes you as very slight. At least that is what you tell yourself in a low voice so as to reassure yourself."
The caller is unknown to him, but has a “dreary and threatening voice.” Monsieur Daragne has lost his address book, and the caller has his name, address, and phone number. He wants to come over and question Mr. Daragne about a name he discovered in the book—a name possibly associated with a murder.
It was all so long ago. Monsieur Daragne is old now, and he no longer cares about the address book, nor the lives represented within it. The numbers he remembers by heart will ring in places where no one will answer any more. The person the caller asks Daragne about he claims not to remember, though the caller points out that Daragne’s first novel references a man by that name. The caller’s insistence starts a landslide of memories, once long hidden, uncovering a past Daragne had buried.
This is a book short enough to be read in an evening, and when I was browsing in a bookstore one day before Christmas, I was so struck by the menace in the opening lines that I knew this would be my introduction to the work of Modiano. Cheers!
-
“I cannot provide the reality of events.
I can only convey their shadow”—Stendhal
“He saw this period of his life through a frosted window”--Modiano
“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known”--1 Corinthians 13:12
“. . . well time slips away
And leaves you with nothing mister but
Boring stories of glory days”—Bruce Springsteen, “Glory Days”
In his sixties, my teacher and friend SD engaged in a series of exercises he referred to as memory work, which he knew would be useful to him as a writer. He would, for instance, pick one random grade in his schooling, say fifth grade, and detail by detail, person by person, subject by subject, rendered it to life. It happened gradually, would sometimes take days or even weeks, but the more he worked at it, the more he claimed he could remember of that particular year.
In some respects Modiano is engaged in similar memory work in So You Don’t Get Lost in the Neighborhood, and using that fictional process to reflect on the vagaries of memory in the passage of time. The main character, Jean Daragane, is a novelist who is one day contacted by Gilles Ottolini and Chantal Grippay to inquire about a reference in his first novel to a real life character Daragane can’t even initially recall. These two nourish characters, maybe blackmailers, seem to be interested in an unsolved murder from many years past, and so the feel of the opening is a noir mystery.
“What exactly are you writing?”
Daragane : “A detective novel.”
But then the nature of the story shifts as Daragane, using a dossier of notes from Ottolini, recalls events and in particular a woman from 15 years ago, Annie Astrand. He wants to remember this woman and that time for his own purposes!
“In the end he would be sure to find what he had lost, and what he had never been able to speak about to anyone”--Modiano
So as with other works I have read by Modiano, the past gets retrieved in fragments, imperfectly, with hard work, over time:
“Many years afterwards, we attempt to solve puzzles that were not mysteries at the time and we try to decipher half-obliterated letters from a language that is too old and whose alphabet we don't even know”--Modiano
Sound not worth the effort, this project of recalling the past? Maybe. But then, in spite of Modiano’s honest concerns about the flaws of memory work, there is, at the end of this short novel, a kind of brief Proustian recapturing of this period he wants to bring to life for himself; it comes to full color, with rich detail! In other words, sometimes it is indeed possible to recall the past, even imperfectly. The Paris of my twenties no longer exists, except in fading memory, but it is here, and can get more vivid if we speak, if we write, if we make the effort—sometimes with the help of others—to recreate those memories.
So, SD and M. Modiano:
My fifth grade teacher was Mrs. Kirchner. In that grade I developed a small crush on a girl, MW, who had raven hair and dark eyes. Because KB and JD were “going together” and had actually gone on a date roller-skating together I got it into my head to ask MW also to the roller rink, which I now recall was just off 28th St. in Grand Rapids. This posed a small annoying problem for me; I would have to involve my parents in this date, or one of them, at least, since one of them would have to drive us. . . . We sat in the back of the car, she wore a dress, we didn't speak all the way there, because what was it we had to say? Hmm, now what was the name of that rink?! What songs might we have skated to? What small things might I have said to her as we circled the rink during the “couples skate”? Oh, MW, where are you today? -
التيه في حياة مُلغزة مُدوخة لطالما كان ثيمة أساسية في أعمال "موديانو"...ومع ذلك أحب ذاك التيه...
تستشعر حواسي السقوط وتستلذ بالتداعي الذي لا يدري أين سيقع الارتطام...ولكن لابأس فلابد من التسليم لتلك اللحظة فهى لابد منها ..لامحال....
قد تناهى إلى مسامعي وقع خطواتي المتعثرة في ردهات الذاكرة حيث الحاضر والماضي يتقاطعا في الممرات ذاتها ..
قد تتمكن لوهلة من الفصل بينهما ولكن سرعان ما يعاودا الامتزاج معاً ويعلقا هناك..حيث لا منفذ آخر لهما...
التفاصيل الضبابية...الوجوه الشبحية..الأصوات المكتومة...
الذاكرة الباهتة المهترئة ..مثقوبة لا يسعها الإحتفاظ إلا بالقليل...
لطالما كان هناك دفتراً صغيراً يضم عدداً من الأسماء والعناوين في عالم "موديانو" ..حيث تسبح تلك الأسماء في فضاء الذاكرة اللامتناهي دون جدوى الإمساك بها...فكل شيء ينسحق في دوامة النسيان وبالرغم من ذلك تتناثر شظاياه في عالم الذاكرة ...
إلى أين...؟
مع "موديانو" لا تسألني إلى أين ...فأنت تذهب بعيداً جداً وقد تعود للنقطة ذاتها...
يستولي عليك قلقٌ مؤرق...تترقب شيئاً ما دوماً على وشك الحدوث..
أخيراً هل يمكن حاضر أحدهم يكون ماضيك أنت ؟
عندئذٍ هل ينتمي كلاكما للعالم ذاته ..أم أن أحدكما يعيش نسخة مُكررة من عالم الآخر ؟!!!.... -
Faulty memories, questionable identities. A man who only wants to be left alone. His cherished solitude is about to be ruined. This translation from the French was a trifle nuanced for me story-wise; too rife with symbolism for my taste. Or maybe I just wasn't in the mood to work that hard.
-
این کتاب پتانسیل چهار ستاره رو داشت، ولی
ولی
ولی
افسوس بخاطر ترجمه بد!!
البته منطقی اگر بخوام توضیح بدم، کتاب مشکل نگارشی داشت! ترجمه افتضاح نبود و من بیشتر مشکل نگارشی و ویراستاری دیدم در کتاب!!
بهرحال، توصیه میکنم بخونین، روایتی جذاب داره که تا پایان کتاب مخاطب رو جذب نگه میداره.
فقط از انتشارات کوله پشتی تهیه نکنید. -
Modiano, bir suç romanı/kara roman karışımı bir havada başlattığı hikayesini, Proust-vari bir hafıza, geçmişi deşme, geçmişle yüzleşme niteliğine dönüştürmüş. Yine sade ve duru, ama iz bırakan üslubuyla. Paris de şehir olarak bu ince kitabın kahramanlarından. Dolayısıyla bu şehre yapılacak bir gezide, o güzel kafelerin birinde nefeslenirken bu novellayı okumak ayrı bir keyif verir eminim. Çeviri de, Nedret Tanyolaç Öztokat, gayet iyi.
-
داستان نویسندهای به اسم داراگان که دفترچه تلفنش رو گم کرده، شخصی اون رو پیدا میکنه و بعد از رسوندنش به داراگان، اونو در مورد یکی از اسامی موجود در دفترچه سوالپیچش میکنه...
اصلا با کتاب، سبک نگارش، شخصیتها و داستان ارتباط برقرار نکردم و برام بیش از اندازه کسلکننده بود! -
Updated July 22, 2016 with some photos. Yes I might be a little obsessed...
Once again, she burst out laughing. Her laughter and the noise of their footsteps echoed in these streets, one of which bore the name of a forgotten writer.
"She" is described as living at 18 Rue Alfred Dehodencq (in the 16th arr. near the Bois de Boulogne and the Ranelagh Gardens). Intrigued by the mention of "a forgotten writer" I took to Google maps to see who could it have been? Perhaps Modiano was leaving a clue. Alas, I think he was being literal. Have you heard of Henri de Bornier? How about Octave Feuillet?
We've returned from our vacation in France for which I've been immersing myself in Modiano and other French authors. While in Paris I knew we were staying in the vicinity of the scene mentioned above but it was still cool to find myself in the exact location. When I'd reserved the place I hadn't even read the book yet. Even if you aren't staying in the neighborhood, if you pay a visit to the Musée Marmottan, with its collection of Monets, you will be steps from 18 Rue Alfred Dehodencq and those streets named for forgotten writers! I could not resist taking some pictures which I've posted here.
There were railings at the end of the street. Behind them were the trees in the Ranelagh gardens. Not a single car the entire length of the pavement. The silence. Hard to imagine anyone living here. Number 18 was at the very end, on the right, before the railings and the trees. A white building, or rather a large house with two storeys.
(So you don't get lost in the neighborhood)
And almost certainly going too far: on finding a copy of the multi-volume "Dictionnaire Historique des Rues de Paris" in our apartment I could not resist looking up a few entries...
-
قصه کلاف سردرگم سرکشی به گذشته های دور یه پرونده جنایی فراموش شده
جنایتی که سالها پیش رخ داده و بر اثر یک اتفاق دوباره خبرنگار سمجی دست روی آن گذاشته و قصه آن باز شده است
نویسنده برنده نوبل ادبیات است و ترجمه هم خوب بود اما من کلیت ماجرا را نپسندیدم
گنگ و ثقیل بود و چرخش های زمانی آن مبهم بودند -
نویسندگان برنده جایزه نوبل و آثارشان همواره جایگاه ویژه ای در میان کتاب خوانان و فرهنگ دوستان داشته اند. پاتریک مودیانو نیز به عنوان برنده ی این جایزه ادبی در سال ۲۰۱۴ دارای اعتبار است. پس از دریافت جایزه، مودیانو در پاسخ به سوال خبرنگاری که از او پرسید پیشنهاد خود او به خوانندگان آثارش کدام کتابش است، او ” تا در محله گم نشوی” را توصیه کرد. از همین جواب می توان به اهمیت این اثر پی برد
اولین صحنه ای که با فضاسازی مودیانو خلق شد، مسحور کننده است؛ هوای گرم و دم کرده ی نیمروز پاریس را گویی که روی بدن خود حس می کنید. انگار که صدای زنگ تلفن که بی وقفه در آپارتمان می پیچد را با گوش های خود می شنوید و” ژان دراگان” را که خسته و کلافه در انتظار قطع صدا از چرت نیمروزیش بیدار شده، با چشمان خود می بینید. ژان دراگان، شخصیت اصلی ماجرا، نویسنده ی میانسالی است که دچار ملال در زندگی گشته. در تنهایی آپارتمانش کنج عزلت گزیده و دیگر نه چیزی می نویسد و نه کتابی جز “تاریخ طبیعی بوفون” را می خواند. با آدمیان چنان قطع ارتباط کرده که از شنیدن صدای زنگ تلفن در آپارتمان�� ابتدا هراسناک و سپس متعجب می شود. غم و درد آمیخته با گذشته اش او را به سمت فراموشی خاطرات سوق داده است. “ژیل” مرد پشت خط ادعا می کند که دفترچه تلفن دراگان را یافته و خواستار قرار ملاقاتی برای تحویل آن است هرچند که هدف اصلیش، پرسش از “دراگان” راجع به مشخصات یکی از اسامی درج شده داخل دفترچه است “تورستل” که گویا با قتلی که حدود پنجاه سال قبل رخ داده در ارتباط است. با وجودی که نام “تورستل”، نقشی هم در اولین کتاب “دراگان” داشته باز هم وی چیزی از این نام به خاطر نمی آورد یا نمی خواهد که به خاطر بیاورد
او سال هاست که گذشته را به فراموشی سپرده و از همین ملاقات است که سفر دراگان از دنیای بی رنگ فراموشی به جهان رنگارنگ خاطرات کودکی و جوانیش رقم می خورد. دنیایی که در آن زنی مرموز به نام “آنی استراند” برای ژان ِ کودک نقش مادر و برای ژان ِ جوان نقش محبوب را ایفا ک��ده بود. زنی مرموز در خانه ای پر رمز و رامز با رفت و آمدهای مشکوک. نام کتاب “تا در محله گم نشی” نیز از جمله ای گرفته شده که آنی استراند روی یادداشت هایش برای ژان به جا می گذاشت و حالا تبدیل به خاطره ای محو در دوردست ها گشته است. در طرحی معماگونه، با جهش از گذشته به حال و از حال به گذشته، خواننده تکه های روزهای از خاطر رفته ی دراگان را از لای سطور داستان بیرون می کشد و کنار هم می چیند تا به کلیتی که همان هویت گم شده ی ژان است دست یابد
“هویت و جست و جوی آن” موضوع مشترک اغلب رمان های مودیانوست. مودیانو ساده و به دور از پیچیدگی می نویسد. اجتناب او از پرحرفی، آثار او را کم حجم ولی عمیق ساخته است به طوری که خواندنشان، زمانی بیش از چهار- پنج ساعت را نمی طلبد. شخصیت های داستانیش اسرار آمیز و درگیر کننده ی ذهن مخاطبند. در کنار این ها، خلق فضا در زمره ی تخصص های اوست. چنان که می توان در تک تک رمان هایش محله های خاکستری پاریس محبوس در هوای دم کرده را قدم زد و دید
مودیانو در مصاحبه ای مورد چنین سوالی واقع شد: “آیا این کتاب داستان کودکی خود شما را توصیف نمیکند، به هنگامی که مادرتان شما را به همراه برادر کوچکتان به دست زنی در خانه ای مرموز در حاشیه جنگل رها می کند؟” و مودیانو اینگونه پاسخ داد: “بر روی نقطه حساسی انگشت می گذارید. تارهای زمان گذشته ما را رها نمی کنند گاهی، یک واقعه که در دوران کودکی رخ داده و بر ما تأثیر گذاشته است، قالب های خیالی را برای ما به وجود می آورد. حتی اگر این واقعه کوچک و کم اهمیت باشد، شما را وا میدارد تا همان متن و قالب ها را که با تخیل درآمیخته است به رشته تحریر بکشانید”د
تا در محله گم نشوی شاید اتوبیوگرافی خود نویسنده است که با چاشنی تخیل و قصه پردازی به رشته ی تحریر در آمده است
از وبلاگ
نوار -
Like a protagonist from one of his novels, I had my own flashbacks; my own memories from the early days of discovering Modiano, when I really did fall in love with some of his work. Missing Person, In the Café of Lost Youth left clear and vivid imagery, strong thoughts, which remain to this day. Most of the others I've read have been good or so-so, not so much that they didn't impress me, but down to the fact that due to a lot of his work feels very repetitive it it can become less pleasurable as you know there is little chance of him springing a surprise on you with something different. I Still love the style of his novels; the mystery, the clouded and hazy memories, the feeling of nostaglia and sadness that I picked up from other works, but this one just didn't really strike a chord, hit me in heart, set off any emotional pull like he used do to.
Maybe it's simply down to fact that it's not one of his best. Maybe the best times with him are now over for me. Like Jean Daragane here, my memories of reading this will probably be all but buried before long. Not a bad little novel, which I got through in one go, but I so wish I could go back in time and read him again for the first time. -
Tháng 8/2020: Những ngày trời âm u buồn bã bèn đọc lại Patrick Modiano, đọc sách của ông lúc nào cũng như đang lạc vào trong một giấc mơ váng vất, dưới bầu trời chạng vạng u sầu ta lang thang mãi trong khu phố cũ kỹ với một tâm trí xao động vì những nỗi hoài nhớ mông lung về ký ức, tất cả như một màn sương bao phủ khiến ta không phân biệt được đâu là hiện tại, đâu là quá khứ mà khi khép sách lại, ta chỉ thấy nỗi buồn đang dịu nhẹ len lỏi vào tâm hồn.
Tháng 5/2016: Các nhân vật trong tiểu thuyết của Modiano có điểm chung là đều rất đãng trí, hay bỏ quên cái này, thất lạc cái kia. Và dĩ nhiên trong quá trình tìm lại những thứ họ sơ ý làm mất ấy, họ sẽ tìm lại những điều tưởng chừng đã quên lãng trong quá khứ.
Modiano rất giỏi trong việc chọn lựa thời điểm để quá khứ nhân vật bắt đầu len lỏi vào câu chuyện, trong sự váng vất mờ ảo của ký ức, trong sự ngoằn ngoèo, ngóc ngách trong những con phố ở Paris, ông dẫn dắt người đọc qua từng dòng thời gian, từng ngõ hẻm với lối viết nên thơ trữ tình.
"Anh sợ rằng nỗi u sầu, vốn vẫn bị chôn vùi cho tới tận lúc đó, sẽ lan truyền qua tháng năm tựa như lần theo một dây cháy chậm." -
من نوع نوشتن، شيوه پيش رفتن داستان، فضاي كلي داستان، عوض شدن مداوم زمان و نوعي سادگي خاصي كه اين كتاب داشت رو دوست داشتم. ترجمه هم خوب بود. اولين كتابي بود كه از موديانو خوندم و بايد يكي دوتاي ديگه هم بخونم ازش تا دستم بياد چطور نويسنده ايه..
البته اينو هم بگم كه به نظرم نويسنده ميتونست داستان رو و ايده اصلي اون رو به طرز قوي تر و واضحتري پيش ببره.. اما ظاهرا به هر دليلي نخواسته اين كارو بكنه....
طي پنجاه سال گذشته، اغلب از آنجا عبور كرده بود، حتي وقتي بچه بود، همراه مادرش، كمي بالاتر از بلوار به مغازه بزرگ پرنتان ميآمد. اما آن شب، شهر، غريبه به نظرش ميرسيد... هر رشتهاي را كه هنوز ميتوانست به مادرش پيوندش دهد، رها كرده بود، يا بهتر بگويم، او دراژان را دور انداخته بود... روي نيمكت نشست و دفترچه تلفن را از جيبش درآورد. آماده شد تا پارهاش كند و تكههايش را در سبد پلاستيكي سبز كنار نيمكت بريزد. اما ترديد كرد. نه. بعد در خانهاش، با آرامش اين كار را ميكرد.
دفترچه را سرسري ورق زد. ميان اين شماره تلفنها، فقط يكي بود كه ميخواست شمارهاش را بگيرد. و آن هم دو يا سه رقم كم داشت. رقمهايي كه برايش، مهم شده بودند و ميدانست به ذهنش نميآيند. -
Δεν μου άρεσε ιδιαίτερα. Δεν είχε κανένα νόημα η ιστορία.
-
How are we the same, when we are no longer the person who used to be ? Modiano goes into the past, where desire and remembrance tug at the heart strings of who we were, who we knew and who we have become.
A deep, short read that provokes the trappings of too many musings and desires, albeit a welcome provocation, at least for me. There is intrigue, there are missing persons, there are affairs of the heart and body. There is the cliché existential wandering that would make Camus proud. Modiano ultimately insists that we are intuitively outside of history, perpetually looking into the abyss of some misbegotten form of remembrance where the dreamlike state of memory is never fully actualized. Story Modiano teaches us - is a leap of faith. No matter how absurd the pinning for connection, the actualization is always looking back - or forward.
Modiano's Paris-rooted fiction echoes so intensely with readers. It lives in the vague and abstract center of setting and being. At its base, his work argues that where you are from is part of who you are. And through this lens, I somehow found myself in the midst of his chaotic quests.
No, Modiano is not Camus, but the image of his " The Fall " - haunted me throughout the whole reading. -
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Şimdi gerçekten merak ediyorum kitabın manasızlığı çevirmenle mi ilgili yoksa yazarın aslında pek o kadar da matah bir şey yazmayışı mı! Çünkü anlaşılacak pek bir şey bulamadım eserde. Diğer yandan lütfen her yazarı Proust'a benzetmekten vazgeçin diyeceğim. O tekdir diğer yazarlarda öyle.
Bir kaç gün sonra;
Kitabı başka bir dilden okumak istiyordum ama buna gerek kalmadı yazarın diğer eseri de pek o kadar ahım şahım bir şey değil. Çevirmeni günah keçisi haline koyduysam özür dilerim. Ödül almış olması onun harika olduğu anlamına gelmez en azından benim için öyle. Kitaplarının tanıtımını yazarlarken öyle güzel anlatıyorlar ki kitabı okuyunca ordaki tanıtım yazısının sadece reklam amaçlı olduğunu anlıyor insan. İlk etapta çevirmenin hatası diye düşünmüştüm ama ikinci eserini okuyunca bu görüşümün yanlış olduğunu anladım.
P.s belki yanlış zamanda okumuşumdur haksızlık yapmak istemiyorum ilerde bir daha okurum sanırım vaktim olduğunda.
