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"I have had a dream past the wit of man to say what dream it was," says Bottom. "I have had a dream, and I wrote a Big Book about it," Arno Schmidt might have said. Schmidt's rare vision is a journey into many literary worlds. First and foremost it is about Edgar Allan Poe, or perhaps it is language itself that plays that lead role; and it is certainly about sex in its many Freudian disguises, but about love as well, whether fragile and unfulfilled or crude and wedded. As befits a dream upon a heath populated by elemental spirits, the shapes and figures are protean, its protagonists suddenly transformed into trees, horses, and demigods. In a single day, from one midsummer dawn to a fiery second, Dan and Franzisca, Wilma and Paul explore the labyrinths of literary creation and of their own dreams and desires. Since its publication in 1970 Zettel's Traum/Bottom's Dream has been regarded as Arno Schimdt's magnum opus, as the definitive work of a titan of postwar German literature. Readers are now invited to explore its verbally provocative landscape in an English translation by John E. Woods.… (plus d'informations)
Good Lord. Have, have not read, likely will not have read, will always be reading but never at any given time. Stars for length, or weight, but not for love, it will not be loved, it cannot be loved. Stars also for distance, as stars are, having residence behind the eyes. Stars for brittleness, for irremediable fracturing, for exploded polyphony. Five stars, also no stars at all, the five gold stars plummeting to black for hatefulness, sex-race crassness, hairballs of lit-obsessiveness in which there is still light. Take it as an interior critical monologue. Take it as a dream that eats literature. More later.
Box Edition. The box is a clear disappointment. ( )
this is the first time I've preordered anything from Dalkey Archive in years, maybe since Nikanor Teratologen's masterpiece was finally translated. Do they no longer ship their shit out way early? Honestly I expected this weeks ago.
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
'I have had a most rare vision! I have had a dream - past the wit of man to say what a dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was - there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had - but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of the man hath not heard, the ear of the man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was.'
William Shakespeare
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Courtes éloges de critiques
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Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
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▾Descriptions de livres
"I have had a dream past the wit of man to say what dream it was," says Bottom. "I have had a dream, and I wrote a Big Book about it," Arno Schmidt might have said. Schmidt's rare vision is a journey into many literary worlds. First and foremost it is about Edgar Allan Poe, or perhaps it is language itself that plays that lead role; and it is certainly about sex in its many Freudian disguises, but about love as well, whether fragile and unfulfilled or crude and wedded. As befits a dream upon a heath populated by elemental spirits, the shapes and figures are protean, its protagonists suddenly transformed into trees, horses, and demigods. In a single day, from one midsummer dawn to a fiery second, Dan and Franzisca, Wilma and Paul explore the labyrinths of literary creation and of their own dreams and desires. Since its publication in 1970 Zettel's Traum/Bottom's Dream has been regarded as Arno Schimdt's magnum opus, as the definitive work of a titan of postwar German literature. Readers are now invited to explore its verbally provocative landscape in an English translation by John E. Woods.
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Have, have not read, likely will not have read, will always be reading but never at any given time.
Stars for length, or weight, but not for love, it will not be loved, it cannot be loved. Stars also for distance, as stars are, having residence behind the eyes. Stars for brittleness, for irremediable fracturing, for exploded polyphony.
Five stars, also no stars at all, the five gold stars plummeting to black for hatefulness, sex-race crassness, hairballs of lit-obsessiveness in which there is still light.
Take it as an interior critical monologue. Take it as a dream that eats literature. More later.
Box Edition. The box is a clear disappointment. (