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yarnmaus's review against another edition
dark
inspiring
reflective
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
thelateauthor's review against another edition
5.0
I read this in three sittings, but I could just as easily have done it in one. Just a fabulous, short but wonderful, very captivating read.
“The country robs a thinking person of everything and gives him virtually nothing, whereas the city is perpetually giving. One has simply to see this, and of course feel it, but very few either see it or feel it, with the result that most people are sentimentally drawn to the country, where in no time they are inevitably sucked dry, deflated, and destroyed. The mind cannot develop in the country; it can develop only in the city, yet today everyone flees from the city to the country because people are basically too indolent to use their minds, on which the city makes the greatest demands, and so they choose to perish surrounded by nature, admiring it without knowing it, instead of seizing upon all the benefits the city has to offer, which have increased and multiplied quite miraculously over the years, and never more so than in recent years.”
Here Bernhard writes only in extreme contrasting dualities; everything is either horrible or magnificent, dull or insane, good or bad, dead or alive; there’s nothing in between.
The story is exactly 100 pages long and there are strong truths from Bernhard on nearly every page. It is PRECISELY 100 pages, since there’s absolutely no white space to be found and it’s completely devoid of chapters and paragraph breaks. It sucks you right in and doesn’t let go, there’s no place to rest.
From start to finish it’s a story about friendship and about living in one’s mind. Told in a frenetic way as if you’re closely experiencing the writer’s thoughts, or at least as if you’re spending an evening with Bernhard in one of his favorite Viennese cafés. It’s a personal account, but ultimately it’s the classic tale about aging and looking back on life and seeing the events, people and conversations that have shaped you the way you are.
“I submitted to the indignity of these award ceremonies—until the age of forty. I let them piss on me in all these city halls and assembly rooms, for to award someone a prize is no different from pissing on him. And to receive a prize is no different from allowing oneself to be pissed on, because one is being paid for it. I have always felt that being awarded a prize was not an honor but the greatest indignity imaginable. For a prize is always awarded by incompetents who want to piss on the recipient. And they have a perfect right to do so, because he is base and despicable enough to receive it.”
I think this is a great start into Bernhard’s work, it is for me at least, I can’t wait to read more of his stories.
“The country robs a thinking person of everything and gives him virtually nothing, whereas the city is perpetually giving. One has simply to see this, and of course feel it, but very few either see it or feel it, with the result that most people are sentimentally drawn to the country, where in no time they are inevitably sucked dry, deflated, and destroyed. The mind cannot develop in the country; it can develop only in the city, yet today everyone flees from the city to the country because people are basically too indolent to use their minds, on which the city makes the greatest demands, and so they choose to perish surrounded by nature, admiring it without knowing it, instead of seizing upon all the benefits the city has to offer, which have increased and multiplied quite miraculously over the years, and never more so than in recent years.”
Here Bernhard writes only in extreme contrasting dualities; everything is either horrible or magnificent, dull or insane, good or bad, dead or alive; there’s nothing in between.
The story is exactly 100 pages long and there are strong truths from Bernhard on nearly every page. It is PRECISELY 100 pages, since there’s absolutely no white space to be found and it’s completely devoid of chapters and paragraph breaks. It sucks you right in and doesn’t let go, there’s no place to rest.
From start to finish it’s a story about friendship and about living in one’s mind. Told in a frenetic way as if you’re closely experiencing the writer’s thoughts, or at least as if you’re spending an evening with Bernhard in one of his favorite Viennese cafés. It’s a personal account, but ultimately it’s the classic tale about aging and looking back on life and seeing the events, people and conversations that have shaped you the way you are.
“I submitted to the indignity of these award ceremonies—until the age of forty. I let them piss on me in all these city halls and assembly rooms, for to award someone a prize is no different from pissing on him. And to receive a prize is no different from allowing oneself to be pissed on, because one is being paid for it. I have always felt that being awarded a prize was not an honor but the greatest indignity imaginable. For a prize is always awarded by incompetents who want to piss on the recipient. And they have a perfect right to do so, because he is base and despicable enough to receive it.”
I think this is a great start into Bernhard’s work, it is for me at least, I can’t wait to read more of his stories.
madfil's review against another edition
5.0
(25 January, 2024)
Holy moly is this ever good! It feels right somehow: a old coot bitching about the world and the people, I love it! Meaningless awards, idiotic cronies whose sole use is kissing and licking some fool's ass, crappy days wasted simply because they are crappy. Pseudo-Thomas hates his reality but he is aware, like most people are not, that he is defined by it. He keeps repeating the most inane stuff, almost as a way to anchor himself to his world, it is profoundly sad to witness. He is also defined by the people he knows yet never by who knows him. At no point (almost?) does he see himself through someone else's eyes, denoting a keen self-awareness that is all too rare.
Enter Paul Wittgenstein, the titular nephew, a singular person and madman who might understand how things truly are. Funny, no? Blindly follow rules laid down by drones, one is sane, think things through and unveil the emptiness of everyday life, one is mad. Paul has the courage to live as he wants and he affects others - and himself - by how he thinks, talks, acts and lives. In the end, Paul is a victim of himself.
The scary part? Fictional (and real?) Thomas Bernhard struggles to find meaning to life, there is an implicit acceptance of the emptiness of it all but it's too reluctant, too half-hearted to give him any peace. If one wants proof he finds life unendurable, one may find it in the fact he is often thinking of the next thing to do, seldom on what he is presently doing (a disease few today see as a problem, by the way). He might be a bad Absurdist or he might simply hate ordinary, everyday stupidity.
Might he follow his friend Paul?
Holy moly is this ever good! It feels right somehow: a old coot bitching about the world and the people, I love it! Meaningless awards, idiotic cronies whose sole use is kissing and licking some fool's ass, crappy days wasted simply because they are crappy. Pseudo-Thomas hates his reality but he is aware, like most people are not, that he is defined by it. He keeps repeating the most inane stuff, almost as a way to anchor himself to his world, it is profoundly sad to witness. He is also defined by the people he knows yet never by who knows him. At no point (almost?) does he see himself through someone else's eyes, denoting a keen self-awareness that is all too rare.
Enter Paul Wittgenstein, the titular nephew, a singular person and madman who might understand how things truly are. Funny, no? Blindly follow rules laid down by drones, one is sane, think things through and unveil the emptiness of everyday life, one is mad. Paul has the courage to live as he wants and he affects others - and himself - by how he thinks, talks, acts and lives. In the end, Paul is a victim of himself.
The scary part? Fictional (and real?) Thomas Bernhard struggles to find meaning to life, there is an implicit acceptance of the emptiness of it all but it's too reluctant, too half-hearted to give him any peace. If one wants proof he finds life unendurable, one may find it in the fact he is often thinking of the next thing to do, seldom on what he is presently doing (a disease few today see as a problem, by the way). He might be a bad Absurdist or he might simply hate ordinary, everyday stupidity.
Might he follow his friend Paul?
poloniumblood's review against another edition
lighthearted
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.75
solstraalen's review against another edition
3.0
«Fra benken iakttok jeg ekornene som overalt i den kjempemessige, herfra nærmest endeløse parken klatret opp og ned i trærne som så ut til å ha en eneste lidenskap: de snappet til seg papirlommetørklærne som de lungesyke pasientene hadde kastet fra seg overalt på bakken og raste opp i trærne med dem. Overalt løp de med papirlommetørklærne i munnen, i alle retninger, helt til man i skumringen bare kunne se papirlommetørklærne som hvite punkter som fór frem og tilbake. Jeg satt der og nøt dette synet som jeg naturlig nok knyttet mine tanker til.»
insearch's review against another edition
challenging
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
juliahoermayer's review against another edition
dark
reflective
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Loveable characters? No
4.0