All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

یه کتاب خوندنی که البته بعضی ها توضیحات علمی ش کمی فقط کمی زیادی می شه. ساختار غیر خطیش جالبش کرده، بخش هایی که درباره ی دختر نابینا صحبت می کنه جذابه. زشتی جنگ رو زیبا تصویر کرده.کسی که این همه تحقیق کرده باشه برای نوشتن یه کتاب باور نکردنیه و البته همینه که پولیتزر برده.  ارزش خوندن داشت. باید سریالش رو نت فلیکس ببینم حالا.  

فعلا مشغول پولیتزری ها هستم چون وقایع نگاری رو کنار قصه دارن.

She does not know how long she has been trapped in the attic or even if it is day or night. Time is a slippery thing: lose hold of it once, and its string might sail out of your hands forever.

Opera houses! Cities on the moon! Ridiculous. They would all do better to put their faces on the curbs and wait for the boys who come through the city dragging sledges stacked with corpses.

snuff them? When Russian prisoners are chained by threes and fours to fences while German privates tuck live grenades in their pockets and run?

make music, to sing songs, to print huge books full of colorful birds in the face of the seismic, engulfing indifference of the world—what pretensions humans have! Why bother to make music when the silence and wind are so much larger? Why light lamps when the darkness will inevitably

A place of quiet discipline. Calm. Order. A single line of twine runs between the table and the bathroom. A clock stands dead without glass on its face. It’s not until he finds three huge spiral-bound folios of Jules Verne in Braille that he solves it.

A line comes back to Marie-Laure from Jules Verne: Science, my lad, is made up of mistakes, but they are mistakes which it is useful to make, because they lead little by little to the truth.

You have minds,” Bastian murmurs one evening in the refectory, each boy hunching almost imperceptibly farther over his food as the commandant’s finger grazes the back of his uniform. “But minds are not to be trusted. Minds are always drifting toward ambiguity, toward questions, when what you really need is certainty. Purpose. Clarity. Do not trust your minds.”

leather. The eyes of the most bullheaded boys radiate a shining determination: every ounce of their attention has been trained to ferret out weakness. They study Werner with suspicion when he returns from Hauptmann’s lab. They do not trust that he’s an orphan, that he’s often alone, that his accent carries a whisper of the French he learned as a child.

It seems to Werner as if all the boys around him are intoxicated. As if, at every meal, the cadets fill their tin cups not with the cold mineralized water of Schulpforta but with a spirit that leaves them glazed and dazzled, as if they ward off a vast and inevitable tidal wave of anguish only by staying forever drunk on rigor and exercise and gleaming boot

Eventually Madame Manec deadbolts the kitchen door and clears her throat. The women fall quiet. “We’re the ones who make their world run,” Madame Manec says. “You, Madame Guiboux, your son repairs their shoes. Madame Hébrard, you and your daughter sort their mail. And you, Madame Ruelle, your bakery makes much of their bread.”

Fawn

There must be order. Life is chaos, gentlemen. And what we represent is an ordering to that chaos. Even down to the genes. We are ordering the evolution of the species. Winnowing out the inferior, the unruly, the chaff. This is the great project of the Reich, the greatest project human beings have ever embarked upon.”

Frederick’s dreaminess, his otherness—it’s on him like a scent, and everyone can smell it.

A real diamond, his father used to say, is never entirely free of inclusions. A real diamond is never perfect.

Ten thousand years ago,” whispers Frederick, “they came through here in the millions. When this place was a garden, one endless garden from end to end.”

Doesn’t look like much, does he?” murmurs Frederick. “Hardly a couple of ounces of feathers and bones. But that bird can fly to Africa and back. Powered by bugs and worms and desire.” The wagtail hops from twig to twig. Werner rubs his aching eyes. It’s just a bird.

Your problem, Werner,” says Frederick, “is that you still believe you own your life.”

Audubon,” Frederick says, “was an American. Walked the swamps and woods for years, back when that whole country was just swamps and woods. He’d spend all day watching one individual bird. Then he’d shoot it and prop it up with wires and sticks and paint it. Probably knew more than any birder before or since. He’d eat most of the birds after he painted them. Can you imagine?” Frederick’s voice trembles with ardency. Gazing up. “Those bright mists and your gun on your shoulder and your eyes set firmly in your head?”

“You don’t know?” A pause. Into Bastian’s face flows an undercurrent of

“There are two kinds of death,” he says, the clouds of his breath plunging out into the cold. “You can fight like a lion. Or you can go as easy as lifting a hair from a cup of milk. The nothings, the nobodies—they die easy.” He sweeps his eyes along the ranks and swings his hose and widens his eyes dramatically. “How will you boys die?”

daughter is so curious, so resilient. There is the humility of being a father to someone so powerful, as if he were only a narrow conduit for another, greater thing. That’s how it feels right now,

he thinks, kneeling beside her, rinsing her hair: as though his love for his daughter will outstrip the limits of his body. The walls could fall away, even the whole city, and the brightness of that feeling would not wane.

There is pride, too, though—pride that he has done it alone. That his

daughter: a fear that he is no good as a father, that he is doing everything wrong. That he never quite understood the rules

There has always been a sliver of panic in him, deeply buried, when it comes to his

This, she realizes, is the basis of his fear, all fear. That a light you are powerless to stop will turn on you and usher a bullet to its mark.

I have the whole world here,” he says, and taps the cover of Darwin. “And in my radios. Right at my fingertips.”

Werner sways between exhaustion, confusion, and exhilaration. That his life has been so wholly redirected astounds him.

The sea does not belong to tyrants

against a chromatic scale on which sixty or so shades of blue are displayed. Werner’s color is himmelblau, sky blue. To assess his hair color, the man snips a lock of hair from Werner’s head and compares it to thirty or so other locks clipped to a board, arrayed darkest to lightest.

A second technician gauges Werner’s eye color

inspector shines a penlight into the tunnels of his pupils. He sweats and shifts. His heart pounds unreasonably. An onion-breathed technician in a lab coat measures the distance between Werner’s temples, the circumference of his head, and the thickness and shape of his lips. Calipers are used to evaluate his feet, the length of his fingers, and the distance between his eyes and his navel. They measure his penis. The angle of his nose is quantified with a wooden protractor.

On the second morning, there are raciological exams. They require little of Werner except to raise his arms or keep from blinking while an

A house has burned, Marie. People are stealing things.”

You know the greatest lesson of history? It’s that history is whatever the victors say it is. That’s the lesson. Whoever wins, that’s who decides the history. We act in our own self-interest. Of course we do. Name me a person or a nation who does not. The trick is figuring out where your interests are.”

His handgun is black; it seems to draw all the light in the room toward it.

Only through the hottest fires, whispers the radio, can purification be achieved. Only through the harshest tests can God’s chosen rise.

Nearly every species that has ever lived has gone extinct, Laurette. No reason to think we humans will be any different!”

The locusts have no king, yet all of them go out in ranks

Limited Time for Reading Books

I always thought it was my fault for not reading enough books, but now I realize that the heavy workload really prevents me from doing so. Most of the time that I dedicated to reading this weekend had to come directly from my work time. Right now, I really want to finish the book I'm reading, but I just don't have enough time. It's painful!

Anatomy of a Disappearance Novel by Hisham Matar

خوندنی بود. شباهت هاش با نکاتی که در The Return آورده بود جالب بودن. می تونستی تشخیص بدی که اینجا موضوع واقعا تو زندگی خودش اتفاق افتاده. نمیشه گفت خیلی خوبه اما خوب بود. 

The Return - Hisham Mattar

تموم شد تو سفر کاری. کتاب خوبی بود و چسبید شاید چون خیلی از چیزهایی که می گفت رو می شناختم و می تونستم تصور کنم. کسانی که ازشون صحبت می کرد خیلی شبیه آدمایی بودن که کنارشون بزرگ شده بودم تو خوزستان. فضای سرکوب سیاسی هم همینطور. وقتی از قذافی می گفت برام قابل تصور بود و وقتی از کشتار زندانیان هم  همینطور. زمانی که نقاشی یا معماری رو توصیف می کرد برام جذاب بود و وقتی از دردی که برای از دست دادن پدرش کشیده بود برام آشنا بود.  شخصیت پدرش رو نتونستم به اون مقدسی و آزادی خواهی که تصویر می کرد بپذیرم چون بخشی از ساختار قدرت قبلی احتمالا فاسد بود. کتاب خوبی بود که می تونست تامل ایجاد کنه اما نویسنده ی بزرگی ندیدم. الان که دارم اون یکی کتابش رو می خونم بیشتر این رو بیشتر متوجه میشم که جذابیت فضای داستان برام بیشتر از خود نوشته بوده اما نمیشه منکر این شده که خوب نوشته شده.

این رو الان دیدم برای فارسی خون ها: https://www.bbc.com/persian/articles/cnkewz3q5yvo

این هم چیزهایی که برام جالب بودن. 

***

مشغول خوندنشم و جلوتر که می رم بیشتر لذت می برم. اینکه تاریخ و سیاست کشوری رو در روایتی شخصی بیان کنی آسون نیست، خیلی ها سعی کردن اما آسون نیست، کار هشام متار خوبه، نمی گم عالیه، صرفا می گم خوبه و از خیلی کتاب ها بهتره و صد در صد ارزش خوندن داره. زبان مهاجرش برای ما مهاجرین خیلی آشناست، داستان های دیکتاتوری قذافی هم همینطورر، روایت های پدر دوستانه هم همینطور. اما تصویر مقدس و مبارزی که از پدرش ساخته رو هنوز نتونستم بپذیرم اگر چه تحقیقی هم درباره ش نکردم. 

جاهای زیادی هست  توی کتاب که لذت عمیق بودن رو حس می کنی و می گی حتما این رو باید یادداشت کنم. می ذارمشون اینجا بعدا. 

شروع به توصیف بنغازی که کرد نتونستم مقاومت کنم و گوگل مپ رو باز کردم که لیبی رو روی نقشه ببینم. من تسلیم شدم و نویسنده تونست به هدفش برسه و من رو وارد جغرافیا و تاریخ لیبی کنه. 

اندکی با سمت شرق این نقشه به خاطر تاریخ ایران باستان و بین النهرین خوندن آشنا شده بودم اما الان الان کشورهای سمت غرب رو تو آفریقا  در جنوب مدیترانه نگاه می کردم که چطور به لحاظ تاریخی تحت تسلط کشورهای روبروشون در شمال مدیترانه بودن.  ماه بعد که نیس و جنوا هستم احتمالا جوری دیگه نگاه دریا کنم و سعی کنم اونورش رو هم تصور کنم. 

Writers and Company - Hisham Matar

مصاحبه ی جذاب و عمیقی بود. 

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/writersandcompany/how-hisham-matar-s-writing-reflects-life-under-dictatorship-and-the-pain-of-his-father-s-abduction-1.7151196

باید بخونمشون

Midnight's Childran by Salman Rushdi

فعلا اولاشم اما جذاب و متفاوته. 

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flubert

فعلا این کتاب دستمه تا ببینم کی تموم میشه. 

تموم  شد. خوب بود و هر چی جلوتر می رفت پرکشش تر می شد.

حمله ش به رمانتیسم جالب بود خصوصا در دوره ای که رمانتیسم هنوز برو و بیایی داشته اگرچه هنوز هم به دلیل مطابقتش با غریزه کشش بسیاری داره.

زیبایی تصویر سازی و تمثیل هاش بسیار بود اما مدت کمی نیست که حوصله ی آرایش کلامی رو ندارم. 

 فیلمش رو نصفه دیدم باید تموم کنم.  

The Road by Gormac McCarthy

مشفول این کتاب هستم لما هم دوست دارم جلو برم و هم نرم. خیلی وقته سمت کتاب ها و فیلم و شوهایی که که بار دراماتیک یافلسفی سنگینی دارن نمی رم و البته خیلی هم افسوس می خورم از این جهت. اما حس می کنم به سلامت شیشه ای ذهنیم ممکنه صدمه بزنن.

تموم شد، کتاب خوبی بود، روایت پر کششی بود که گاهی هم بی اتفاقیش بر خلاف تصور خواننده بود. خیلی وقت ها شد با شخصیت اصلی همذات پنداری کردم. چند جمله ی آخرش اگر چه برای اطمینان و تسلی دادن به خواننده بود و مثلا به من قدری آرامش داد اما یه کم زیادی بود.  

جالبه، حالا که نگاه می کنم می بینم احساس مسئولیتم رو به سوفی بیشتر از همیشه  کرد این کتاب. 

علیرضا ر وشن

,وقتی دیدم علیرضا روشن کتابخونی می کنه تو اینترنشنال گل از گلم شفت. بهترین اوقاتم تو کلاب هاوس با اون بوده. 

دو تا کتاب

این روزها دو تا کتاب خوب دستمه که امیدوارم به زودی تموم کنم. کاش وقت بیشتری داشتیم برای تمرکز روی خوندن.