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Post by Bonobo on Aug 3, 2008 20:07:15 GMT 1
It's hard for me to be certain as my knowledge of Polish history is not very extensive (evidenced by the fact that I totally believed the comment about the soldiers going home at night), but for the most part, I think Wouk was pretty fair in his presentation of the Poles. On the one hand, he portrayed the the ordinary Poles in Warsaw as brave, heroic, and persevering during the attack by the Germans. That was a fact. It was possible but I wouldn`t call it stealing. The European armies have always had the right to confiscate civilian means of transport. In Poland the confiscation was without compensation, I belive, in richer countries it took the form of renting. So, two soldiers were trying to confiscate the car for themselves or for some officers ... That`s OK. Coming home at night was impossible because the Polish army was organised according to modern European standards, and while in the state of war, any leaving was treated as desertion punishable by death from the firing squadron. Now, after having read your explanation, I understand where Houk could have taken it from. Yes, in the old times, when Poland was a kingdom, the defence of the country depended on szlachta - the gentry. They were very unruly guys who always thought better than the king and when they didn`t like anything, they just said goodbye and left, even before battles, or organised a little revolt to make the king change his opinion/decision That was one of the reasons why Poland fell a prey to other countries - strong gentry and weak kings. |
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Post by Bonobo on Aug 3, 2008 21:18:44 GMT 1
That dialect is a dead give-away! I believe it is our friend Twain again, and this time 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn'. Yes, I knew the jargon or dialect would be easy to guess. I also continued the series of mark Twain literature... Try this. You should definitely remember this scene: Then she hoisted her tired body up and drew the comfort about her. She moved slowly to the corner and stood looking down at the wasted face, into the wide, frightened eyes. Then slowly she lay down beside him. He shook his head slowly from side to side, she loosened one side of the blanket and bared her breast. "You got to," she said. She squirmed closer and pulled his head close. "There!" she said. "There." Her hand moved behind his head and supported it. Her fingers moved gently in his hair. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously. |
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Post by pjotr on Aug 14, 2008 22:52:10 GMT 1
Now I like this book from a central-European writer in the early twenthieth century:
One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug. He lay on his armour-hard back and saw, as he lifted his head up a little, his brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections. From this height the blanket, just about ready to slide off completely, could hardly stay in place. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his circumference, flickered helplessly before his eyes.
“What’s happened to me,” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a proper room for a human being, only somewhat too small, lay quietly between the four well-known walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked collection of sample cloth goods was spread out—Samsa was a travelling salesman—hung the picture which he had cut out of an illustrated magazine a little while ago and set in a pretty gilt frame. It was a picture of a woman with a fur hat and a fur boa. She sat erect there, lifting up in the direction of the viewer a solid fur muff into which her entire forearm had disappeared.
Gregor’s glance then turned to the window. The dreary weather—the rain drops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge—made him quite melancholy. “Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all this foolishness,” he thought. But this was entirely impractical, for he was used to sleeping on his right side, and in his present state he could not get himself into this position. No matter how hard he threw himself onto his right side, he always rolled onto his back again. He must have tried it a hundred times, closing his eyes so that he would not have to see the wriggling legs, and gave up only when he began to feel a light, dull pain in his side which he had never felt before.
“O God,” he thought, “what a demanding job I’ve chosen! Day in, day out, on the road. The stresses of selling are much greater than the work going on at head office, and, in addition to that, I have to cope with the problems of travelling, the worries about train connections, irregular bad food, temporary and constantly changing human relationships, which never come from the heart. To hell with it all!” He felt a slight itching on the top of his abdomen. He slowly pushed himself on his back closer to the bed post so that he could lift his head more easily, found the itchy part, which was entirely covered with small white spots—he did not know what to make of them and wanted to feel the place with a leg. But he retracted it immediately, for the contact felt like a cold shower all over him.
He slid back again into his earlier position. “This getting up early,” he thought, “makes a man quite idiotic. A man must have his sleep. Other travelling salesmen live like harem women. For instance, when I come back to the inn during the course of the morning to write up the necessary orders, these gentlemen are just sitting down to breakfast. If I were to try that with my boss, I’d be thrown out on the spot. Still, who knows whether that mightn’t be really good for me? If I didn’t hold back for my parents’ sake, I’d have quit ages ago. I would’ve gone to the boss and told him just what I think from the bottom of my heart. He would’ve fallen right off his desk! How weird it is to sit up at that desk and talk down to the employee from way up there. The boss has trouble hearing, so the employee has to step up quite close to him. Anyway, I haven’t completely given up that hope yet. Once I’ve got together the money to pay off my parents’ debt to him—that should take another five or six years—I’ll do it for sure. Then I’ll make the big break. In any case, right now I have to get up. My train leaves at five o’clock.”
He looked over at the alarm clock ticking away by the chest of drawers. “Good God!” he thought. It was half past six, and the hands were going quietly on. It was past the half hour, already nearly quarter to. Could the alarm have failed to ring? One saw from the bed that it was properly set for four o’clock. Certainly it had rung. Yes, but was it possible to sleep through that noise which made the furniture shake? Now, it is true he had not slept quietly, but evidently he had slept all the more deeply. Still, what should he do now? The next train left at seven o’clock. To catch that one, he would have to go in a mad rush. The sample collection was not packed up yet, and he really did not feel particularly fresh and active. And even if he caught the train, there was no avoiding a blow-up with the boss, because the firm’s errand boy would have waited for the five o’clock train and reported the news of his absence long ago. He was the boss’s minion, without backbone or intelligence. Well then, what if he reported in sick? But that would be extremely embarrassing and suspicious, because during his five years’ service Gregor had not been sick even once. The boss would certainly come with the doctor from the health insurance company and would reproach his parents for their lazy son and cut short all objections with the insurance doctor’s comments; for him everyone was completely healthy but really lazy about work. And besides, would the doctor in this case be totally wrong? Apart from a really excessive drowsiness after the long sleep, Gregor in fact felt quite well and even had a really strong appetite.
As he was thinking all this over in the greatest haste, without being able to make the decision to get out of bed—the alarm clock was indicating exactly quarter to seven—there was a cautious knock on the door by the head of the bed.
“Gregor,” a voice called—it was his mother!—“it’s quarter to seven. Don’t you want to be on your way?” The soft voice! Gregor was startled when he heard his voice answering. It was clearly and unmistakably his earlier voice, but in it was intermingled, as if from below, an irrepressibly painful squeaking, which left the words positively distinct only in the first moment and distorted them in the reverberation, so that one did not know if one had heard correctly. Gregor wanted to answer in detail and explain everything, but in these circumstances he confined himself to saying, “Yes, yes, thank you mother. I’m getting up right away.” Because of the wooden door the change in Gregor’s voice was not really noticeable outside, so his mother calmed down with this explanation and shuffled off. However, as a result of the short conversation, the other family members became aware that Gregor was unexpectedly still at home, and already his father was knocking on one side door, weakly but with his fist. “Gregor, Gregor,” he called out, “what’s going on?” And, after a short while, he urged him on again in a deeper voice: “Gregor! Gregor!” At the other side door, however, his sister knocked lightly. “Gregor? Are you all right? Do you need anything?” Gregor directed answers in both directions, “I’ll be ready right away.” He made an effort with the most careful articulation and inserted long pauses between the individual words to remove everything remarkable from his voice. His father turned back to his breakfast. However, the sister whispered, “Gregor, open the door—I beg you.” Gregor had no intention of opening the door, but congratulated himself on his precaution, acquired from travelling, of locking all doors during the night, even at home.
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Post by jeanne on Aug 16, 2008 2:05:53 GMT 1
Pjotr,
Is it Kafka? Metamorphasis?
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Post by pjotr on Aug 16, 2008 18:18:51 GMT 1
Pjotr, Is it Kafka? Metamorphasis? Yes, it is Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis. I read the original version Die Verwandlung, and it is was a strange, humoristic and bizare novel, about a young man who turned into a beetle. I love Kafka's work for it's orginality, understanding of time and human social situations, psychology, and a sort of understanding of what was comming towards Europe in the near future. The Trial (German: Der Process) predicts the bureaucratic dictatorship of Communism after his death, or the Nazi bureaucracy in Central-Europe. |
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Post by jeanne on Aug 17, 2008 1:50:05 GMT 1
Pjotr, Is it Kafka? Metamorphasis? Yes, it is Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis. I read the original version Die Verwandlung, and it is was a strange, humoristic and bizare novel, about a young man who turned into a beetle. I love Kafka's work for it's orginality, understanding of time and human social situations, psychology, and a sort of understanding of what was comming towards Europe in the near future. The Trial (German: Der Process) predicts the bureaucratic dictatorship of Communism after his death, or the Nazi bureaucracy in Central-Europe. Pjotr, I'm pretty pleased with myself that I identified that quote without googling it. Though I read it many years ago, it was so bizarre that I never forgot it! |
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Post by jeanne on Aug 17, 2008 21:44:38 GMT 1
Try this. You should definitely remember this scene: Then she hoisted her tired body up and drew the comfort about her. She moved slowly to the corner and stood looking down at the wasted face, into the wide, frightened eyes. Then slowly she lay down beside him. He shook his head slowly from side to side, she loosened one side of the blanket and bared her breast. "You got to," she said. She squirmed closer and pulled his head close. "There!" she said. "There." Her hand moved behind his head and supported it. Her fingers moved gently in his hair. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.This one I had to google. Though I read some Steinbeck, for some unknown reason I never read "The Grapes of Wrath". Surely I would have remembered this ending if I had read it! |
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Post by Bonobo on Sept 5, 2008 11:04:49 GMT 1
Try this. You should definitely remember this scene: Then she hoisted her tired body up and drew the comfort about her. She moved slowly to the corner and stood looking down at the wasted face, into the wide, frightened eyes. Then slowly she lay down beside him. He shook his head slowly from side to side, she loosened one side of the blanket and bared her breast. "You got to," she said. She squirmed closer and pulled his head close. "There!" she said. "There." Her hand moved behind his head and supported it. Her fingers moved gently in his hair. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.This one I had to google. Though I read some Steinbeck, for some unknown reason I never read "The Grapes of Wrath". Surely I would have remembered this ending if I had read it! Isn`t Steinbeck on the reading list at any type of school in US?  |
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Post by jeanne on Sept 8, 2008 1:48:33 GMT 1
This one I had to google. Though I read some Steinbeck, for some unknown reason I never read "The Grapes of Wrath". Surely I would have remembered this ending if I had read it! Isn`t Steinbeck on the reading list at any type of school in US? Of course he is! I did read some, but not The Grapes of Wrath...and you know how it is college, some things on your reading list do not get read!  |
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Post by Bonobo on Oct 8, 2008 21:37:02 GMT 1
Yesterday we went to the theatre to see the play based on this short story.
Which?
"`I had immense plans,' he muttered irresolutely. `Yes,' said I; `but if you try to shout I'll smash your head with--' There was not a stick or a stone near. `I will throttle you for good,' I corrected myself. `I was on the threshold of great things,' he pleaded, in a voice of longing, with a wistfulness of tone that made my blood run cold. `And now for this stupid scoundrel--' `Your success in Europe is assured in any case,' I affirmed steadily. I did not want to have the throttling of him, you understand--and indeed it would have been very little use for any practical purpose. I tried to break the spell--the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness-- that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratified and monstrous passions. This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations. And, don't you see, the terror of the position was not in being knocked on the head-- though I had a very lively sense of that danger, too--but in this, that I had to deal with a being to whom I could not appeal in the name of anything high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him--himself--his own exalted and incredible degradation. There was nothing either above or below him, and I knew it. He had kicked himself loose of the earth. Confound the man! he had kicked the very earth to pieces. He was alone, and I before him did not know whether I stood on the ground or floated in the air. I've been telling you what we said-- repeating the phrases we pronounced--but what's the good? They were common everyday words--the familiar, vague sounds exchanged on every waking day of life. But what of that? They had behind them, to my mind, the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares. Soul! If anybody ever struggled with a soul, I am the man. And I wasn't arguing with a lunatic either. Believe me or not, his intelligence was perfectly clear--concentrated, it is true, upon himself with horrible intensity, yet clear; and therein was my only chance--barring, of course, the killing him there and then, which wasn't so good, on account of unavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, and, by heavens! I tell you, it had gone mad. I had--for my sins, I suppose--to go through the ordeal of looking into it myself. No eloquence could have been so withering to one's belief in mankind as his final burst of sincerity. He struggled with himself, too. I saw it--I heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself. I kept my head pretty well; but when I had him at last stretched on the couch, I wiped my forehead, while my legs shook under me as though I had carried half a ton on my back down that hill. And yet I had only supported him, his bony arm clasped round my neck--and he was not much heavier than a child.
[...]
"`Intimacy grows quickly out there,' I said. `I knew him as well as it is possible for one man to know another.'
"`And you admired him,' she said. `It was impossible to know him and not to admire him. Was it?'
"`He was a remarkable man,' I said, unsteadily. Then before the appealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on my lips, I went on, `It was impossible not to--'
"`Love him,' she finished eagerly, silencing me into an appalled dumbness. `How true! how true! But when you think that no one knew him so well as I! I had all his noble confidence. I knew him best.'
"`You knew him best,' I repeated. And perhaps she did. But with every word spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead, smooth and white, remained illumined by the inextinguishable light of belief and love.
"`You were his friend,' she went on. `His friend,' she repeated, a little louder. `You must have been, if he had given you this, and sent you to me. I feel I can speak to you--and oh! I must speak. I want you--you who have heard his last words-- to know I have been worthy of him. . . . It is not pride. . . . Yes! I am proud to know I understood him better than any one on earth-- he told me so himself. And since his mother died I have had no one-- no one--to--to--'
"I listened. The darkness deepened. I was not even sure whether he had given me the right bundle. I rather suspect he wanted me to take care of another batch of his papers which, after his death, I saw the manager examining under the lamp. And the girl talked, easing her pain in the certitude of my sympathy; she talked as thirsty men drink. I had heard that her engagement with Kurtz had been disapproved by her people. He wasn't rich enough or something. And indeed I don't know whether he had not been a pauper all his life. He had given me some reason to infer that it was his impatience of comparative poverty that drove him out there.
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Post by tufta on Oct 9, 2008 9:53:02 GMT 1
It might be Joseph Conrad Korzeniowski, I don't remember very well since I read the author a long time ago. I'll take the risk and guess 'Almayer's Folly' (Szaleństwo Almayera)?
We was in the theatre last week, I will prepare a riddle later, if you'd like one.
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Post by Bonobo on Oct 9, 2008 21:05:39 GMT 1
It might be Joseph Conrad Korzeniowski, I don't remember very well since I read the author a long time ago. I'll take the risk and guess 'Almayer's Folly' (Szaleństwo Almayera)? We was in the theatre last week, I will prepare a riddle later, if you'd like one. It is Joseph Conrad. Well done! Don`t worry that you didn`t guess the title. It is The Heart of Darkness, Jądro Ciemności. Did you see the film Apocalypse Now, Czas Apokalipsy, by Antony Coppola? It is loosely based on the the book. One of the greatest war films.... |
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Post by tufta on Oct 10, 2008 7:29:29 GMT 1
It might be Joseph Conrad Korzeniowski, I don't remember very well since I read the author a long time ago. I'll take the risk and guess 'Almayer's Folly' (Szaleństwo Almayera)? We was in the theatre last week, I will prepare a riddle later, if you'd like one. It is Joseph Conrad. Well done! Don`t worry that you didn`t guess the title. It is The Heart of Darkness, Jądro Ciemności. Did you see the film Apocalypse Now, Czas Apokalipsy, by Antony Coppola? It is loosely based on the the book. One of the greatest war films.... At first I though about Jądro ciemności - The heart of darkness, but since you've said it was a short story I chose the second option, which I recalled much shorter. Yes I saw Apocalypse Now. It was moving indeed. |
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