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Tala de Thomas Bernhard
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Tala (original: 1984; edição: 2007)

de Thomas Bernhard, Miguel Sáenz (Tradutor)

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9621821,619 (4.18)17
Thomas Bernhard, one of the most distinct, celebrated, and perverse of 20th century writers, took his own life in 1989. Perhaps the greatest Austrian writer of the 20th century, Bernhard's vision in novels like Woodcutters was relentlessly bleak and comically nihilistic. His prose is torrential and his style unmistakable. Bernhard is the missing link between Kafka, Beckett, Michel Houellebecq and Lars von Trier; without Bernhard, the literature of alienation and self-contempt would be bereft of its great practitioner. Woodcutters is widely recognised as his masterpiece. Over the course of a few hours, following a performance of Ibsen's The Wild Duck, we are in the company of the Auersbergers, and our narrator, who never once leaves the relative comfort of his 'wing-backed chair' where he sips at a glass of champagne. As they anticipate the arrival of the star actor, and the commencement of dinner, the narrator of Woodcutters dismantles the hollow pretentiousness at the heart of the Austrian bourgeoisie. The effect is devastating; the horror only redeemed by the humour.… (mais)
Membro:gabs
Título:Tala
Autores:Thomas Bernhard
Outros autores:Miguel Sáenz (Tradutor)
Informação:Madrid : Alianza, 2007.
Coleções:Read & owned
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Etiquetas:Nenhum(a)

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Woodcutters de Thomas Bernhard (1984)

Adicionado recentemente porDzaowan, TyroPrate, elenamnl, paco61, OpenBooksOnTheGrass, brookeklebe, Gorbaev
Bibliotecas HistóricasGillian Rose
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Inglês (15)  Francês (1)  Alemão (1)  Italiano (1)  Todos os idiomas (18)
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Thomas Bernhard is my go-to author when I need to read a Thomas Bernhard novel. That is to say, I've developed a taste for Thomas Bernhard. Just as in classical music I sometimes have a sudden aching desire that only hearing a Bruckner symphony can satisfy, I'm now periodically subject to the odd, fierce, undeniable Bernhard craving.

Seated in my wingchair, I found Woodcutters screamingly funny. The narrator protagonist, is the ultimate early mid-century Viennese shaky, pretentious, breathlessly non-stop failed musician/composer's ego who hates his oldest friends even more than they hate him. A more acidic send-up of an artificial society you will be unlikely to find. A caveat, though: after finishing this you may find yourself having purchased your own wingchair and sitting and sitting in it as your mind's most insistently claustrophobic, neurotic loop tape plays and plays and plays. ( )
  Cr00 | Apr 1, 2023 |
Elkin's synopsis is correct: "The 'late style' is an unraveled 'middle style'," though he is mistaken to count as flaw that the narrator, though he is narrowly Bernhard himself, does not engage in discussion with others at the so-called Artistic Dinner as Person of Interest.

The Bernhardian narrator is literally Invisible i.e. DOES NOT REFLECT. This is essential, and clearest in his works which double back to reflect upon the original speaker e.g. Correction in which the pulmonary invalid disappears entirely.

This is a love story, but also possibly Bernhard's least successful work. ( )
  Joe.Olipo | Nov 26, 2022 |
> Esprit, No. 135 (2) (Février 1988), pp. 135-138 : https://www.jstor.org/stable/24469124 (Première page)
> Babelio : https://www.babelio.com/livres/Bernhard-Des-arbres-a-abattre/6348
> BAnQ (Le devoir, 23 janv. 1988) : https://collections.banq.qc.ca/ark:/52327/2761340
  Joop-le-philosophe | Feb 26, 2021 |
It says something about modernity that Austria chose to ban this Bernhard novel, the one that ends (spoiler alert, but really, this is a Bernhard novel, and you're not reading for plot) with a (for Bernhard) grand affirmation of the worthwhileness of human and specifically Viennese existence, to wit, everything is worth hating, but everything is also worth loving.

Austria, c'est nous: more worried about being personally offended than about rampant nihilism.

That aside, this is great. Not quite the stylistic brilliance of The Loser, but very good. I occasionally worry about diminishing returns with Tommy, but so far so good. It helps that he mocks people who claim to be interested in Wittgenstein:

"That Joana should commit suicide was the last thing they would have expected, the Auersbergers had said in the Graben, and before rushing off with all their parcels they told me that they had bought *everything by Ludwig Wittgenstein*, so that they could *immerse themselves in Wittgenstein during the coming weeks.* They've probably got Wittgenstein in the smallest parcel, I thought, the one dangling from her right arm."

I imagine that they, like so many readers of Wittgenstein, will both be ravished by his construction of the ideal logical system, outlining everything that can possibly be said in philosophy, which turns out to be nothing, and thus leaves philosophers with nothing to do--and thrilled by his belated recognition that that probably wasn't the case, nor is such a thing possible, and that academic philosophers should stop thinking it is. They will be ravished and thrilled despite not being academic philosophers.

Sigh. ( )
  stillatim | Oct 23, 2020 |
Bosco, bosco ad alto fusto, a colpi d'ascia ( )
  pkr36 | Oct 10, 2018 |
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» Adicionar outros autores (11 possíveis)

Nome do autorFunçãoTipo de autorObra?Status
Bernhard, Thomasautor principaltodas as ediçõesconfirmado
Fleckhaus, WillyDesigner da capaautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Holtzmann, ThomasNarradorautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Roinila, TarjaTradutorautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado

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While everyone was waiting for the actor, who had promised to join the dinner party in the Gentzgasse after the premiere of The Wild Duck, I observed the Auersbergers carefully from the same wing chair I had sat in nearly every day during the fifties, reflecting that it had been a grave mistake to accept their invitation. [David McLintock translation]
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Thomas Bernhard, one of the most distinct, celebrated, and perverse of 20th century writers, took his own life in 1989. Perhaps the greatest Austrian writer of the 20th century, Bernhard's vision in novels like Woodcutters was relentlessly bleak and comically nihilistic. His prose is torrential and his style unmistakable. Bernhard is the missing link between Kafka, Beckett, Michel Houellebecq and Lars von Trier; without Bernhard, the literature of alienation and self-contempt would be bereft of its great practitioner. Woodcutters is widely recognised as his masterpiece. Over the course of a few hours, following a performance of Ibsen's The Wild Duck, we are in the company of the Auersbergers, and our narrator, who never once leaves the relative comfort of his 'wing-backed chair' where he sips at a glass of champagne. As they anticipate the arrival of the star actor, and the commencement of dinner, the narrator of Woodcutters dismantles the hollow pretentiousness at the heart of the Austrian bourgeoisie. The effect is devastating; the horror only redeemed by the humour.

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