رقص

مدتهاست باهاش نرقصیدم و این آزارم می ده. 

Ice Triology - Vladimier Sorokin

واقعا وقت ندارم کتاب بخونم اما امیدوارم حداقل کتاب اول این سه گانه رو تموم کن اگر چه کلا چنگی به دلم نزده اما امیدوارم وقتی تموم شد حس بهتری داشته باشم به این رمان مثلا پست مدرن که ویدیوگیم رو کتاب کرده. 

وراجی های روسی کماکان توش زیاده و کلیشه ای بودن خسته ت می کنه . بعیده بیشتر از اولی رو بخونم.  

 

all the light we cannot see netflix

به گند کشونده بود این محصول نت فلیکس یه کتاب رو که خوب نوشته شده بود. نویسنده ای که راضی بشه با کتابش این کار رو بکنن و همه چیزش رو به نحوی خیلی سطحی تغییر بدن باید شخصیت جالبی داشته باشه. نه اینکه کتاب حالا شاهکار بود اما این سریال گند اساسی زده بود بهش و تبدیلش کرده بود به یه اثر هالیوودی کلیشه ای. 

 هیجوقت نباید فیلم رو قبل از کتاب خوندن دید. 

Becoming - Michell Obama

بعد از خوندن کتاب خاطرات پومپئو ظاهرا علاقمتدیم به اتوبیوگرافی ها بیشتر شده. این کتاب کمتر سیاسی بود و البته لحن زنانه ش و دید یه آدم کم علاقه به سیاست که به شدت به شوهرش علاقه داره جالب بود. کسی که بی پروا علیه تبعیض ها صحبت می کنه اما ملاحظات سیاسی رو هم کاملا کنار نمی ذاره. کسی که داره می گه از تجمل و ادا و اطوار خوشش نمیاد اما خیلی هم بدش نمیاد. نکات خوندنی و جالبی توش بود که دست اول دستت می اومد درباره ی تفکر سیاه پوستی در حد بانوی اول در باره ی آمریکا و شرایطش. ارزش خوندن داشت. یه جاییش که عجیب بود موضوع پدرش بود که همه می دونستن مریضه و خودش خیلی دنبال درمان نبوده و این ها هم تصمیم گرفته بودن دخالت زیادی نکنن!! 

یه جاهایی هم میاد این عدم تمایل پدرش رو ربط می ده به تبعیض نژادی!؟  

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.

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