| Title | : | I Served the King of England |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 081121687X |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780811216876 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 243 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1971 |
| Awards | : | награда "Пловдив" Художествен превод (2012) |
'Our very best writer today' Milan Kundera
Sparkling with comic genius and narrative exuberance, I Served the King of England is a story of how the unbelievable came true. Its remarkable hero, Ditie, is a hotel waiter who rises to become a millionaire and then loses it all again against the backdrop of events in Prague from the German invasion to the victory of Communism. Ditie's fantastic journey intertwines the political and the personal in a narrative that both enlightens and entertains.
I Served the King of England Reviews
-
Forget serving the King of England, that's nothing compared to serving the Emperor of Ethiopia—a whole spit-roasted camel stuffed full of all sorts!
You've got to hand it to some of those central european writers, writing under censorship and oppression, as nine times out of ten they seemed to bang out some great work, and this for me is yet another absolute classic! Must be something in the water. Although, it's more likely that fantastic Pilsner beer!
At times hilarious, lascivious, startling, deeply moving, and somewhat strange, I Served the King of England is a beguiling and picaresque allegory depicting Czechoslovak history pre and post WW2 through the eyes of a hotel waiter, Ditie, who moves and rises up in stature from one hotel to another. His journey begins at the Golden Prague Hotel where he is clearly seen as having a crude ambition to make it big, and where Hrabal's narrative starts off bawdy and zany before—due to the German Reich imposing themselves—turns that little bit darker and more satirical. Ditie falls for a Nazi, Lise, during the war, marries under the ominous presence of a swastika flag, and ends up having a disturbed child who can't stop banging nails with hammer—long before he can even talk. Some of the scenes once the novel really gets going you start to realise that certain behavior is so unreservedly at odds with anything we would experience in reality, and that Hrabal is stamping down his own authority and forcing the reader into suspending his disbelief. Simpy put, this is a novel where the unbelievable comes true, but the troubles and looming threats of the real world; the believable world around Ditie, are still never far away. Ditie would go on to become a millionaire—before losing his wealth under Communism rule—thanks to a pre-war stamp collection, and open a rather bizarre hotel situated at a quarry, where a certain writer, Steinbeck, would become a guest, fall in love with the place, and offer to buy it. No doubt for me the highlight was earlier on in the novel when a banquet is held for the Emperor of Ethiopia. Won't be forgetting that feast in a hurry. Despite forming an allegiance with the Nazis—of which he does shift away from eventually—it was always such a pleasure to be at the side of Ditie and his journey. From the inquisitive and excited youngster learning the tricks of the trade, to the person of wisdom who turns to solitude. Doesn't surprise me in the slightest that Kundera loved the novel—especially when it came to the sex, and other certain situations involving women.
There was just so much to love about the whole darn thing. The bonus being that it had a sort of Calvino-esque fairytale quality to it, plus some echoes of Kundera. I thought Closely Watched Trains was brilliant enough, but this for me was even better. Best of the five I've read by him. -
Czechs say Bohumil Hrabal's work is untranslatable. When I read
Too Loud a Solitude I indeed felt something wasn't coming through. But I chalked it up to a style of Eastern European literature: dark, allegorical, an unfiltered cigarette of protest to communist grime. Glad I read it but no rush to read any more Hrabal.
And then I stopped in a used bookstore, just this week. Monday. There was
I Served the King of England. I jimmied it out and thumbed it open, expecting to read a sentence or two and slide it back. Instead I read this:
When I started to work at the Golden Prague Hotel, the boss took hold of my left ear, pulled me up, and said, You're a busboy here, so remember, you don't see anything and you don't hear anything. Repeat what I just said. So I said I wouldn't see anything and I wouldn't hear anything. Then the boss pulled my right ear and said, But remember too that you've got to see everything and hear everything. That's how I began.
I'm only human. So I took it home and rushed to finish what else I was reading. I started Tuesday. I followed Ditie, the busboy, from hotel to hotel. From busboy to waiter. I was always lucky in my bad luck, he said.
I'm trying to tell you about this in a way that will not be full of spoilers.
Well, I guess that didn't work.
Instead, let me tell you one anecdote. See, Ditie, as you can imagine, meets many different characters. One is Mr. Šíba, the soccer referee. Nobody wanted to referee the Sparta-Slavia match because the crowd always insulted the referee. So Mr. Šíba agreed to do it. He practiced by running through the birch trees, reprimanding and threatening Burger and Braine with expulsion, but mostly yelling at Mr. Říha, One more time and you're out of the game. A headwaiter took a bus of inmates from an asylum, along with a barrel of beer, to watch. That small story can not have anything but a happy ending.
_____ _____ _____ _____ _____
Eventually, Ditie realizes this: although the stars were visible at night, at noon you could see them only from the bottom of a deep well. So, like Murakami, he goes for introspection. The book did not wane here.
_____ _____ _____ _____ _____
See, I've been doing this thing with reading friends, real life reading friends. We meet sometime before Christmas, in some place that serves alcoholic beverages, and, in turn, announce our top ten books of the year list. This started with two guys on bar napkins and no preparation, to seven, down to a more manageable five, but with hand-out typed lists. Civility moderates. Tonight, Thursday, was that night. I was pretty satisfied with my list about a month ago.
Independent People had been on the bubble but then I read Mo Yan's
Frog and I thought I was set. But as the weeks passed, I weighed which books resonated most, and Iceland appeared to be the final journey.
But, as I said, I started
I Served the King of England Tuesday. By the time Ditie had to masturbate for the Nazi doctors (Wednesday on my calendar), I had to see whether he passed the ethnic purity test. I wasn't howling. Just smiling on every page. Who says Hrabal can't be translated?
So I woke this morning, 120 pages to go. It could be the first book next year. But readers, you know how it is.
Iceland Sagas and Chinese one-child policy novels would have to be runners-up. This was too good not to make the list. How often do I give 5 stars? -
“Prestad atención a lo que os voy a contar ahora”
Así empieza cada capítulo de esta historia, como si fuera uno de esos romances de ciegos en los que mediante viñetas se relataban escenas terribles o sucesos extravagantes, con no pocas dosis de picardía. Había que atrapar la atención del oyente desde la primera palabra y tal cual empieza Hrabal, con esa picaresca venta de salchichas en la estación de tren o metiéndonos de lleno en una batalla campal entre clanes gitanos o embutiéndonos entre los pechos de Jaruska, la belleza rubia de Casa Paraíso, donde encontró Jan Dítě, porque así se llama el camarero protagonista de nuestra historia, su primer “objetivo hermoso y noble en la vida”. Y todo ello en menos de diez páginas.
Aquellos eran los tiempos de la juventud, de la alegría, en los que Jan fue testigo de la decadencia, el lujo, la frivolidad y la extravagancia de la Europa central de entreguerras. Un cuerpo pequeñito el suyo, pero capaz de albergar una desmesurada ambición por ser millonario y codearse con los dueños de los grandes hoteles en los que fue prestando sus servicios y dónde aprendió todos los trucos del oficio de manos del mejor maestro, aquel que había servido al rey de Inglaterra.
El dinero, ah, el dinero, capaz no solo de adquirir los placeres de bellas muchachas, sino también de comprar poesía, la que hay en un vientre decorado con margaritas y pétalos de ciclámenes o en la sortija de brillantes resplandeciendo al subir por el muslo de una dama o la que se leía en la tertulia literaria del hotel cuyos dueños, marido y mujer, terminaban a golpes a causa del realismo o el romanticismo hasta hacerse sangre. El dinero, la imagen de su poder, de su capacidad, todo le está permitido al dinero, todas las excentricidades se le consienten y hasta se le aplauden y, por supuesto, se le envidian.“…también constaté que el que descubrió que el trabajo ennoblece al hombre no era otro que uno de aquellos que se pasaban aquí la noche comiendo y bebiendo con hermosas señoritas en las rodillas, los ricos que saben ser felices como niños pequeños… a los que les daba igual cuánto se gastaban en una noche, que tiraban los billetes en todas las direcciones de mundo y eso les sentaba bien… nunca he visto unos hombre más felices que aquellos ricos industriales y empresarios…”
Desde su primer trabajo supo Jan de su importancia, quiso poseerlo, deseó el placer de contarlo, de extenderlo en el suelo y pasear sobre él como sobre una bella alfombra. Atendió servilmente a los ricos, a los políticos, a los generales, y lo hizo bien, tanto que llegó a ser aquel que había servido al emperador de Abisinia. Atendió a los nazis, se casó con una y se aprovechó de la expoliación a los judíos para conseguir su sueño, o la mitad de él, pues a pesar de llegar a poseer el más maravilloso hotel de Praga nunca fue aceptado por sus iguales."Se me ocurrió mirarme al espejo y, según me miraba, de pronto me vi a mí mismo como una persona extraña…como no me había visto nunca, como un Sokol que, cuando ejecutaban a los patriotas checos, se dejaba examinar por los médicos nazis para ver si era apto para tener trato carnal con una profesora alemana de gimnasia, y mientras que los alemanes iniciaron la guerra con Rusia, yo había celebrado ni boda y había cantado Die Reihen dicht geschlossen, y mientras nuestras gentes en casa sufren, yo lo sigo pasando bien en los hoteles y hotelitos, donde sirvo al ejército alemán y a las SS… me veo a mí mismo y me pongo malo de lo que veo, sobre todo aquel sueño de ser millonario y demostrar a Praga y a esos propietarios de hoteles de que yo era uno de ellos…”
Aquí, desde lo más alto de su profesión y desde lo más bajo como hombre, empezó su caída social y su crecimiento como persona. Ese camino, y desde su final, es el que se cuenta en el libro mediante un discurso repleto de larguísimas frases que brotan de un alma que apenas empieza a salir del tormento de una vida desperdiciada persiguiendo un fin absurdo en el que cualquier medio era válido. Un discurso verbal escrito con urgencia, incluso de forma atropellada, con imágenes de gran belleza, impactantes y mágicas, en el que a toda costa Jan Dítě quería dar fe ”de cómo lo increíble se hacía realidad”.“Llegar a través del discurso con uno mismo hacia el sentido de la vida… cual era el significado de ese camino que ya había hecho y el que le quedaba por desandar y si aun queda tiempo de alcanzar a través del pensamiento una calma tal que le proteja a uno contra el deseo de escapar a la soledad, de escapar a las preguntas fundamentales, para las que un hombre debe tener fuerza y valor suficiente…”
“¿Os dais por satisfechos? Pues con esto termino por hoy.” -
A "playful, social satire" I find quite distasteful!
On a recent vacation to Prague, I asked the proprietor of a local English language bookstore to recommend a novel that would be a good souvenir of my visit to Prague. She enthusiastically recommended I SERVED THE KING OF ENGLAND which she characterized as a comedic satire and added the guarantee that I would be sure to love it ... wrong!
The story takes place in Czechoslovakia from 1935 to 1950 during the final days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire when Czechoslovakia tragically loses its freedom first to the armies of Nazi Germany and then to the Communist regime under Marx and Lenin.
Bohumil Hrabal's I SERVED THE KING OF ENGLAND is the story of a Ditie - a small man in every respect including stature - personal vision, abilities, scope of imagination, interests and even charitable inclinations to his fellow Czechs. It is the story of his rise from the bottom of the hospitality pecking order as a much maligned hotel busboy to a millionaire and the owner of his own unique hand-crafted hotel. It is the story of his fall from that pinnacle of wealth back into poverty as war takes away everything that he worked for including his wife, his son, his hotel, his wealth and the respect of his peers that he had unsuccessfully searched for all of his life.
My personal impression of Ditie as a character is that he is small-minded and selfish, focused on little else than the accumulation of wealth by any means, his social position in the eyes of his peers and the satisfaction of a powerful libido. He began his rise to power by stealing change from customers and he completed the accumulation of his first million by selling rare stamps purloined from Jewish prisoners who had been transported to concentration camps. In short, I found Ditie to be a most unlikable protagonist.
As a novel, I SERVED THE KING OF ENGLAND was irreverent, treating the horrific events of WW II and the Nazi and Communist occupation of Czechoslovakia with an outrageous, mocking comedic lightheartedness that was out of place and verging on the abhorrent.
The only redeeming feature of the entire novel is the heartwarming and heartbreaking story of his love for Lise, a German girl, who is despised by all of Ditie's Czech acquaintances.
Insofar as its being a souvenir of my visit to Prague goes ... suffice it to say that many Czechoslovakian place names were mentioned, but nothing about the narrative, the history, the description or the action in the novel was particularly evocative of the setting of such a magnificent city. But for the context of the war itself, the story could have happened anywhere at all!
Overall, my impression is that I SERVED THE KING OF ENGLAND is a self-proclaimed literary novel that attempts to turn Ditie's flaws into something charming. I'm not buying it at all.
Definitely not recommended.
Paul Weiss -
Man's body and spirit are indestructible...he is merely changed or metamorphized
- Bohumil Hrabal, I Served the King of England (1971).
Hrabal's satirically political, erotically imagined and poignant adventure story follows the rise and fall of a young busboy Ditie (Czech for 'child') who, despite his diminutive stature, possesses big dreams and the determination to become a millionaire to be the equal of everyone else: is influenced by his father's advice to have an aim in life because then he'd have a reason for living, initiates his rise at the brothel 'Paradise'- a habit-forming place that, from Ditie's innocent viewpoint, is so wonderful and forbidden that I wanted nothing more in this world,... because at last I'd found a beautiful and noble aim.
His adventures surrealistically course through farcical scenes of life in wartime Prague, though he stumbles upward without much thought to moral implications, idealizing and fervently learning from the distinguished headwaiter who knows everything about everything because, as the latter puts it: "I served the King of England." Ditie's steps to elevated stature are vividly imagined, particularly in one ironic episode where he effortlessly fumbles into serving the Emperor of Ethiopia, Hailie Selassie: the similarity in their physical sizes is not lost on the reader.I learned that feeling victorious makes you victorious, and that once you lose heart or let yourself be discouraged the feeling of defeat will stay with you for the rest of your life, and you'll never get back on your feet again, especially in your own country and your own surroundings, where you're considered a runt, an eternal busboy.
Hrabal depicts scenes of the German Occupation of Czechoslovakia through Ditie's relationship with Lise, a Nazi gym-instructor. Their marriage is expected to help perpetuate the future Aryan pure-blooded offspring of the Reich. Hrabal's highly erotic treatment depicting Germany in 'the throes of swallowing up' Czechoslovakia, of the latter forced to submission and, under pressure too, the ejaculation of its own identity proves this author's mastery of allegory. The handicapped nature of Ditie's and Lise's child is another ironic, powerfully piercing twist of the dagger in Hitler's ideology.
With Hrabal's signature taste for the absurd direction of Fate, his hero becomes the millionaire of his dreams but through the establishment of communism, loses that long sought-for stature, along with the freedom he thought it would afford him.
The final portions of Ditie's story are the most poignant, with a theme that the author often uses in his novels: memories, self reflection, and the expectations of one's life. Ditie becomes a road mender, and in his loneliness, he contemplates the direction he let his life take, coming to some profound conclusions of integrity and morality...the maintenance of this road was the maintenance of my own life, which now, when I looked back on it, seemed to have happened to someone else. My life at this point seemed like a novel, a book written by a stranger even though I alone had the key to it, I alone was a witness to it, even though my life too was constantly being overgrown by grass and weeds at either end. But as I used a grub hoe and a shovel on the road, I used memory to keep the road of my life open into the past, so I could take my thoughts backward to where I wanted to begin remembering...and so arriving, in this back and forth way, at the meaning of life. Not the meaning of what used to be or what happened a long time ago, but discovering the kind of road you'd opened up and had yet to open up, and whether there was still time to attain the serenity that would secure you against the desire to escape from your own solitude, from the most important questions that you ask yourself.
Hrabal's tragicomic tale of a nobody seeking to become important, and Czechoslovakia's pre-WWII to its Communism period may be one and the same. Ditie's introspective thoughts of his journey; of interrogating, accusing, and defending himself; and of finally moving forward, may be taken as reflective of Hrabal's beloved country. This highly inventive, equally erotic, funny, tragic, philosophical and inspiring work deeply touched and entertained. Just a word of caution, though..the movie was disappointing.
Read May 15th, 2014
-
Ovo je u svakom smislu brilijantna novela/roman/zbirka pripovedaka. Nisam sigurna jel' sme da se kaže groteskna burleska, ali je, u stvari – to.
Najpre stil: ostavlja utisak gotovo nespretne improvizacije. Kažu, pisac je (u stvarnosti) tvrdio da je sve napisao u cugu, za dve nedelje, a u i poslednjem poglavlju se, šatro, pravda za tu zbrkanost – mnogo mu je, oh, sunce išlo u oči.
Reč je, zapravo, o tendencioznoj stilizaciji i to izuzetno promućurnoj i veoma visokoj. Rečenice su sami hiperbatoni, asi – i polisindeti, ludi vrtlozi apozicija, kolaži metafora i digresija koji se često protegnu na nekoliko strana, pri čemu čitalac, svraćajući na čašicu bizara u svaki sokačić na koji se rečenica izračvala, bistre glave isprati svaki detalj i nikad ne izgubi iz vida celi šizofreni mozaik.
Ovim je Hrabal postigao dve stvari: najpre, potpunu distancu i još potpuniju uverljivost prvog lica: sve je u intonaciji glupkastog i neobrazovanog, ali drsko ambicioznog praškog pomoćnog kelnera isfrustriranog svojim niskim rastom i društvenim statusom, sasvim rasterećenog svake moralnosti. Da je Hrabal manje autentično isklesao ovog lika i da Gintera Grasa manje volim, sigurno bih između svaka dva reda pročitala: „Oskar, kažeš, rošavi? Ma, poljubiš me u lakat! I ti i ceo Nobelov komitet!“. Pod ovim okolnostima sam prinuđena da priznam izvesne sličnosti, mirnim tonom, bez aludiranja na plagijat. U stvari - briga me.
Drugi efekat postignut stilom je atmosfera freak saloon – a, ali obavezno i jedino češkog, u godinama pre Drugog svetskog rata. Nije mi baš dugačak spisak mesta gde je ona ovako ukomponovana u sadržaj i skrojena po meri situacije, računajući i filmove sa talentovanim kostimografima i još talentovanijim kompozitorima. Tu atmosferu nekako i smatram najvažnijom, jer se uvek ispostavi da sve drugo sem nje zaboravim nakon izvesnog vremena. Zato je proglašavam najjačim utiskom, uprkos činjenici da su bizarni likovi i epizode, žive slike i lucidne pričice ono što ovu knjigu čini beskrajno zabavnom i izuzetno upečatlljivom. Jer, čak i da zaboravim Haila Selasija koji, sve zlatnim escajgom, jede kamile koje su punjene antilopama koje su punjene ćurkama koje su punjene ribom koje su punjene stotinama kuvanih jaja, zapamtiću aranžerke izloga koje se cepaju od smeha, usta punih špenadli, a kad, najzad, od smeha i padnu u taj isti izlog, čitava ulica posmatrača lepo bude uslikana njihovim čipkastim gaćicama. Ili bazen u kome plivaju trudne Švabice, eksperimentalno izolovane u idili planinskog seoceta gde će izroditi Rajhu čistokrvni arijevski podmladak. Ili spermografija metodom "evo, u ovu salvetu" zarad utvrđivanje podobnosti Slovenskog semena za esesovski ovum. Ili rehabilitaciono plivanje bez ruku, nogu ili čitavih trupova - šta se već kome odlomilo na frontu...
E, toga ima na tone! Sve vrca od života, vrvi od erotike koja je na jednakoj udaljenosti od romantičnog pro.eravanja i lascivnosti naturalizma, svet je lep i sentimentalan uprkos očiglednom sadizmu i sveprisutnoj ogavnosti, svi mogu da prostanu dobri i plemeniti, ali ne – tu sad ja potpuno padnem u trans – (hrišćanskom) božjom promisli, već sasvim paganski, apolonskom katarzom – „Spoznaj samog sebe“. Na kraju metafizički metamorfoziraju... Dunav, Vltava, palidrvce... ma, vrlo važno.
Očarana! -
Книга, която едновременно разсмива и разплаква до сълзи!
Ако можеше да се снима лицето ми от началото до края… От спонтанно хилене, през леко помръкване, до горещи, „дълбоки“ сълзи.
Не е книга, в която четях всеки ред, за да не пропусна нещо от сюжета (в началото си мислех, че може да ми дотегне от чисто ресторантьорски истории и майтапи), а заради плодовитостта на езика (към края обаче се оказа, че именно развитието на героя е най-важното). Тук видях и „най-артистичните“ еротични сцени; „ряпа да ядат“ разните популярни еротични поредици. ;) Описанието на угощението на абисинския крал ме впечатли както примерно хиперболите на Рушди и Маркес.
Трудно се смея на книги и филми, но тук – много (до едно време обаче…). В началото я възприех предимно като хумористична книга, към средата – като сатира, осмиваща някои недостатъци на личността и обществото. По-късно - трябваше ми тази „смешна“ книжка, за да си допълня представите от „Доброжелателните“ за нацизма („как се става редови националсоциалист“/а защо не и комунист – все тая…), макар че на пръв поглед нямат нищо общо. А краят – разтърсващо за мен преживяване, свързано със силната дума „катарзис“. Тази година съм имала само още едно толкова силно книжно преживяване (с „Да дойдеш на света“).
От къде се тръгна – самотното келнерче, търсещо признание, приобщаване (и ламтежът за пари беше със същата цел). Лесно се присламчи към първото нещо, в което видя потенциал за такова одобрение. И си помисли, че вече е „нещо“. Един фрак, една лента – и се издигна сам в очите си; но „новият“ Хер Дити навреме се усети, че пак е „нищо“ (според тогавашните си критерии). Все пак успя да се нагоди отново и да продължи да драпа „нагоре“. "…отново и за тях бях само едно ресторантско пиколо, дребосък някакъв, чешко нищожество…“
Около войната нямаше как хуморът да не стане „по-напечен“… Появиха се изрази като „…опипа целия си роден дом…“ (разрушен дом/цяло село от нацистите в Чехия). И след тези страници, след края на войната, вече не ми идваше отвътре да наричам Ян „младежът“, стопи се невинността и чис��отата…. Разгулен секс, алчност, фалш, притворство в довоенното общество е едно, но кръв, разруха, разселване – съвсем друго… Всички предвоенни прегрешения ми изглеждаха някак „по-ведри“. Самият той казва след войната: ”…нещо и в мен се бе сломило и ме бе напуснало.“
Леко колебание имаше дали да са 4 звезди на този етап заради две неща: че Лиза (и детето – много добре е измислил Храбал „детето-резултат“) не се спомена вече; че концлагерът беше така пародиран (миналите от там може да не харесат този подход). Но си казах – уместно е всичко да продължи да бъде нелогично, абсурдно, „хард���. За неспоменаването на Лиза приех, че е достатъчно наименуването на главата за края на войната… (… А главата така и не намерих), а за концлагера – има куп книги с буквално описание на лагери, тук пародията наистина е по-уместна според мен (олицетворение изобщо на целия „соц-строй“ може би…)
На стр. 188 (от 234) вече нямах съмнение за 5 звезди, когато абсурдът надмина всякакви граници (милионерите не искат да излязат от лагера?! Може би „на свобода“ никак не е по-добре при комунизма..?). И така до края авторът не ми даде повече почивка от емоции - на 192, на 200, на 212 - все повече отбелязани места за преписване на откъси… А как уместно е „поставил“ Храбал професора по френска литература и девойката Марцела!
Нагоре към планината с кончето, с козата вече едвам гледах – нещо тежко ме затисна, но не точно мъка, а едно постепенно изпълване. Личностна и национална (наднационална дори) драма в едно – сред кротката природа, далече от напъните на градския живот. С изоставените немски работнически къщурки за първи път май толкова директно Ян/Бохумил изразява позиция по политическите нередности.
Но 20 стр. преди края спрях, защото беше след 1 часа през нощта и исках на свежа глава и пълни възприятия да завърша книгата без никакви пропуски. И имало защо – много часове четох тези 20 страници… Едно от най-силните ми емоционални избухвания беше тук, почивах си на всеки 2-3 думи, твърде силна беше вълната.
Изнасяне на съзнанието ми нагоре, нагоре, страници наред, чак до циганите, исках даже тук да спре книгата… Но съм грешала – след още няколко страници това с животинките донесе нова вълна от емоции. В някои моменти те бяха това, което наричат „трансцедентално“ – досега ми се е случвало само на джаз концерти/записи (тази думичка дори я имаше в кулминацията на книгата и аз подскочих от радост). Моите силни моменти в книгата бяха най-често „положителните“, красивите, а не страшните, грозните…
Опустоших се емоционално с тази неочаквано за мен голяма творба. Не винаги в книгите има такава градация на емоциите. Тук за мен нямаше спадове – нащрек и с интерес 100%.
Затворих книгата със сълзи, изтръпнала, опиянена – исках два дена да си остана така… Но на края, в нещо като литературен екстаз, бях рязко откъсната от него и два дни се наложи да не се върна към книгата. После прочетох всичко отбелязано наново, преживях края почти по същия начин, но все пак жалко, че първия път бях така драстично изтръгната от този „паралелен“ свят и се върнах в реалния (няма да използвам думата „прозаичния“, защото много несправедливо тази думичка е използвана в смисъл „скучно“). А в началото наричах книжката „хумористична“…
В крайна сметка явно за човека винаги остава важна оценката и признанието на другите, но след собствена самооценка и ново ниво на осъзнатост това вече има съвсем друго измерение… Може би „Аз и другите“ все пак е важно, но непременно в този ред „АЗ и другите“, не „Другите и аз“… Мисля, че личната история повече ми взе дъха. И друг път сигурно съм чела за подобна „личностна трансформация“, но тук начинът на описването й е големият плюс за мен. Преплитането с кухостта на предвоенния бохемски живот и особено с политическите събития е другият „бонус“, но гротескният подход ме накара да боготворя възможностите на литературата (не можех да не си помисля и за Кундера – но при Храбал този път комунизмът ми беше „по-интересен“ — това не означава по-малко гнил).
Определено 6+ за преводача. Може би хумор дори още по-трудно се превежда от „обикновена“ проза – има толкова нюанси, тънкости, умалителни думички, простоватия автентичен език на главния герой, безкрайността на абсурда… Но явно и тежките емоции в последните части са предадени перфектно, за да ми окажат толкова силно въздействие.
И точно както Кундера беше писал за неизвестните „малки нации“, сега и аз се чудя защо не е известен Бохумил Храбал – не зная колко книги е написал, толкова ли са добри всички, но за мен си е майстор от световна класа. Така съм си мислела и за други славянски автори, например Олга Токарчук (не че са „малка“ нация поляците)… А може и да са известни, просто аз да не съм била „в час“ досега… ;) -
I was actually trying to find another book by Hrabal : Closely Watched Trains , but the library only had this. I'm glad I picked it up, as it was a joy to read from start to finish, and much more serious and thought provoking than the comedy of the first pages let me believe. Probably, the book would not qualify as a 'hidden gem' with a 4+ rating from 4000 votes and an inclusion into one of those '1001 books to read before you die' lists, but I still think it is underappreciated and worthy of more praises and recognition than it has already received.
Briefly, this is a picaresque adventure, following the tribulations of the busboy (waiter) Ditie in Bohemia, starting in the 1930's through the World War and into the communist upheaval in the aftermath of the war. First glimpsed as a crafty 14 y.o. selling hamburgers to time-pressed train travelers and conning them out of their money, we follow him through a series of jobs in luxurious hotels, culminating with a sumptuous soiree serving not the King of England, but Hailee Selassie - the Emperor of Ethiopia.
A classic case of Napoleonic complex, Ditie's very short stature is constantly pushing him forward to prove himself and to demonstrate that he belongs, that he is as good, if not better than any of his colleagues and patrons. His ultimate ambition is to become a hotel owner himself, serving the rich and famous and basking in the recognition of his peers. Ditie's lack of scruples, amoral atitudes and self absorbtion might have turned me off towards him if it weren't for his exuberant zest for life, manifest in his early discovery and veneration of a woman's body ( breasts swinging like bells in a church tower ), in the carefree throwing away of money on rich food, drinks and wild parties. For me the book is a happy marriage between the rigorous Germanic pride in a job well done and impecable service with the wilder Slav streak that lives for the moment and swings often between extremes of joy and depression. The closest analogy to the irreverent and whimsical style of Hrabal narration is coming from the movies : think of an amalgam of Federico Fellini's wild carnivals, the early biting satire of Milos Forman, Emir Kusturica dancing to gypsy music on the edge of the abyss, the melancholy and the lust in Francois Truffaut or Giuseppe Tornatore mannish boys. The inclusion of Bohumil Hrabal among these 'sacred monsters' doesn't seem forced to me, as I consider his work every bit as accomplished and relevant of human dreams and desires.
The title of the novel is both misleading and difficult to pin down. As I already mentioned, Ditie doesn't actually service the King of England, yet the phrase comes to define his life, the turning point of his career, the eye opener and later the acceptance of his failures together with his successes. The first to use the phrase is one of Ditie's mentors, Mr. Skrivánek - who considers waiting an art which, he says, involves a deep knowledge of human nature. The payoff from these lessons and observations will come only when Ditie learns about pain and loss and the imminence of death, watching young men departing for the war, leaving their loved one behind ( I learned to see the countryside, the flowers on the tables, the children at play, and to see that every hour is a sacrament )
Other mentors in Ditie's waiting career will urge him to to keep his ears open without hearing, keep his eyes open without seeing. He will be ready to recognize and profit from every opportunity, while maintaining a facade of discretion and detachment from his client's debauchery. From a travelling salesman he learns about the true value of money, not in themselves but in the liberty of choices and in the hedonist delights they buy. 'Easy come, easy go' is another of those Balkanic angles that are familiar territory for me. Losing everything can be a liberating step, or as we say around here, a kick in the behind is a step forward:
Tommorrow I would live for somewhere far away, far from people, though of course I knew there'd be people there too, and I'd always believed, like everyone else who works in artificial light, that one day I would get out of the city and into nature, that when I retired I would see what a forest really looked like, what the sun really looked like, the sun that has shoned into my face every day of my life, making me shield my eyes with a hat or a shadow. When I was a waiter I used to love it when at least once a day all those doormen and superintendents and stokers would come out of their buildings, turn their faces upward, and from the abyss of the Prague streets gaze at the strip of sky overhead, at the clouds, to see what time really was, according to nature and not by the clock.
The politics don't play a very big role in the beginning of the novel, but as Ditie grows up he can no longer ignore the events that will directly affect his life : the invasion of his native land while the woman he falls in love with is a Nazi activist, the atrocities against Jews in Poland that will provide him with the means to buy his dream hotel; Lidice - the village razed to the ground in revenge for partizan activity, the proud Aryan supermen returning crippled and empty-eyed from the Russian front, the communist regime upsetting the social ladder that Ditie had tried so hard to climb. The humorous overtones and the epicurean exploits never fully disappear from the landscape (see a memorable late scene in an improvised prison), but the pain, the injustice and the futility of existence would mark the later journey of our picaresque hero. I have chosen to interpret Ditie's final reiteration of the boast from the title, as him looking back at his life not in anger but with a clear eye, no regrets or excuses or moral lessons, not even any grandiose revelation about the meaning of life, just a bit of justifiable pride and a half smile at the folly and beauty of it all.
The only right things were the things I enjoyed - not the way children and drunks enjoy things, but the way the professor of French literature taught me, enjoyment that was metaphysical. When you enjoy something, then you've got it, you idiots, you evil, stupid, criminal sons of men, he would say, and he'd browbeat us until he got us where he wanted us, open to poetry, to objects, to wonder, and able to see that beauty always points to infinity and eternity. -
1. این امتیاز در واقع امتیاز تطابق کتاب ترجمهی بهاره هاشمیان با ترجمهی انگلیسی همراه با دیدن فیلم (من خدمتکار شاه انگلیس بودم) میباشد. کتاب ترجمهی بهاره هاشمیان به تنهایی این امتیاز را ندارد.
2. با مطابقت کتاب ترجمهی هاشمیان و نسخهی انگلیسی کتاب به ترجمهی پائول ویلسون مشاهده کردم که بخشهای زیادی از کتاب متاسفانه سانسور شده اند و حس کردم که به کتاب ضربه خورده است. واقعا برایم سوال است که مترجمی که میداند بخشهای زیادی از یک کتاب بالاجبار در این مملکت سانسور میشود چرا اقدام به ترجمهی کتاب میکند و آن را ابتر و افلیج میکند؟ و چرا سراغ یک کتاب دیگر نمیرود؟
3. بنده در مورد امر خطیر ترجمه بدون دانش هستم و به انگلیسی هم تسلط کامل و کافی ندارم و در مورد ترجمه بهاره هاشمیان اهل فن باید نظر بدهند. لیکن من فکر میکنم ترجمهی هاشمیان نه خیلی عالی است و نه خیلی بد است. ترجمه میانه و متوسطی است که قابلیت خواندن را دارد. البته این نظر شخصی من است.
4. دوستانی که کتاب را خوانده اند یا نخوانده اند در صورتی که دوست دار سینما و اهل فیلم هستند حتما فیلم خوب اقتباس شده از کتاب را به کارگردانی ییری منزل هموطن هرابال ببینند.
(I served the king of England 2006-7.4 & Meta, 73- Jiri Menzel)
5. دوستانی که طالب خواندن کتاب هستند در صورت نیاز و علاقه مندی به بنده بگویند که پی دی اف انگلیسی آن را در اختیارشان قرار دهم چرا که قسمتهای حذفی و سانسوری آن را هایلایت کردهام.
و در آخر چقدر این نویسندگان چک خوب هستند و چقدر آنها را دوست دارم. -
Czech writer, Bohumil Hrabal, is a raconteur par excellence. “I Served the King of England” is a highly entertaining story about how the unbelievable comes true many times over for Ditě. When we first make his acquaintance, he is only age 15 and a busboy at the Grand Prague Hotel. The story follows Ditě’s colorful career in the hotel industry from busboy to waiter, to lead waiter and to hotel owner; his sexual exploits; his self-awakening. In essence, it is the story of Ditě, a pint-size man trying to find his way in the world and to gain respect. The novel also offers glimpses of life in Czechslovakia before and after the German occupation in World War II. I derived much pleasure from Hrabal’s vivid depiction of the otherwise invisible operations behind buzzling hotels and the unimaginable cuisine (lung in sour sauce, anyone?) served in their fancy restaurants. The novel is uproariously funny (for a good stretch) and yet it is unsuspectingly profound in its observation of our human aspirations and needs.
Hrabal’s character caricatures are memorable and a joy to read. I grew to love a few of the key waiters who are influential in mentoring Ditě and honing his skills of observation.
An intoxicating quality permeates Hrabal’s prose and the settings that he paints. There is a sense of wild abandon ("free-spending gaiety and debauchery”), a celebration of wealth and the frivolity of literally throwing money to the four winds. The writing is cheeky, saucy, ribald. Then the narrative takes on a sober and darker tone as it segues into the German occupation of Czechoslovakia. Unpleasant events happen to Ditě but the unbelievable also keeps coming true for him.
The novel is graced with many pleasing and touching episodes that merit re-reading.
Read “I Served the King of England”. It exceeds expectations on many counts. Five brilliant stars. -
This is a highly regarded mid-century novel by an acclaimed Czech writer that wasn't translated into English until late last century. It tells the story of Ditie, an impoverished youth who starts work selling hot dogs in a train station and works his way up through the service industry as life around him is torn asunder by the second World War.
I wasn't quite sure what to make of this novel at first, with its page-long sentences, dearth of female characters and absurdist, fairy-tale undertones. But as I got deeper into the book, the innocent voice of the determined Ditie began to grow on me. As he moved through the ranks of restaurant service, I also got caught up in the story of the German invasion as seen through the eyes of a Czech who had the luck/misfortune to fall in love with a German nurse.
Though buffeted on the winds of fate both good and bad, Ditie comes through it all with a remarkably clear-eyed understanding of his place in history. I closed the book with a great deal of affection for this wise fool of a character and the insights he shared about his unusual life. -
(review in English below)
Muito bom!
Gostei imenso desta história e sobretudo da maneira como está contada, praticamente sem pausas, que se lê quase sem respirar e que se torna viciante. Ficava mesmo chateada quando era obrigada a interromper a leitura!
O narrador conta-nos a história da sua vida, recheada de episódios fantásticos/fantasiosos/fantasiados, que nos envolvem numa espécie de magia à qual somos de vez em quando arrancados e devolvidos à realidade de forma brutal.
Gostei da escrita, ao mesmo tempo despretensiosa e quase poética, e da forma como senti que se ia subtilmente alterando para reflectir a evolução do protagonista - mas pode ter sido só impressão minha...
E gostei da "explicação necessária" do final, embora tenha de ler outras obras do autor para perceber se a forma como esta foi escrita se deveu realmente ao que ele refere ou se traduz um estilo próprio.
Altamente recomendado!
So good!
I really enjoyed this story, especially the way it's told, virtually with no pauses, making you read it almost without breathing. It becomes addictive, I was truly upset when I was forced to interrupt!
The narrator tells us the story of his life, filled with fantastic/fanciful/whimsy episodes, enwrapping us in a kind of magic from which we're sometimes ripped out and returned to reality in a brutal way.
I liked the writing, unpretentious and almost poetic at the same time, and the way it subtly changes along the book to reflect the evolution of the protagonist - but maybe it was just a feeling of mine...
And I liked the "necessary explanation" in the end, although I'll have to read other works by this author to understand if the way this one is written was in fact due to what he says or if it's just his own style.
Highly recommended! -
Това е бил първият ми Храбал и сега виждам, че съвсем бавно съм отварял очите си за тази прелест. Книгата е с велик финал, но не се "случва в последните страници" - там съм отворил очите си, велика е от самото начало. И вижте, къде ще срещнете такова впримчващо и нахакано начало, което за секунда ще отмие всички струпали се мисли в главата ти - скупчени на "витрината" и винаги готови да посрещнат с мърморене всяка нова книга. След това актуализирано предисловие ще оставя и старите си бръщолевици.
Хм. Странна книга. Започва с трудния живот на хлапак болезнено нуждаеш се от внимание, доказване, уважение. Ярки образи и описания с изречения от по страница и половина..., от средата рязко се завъртат събития... и изведнъж - БАААМ!, книгата се случва в последните 21 страници... -
Benditas as almas que conseguem trazer-nos tantas emoções, estejam elas mascaradas com a ideia da alegria, da festa, do riso ou camufladas com o disfarce do choro e da tristeza, benditos aqueles que, através das suas paixões, das suas histórias, das suas fantasias nos elevam a um estado de beleza, de autenticidade, de excecionalidade únicos! É assim que me ocorre resumir este, embora não surpreendente mas magnífico “Eu que Servi o Rei de Inglaterra”. É Bohumil Hrabal no seu melhor, quem Milan Kundera acredita ser uma das encarnações mais autênticas da Praga mágica e, por conseguinte, um dos autores checos mais respeitados em todo o mundo literário. Felizmente, temos assistido em Portugal à reedição de alguns dos seus títulos, como por exemplo “Uma Solidão Demasiado Ruidosa” e o “Terno Bárbaro” (ambos de leitura obrigatória!).
É puramente fascinante a forma como Hrabal aborda a “realidade incrível”, ou seja, quando o "inacreditável torna-se realidade", a partir da mente do narrador, que de groom sobe na hierarquia como empregado de mesa e, mais tarde, proprietário do seu próprio hotel, não ele que serviu o rei da Inglaterra, mas sim o Imperador da Abissínia, num banquete algo macabro, a meu ver, ao colocar na mesa, um camelo recheado por antílopes, por sua vez, providos de perus, peixes e ovos cozidos, uma vitualha própria da fantasia, espero, do seu autor.
Ri muito!! Sim, é impossível ficarmos indiferentes ao humor por vezes subtil, perspicaz, acutilante mas também por vezes lírico (é extraordinário o tempo em que o narrador passa num campo de concentração para milionários) que Hrabal, e acho que só ele, no universo dos autores checos, é capaz de concretizar através da sua escrita.
Mas também chorei … comovi-me com a sua solidão, com a narrativa do cavalinho, do pastor alemão, da cabra e da gata, principalmente, quando descreve a morte do cão, assassinado pelos aldeões que, pura e simplesmente, sentiam a falta do seu dono – o narrador – que deixou de ir à aldeia porque o canídeo, de inteligente, fazia ele próprio as compras, cuja lista levava acoplada …
A distinção que o personagem principal recebera do rei da Abissínia, transfigurou-lhe ou talvez permitiu-lhe almejar um estado cujo objetivo seria a riqueza material, tornar-se multimilionário, na perspetiva em que todos entendessem que um groom de hotel de província também poderia sonhar e conquistar os seus objetivos. A ação, que se desenvolve anos antes da 2.ª Grande Guerra e termina com a ocupação soviética da então Checoslováquia, está repleta de momentos fascinantes, que alternam entre a alegria e a tristeza, mas que nos remetem para um mundo de fantasia, de alguma irrealidade mas fundamentada, concreta, como se aquilo que o autor nos conta, pudesse realmente ter acontecido. Ainda por cima, as cenas eróticas são de uma sensualidade avassaladora, que amante ficaria indiferente às ideias sensuais de um jovem que, pelos vistos, não teria grandes atrativos físicos, mas que soube, desde o primeiro dia, converter as suas fantasias em algo definido entre a luxúria, o prazer e o sentido estético.
Muita criatividade, muita imaginação, muito sentido de humor mas também muita tristeza, muita solidão (é incrível a cena dos espelhos já quase no fim do livro), muita adaptação a realidades diferentes, muitos confrontos com as várias tonalidades que a vida encerra. O que só me leva a perguntar … Não é de tudo isso que a vida, sem fantasias, é feita? -
Eu tinha apenas acabado de chegar ao Hotel Na Cidade Dourada de Praga quando o patrão me pegou pela orelha esquerda e, puxando-a disse: «A partir de agora és o groom aqui, e não te esqueças: tu não viste nada, não ouviste nada! Repete!». Respondi então que não tinha visto nada nem ouvido nada, no hotel. A seguir o patrão puxou-me pela orelha direita e disse: «Mas não te esqueças também que tens que ver tudo e ouvir tudo! Repete!» Então repeti, admirado que veria tudo e ouviria tudo. E assim comecei.
… e assim começou a ascensão do pequeno Ditie (Pikkolo), de ajudante de empregado de mesa e vendedor de salsichas quentes na estação de comboios, a hoteleiro milionário. Aprendeu com quem serviu o rei de Inglaterra e ele próprio serviu o imperador da Abissínia. Assistiu à ocupação da Checoslováquia pela Alemanha, cumpre o sonho de se tornar um proprietário de hotel milionário, mas perde tudo com a instauração do comunismo. Mas o que perde em bens materiais ganha em percepção e sabedoria; o declínio material é acompanhado pela elevação do nível da consciência e do auto-conhecimento.
A história oscila entre a parábola política e a reflexão introspectiva, e a escrita, caracterizada por frases muito longas, com muitas e diferentes ideias encadeadas, praticamente sem parágrafos, e por um simbolismo marcado, consegue ser simultaneamente poética, naïf, divertida e melancólica. Para mim não foi uma leitura ligeira (bem pelo contrário) e também não me deslumbrou como
Uma Solidão Demasiado Ruidosa, mas ainda assim gostei bastante.
No prefácio, intitulado “Algumas regras inacreditáveis que se tornaram realidade para ler o livro”, diz a primeira dessas regras:
Leiam pois, Eu que servi o Rei de Inglaterra quando chove, e a saberem que chove lá fora; leiam quando o sol brilha e a saberem que as plantas se orientam nessa direcção; leiam quando faz frio e o fogo abre a madeira. Em resumo leiam-no sem se esquecerem de traduzir o mundo em volta.
E é isso.
-
Great characters don't die: take Svejk for example. Last seen hunting mongrels to smuggle into the purebred boudoirs of gullible dowagers , he emerges, after a Van Winklian absence, in the novels and persona of Bohumil Hrabal, arguably central Europe's greatest pure novelist of the post WWII era (by "pure novelist" here I mean something like what sportswriters mean when they describe a basketball player as a "pure shooter" or "pure point guard": nobility, heredity, mystical powers). I Served the King of England is one of my favorite chapters in the Hrabalian human comedy: a deeply loveable masterpiece. It affirms without being coy and bubbles without being annoying, in part because B.H is never afraid of reminding us (as Hasek liked to) that his hero is an idiot. Not someone masquerading as an idiot, but an actual idiot. Does the trick sound familiar (Quixote, Mishkin, Homer Simpson)? Well then number Hrabal where he belongs, among Davenport's "secret Christians". Kind of like Friar Tuck.
-
Geras ironijos ir absurdo realybėje šmaikštus pliūpsnis.
Lyg prie vieno stalo susėdę Orvelas, Grasas, Steinbekas ir Hašekas, išgėrę gerokai čekiško alaus ir dar paskui brendžio, būtų bendrą knygą parašę. -
Помитащ текст! Не знам дали тази книга се чете на един дъх, защото колкото повече напредва текстът, толкова повече ти спира дъхът и усещаш, че честичко преглъщаш буцата, която ти засяда в гърлото. Но се чете за един ден. Особено след първата глава. Писането на Храбъл ми напомни за Балзак - писал е сякаш без да спре, без да се откъсне, а точките и запетаите са сложени само от уважение към граматиката. А и за да си избършеш някоя и друга сълза. Цялата книга е един поток от думи, който се завихря като водовъртеж или торнадо и те всмуква, а ти и не искаш да се дърпаш. Прав е Ромен Гари като казва, че има хора и неща, от които струи лъчезарна тъга.
А всъщност, книгата е история за това как невероятното става реалност. Един човек, един живот и много чувственост. Към живота и към хората. За самотата изпълнена с образи, мечти и спомени и за това, че винаги може и има още. И още."И невероятното, което ставаше реалност не ме напусна, аз вярвах в невероятното, в изненадващата изненада, в изумлението, това бе моята звезда, която ме съпровождаше в живота навярно само заради това, да докаже сама на себе си, че някъде я чака нещо изненадващо, а аз, виждайки постоянно нейния отблясък в очите си, все повече и повече вярвах в нея, все повече и повече заради това, че така както ме бе възкачила чак до милионер, така и сега, след като бях смъкнат от небесата долу, на земята, на четири крака, откривах, че моята звезда свети по-ярко от всеки друг път, че едва сега ще мога да надникна в самото ѝ сърце, в епицентъра ѝ, че моите очи бяха така отслабнали от всичко, което бях преживял до този момент, че ще могат повече да изживеят и повече да понесат. Навярно за да мога повече да виждам и позная, бе трябвало да се обезсмисля."
"..., бях видял това вироглаво и невъзпитано момиче, което разговаряше с професора както си знаеше от родното си Коширже, и което добродушният професор бе научил на всичко онова, което подобава на една образована дама... сега мина покрай мен и ме подмина, като варварски отдел в университетска библиотека, и аз безпогрешно знаех, че тази девойка няма да е щастлива, но и че животът ѝ ще бъде прекрасно тъжен, че да живее с нея за всеки мъж ще бъде мъка и удовлетворение едновременно..."
"Плещех в кръчмата несвързано за това, че красотата има и друго лице, че красотата на природата около нас е във взаимоотношенията ѝ с човека, в това как той е способен да я обича, да обича и всичко онова, което е неприятно, занемарено, да обича околния пейзаж и в ония часове дни и седмици, когато вали, когато бързо се мръква, когато човек седи край печката и си мисли, че е станало десет, а то е едва шест и половина, да обича и това, че човек един ден почва да разговаря сам със себе си, че си приказва с кончето, кучето, котката и козата, но все пак най му е драго, когато си говори сам на себе си, най-напред тихичко, все едно, че си играе на кино, оставя спомените като кадри от миналото да текат пред очите му, по-късно обаче, както бях направил и аз, почва да си общува със себе си, да се пита, да си отправя въпроси, да изслушва отговорите им и да се стреми да открие в самия себе си онова най-съкровено, като прокурор да отправя към себе си обвинения и сам да се защитава, и така, радвайки се, в разговора със самия себе си да стигне до смисъла на живота, не до онова, което е било и се е случило отдавна, а до онова, което предстои, що за път е този, който съм изминал и който още трябва да извървя и изобщо имам ли още време пред себе си, за да стигна в мислите си до онова спокойствие, което предпазва човек от копнежа да избяга от самотата, да избяга от ония най-съществени въпроси, за които човек трябва да има и сила и кураж да поставя... И така аз, пътният кантонер, който всяка събота до вечерта засядаше в кръчмата, колкото по-дълго седях там, толкова повече се предоставях на хората, толкова повече мислех и за кончето си отвън пред кръчмата, за гнетящата ме самото в моя нов дом, виждах как всички хора ми затъмняват онова, което исках да видя и позная, че всички просто си се забавляват, както се бях забавлявал и аз, всички отлагат за по-късно онова, чийто отговор един ден трябва да открият, ако имат късмет, разбира се, да имат време за това преди смъртта... впрочем в тази кръчма бях установил, че същността на живота е във въпросите за смъртта, как ли ще се държа, когато се изправя пред нея, че всъщност не смъртта, а самото търсене на отговорите, от гледна точка на безкрайността и вечността, е вече разговор, че самото намиране на отговора за смъртта е вече начало на размисъл сред прекрасното и за прекрасното, защото да се насладиш на безсмислието на своя път, който обикновено винаги свършва преждевременно, тази наслада и изживяване на собствената кончина, изпълват човека с горчивина, сиреч с красота."
-
حیرتانگیز
-
"But I didn't want to be seen by human eyes anymore, or praised for what I'd done—all of that had left me." (226)
I lived in Prague for almost seven years, from the age of nine to fourteen. I was too young at the time to have a sense of Czech literature, of course, but I'm trying to make up for it – retrospectively – by reading more Czech authors (aside from the more obvious choice of Kundera). This actually goes for the literatures of all the countries in which I've lived; sadly, I only started seriously reading when I came back to the Netherlands to study. Anyway, this was my first encounter with Hrabal. All in all it was a memorable novel – I especially liked how he managed to condense significant elements of modern Czech history (Sokolism, pre-war anti-German sentiments, WWII itself, post-war communism) in the life of a rather ordinary character. The beginning and ending were strong and compelling, but there was a large part in the middle that left me unaffected, though. But I'll definitely read more by Hrabal – his style was rather unique. -
Really strong stream-of-consciousness novel that plays fast and loose with time and stakes. The first half is especially strong - the action in various hotels is hilarious and well-observed, and Dite is that rare mixture of likeable and abhorrent. The political intersections (both World War II and the rise of Communism) are both interesting and obligatory, but I do think they occasionally slowed down the action and contributed to the general feeling of trailing off that pervaded. The ending, though a totally bizarre decision, is one I can get behind. As a whole, this thing is exceedingly devourable. It shines in its descriptions (really good bizarre sex scenes) and its insight, and I'll be remembering the banquet with the Emperor of Ethopia for a long time.
-
Really great. This book has everything I love in literature, most especially Humanity. What a massive massive heart Hrabal had.
-
Jaren geleden las ik bijna alle vertalingen van Hrabal, steeds gretig, steeds met dank aan meestervertaler Kees Mercks. Maar "Ik heb de koning van Engeland bediend", volgens sommigen zijn meesterwerk, las ik toen niet. Geen idee waarom, dus deed ik het alsnog. En ik had weer veel plezier. Het boek schijnt ook smakelijk te zijn verfilmd door Jiří Menzel: misschien moet ik daarnaar op zoek.
De anti- held en ik- figuur van dit boek is, zoals vaker bij Hrabal, een kleine man. Vrij letterlijk zelfs: het gaat om een dwergachtig kleine piccolo, die op wil klimmen in de mondaine wereld van grote mensen, en die elite-kelner en kapitaalkrachtige hoteleigenaar wil worden. Dat leidt tot een bijna onnavolgbare stroom van bizarre en soms zelfs carnavaleske ontwikkelingen, vaak hilarisch en vaak ook vol melancholie en zwarte humor. In veel scenes wordt aanstekelijk veel gedronken of veel gegeten, wat soms bijna Rabelaisiaanse taferelen oplevert vol van overvloed. Dat leidt tot zinsneden als: "en op die reuzetafel legden ze de kameel en ze lieten messen aanrukken en daarna sneden ze met lange halen die kameel door de helft en die helft ook weer door de helft en er kringelde een enorme geur uit op en aldoor was er in iedere plak vlees een stukje kameel en antilope en in die antilope kalkoen en in die kalkoen weer vis en vulling en gebakken kransen met gekookte eieren...". De stijl van Hrabal verhevigt nog die overvloedigheid en gulzigheid: de ene ellenlange zin wordt ademloos aan de andere geregen, in alle zinnen en zinsdelen is het tempo moordend, en binnen de zinnen wordt de ene ongelofelijke anekdote op de andere gestapeld en van de ene ongerijmde associatie naar de andere bewogen. De stijl is kortom even onnavolgbaar als een met drank overgoten carnavalsfeest. En even roeswekkend bovendien.
Dankzij deze roeswekkende en carnavaleske stijl, en dankzij Hrabals barokke fantasie, krijgt zelfs het meest laag bij de grondse of banale nog extra luister. Een vrouwelijke opblaaspop wordt bijvoorbeeld als volgt smakelijk aangeprezen: "Hier schenkt een door uw eigen adem geschapen vrouw u als man opnieuw geloof in uzelf en dus een nieuwe potentie en erectie, maar ook een schitterende bevrediging". Waarbij het bijna mythische beeld van een met eigen adem geschapen vrouw zonder enig mankeren wordt gebruikt bij zoiets profaans als een sekspop. Maar bij Hrabal kan dat, omdat het profane en het verhevene bij hem altijd hecht zijn verweven: alle zo verschillende aspecten van het leven vermengen zich bij hem in één orgiastische en carnavaleske stroom. Publieke vrouwen worden door de ik- figuur dan ook bladzijden lang met bloemblaadjes versierd en door die bloemblaadjes getransformeerd in ontroerende esthetische objecten, of in gewijde tempeldienaressen. Uit het raam gegooid vuil ondergoed van handelsreizigers wordt gebruikt als rode draad van een lang en ontroerend jeugdverhaal. En de verkoper van snijmachines waarmee je elk vlees tot onzichtbaar dunne reepjes kunt snijden vergelijkt zijn firma met de katholieke kerk, want "die handelt ergens in wat nog nooit iemand heeft gezien of aangeraakt en wat niemand zolang de wereld deze wereld is, is tegengekomen en dat is, welaan, dat wat God wordt genoemd". Wat dan weer mooi rijmt met latere passages waarin de religieuze beleving wat meer op de voorgrond staat, uiteraard in combinatie met carnavaleske elementen en profane grappen.
Door dat alles rolde ik als lezer van de ene prettige en stimulerende verbazing in de andere. En die verbazing werd nog vergroot door de soms forse contrasten in dit verhaal. Op enig moment wordt de ik- figuur helemaal verliefd op Liza, die heel mooi is maar, belangrijker nog, even groot (of liever: klein) is als hij. Een heel ontroerend moment. Alleen, dit alles speelt tijdens de Duitse bezetting van Tsjechoslowakije, Liza staat aan de kant van de Duitsers, en om Liza te krijgen geeft de ik- figuur al zijn vroegere Tsjechische trots op. Hij collaboreert zelfs met enkele zeer foute nazi- figuren en nazi- gedachten. Deels overigens ook om als "kleine man" te kunnen opklimmen door zijn grotere maar foute Duitse vrienden. Bovendien is hij na WO II een regelrechte OW-er: hij is dan uiterst kapitaalkrachtig, maar wel door verkoop van kostbare postzegels die Liza geroofd heeft van gedeporteerde Joden.... Kortom, onze fysiek zo kleine anti- held heeft ook als mens een aantal minder grootse kanten. Gek genoeg echter bleef hij mij voor mij een aanstekelijk tragi- komisch personage en een lachwekkend- ontroerende figuur. En gek genoeg ontroert die ik- figuur mij ook met zijn weemoedige blik op liefdesparen uit het Duitse leger, die weten dat hen waarschijnlijk de dood wacht aan het Russisch front: "pas nu stuitte ik op het wetmatige knelpunt, namelijk dat het goed mogelijk was dat deze mensen elkaar nooit meer zouden weerzien... en die mogelijkheid maakte die mensen mooi, dat was die nieuwe mens, niet die zegevierende, hees gebrulde en hooghartige mens, maar juist zijn tegendeel: een deemoedige, in zichzelf gekeerde mens, met de mooie ogen van een opgeschrikt diertje... en ook heb ik met die ogen van die liefdesparen, gehuwd of ongehuwd, want ook echtelieden werden hier met het front in het vizier weer echte liefdesparen, ik heb geleerd om met hun ogen naar het landschap te kijken, naar de bloemen op tafel, naar spelende kinderen, naar het feit dat ieder uur het Allerheiligste was, want de dag en nacht voor het vertrek sliep het liefdespaar niet meer, niet dat ze niet in bed zouden zijn, maar daar was iets meer dan bed, ogen waren hier en een menselijke relatie zoals ik die in haast heel mijn leven als kelner nog niet met zo'n grote kracht had gevoeld... Eigenlijk was ik, hoewel ik kelner was en soms ook ober, hier als in een groot theater om een of ander verliefd, droevig stuk of film te zien..... en ook merkte ik dat de innigste relatie van de mens tot mens stilte is, zo'n stil uurtje, daarna een kwartier en dan die laatste paar minuten wanneer het rijtuig voor kwam rijden [...]".
Die laatste passage treft mij bovendien door zijn combinatie van intensiteit en weemoed, en door de wijze waarop juist die weemoed - het besef van de nakende dood en het voorbijgaan van alles- die intensiteit voedt. De ik- figuur komt later zelfs tot de conclusie dat die weemoed heel essentieel is voor zijn eigen zo carnavaleske leven en levensverhaal: "eigenlijk heb ik daar in die herberg altijd vastgesteld dat het wezen van het leven is om vragen te stellen naar de dood, hoe zal ik me gedragen als mijn tijd gekomen is, dat eigenlijk de dood, niet het jezelf- vragen- stellen, een gesprek is onder de invalshoek van het oneindige en de eeuwigheid, dat het oplossen van de dood het begin is van denken in termen van schoonheid en inzake schoonheid, want het proeven van de onzinnigheid die je te gaan hebt en die die hoe dan ook eindigt met een voortijdig heengaan, en het genieten en beleven van je eigen ondergang, dat alles vervult je met bitterheid en dus met schoonheid". En eigenlijk expliciteert hij dan iets wat je als lezer allang had gemerkt: dat de carnavaleske jolijt over ons zo bizarre levenspad in dit boek steeds meer gepaard gaat met het melancholieke gevoel over de onzinnigheid en eindigheid van dat levenspad, en dat de uitbundige roes steeds intenser wordt juist door het besef van de nakende en veel te vroege dood.
Ik werd enorm opgevrolijkt door de bizarre fantasie en carnavaleske uitbundigheid van "Ik heb de koning van Engeland bediend". Ik was zeer gecharmeerd van de zo kleine antiheld met al zijn foute kantjes. Ik vond bovendien de melancholieke deemoedigheid heel ontroerend, net als de verrassend originele schoonheid van veel passages. En ik vond het vooral verbazend dat Hrabal die carnavaleske uitbundigheid zo mooi wist te verknopen met melancholieke deemoedigheid. Zodat ik als lezer voor even het gevoel had dat ik in staat was om het zo treurig stemmende leven in al zijn carnavaleske intensiteit te vieren. -
Confesso che all'inizio ho auto la tentazione di abbandonare la lettura,poi sono andata avanti e in fin dei conti non me ne sono pentita.
Il protagonista è un cameriere, piccolo di statura, che vuole emergere per non sentirsi diverso. La storia va avanti tra gli avvenimenti del periodo della seconda guerra mondiale e dell'invasione nazista della Cecoslovacchia, la caduta dei tedeschi e l'avvento del comunismo. Il protagonista passa attraverso varie disavventure, si salva sempre e a me personalmente è rimasto antipatico: insegue il successo ad ogni costo, vuole diventare milionario per far dimenticare la sua diversità e lo fa, cambia idea adeguandosi a tutte le circostanze pur di ottenere quello che vuole, i soldi. Però non riesce a trovare la felicità, anzi, continua a sentirsi diverso dagli altri ed emarginato. La parte finale è per me la migliore: il protagonista va a vivere isolato in montagna con la compagnia di quattro bestie - la capra, il cavallo, la gatta e il cane lupo-. Qui comincia il cambiamento e la meditazione. Nelle ultime pagine del romanzo, che assumono un carattere di meditazione sul vivere e sullo scrivere, c'è un passo significativo in cui al protagonista viene per la prima volta nella vita voglia di cantare. Si mette a gridare una sua ipotesi di canzone ed ha la sensazione di sputare, si sente una tubatura che viene sciacquata, una stanza cui vengono strappati strati di tappezzeria, gli sembra di rovesciare fuori di sé con quel canto "scatole e cassetti pieni di cambiali scadute e di lettere e cartoline inutili".
L'unica possibilità per ricostruirsi un'identità è la parola: di qui l'inarrestabile monologare del protagonista, il linguaggio come unico mezzo per riflettere su di sé, capire, sopravvivere.
E' un romanzo surreale, quasi assurdo, triste e tragico ma con spunti di comicità. -
Este libro podría llamarse también Las aventuras del pequeño Dítie, o Yo serví al Emperador de Etiopía; lo mismo da. A Hrabal le gusta contar lo que va ocurriendo a medida que va surgiendo de su imaginación; el título o el sentido global de la historia no son tan importantes.
Arranca cada capítulo solicitando: "Escuchad bien lo que voy a contaros". Y en cada capítulo desarrolla las aventuras de este hombre pequeño en el ámbito de los restaurantes; cada capítulo una etapa, con su estilo siempre jovial y optimista.
Las vicisitudes históricas por las que pasa Chequia, sobre todo bajo el dominio nazi, son un tenue telón de fondo; lo que importa, y tal vez tenga su parte de razón, es el personaje, eternamente optimista, y sus aventuras. Un libro, como tal vez pretendía Hrabal, para atenuar el drama. -
Με κούρασε, με εκνεύρισε...βαρέθηκα. Με ανούσιες τεράστιες προτάσεις με έκταση από μισή έως 1,5 σελίδα πραγματικά δεν ένιωσα τίποτα εκτός από εκνευρισμό. Δεν συμπάθησα ούτε και αντιπάθησα τον αδιάφορο πρωταγωνιστή. Πάω παρακάτω....
-
Also available on the WondrousBooks blog.
I bought this book during my trip to Prague as part of my project to get a book or two in each new country I visit. Now, this is not my first Czech book, but I wanted to try a new Czech author nevertheless.
In my opinion, one of the best things about the book was actually the foreword. Unfortunately, I don't have the book right now, so I can't mention the author of the foreword, but they wrote a very informative, interesting and engaging analysis of both "I Served the King of England", and Hrabal's literature in general. Not knowing the author, it really helped me see some tendencies in his writing and in the themes he uses.
The book itself was not exactly to my liking. The story was rather interesting, but the atmosphere was very tight and suffocating. The main character was such a narrow-minded little man that his world was equally as small and claustrophobic. His experiences, even the ones he was most proud of and most happy about, always had a pinch of wrongness and just this general feeling about something dirty and repulsive happening. For example, as you can see in the cover of the book, he liked to put flowers in the pubic hair of the women he slept with. But those women were either prostitutes, or his Nazi-to-the-bone wife, and there was something very unpleasant and private about reading about his joy from this action.
I feel like this is something that often happens in European literature, and especially that of the ex-Communist countries. While in American literature even murder and gore are kind of shiny in description, in European literature, there is this sense of the author wanting to create shock in the reader through showing the reality in the most vulgar way possible. It is a thing I have always noticed in in every piece of art in Bulgaria - be it literature, movies, paintings, there is always sex. But it is not appealing, erotic sex. It's always the kind of description of sex which makes you feel uncomfortable and in need of a hot shower and a lot of scrubbing.
This is how I felt while reading this book. And spoiler alert for my next Czech book - The Joke, - same thing there.
One thing which was mentioned in the foreword of the book which I couldn't help but notice later on, was the fact that the character is always in need of proving himself and he is in a desperate need of attention and achieving every physical element of happiness and obtaining every material proof of success. While in character he is a spineless worm, in aspiration, he wants, and even briefly manages, to be rich and famous.
Setting everything about the story aside, Hrabal, undeniably, has a very good writing style. The descriptions he uses are very poetical and thought through. He guides the reader into his world and helps him see everything through exactly the right prism."I knew for certain that this girl could never be happy, but that her life would be sadly beautiful, and that life with her would be both an agony and a fulfillment for a man."
-
There seems to be something in the Czech water to respond to terrible events with comedic, absurdist satire. Here it feels like the reappearence of our good soldier Svejk. Detie is a man who never grows out of his boy's body and through his life is always underestimated, looked down on, suspected and dismissed. He develops the ambition to see the Prague millionaire hoteliers on their own terms and so we travel with him as we hear his journey through the grand czech hotels as busboy, waiter and head waiter, through the war - where he's even rejected to fight for his country, when he falls in love with a nazi gym teacher and leaves with her to work at a holiday camp / baby farm where Lise works as a nurse and he as a waiter to build the first generation of the aryan ubermensch, but even here nobody is interested in him, only his beautiful Aryan wife. After the war and the communist takeover, he insists he goes to the comical prison camp for millionaires (which he'd even be rejected from despite qualifying - so he marches up with his bank book and insists on being taken prisoner along with the other rich hoteliers)
Ultimately, however, he comes to find true friends only after he has lost everything and he is working in the mountains repairing a short stretch of road with his horse, a goat, a dog and a stray cat.
The tale is told in a picaresque stream of consciousness, as though you're in inebriated company with a great story teller, one tale leads into the next, each one getting more fanciful and unbelievable than the last.
Ultimately, not quite a 5 star book for me - and certainly not as good as The Good Soldier Svejk - but still a rollickingly entertaining read -
دیتی یکی از اون شخصیت های به یاد موندنیه که تا مدت ها می تونه همراه آدم باقی بمونه و کتاب هم البته کتاب دوست داشتنی ای هستش.داستان خدمتکار قد کوتاه و ریز جثه ی جاه طلب که حتا یک دقیقه هم دست از رویا پردازی و خواستن نمی کشه و درنهایت هم از پس جمله های خنده دار و داستان های "باور نکردنی "و انبوه حماقت ها و منفعت طلبی های باز هم "باور نکردنی "تمام رویاهاش رو توو بیداری زندگی می کنه:
درست مثل صاحب کار های قبلیش با زن های زیبا معاشرت می کنه، درست مثل پولدارتریناشون با اسکناس هاش می تونه خونه اش رو چند بار فرش کنه، مثل اشراف زاده ترینشون خرج کنه و سکه هاش رو از پنجره پرت کنه بیرون و صاحب بهترین هتل ممکن بشه . با این حال بازم مورد قبول اون هایی که می خواست قرار نگرفت ویه تنهایی بزرگ باهاش باقی موند.
دیتی بعد مصادره ی اموالش حتا زندگی عجیب تری رو در پیش میگیره. کار می کنه ، خستگی می کشه و با یه فیلسوف و معلم فرانسه آشنا می شه، با چند تا حیوون ماه ها به تنهایی زندگی می کنه. با تصویر خودش در آینه دوست می شه. خودش رو و زن خیالی اش رو خیلی خیالی توو ایستگاه قطار در آغوش می کشه و تصمیم می گیره بعد از مرگش تو دو تا رودخونه، تو مرز دو تا دنیا جاری بشه.
دیتی این قدر پیش میره که زیبایی رو حالا همه جا می بینه . بوی مرده های نسل ها پیش رو از آبی که ��ی نوشه می شنوه. دیتی دیگه نه چیزی می خواد نه اندوه چیزی توو دلش جا داره و در نهایت به همون تنهایی و گمنامی ای پناه می بره که توو تموم زندگیش باهاش جنگیده و همه ی این ها رو زیر برف سنگین و "باورنکردنی" ای که می باره تو قالب کتابی که حالا منو شما قراره دست بگیریم و بخونیم می نویسه.
نثر سه بخش اول کتاب کمیک و تند و جذابه و بخش آخر شاعرانه و گاهی هم فیلسوفانه. خوندن اش خالی از لطف نیست.
خرداد 95
