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[Read] ➱ Sanatorium pod Klepsydrą By Bruno Schulz –

This Is The Second And Final Work Of Bruno Schulz, The Acclaimed Polish Writer Killed By The Nazis During World War II In The Words Of Isaac Bashevis Singer, What He Did In His Short Life Was Enough To Make Him One Of The Most Remarkable Writers Who Ever Lived Weaving Myth, Fantasy, And Reality, Sanatorium Under The Sign Of The Hourglass, Is, To Quote Schulz, An Attempt At Eliciting The History Of A Certain Family By A Search For The Mythical Sense, The Essential Core Of That History

10 thoughts on “Sanatorium pod Klepsydrą

  1. says:

    The way that this book combines reality and imagination, realism and dreaminess, truth and myth, has something primitive, primordial It contains the essence of the world, in all its possible and unlikely versions On one hand, we experience a vivid imagery some images seem to be reflecting the light, some others, glowing in the dark , on the other, we get to see black and white expressionistic sketches surrounding the text figures with oversized heads as a darker, adult version of Alice in Wonderland What we have here is a narrative with two distinct themes the everyday life of a family living in a small town among other people, each with their own special character and personality, and the surrealistic, magical version of the same persons and surroundings.This is how I can describe the Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass in a nutshell , , , , , , , , , , , , Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass , , Bruno Schulz 1942 , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Bruno Schulz , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Bruno Schulz , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

  2. says:

    I first read Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass at the turn of the millennium and now I just wanted to reread a single story but couldn t stop till the last page such is the magic of this book I am simply calling it The Book without any epithets or qualifications, and in this sobriety there is a shade of helplessness, a silent capitulation before the vastness of the transcendental, for no word, no allusion, can adequately suggest the shiver of fear, the presentiment of a thing without name that exceeds all our capacity for wonder How could an accumulation of adjectives or a richness of epithets help when one is faced with that splendiferous thing Besides, any true reader and this story is only addressed to him will understand me anyway when I look him straight in the eye and try to communicate my meaning A short sharp look or a light clasp of his hand will stir him into awareness, and he will blink in rapture at the brilliance of The Book I believe every reader has one such book that is dearest to him and is closest to his heart.The world is beautiful but one must just have a proper eye to make out all the beauty of the world And for those who can t see the world in the right light beauty is useless and doomed Can you understand the despair of that condemned beauty, of its days and nights Over and over again it had to rouse itself to fictitious auctions, stage successful sales and noisy, crowded exhibitions, become inflamed with wild gambling passions, await a slump, scatter riches, squander them like a maniac, only to realize on sobering up that all this was in vain, that it could not get anywhere beyond a self centered perfection, that it could not relieve the pain of excess No wonder that the impatience and helplessness of beauty had at last to find its reflection in our sky, that it therefore glows over our horizon, degenerates into atmospheric displays, into these enormous arrangements of fantastic clouds I call our second or spurious fall The world is surreal but one must just have a proper mind to appreciate all the surrealness of the world And for the down to earth ones the world is a grey and common place Is my father alive I asked, staring anxiously into his calm face Yes, of course, he answered, calmly meeting my questioning eyes That is, within the limits imposed by the situation, he added, half closing his eyes You know as well as I that from the point of view of your home, from the perspective of your own country, your father is dead This cannot be entirely remedied That death throws a certain shadow on his existence here And Bruno Schulz just had both a proper eye and an apt mind to tell his miraculously surreal stories.

  3. says:

    It is part of my existence to be the parasite of metaphors writes the author in the very short story Loneliness He has a point This entire collection of short stories is riddled with metaphor Riddled For all I know maybe it is all just metaphor It has also been a challenge for me personally This collection, to me anyway, is a heady mix of the metaphor with childlike fantasy and delirious dreaming that seemingly mixes the authors life memories observations that cover his childhood through to the fear of old age and all the trials and tribulations in between Something like that anyway Did I like this collection Mostly yes but sometimes no The highs had me rereading, taking in the dreams and the metaphors, even laughing inside The final few lines of The Old Age Pensioner were sadly amusing as an example of that inner laugh Spring, the longest of the tales is amazingly surreal It is so compellingly odd I am hardly capable of describing it Under normal circumstances I would not be that attracted this style of prose but I actually reread it such was that attraction My Father Joins the Fire Brigade is weirdly hilarious Sanatorium under the Sign of the Hourglass is weirdly sad and also very dark for that matter The Old Age Pensioner also covers the hilarious It may also cover the demented sadness of old age and if so that puts my thoughts of hilarity in its place Loneliness The title of that short work speaks for itself The interesting part of finishing this book has been my research into the author Among other things he has little output Only 2 books and I have apparently read the wrong book first He was an artist my copy has some of his really wonderful line drawings He seemingly received little attention until after his terrible murder at the hands of the Nazis There now seems a plethora of books, internet sites etc dedicated to him Even a couple of eminent writers, Roth for example, have made mention of him in their own work He has had a film made from his works that is considered a Polish masterpiece of cinema So why have I only given him 4 stars 3.5 if I could Because at its best this collection is outstanding but when not at its best I have to admit it is a bit above my tiny little mind, I just don t get it Also I have wondered at times if Schulz was consuming mind altering substances while writing all this crazy metaphor On the other hand that thought may say about me.

  4. says:

    jestem literacko rozbitybo wyobra nia Schulza nie zna graniczbi r ten jest o wiele trudniejszy od Sklep w dlatego jeszcze nie raz wr c do tej ksi kiprzykro mi, e to ju koniec jego opublikowanej tw rczo cia mo e w jego tekstach jest jeszcze wi cej nieznanych mi sekret w

  5. says:

    there are v few writers I know of today who can project one s psyche onto the physical world in such a dispassionate yet compelling way as Schulz He cajoles one into taking residence in his mind through a fireworks display of prose that is as unrelenting as it is demanding Even the slightest phrase can take off as abruptly as a flight of roosting birds images collide into each other and spark new narrative lines It is a conjurer s act, one made up of fragmented memories a walk at dusk, a wax figure exhibition, an erotic sighting of a young girl that keeps one reading there is no twisting or turning plot, no character portraits in which to identify, only billows of smoke, enveloping prose As an undergrad, I read Street of Crocodiles, his well known work This book I bought over ten years ago or and have packed it with me over the half dozen moves I ve made Its pages if pulled too hard break like rose petals as I read, twice I ve had to repair its strained spine with tape My only regret I wish I had read it sooner.

  6. says:

    Following Nabokov s Pale Fire with this Schulz wonder was a move of genius I did not plan Such different voices, both masters nonpareil There is virtually nothing in the way of similarity between the two, save their ability to defy gravity with the written word With Nabokov, it is density and shadowplay Schulz, wonderment and flights of joy But this isn t about Nabokov, is it This is about the one and only Bruno Schulz, a man snubbed out at 50 by fucking Nazi s Bastardassholes Read one of the two extent works by Schulz and I guarantee that you will want to exhume a Nationalsozialist just to throw his bones in the garbage like so much katze schei e not that Schulz was exempt by virtue of his genius any or less than his 6.5 million brothers and sisters were they were all exempt by a virtue far greater than literature Life Sorry, here s your soapbox no, I insist Where was I Sanatorium, while not as consistently gaga inducing as The Street of Crocodiles, is a pretty close second other notable runner ups Robert Hooke, Buzz Aldrin, Hillary Clinton Schulz s lyricism is gushingly in love with life every banality a possible red pill rabbit hole It tears me up to think of all that the world was deprived of by his death, but ain t that life What you all get instead of Schulz masterpieces are my ejaculative platitudes rendered to you across space and time from the cozy confines of my suburban Shangri La Yeah, that seems cosmically fair Kisses, Bruno I find your lost grave each time I dream, and we are too far above Drohobych for anyone to hurt us now.

  7. says:

    12 short stories and one long one linked by the strong voice of the author and illustrated by him with an equally idiosynchronistic flair BS writes with delicate ferocity, his luminous prose and boundless optimism softening somewhat his acerbic observations That his evocation of childhood and old age are equally vivid attests to his virtuousity The long story, Spring, delves into the marginal world beyond the limits of a wilting afternoon with such thorough tenderness that no one need bother to describe that season again And yet how many people have even heard of Bruno Schultz And how tragic that he was not able to write the account of his murder by a Nazi officer in a personal vendetta, and that he never got to live out his life as one of the most brilliant writers that ever lived To quote the man, his book left me peculiarly dizzy,filled with a mixture of longing and excitement

  8. says:

    If there are any writers out there who managed to establish a voice as distinctive, as potent, or as beautiful as Bruno Schultz s with so small an output, I haven t heard of them His two tiny, genre less sometimes anticipating Allen Ginsberg s incantations, other times evoking the headier films of Guy Maddin books represent an extraordinary genius and a criminally truncated life.

  9. says:

    150 , 350 .

  10. says:

    After planning to reread the main title story today, I opened the book on the morning Since the title story is in the middle of the book, it took few seconds for me to locate the chapter, but in between that minute temporal gap, while the pages flipped effortlessly, my eyes and mind caught the black ink of the page and I without any conscious control started reading the first chapter called The Book That s the problem in him the mad genius if one has to describe Schulz writing, which is quite difficult of course, since his style and content being a league of his own, Nevertheless let me try, it is of an unceasing throttle with its wildest of imagination branching and catching, and pouring itself out like the sketches he does in the second chapter a primordial urgency So once I started, I was caught in this web of intoxicating words and I ended up reading quite a few chapters including the title story There was a moment I almost got a goosebumps reading his lines If there is one writer who is so unique in his prose well, most of it read like poetry really it is Schulz After getting madly drunk in his language and freeing myself from its caressing hold, while still the taste of it lingering in my tongue, its cold fire on my palate, the width of its breath fresh like a draught of pure ultramarine , I took my pen and wrote a love story thinking about his Anna Csillag, who becomes the apostle of hairiness , of whose hair it is said, enough to broom the floor of the earth She invents a mixture which vitalizes the growth of hair, similar to her, and she goes around the world spreading the gospel I wrote a love story thinking about his Elsa the liquid with a Swan a balm that worked wonders While contorting the thoughts and twisting the words on to the paper, a potion of herbal mixture of Lawsonia inermis and hair produced a pungent smell, that enveloped the room of mine while I wrote those twisted monsters hurriedly The imaginary figure or figures in front of mine had to wait for a while to assume their roles So here is that love story Love blooms while my nerves weep1.His disheveled hair writhed and moved forward to touch its distant cousins clumps of mignonette branches.2 Trying to impress his Botany Girlfriend, our hero produces from his trouser pocket, a clumsy, naked branches of Lawsonia inermis, thinking, by naming Latin name, she will feel connected to him instantly The disheveled hair and branches of the tree, which are both clutched by him, turn into shenanigans and plan out a plan to spoil his plan Whispering between themselves by brushing together their rough and silky body, the tuft of hair forms a ring in outstretched hands of branches, and thereby producing an optimal amount of pain and awkward frontal bend of the body of our hero The lady who understands even the most subtle movements and calls of botanical creatures, awoke to this natural revelation of him being a tyrant oppressing the hair in his head and choking the plant, whose feathery leaves were razed under the iron fingers of his, decides a future course of action So, she snatches away the branches from him and there comes out the oppressed species oppressed for millennia, readily springing forth from his bald head and rushes to hug the branches And there bloomed a strange love The Black silks rolled itself into the meandering wine green maze body of the branches,While our hero still stands bent forward with his arms snatching the empty air and his bald head reflecting thousand specks of light While our girlfriend walks away holding the new couple and averting her gaze out of shyness