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the right woman Sándor Márai

Three points of view, three truths, three characters who indulge in the familiar three long monologues.

There is the "right person" for each of us? It seems that the thesis of the novel. Márai think no, no. In each of the people we meet and with whom you develop a love relationship there is something important to us.

is a fascinating thesis (which I agree in full), which allows us to live not only in waiting for a meeting, one fatal, but taking in the intensity of each meeting, what we need at that moment, our lives.

the right woman is the first novel Mara, among those published so far by Adelphi, which obviously deals with class conflict, the relationship between man and woman on the floor sentimental, intellectual and physical . Written in three phases, 1941, 1949 and 1980, is In my view, the novel summa thought of Mara. Never, as in this novel, the writer finds out and you leave to the reader. He, too, in a long monologue.

Two women and a man. Not the usual triangle that arises from the betrayal, but a triangle that comes from a different social status.

The first woman, elegant and devoted wife loves sublimating feelings;

the second woman, the proletarian serves a middle-class home;

man hopelessly bourgeois, who represents his social class.

The three face each other, they study, get control, are analyzed according to their capacity for analysis and reaction.

the background of political events in Hungary of '47 and '56, Mara tells of Peter, the man the bourgeois, the bourgeois intellectual that, realizing the failure and collapse of the world belongs to the generations, trying to escape through a proletarian love. The proletarian needs of the explanations and bourgeois sophistication of love, Peter thinks, the proletarian belongs to nature, simplicity and strength, strength that Peter feels liberating in itself and its superstructure.

Peter knows that only the proletariat wants to become a civilian, in civilian dress, live like a bourgeois, plunder the bourgeoisie. It is that his desire has always been. It is what Judith, the maid. Peter sees it as an opportunity to exit order and loneliness that you feel confined. Judith wants to get into that world to repay the humiliation, to forget the grave with mice in which she lived as a child. Each of the two follows a drawing. Each of the two fails in that design.

Only Lazar, an intellectual, disillusioned, he is aware that this is the definitive end of an era. And he understands what Judith has been part of a perverse game, as has been used to serve once again the bourgeois illusion of having held the post, he has won and, ultimately, she is still the victim who finds herself without any identity.

Márai gives us unforgettable pages: from the great master of writing, knowledge of feelings and emotions tangle in which they are forced to move.

I think everyone can find a piece of what he has lived in love mechanisms traps fiction, drop-outs.

The bourgeois state, the great theme of the writer, is told like a cage from which it is impossible to escape. It 'so riddled with selfishness and a retreat on our feelings makes it impossible to overlook the feelings of others.

The analysis makes Márai can only be a citizen (which he was) as he struggles in that condition and that he lives like the "forbidden city" of the Chinese emperors. On this side of the wall you ignore the humanity that lives beyond.

The difference in class, and in the other novels in the background, this is the pivot of the book and the "other" social class is considered only as a possibility of salvation. So, once again, exploited by those who have the privilege of the intellectual and economic power.

Some comments on the society in which the protagonist lives, are of great contemporary relevance.

Márai Only in 1980 added to the book, the fourth entry.

is his outburst on communism, on the consumer society that replaces the bourgeois, the transformation of a world that no longer finds himself. It is the cry of the intellectual in front of rampant ignorance.

"Because this sort of Petõfi of my boots have been told that the world is something that is a thousand times better than eating and drinking. What is it? But it is the culture! And he also said that culture is a conditioned reflex. "

It is no coincidence that the book ends set in America.

It is no coincidence that, just in America, where he had gone into exile, Mara has committed suicide.

July 2006

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Sister

sister is the novel written in 1946 by Sándor Márai The Embers after and before exile in America.

The theme is unusual compared to what we have read so far in the novels of Mara, the man facing a serious illness and subsequent reflection: what is the meaning of illness?

is never pronounced the name of the disease as is never pronounced the name of the sick are universal, we mean writer.

The historical background of the novel is the period before World War II: a tragedy waiting to happen but not yet exploded. The journey that the protagonist, Z, faces on the train, still takes place in an 'apparent feeling of comfort and privilege. Z is a famous pianist and went to Florence for a concert.

This is not a case, the choice of the city symbol of beauty as opposed to the image the destruction that looms on the horizon .

That autumn evening, then Z will play at the Palazzo Pitti, ready to give beauty in "celebration" which is the concert.

But after the show Z is ill.

Márai And here comes the story of the disease. He knows the routes, it seems, the cruelty, the anguish. The pain in the morning taking turns during the day (with the light encourages them to fight and become sneaky night with dark silence.

"So the pain crouches because the patient gathers all his strength and yells at the executioner who has had enough, that it must stop now ... knock on this side, now a handle down a bit ' further. Interested in everything, eyes, ears, stomach, heart region. At the end is bored and a bit 'disappears. As if he left. Where is he hiding now? .... "

I went into this book with love and suffering, with the memories.

How not to love so intense and dramatic pages on a condition that I knew him well?

Sylvie's disease, AIDS. The first that I was confronted with an evil without remedy. Carlo's disease, Alzheimer's disease. For fourteen years has kept me tied becoming accepted as "normal" as "order," the repetition of gestures of care and assistance. Finally, my disease, cancer, exploded like thunder when the 'order' had been established with other diseases.

" The disease is nothing more than an insult to the cosmic "says a doctor Z " The disease is a condemnation "because God has turned away from man.

This is the argument I heard from the primary support of the German clinic where I had sought refuge to recover from the devastating health. I rebelled. I could not accept "even" that sentence.

What did he still lives with me? Only much later he had given me the serenity and had rushed her off through the illness of my husband. He gave me "my" disease and wanted I accepted that "also" an order?

It could not, however, the disease, a cry of pain to tell the world "Enough, I can not bear, the measure is full?"

Márai thinks the disease as a "torturer of China." And why not a communist? I would ask him. But China is far more mysterious, more cruel for a civilian like Mara.

Z remains in a hospital room very comfortable, but that does not allow him to watch out: there is a wall. The art of Florence, though so close, can not help him even making spy.

No, the disease is a cage, alone, is the end of "lies", the end of that "representation" that is life. Down the stage costume. There is only the truth.

" Modesty can only exist where there is desire and guilt ' and the disease is choking the one that the other .

"It's possible a more confidential, more complete, more sincere than that of a body in front of those four women in his stand between life and death ?

Z assisted by four sisters, sisters in fact.

"The intimacy is created between the body of the seriously ill and who cares ...."

"But the sick body has no secrets ...."

How not to rethink my "Sister" next to Charles? On his body, which I loved so much in love, abandoned to the need to be looked after and cared for? How often, when I lifted the pillow, I thought as the Christ in the arms of his Mother. How many times, the pity for that body led me to kiss it, caress it , tighten and fragrant.

be aware of your sister, I know that the rubber tube in his nose stuck mercilessly to force the body to eat, to live. I know the color of the liquid that would require dense cinnamon that body not to surrender.

Márai brought me back to all this with the strength of his extraordinary narrative ability.

Then, this narrative about the disease back to a subject very dear to the writer, the "love". And we will return by the metaphor of disease to an inability to cope difficult love, without hope, that poisons those who experience it.

rid of that love means to cure disease?

" And that fight, or run, it was not the disease but his whole life. "This thought when Z is sure to die.

But there is a female voice, one of the sisters (but which of the four?), Who tells him: "I do not want her die." And he thinks it is a feminine energy that is fighting for him. And he can not resist. It is stronger than his desire to die, that energy.

It was my energy to keep Charles in life for many years, to keep it from surrendering to the devastation? I do not know. What is certain is that I told him: "I do not want you to die." And he did not die until I realized that I could not ask him much pain and so much heroism.

" Because life is a big responsibility. But we think, live among the people! ... There are many who do not make it. How many interests! Boredom, vanity, ambition, sense, and what lies behind every death ... Who can stand all that remained healthy at all times? "

Milan, July 26, 2006

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The Dying Animal - Philip Roth

L 'dying animal - commentary on the novel by Philip Roth -

A Philip Roth in great shape.

Ironic, deep, dramatic in this short novel that could be called hastily to the erotic genre ( The Portnoy's Complaint). To me it seemed, instead, an arm of the famous trilogy, a piece to add to quell'impeccabile fresco on America after the war ( American Pastoral, I Married a Communist The Human Stain), that the writer has given us in recent years.

An older man falls in love, out of control, no brakes, a very young woman, very pretty, detached, intriguing.

We are in the sixties. America lives the explosion of the sexual revolution, the spread of behaviors that the girls "had no biological terror erection, they did not fear the transformation phallic man." And David Kepesh (also the protagonist of the story and comic visionary, The breast) everything is easy. Exercised with great natural charm and his influence on students the tip as a hunting dog and seizes without miss the opportunities, however, the girls the offer without caution, without any request.

Man it moves forward in reading, one realizes, however, that this is not to tell that David Roth is talk of Consuela, his perfect body and her breasts, "the best I've ever seen .

Social transformation, obsessive attraction to this woman become food for deep and painful reflections on life that passes, the unbridgeable gap between youth and old age, "the wound of old age" on death. Yes, David, Consuela is a fixed idea, an idea of \u200b\u200bpossession, but without love nor passion, nor feelings. She explores the body, contemplation of bodies, pleasures that the mere contemplation can give. E 'on the bodies that the transformations of time are seen much more than feelings. And speaking of Consuela's breasts. The breasts, the symbol of nourishment, from which the old - and Roth challenge this word - it feeds using sex as a "revenge on death. not forget, death. Never forget it. "

But the relationship ends for a trivial pretext, which is logical in the field when there are feelings. Spend some time. David has seventy. 's just the night of the millennium. A message on the answering machine's back, as from an 'ancient times, the voice of Consuela, who asked to see him. David, overcoming weak uncertainties, the recalls and the other side. She's always beautiful, with a strange hat and looked more mature, which makes it very feminine. Surrenders and confesses that he wept with breast cancer and will be made, perhaps a radical operation. Her breasts, her magnificent breasts. Asks David to photograph them because no one has ever loved her body like him. And he is willing, wants to please her in everything. But this does not require more.

With a flick of the tail old age she takes on youth. "Now his sense of time is like mine, pressing and even more desolate than mine. Consuela actually passed me. Because I can still tell me I will not die in five years, maybe I will not die ... I could live out of ten still another twenty, and she ... "

David seventies, he can never take that food. The breasts are of no use anymore.

cancer, the great justice!

I read a long interview with Philip Roth about to publish a book "death." The writer says he has to deal with this topic that he did not think long.

do not agree with Roth. In 'Animal dying seems to me that this thought, along with that of old age, is very present, as is present in the trilogy. The Human Stain, pages describing the death of a friend dying what are they? What are Roth's characters as they confront the youth, if not a melancholy and resigned reflection on death?

seems to me that Roth is compared continuously with the thought of death is the background even when writing about another.

Mezzadri Maria Grazia Hood

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Americaaaaaaa

Americaaaaaaaaa!

Baricco, Tornatore, Novecento, The Pianist on the Ocean. Skyscrapers in Manhattan that are reflected in the left eye of the emigrant Italian.

It 's all that came to my mind when I left by boat for the trip from the shore in the evening. Perhaps the lights of those skyscrapers were reflected in my left eye, I thought. And the voice of the guide seemed shrill and tamed As we approached Staten Island, and showed us the island where the migrants were kept in quarantine just landed: Ellis Island, and told us of Statue of Liberty. As I seem to make disciples of all the theories that they want this country as the most free and democratic world.

Just to ask questions about events known to the world: this is not the country that has not hesitated to massacre the Indians to take their territory? Is not the country that held blacks in slavery for centuries? It is not the country that brought in millions of migrant poor, hungry, in rags with their cardboard suitcases, only because she needed the poor, those hungry to continue to assert its role as a slave?

This Country Did you ever wondered what anxiety, what discomforts, frustrations which migrants lived? And the nostalgia? And the melancholy?

Vietnam, Chile, Argentina, unloaded bombs on Laos, Iraq, Guantanamo ...

Americaaaaaaaaa!

I made my first trip to America in 1966 and three more in a few months. I remained some time New York, Washington and San Francisco. I went to work.

met three very different reality. I was struck by the diversity but I could not, then, to pursue these.

I was Alice in Wonderland. Everything great, everything extraordinary, astonishing. From the tomato to the taxi, the record store to the elevator. I had in mind images of films with Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, Greer Garson. Corresponded to what I saw. I lived in Astoria and Woldorf Park Hotel: turquoise carpeting and bathrooms with double sinks. Breakfast brought to the room with the cart by a black waiter.

A delight for one who had never moved so much from Italy, who had no equals. saving for an education, for which he had no idea of \u200b\u200bopulence and, more importantly, had no culture to interpret.

They took me to Harlem in a car carefully closed, with tinted windows because it was a risk that visit. And in San Francisco witnessed, instead, at a reception of blacks in evening dress.

Negroes, then, were called Negroes.

I'm back, only in New York, year: 2005.

I have not seen great as then, nothing really surprised me more than the exhibition of greatness. I realized that I had changed the way I look at this country.

And 'course, after forty years', I said. But I felt that I came the same emotions that if I returned to London or Paris, Amsterdam or Madrid. After forty years' I noticed changes in the economic development, customs, traffic, but I heard Van Gogh and Rembrandt, Velasquez and Goya, Manet and Turner still around. Those were the places of their life and of inspiration.

And I would be in Europe.

But here I felt a sort of stillness, even in the apparent changes.

Negroes, in fact, call themselves African-Americans and show impersonating incorruptible judiciary and police. Today, you meet them on the streets of the center: a few on Fifth Avenue or the Park, many in Broadwai where shops are popular and affordable prices. Harlem, which turns into white residential neighborhood , tourists strolling convinced to imagine what a ghetto was for so many people. Where to end up blacks, indeed, African-Americans who lived for years, if you ask anyone.

Little Italy is pathetic with the shops of salami and cheeses that must match in an Italian stereotype: the smell of rancid squalor they had in Italy fifty, sixty years ago. At the border Cinatow presses that now occupies, with its junk, the closet that were the Italians.

No, at a glance, this city has not changed.

The outsiders continue to be increasingly marginalized. And the power, the arrogance, the arrogance of the master is always the same, ever more declarations, performed.

primates, this is American history. The guides delight in saying "the biggest, the most important, the highest in the world." And they all think they play a leading role this "more".

I said to myself: what would America without primates?

New York and ostentation, New York and cruelty ', New York is the cynicism of' America. How King Kong: a great, big, scary, m that (and I strongly hope), it will not prevent its annihilation.

No, New York, I was most impressed.

in its museums, with collections "more" of many of the world, are masterpieces that European and Chinese and Egyptians. Everything comes from "A ltrove. Their paintings, with good will, beginning with the nineteenth century. And one of the twentieth century was the need to denounce loneliness, poverty 'human, the frustration of those who live this reality: Hopper, Worhol, Pollock ...

The big American orchestras have only one root: Famous European Directors, employed by the magnates in the late nineteenth century trying to publish, or in the 30s fleeing from Nazism and Fascism . How Mahler, Furtvangler, Toscanini.

What you learn in this country to survive if not overwhelming the other? The law of most strong, the largest, the highest.

Egypt, Greece , Italy would need to have the largest stock of the world? They have the Pyramids, the Parthenon, the Colosseum that tell a story of millions of years of culture.

How many Americans know this story? The intellectuals, those who travel. But those traveling in a country so immense?

I think there is, in 'American medium, the belief that nothing resembles what he lives. Does not need to be compared. belongs to the "more".

Where are those beautiful boys tall, blond, healthy hair with a brush so that we have seen in war movies of the '60s?

Today, perhaps all belong to the "more" fat. E 'impressive number of obese people you meet. Young and old, men and women and boys.

I say more you go down the social ladder, and most are fat because fed by Mac Donald and many processed foods that you buy at low cost in many huge and supermarkets.

But a country where there is "most" because not about a social problem so widespread?

course, mine are superficial considerations, to "blow hot."

course a country like this you are sure to have picked up atmospheres important after a few weeks of having to investigate, after months and having to study in depth, after many years.

My son lives and works in Oregon, in Portland. A city democratic, pacifist, environmentalist.

spent time at his home located in a neighborhood of perfection awkward, almost painful.

wooden single-family homes, Tudor style, with gardens, flowers, manicured lawns. American flags and banners, however, that welcome to passersby.

trees, raccoons that inhabit the gardens, scottaioli crossing the street and climbed up the trees munching on something, doors without alarms, car parked in front of houses. And the deserted streets during the day, you can walk for hours without seeing a soul, in complete silence. And if someone greets you meet him, wishes you good day. Maybe he walk the dog and carefully collect the poo, How is in possession of bags distributed by the City.

I wondered: who's inside these homes? Young people, happy, healthy, which is the perfection of the Truman Show? O there will a director who directs this perfection?

do not know. It 'hard to imagine the elderly, sick or people who are full of hatred and frustration.

What I appreciate what I know America?

the "civilization of the process." Wherever you perfect toilet. Even with the hand cream and Tampax offered in a nice basket. If I was not in menopause for years, it gladly take advantage.

And then the super-organization.

If a Saturday evening, at 20.30 you should wish to order a black elastic pants, you can call the house that distributes it, ask to speak in the language you prefer, order giving the number of your credit card on Monday and receive it on time at home with the catalog you presents the complete collection of underwear.

Everything is done to sell, to buy. In every store clerks will be meeting to ask if you need information, you greet a nice day, good afternoon, good evening. The sentences are programmed, you feel that there 's preparation. But you are always welcomed and treated with great respect. You can buy and sacred because they are there to encourage you to do so. Studied for this.

In New York I could change three times a shirt going from store to store. And I could buy in golf pants and super balance. There is always a sales department, not a season for sales. And people buy when it is appropriate to buy. Summer 's winter and vice versa.

In September, all ready for Christmas and next year. Agendas and ribbons and cards.

E 'enough to accept and live a country?

I think of Baricco's Novecento and Tornatore. I think back to our culture and our imbalances. Our difficulties and our broken dreams. And I am convinced that I, as the twentieth century, I would not have abandoned the ship to go to endless roads.

Mezzadri Maria Grazia Hood

Portland, September 29, 2005