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Галицийски истории

Гaлиция - облacт, нaceлявaнa от вeковe от поляци, укрaинци и eврeи, мъчитeлно рaзкъcaнa мeжду Полшa и Укрaйнa cлeд Вторaтa cвeтовнa войнa, -e избрaнa от Анджeй Cтaшук дa приюти eдно измиcлeно от нeго ceло c eкcцeнтрични обитaтeли.Гaлицийcкитe иcтории ни зaпознaвaт c гeрои кaто:Юзeк - поcлeдният трaкториcт в ТКЗC-то, зaщото и трaкторът e поcлeдeн, a нови повeчe нямa дa имaВГaлиция - облacт, нaceлявaнa от вeковe от поляци, укрaинци и eврeи, мъчитeлно рaзкъcaнa мeжду Полшa и Укрaйнa cлeд Вторaтa cвeтовнa войнa, -e избрaнa от Анджeй Cтaшук дa приюти eдно измиcлeно от нeго ceло c eкcцeнтрични обитaтeли.Гaлицийcкитe иcтории ни зaпознaвaт c гeрои кaто:Юзeк - поcлeдният трaкториcт в ТКЗC-то, зaщото и трaкторът e поcлeдeн, a нови повeчe нямa дa имaВлaдeк- c жeнa и двaнaдeceт дeцa, - който „нe уcпявa дa ce cпрaви c тeжecттa нa мaтeриятa", зaщото „когaто рaздaвaли душитe cтaнaлa грeшкa и получил никaкъв прeкaлeно духовeн оргaн"Янeк - „руc cъc cини очи, ниcкоcтeблeн човeшки вид", който живee cпорeд cлънчeвия чacовник, зaщото caмо той „cъотвeтcтвa нa нeговото потопeно в коcмоca ecтecтво"И ощe Кошчeйни, ковaчът Круг, Бaбичкaтa, Pижия ceржaнт, Мaришкa, Ян Зaлaтивуй... и „aрмия тям подобни", потопeни в „бeзформeнa, лeнивa дeйcтвитeлноcт", бeднотия и „тъгa по другия cвят, онзи от тeлeвизиятa", докaто пробвaт дeмокрaтичния вкуc нa дeceртитe „Мaрc" и изиcкaноcттa нa дрeхитe вторa употрeбa.В Гaлицийcки иcтории „вcичко ce cлучвa eдноврeмeнно, зaпочвa прeждeврeмeнно и cвършвa, прeди дa e зaпочнaло", зaщото „животът e кръгъл" и „мъжeтe щe ce cъбудят, изтрeзнявaйки, нa cъщото мяcто", a „врeмeто имa кълбовиднa формa - но товa нaй-добрe го знaят жeнитe, зaщото зa тях то ce дeли нa дeвeтмeceчни цикли".Гaлицийcки иcтории - eдноврeмeнно комични, зaтрогвaщи и нeвeроятно крacиви - ca проникновeно и мaлко зловeщо обобщeниe нa тeжкия политичecки и икономичecки прeход, зaпочнaл в нaчaлото нa 90-тe години в цeлия Източeн блок....

Title : Галицийски истории
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ISBN : 9789545531125
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 139 Pages
Status : Available For Download
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Галицийски истории Reviews

  • Agnieszka
    2019-04-11 04:20

    Andrzej Stasiuk, leaving to others charms and glamour of all Londons, Romes or Parises, is a bard of the other Europe, this minor and poorer one, with its provincial towns, petrified silence and bygone glory. Instead of popular places he chooses small corners of the world which modernness never fully touched and where time seems to stop in some other era.Stasiuk likes to roam the dusty roads and impenetrable off-roads; he can enthuse about play of lights, fogbound mountains and cavernous darkness falling over the earth; he likes to watching people, but not with the curiosity of a scientist observing a savage, not condescending superiority of someone from a big city, not with greed of the conqueror but with this ancient attitude that makes wanderers to sit by the fire and listen to the local legends. His sensitivity to the surrounding world can not be overestimated and his admiration for the beauty of the landscape infects the reader. Galicia from Stasiuk‘s writing feels like a place beyond the time, like a country forgotten by God and civilization. Small villages or maybe hamlets with ruined habitations and neglected farmyards, whereeven crows would turn around and fly back where they came fromand people, marked with poverty, drunkenness and helplessness, more or less trying to deal with post communist reality, forma new tribe after all, a people who hadn’t been reached by any good news or apostle Paul . Life takes its unchangeable course and concentrates around invariable landmarks church and shop, pub and bus stop. This collection could easily be read in one evening but instead I preferred to dose myself the pleasure of staying in the Galician little town, in a place where the earth and the sky seem to be stitched with invisible thread; to know the locals and experience that something what makes a color and spirit of this land.Look at Józek,as innocent as an angel, like a child, like a creature from the time when God had only begun to contemplate the notion of sin ; he often sleeps in places when sleep just found him and when he goes off the pub does not part with a knife since one can not know everyone there. Here is Władek, whose soul seems to be too light to help him in the fight with heavy matter. And there again is Janek, looking like a forest kobold with dark, nomadic essences flowing under his skin, every year leaving behind house and village, thatturbulent kingdom of women and childrento get lost in the woods for some months. There is Kościejny, pallid, anguished creature who killed his wife’s lover and froze to death some years later to wander now about and be visible only to nonbeliever policeman. And there ...Tale spins lazily like a smoke over autumn fields leaving in your nostrils scent of wind and damp soil, conjuring images of green pastures, distant hills and an old Greek church which used to stay there. Tales of Galicia is a small collection of miniatures where lyricism naturally interweaves with brutality. It's beautiful evocation of people and places, meditation on nature of time and memory because as writer said himself time and memory were his homeland.

  • Antonomasia
    2019-03-27 10:13

    [4.5] The darker side of the beautiful nature-writing and psychogeography of Dukla, perhaps. A slightly earlier book set in Stasiuk's adopted home in the Beskid mountains near the Polish-Slovak border, where Dukla concentrated on place, Tales of Galicia is about people. Before writing about the ethereal sense of place two years later, he based this novella on the lives of locals, people with tougher, less mobile existences than his own. This was the mid-1990s after the collapse of Communist collective farming - probably near rock-bottom for villages like these, before capitalism and tourism improved prospects again. (There are some gorgeous recent photographs of the area, here, the title a pun on the original Polish title of this book).I'd been interested in this book for a long time; it's been out of print for years and the second hand price has now shot up to £100. Kicking myself for not getting it when it was nearer £20, I'd accepted I may never read it. Then after reading Agnieszka's post, I was browsing the publisher's website and idly clicked the link to their official Scribd page: and there was Tales of Galicia as a free PDF download. (I'm a subscriber on Scribd, but it looks like you can get this PDF without subscribing to the main ebook service.)I loved Tales of Galicia in much the same way as I loved Dukla, though when the narrative was in close third-person, I wasn't always sure the intense, metaphysical style rang true to some villagers' personalities. With some it does, whilst with some characters Stasiuk uses simpler phrasing; but others I imagined them having the same ideas in different words, or feeling these things almost wordlessly. The kneejerk contemporary reaction might be to call the characterisation essentialist or romanticised - an author from the city - albeit a self-taught author without a degree - moves to a rural area and sees people as having simple, hard lives only partly touched by technology. Yet these places were certainly more isolated and less mechanised than West European rural areas at the same time; and it would be impossible to judge without knowing them (and the period) for oneself...I get the feeling he's pretty accurate, except, crucially, humour is almost absent. But I would love to know the opinions of people who grew up in villages like this one.There was a phrase either in Tess of the d'Urbervilles, or the Penguin introduction - a quote I spent hours trying to find again in my teens - that succinctly and perfectly described something about remote places that seem always to have been as they are, for good and bad. In some ways beautiful, others awful. The village in Tales of Galicia is like that, a beautiful place with little of the noise of city life, more or less close-knit, but but with undercurrents of violence and abuse, more recent norms more established in cities not having spread to somewhere so isolated, where no-one can hear you scream. It was a village like any other. A snaking three-kilometer chain of buildings scattering, splitting off, and then clustering densely together again. The concrete, wood, sagging roofs, relics of fences, and iron balustrades produced a fallen cake of poverty and a yearning for the world as seen on tv. The asphalt road barely grazed the outskirts of the area of densest settlement, barely brushed against it. Which was probably all for the best, since kids and dogs had taken possession of the pot-holed gravel road that served as the main artery.his fertility was of almost biblical proportions, although not too much out of the ordinary around here.About the guy who had been sleeping with his own daughter for years, and how people had already gotten used to it and forgotten about it. He told me who had bought himself a fourteen-year-old girl for money and was waiting for the girl to grow up so he could marry her and for now he was just keeping her in the house for work of one kind or another.The fall of communism has allowed that yearning for the world as seen on TV to manifest physically; now everything is changing so much now that you wouldn’t recognize it a week later. As the afterword says, The action of the book takes place a few years after 1989, and this peripheral setting offers a prime vantage point from which to view the effects of transition spreading out from the center.In the pub they are all ears listening to Edek’s niuyorks, grinpoynts, djobs, blaks and kadylaksthe waitress appeared from behind a curtain of colorful plastic strips in makeup, jewelry and stretch pants covered with clusters of grape vines, her gold earrings in a duet with the tape player, just like the dreamily yawning, final lazy aamoorree.The girl looked at his broad shoulders in a parrot-green American Kick Boxer jacket, at his rear end in purple Gladiator sweat pants, at his whole figure, which iridesced and phosphoresced from his feet on up to his lemon-colored Yellowstone cap.Whilst Stasiuk has an eye for the metaphysical and for the beauty of nature, I think he realises that what most middle-class outsiders regard as tackiness is also an essential part of working-class and rural life: surely it comes from the same impulse which has always led people to innovate regardless of poverty or of not having all the same information sources as "tastemakers". (Around the same time I was reading this book, I browsed a website for something I'd regard as pretty much a dream holiday if I were fit & healthy - working holidays on traditionally run E. European farms - and noticed here an aesthetic criterion for traditional, touristique villages. Essentialist, yet likely also sensible and realistic in order to keep the greatest number of customers happy and therefore to break even: Unfortunately and relatively counterintuitively for those not closely acquainted to the Romanian village situation, our criteria are not easy to meet, mainly because of a recent invasion of kitsch in rural areas.)Describing the new consumerist novelties, Stasiuk's writing edged towards the pseudishly earnest. I'm reminded of a friend's opinion that English is worse-suited to poetic seriousness than continental languages, and that may be the problem here. Although I like the underlying intention, blending old religious fervour with the idolisation of these new products, I think it could do with a dash of humorous exaggeration or irony:Blue Ocean Deodorant — this is the color of the Mother of God, of the firmament, and like white it represents purity. Red — Fort Moka Desert — this is the color of the Holy Ghost which kindles the flames of love and bursts forth as tongues of flame. It is also the color of Christ’s Passion, of the cross and of all those travelers who spilled blood on the road to faith. Black — John Players Stuyvesant — this is death, mourning, grief and conciliation but also contempt for the world, repudiation and darkness which only divine light can dispel.With Stasiuk's writing, it's easy to concentrate on description because of its richness, yet it's characters who structure this novella. Having a chapter per person means it's also been described as a short story collection - although it's more cohesive than that suggests. I found it a more natural way of getting to know a place than standard narratives: as you would often in a new place, you meet people one by one, observe what is around at the time, gradually learn more about that person and aspects of life to which they're connected. Some of these characters are rather similar: most are tough working-class men hewn from the same stone, though a few have distinctive jobs or histories. 'Grandma' in some ways is a storybook babushka, yet her story becomes a little more complex and fleshed-out; the other woman who has her own chapter would have to be described as a force of nature, someone perhaps too beautiful and strange to do well in such a place, an archetype whose name I don't know; yet she and those who fit in better are alike in having substantial tragedy attached.It is the ancient and transcendent rather than the modern on which Stasiuk is most enchanting, and which makes this book beautiful alongside the hardships it details, reflecting a harsh life in a lovely landscape: rooted in some primordial time when nouns, verbs and adjectives were firmly bound to objects, events and attributes, in a time when language was only a mirror reflection of the worldJanek lived according to the clock of the sun, whose adaptability was more compatible with a nature immersed in the cosmos.When the black windows paled to blue and the light of dawn drew out their transparency and grime, the men would get up, one waking up the other, muttering the same curses their fathers had used.when they woke up on all of the dawns that had been allotted to them. Or on landscape: Winter ends late here. There are blizzards even in April, and the nights are frosty. The arrival of spring is preceded by a muddy season when colors run together. White struggles with black, with grayness, with the first green. The slopes and valleys continually change their appearance.They all emerged from winter white and to it they returned, as if December actually had the power to abolish time. On a snowy night, when the fluorescent lights glowed with a quiet hum, it always looked like the start of eternity. [I love reading that in December; it seems unusual to love being in the burrow of all this darkness, a longed for yet involuntary pause in self and world regardless of what noisy customs have been laid on top - I suppose I have something of the physical stasis associated with winter SAD, whilst tending not to sadness but to an almost stubborn contentment and entrenchment, unlike the dissatisfied restlessness of lighter times of the year. In Stasiuk, I see someone else understands it and words it so beautifully, elucidating ideas I had never verbalised.]His rural environment is clearly not the pretty chocolate-box village, and there was this visceral reminder of how draughty daily life at home in little wooden houses would have been - still will be somewhere - which if I ever knew it before, I'd forgotten: Its whistlings penetrated right through Grandma’s shack, swept the dust from the floor, whipped the gray, braided straw ropes up the chimney and flung them into the sky, In two or three [Nordic & Baltic] novels & old stories of rural life I've read over the past couple of years, people have been reluctant to slaughter their own livestock, because they were too attached to the animals, and a neighbour had to do it instead. (Something which contemporary urban people perhaps don't realise, assuming that they were emotionally cold, or knowing only about TV chefs who have raised and slaughtered their own livestock.) The same situation crops up again here: a man gets a fellow villager to do slaughtering, and the one doing the killing makes the additional more detached point: The most important thing is that the little beast doesn’t get scared. Makes a bad job of it, and the meat’s no good. Stinks of fear. It’s worst with a pig. You can’t fool a pig, it’s smart.There is an excellent afterword by the translator (from 2003), which among other things, gives national context to the book, and mentions what has been lost in translation.Political, social and economic changes set in motion in 1989 created a climate much more open to new and experimental literary voices, and Stasiuk, along with his contemporaries (among them Stefan Chwin, Natasza Goerke, Paweł Huelle, Jerzy Pilch, Olga Tokarczuk, and Magdalena Tulli), responded by creating a literature that engaged both Poland’s past and recent Western literary, cultural and critical preoccupations. Among other things, the new Polish prose is characterized by a strong centrifugal tendency and a corresponding rootedness in so-called “little homelands.”... Stasiuk’s Beskid Mountains, the Gdańsk of Huelle and Chwin, the Silesia of Pilch and Tokarczuk — all are essentially as far away from Warsaw as one can be without crossing the border...A strong inclination toward generic experimentation is also characteristic, manifesting itself, for example, in Goerke’s rejection of conventional, realistic, cause-and-effect narrative structure; in Tokarczuk’s mosaics of voices and styles; and in Stasiuk’s continual interrogation of canonical textual boundaries.As I've mentioned, Stasiuk lives near the Slovak border - and borders, boundaries and their fluidity are a common theme in his writing:“fissure in existence,” where boundaries dissolve between the natural and the supernatural, and where passage can be made from one side to another... Kosciejny [who becomes a ghost] becomes the embodiment (and disembodiment) of the tension between matter and spirit that lies at the core of Stasiuk’s metaphysics. Other significant vehicles for expressing this tension include television, dreams, alcohol, forces of nature, and time, all of which have the power to suspend Stasiuk’s characters for at least a moment over the fissure in existence that makes death, as well as life, less certain.The narrator is not only semi-autobiographical, but he simultaneously assumes two roles: he is an outsider to the villagers, but a local to tourists. In constructing the book’s narrative trajectory, Stasiuk deliberately plays with the limits between fallibility and omniscience, several times surrendering the narrative (to a greater or lesser degree) to another persona altogether...Not having a degree, having been in prison, preferring to live hundreds of miles from urban literary centres - yet also being one of Poland's most respected authors - he seems like a figure who is always both and neither: establishment and outsider.The liminality of his adopted home is also cultural:the region as a centuries-old palimpsest created by a succession of migrating (or invading) cultures. A prominent theme is the cyclical efflorescence and decay of a series of belief systems brought from over the border: the migrant Lemko population brought their own Greek Catholic, or Uniate, church observing the rites of Eastern Orthodoxy but looking to the Pope in Rome). Stasiuk had looked after an old wooden Greek Catholic church in a forest, which was later taken down and transported piece by piece to a museum. Its site is also a kind of ghost, present and absent at once.Perhaps the most fascinating thing about this commentary was to learn how the original language facilitates this sense of fading in and out of time and of crossing and hovering around borders:English verbs do not have the same nuanced possibilities of motion, quantity, and force offered by Polish affixes. Verb tense shifts back and forth easily in the original — this is allowable, even neutral in Polish, but Stasiuk knowingly exploits its potential to efface boundaries between past, present, and future. The translator is faced with the task of marking this purposefully constructed synchronicity without offending the sensibilities of readers accustomed to narratives in a uniformly past tense.Stasiuk makes use of several different language registers simultaneously, and this signals both his narrator’s otherness and his gradually acquired status as local, but this idiom is exceedingly difficult to render in a translation.The translator was still studying at the time she worked on this book; I wondered if someone more experienced and more avant-garde might have managed to transpose this tense-play more effectively into English - that surely would have been a full-five-star book. Still, the overall tone in the prose is very similar to that in the translation of Dukla by Bill Johnson, considered one of the most accomplished Polish-English literary translators - and quotes from that captured the feel of Stasiuk's writing for a GR friend who's a native Polish speaker - so something substantial must be right here.

  • Кремена Михайлова
    2019-03-28 04:13

    * 12.02.Изцяло я прочетох и втория път, не само оттук-оттам. Мислех да е след няколко месеца, но не можах да прибера книгата в библиотеката. Ами ако съм изпуснала нещо подобно:„…очите му бяха покрити с емайла на лудостта, която се крие вътре, циркулира във вените, отърква се о вътрешностите, дълбае тялото както къртицата земята и никога не излиза на бял свят преждевременно, само свети в зениците. А когато излезе, то това винаги е краят, остава празна обвивка и лудостта тръгва нататък, защото, каквото и да става, хора на света много.“„Левандовски хърка. От носа му се точат сънища. Изпълват стаята, присядат на столовете около масата и се препират за душата му: „Аз ще я взема, когато дойде времето.“, „ Не, моя е.“ „Не, аз го мъчих най-дълго.“ „А ако няма душа?“ „Всеки има. Така пише.“ После се топят във въздуха, за да направят място на следващите, защото Левандовски на нощ сънува двадесетина, стотици за година живот, за всеки ден от живота си.“Мислите ми след втория прочит:- сигурно повече ще забелязвам всички заобикалящи ме детайли, особено навън – път, небе, поле, стара сграда, човешки емоции (в книгата само за небето имаше над 10-15 описания в различните му състояния и „функции“).- какво зная за света и хората, след като не познавам „текезесари“, дървосекачи, „обикновени“ безделници, истински „престъпници“- разгледах предполагаемия район в Полша с google street view – споменатото градче Krosno (като Каварна, но без море и малко по-спретнато); още по-малкото градче Zagórz (просто защото нямаше google street view в по-малко село, за да си представя напълно измисленото от Сташук село Жлобиска) отдавна не бях се интересувала от неща като църкви и селски къщи, но предимно заради разказа „Мястото“ стигнах до дървената църква в градчето Sanok корицата ми прилича на „дървената материя“ на селото от книгата и понякога я попипвам – дали не е от дърво и тя- вече нямам само един любим „горски/селски“ писател (Селинджър); към него се присъединиха Арто Паасилина и Анджей Сташук- за да не започна друга книга, във времето за вечерно четене извърших крайно непривични за мен домакински дейности, отлагани с месеци- отново имам неудържимо желание да препиша тук предпоследния параграф. Но нали все пак е от края на книгата, трябва да се въздържа - в „клюкарника“ си записах: февруарско щастие = 137 страници__________________________________________* 10.02.Отсега мога да кажа – най-любима книга за 2015 г. Дано има и други разбира се, но нищо не може да я измести, каквото и да прочета по-нататък. Вместо десетките страници откъси, които преписах, първото, което ми идва наум за „Галицийски истории“, е от друг роман:„…понякога този живот е способен на повече красота, отколкото светът може да понесе.”(„Нека големият свят се върти“, К. Маккан).„Този живот“, тази трудна красота, в случая е книгата на Сташук. До вчера почти не бях чувала за автора, а сега го наричам Анджей, сякаш ми е добър стар приятел. Откога си търся нов любим полски автор след Олга Токарчук. Сташук няма нищо общо с нея – си помислих в началото, а в края – има много общо с нея (не само защото тя също пише за погранични райони). И при двамата харесвам това, че освен видимите неща, описват и „вторичните“, например„допитата чаша с вино „Казачок“, пронизана от светлия поглед на телевизора“. И при двамата (и не само) – онова неуловимо, но недаващо мира нещо, наречено „съвест“.След като не можах да завърша книгата през нощта заради умишленото бавно четене, рано-рано в 7 ч. продължих, а на обяд стомахът ми сътвори цяла симфония от глад, но не му обърнах внимание. Докато предната книга изгълтах наведнъж, защото историята не позволи да я оставя, сега четох тази още по-кратка книга много бавно. Първо, защото редовно спирах за преписване на откъси. Второ, защото на някои места не ми се искаше да продължа – гледах ги отново и отново, на стр. 33 бях заседнала дълго, препрочитайки всяка дума, без да знам, че на стр. 34 ще направя същото, после пак, до преписаната изцяло стр. 123. И финалът си залужава преписване и научаване. Получи се парадокс – хем бях щастлива, че попаднах на тази книга, че не съм я пропуснала, хем малко съжалявах, че вече е прочетена. Малко пресилено, но един вид като мечтата, която постигнеш и вече няма към какво да се стремиш и настъпва известна празнота… Е, поне ми остават откъсите и още една книга на Сташук след известно време. „Горкият“ Анджей – само средно образование имал…„Когато са се раздавали душите, трябва да е станала някаква грешка, защото тялото на Владек, родено и заселено на тази земя, получило някакъв лек, някак прекалено духовен орган, който не успяваше да се справи с тежестта на материята. Със собствените крайници, със съня, с отлитането на времето, с тежестта на каменната почва. Прастарият ритъм, който подгонва съседите напролет към полето, лете към поляните, а наесен към картофените ниви, едва го беше докоснал. Затова Владек, макар че пиеше умерено и беше порядъчен човек, в селото беше на опашката, а по доход на глава от семейството заемаше последното място. […] ... Владек беше добър баща и най-голяма радост му доставяше, когато дечурлигата го накачулваха от главата до краката. Тогава седеше доволен като мормон, а жена му отиваше да работи в гората.“Периодът е „пост-соц“, но в този отдалечен селски район изглежда сякаш е с няколко десетилетия по-рано, за хубаво или лошо… Селото е като изморен организъм с разхлабени ставни връзки, които все пак се държат някак - по силата на онези много добре описани в книгата природни закони. И най-вече заради сътвореното от човека. Към последните разкази (или глави?) връзките обаче сякаш се „сгъстяват“, защото тайните и прегрешенията спояват хората, не ги пускат да са отделени. И те все повече започват да витаят в една неопределена реалност –„без имена и форми“.Заради тази амалгама се разхождах напред-назад в книгата. В разказа за Маришка се върнах на разказа за Бабичката, Кошчейни го проследих с голямо внимание. А заради свободно-свързаната структура на „Галицийски истории“ си спомних за „Между приятели“ на Амоз Оз. И там кибуцът беше специфично място, и тук е много специфичен районът (по-скоро на моменти на някои руски книги ми напомняше), но може ли да не си помислим и за почти всяко българско село при това описание:„Слънчевият циферблат на площада, където църквата обозначава дванадесет, кръчмата – шест часа, на три е магазинът, а от девет тръгват автобусите.“Колебая се дали църквата или кръчмата е по-централен герой в тази книга. Но всъщност защо трябва да има „по“.„Църквата на хълма, в която идваше в неделя, беше свидетелство за двойствеността на света. Човек можеше да влезе в нея, да се умие от греховете, за да се потопи обратно в действителността, в която категориите добродетел и грях бяха непрозрачни, взаимно се просмукваха, съвсем като тъмнината и светлината преди първия ден от Сътворението. Дали в ума на Юзек не се е появила интуицията, че храмът е лицензиран от обграждащия го хаос?“За кръчмата има и отделен разказ, освен че в много други действието също се развива там. Но и този автобус е много показателен за живота в селото.„Последният автобус винаги е пиянски. Мъжете се търкалят между седалките като билярдни топки и хлътват в случайни места, като започват разговор със съседите, с жени, понякога разговарят със сянката. В девет вечерта през зимата е все тая с кого ще говориш.“Можем едва ли не да оправдаем пияниците в подобни „пост-соц“ условия, да обвиним обстоятелствата, в случая западащото ТКЗС със съответното наследство от кухото минало. И докато това малко ми напомня на сергей-довлатовските пияници от „Резерват“, „Веднъж го намерих в един ров. Просто си спеше в преобърнатия трактор. Общо взето, често заспиваше там, където сънят го завари.“тук се сетих за „по-поетичното и философско“ пиянстване на някои отлетели рок звезди.„Последователността на събитията изчезва, изчезват причините и последиците и грехът изчезва заедно с историята. Всичко се случва едновременно, започва преждевременно и свършва, преди да е започнало. С поредните чаши Юзек усмъртява времето, извършва някаква безумна аутопсия, която оголва хилавия скелет, върху който наслагваме усилия, постижения, планове и надежди. В този поток изчезва и самият Юзек, като граница между това, което е било и това, което тепърва ще бъде. Разбира се, стърчи на масата с нарастваща небрежност, обляга се на подлакътника и също с нарастваща страст дърпа от цигарата си така, че бузите му сякаш се допират от вътрешната страна. Неговото съществуване обаче се превръща в проблем. От оста на времето изчезва точка нула. След час, след като бутилката е изпразнена, в процеса на поглъщане на мизерикордиални бири, сменя името ми с някакво друго, някогашно име, което е участвало в живота му. След малко отново го намира и ме кани в бъдещето, на лов за пъстърви през пролетта, а рибите се появяват в съзнанието му като далечна реминисценция от детството, теглеща на буксир няколко други разказа. Това е плетеница от разклоняващи се пътечки. Юзек не избира пътя. Тръгва натам, накъдето го понесат удобните срички, приликата в имената или случайният пиян поглед.“Няма смисъл да говоря повече (да не остана и без вечеря). Следват купища откъси, искам целият свят да види тази книга. :). Задната корица също дава отлична представа за нея - рядко в анотациите виждам това, което всъщност намирам в книгите. В случая извадки от книгата са оформени в идеално описание на съдържанието.Не мога да не спомена и преводачката. Не само заради изрази като „хаотично сплетените гъстаци“; „къде се дява свръхестественият светлик“, „времето, което се вгнездява във вените им“. Изобщо цялостно е влязла в духа на книгата Диляна Денчева. Ето го този дух:(view spoiler)[„… Владек яхна някакъв страничен вятър, който никога не бе довявал в тази долина.“„Защото животът е кръгъл, движи се по окръжност и дори ако някой се измъкне, на неговото място се появява друг.“„Може би въображението и вярата не могат да съществуват едно без друго, защото имат обща същност – не изискват доказателство.“ „…Юзек знае, макар че не си дава сметка за това, че и той участва в прошката, че в аритметиката на света на всеки грях се пада по парченце бяла нафора.“ „Янек е рус със сини очи, нискостеблен човешки вид, в който вените и мускулите на едър мъж са се свили, смалили, без да губят от силата си. Прилича на трол, създаден по размера на гъстите шубраци, изтръгнатите от корен дървета и хаотично сплетените гъстаци.“ „Янек обаче живее според слънчевия часовник, чиято гъвкавост повече съответства на неговото потопено в космоса естество. Защото, когато обедните сенки станат обезпокоително къси, Янек поема в ноздрите си влажните повеи и гледа как бялото на склона придобива по-тъмни оттенъци, сменя цвета си и накрая се превръща в изпокъсана изтляла материя, изпод която наднича изгнилата миналогодишна трева“.„Тези, които работят при горивните камери, ще донесат уханието на изгоряло, на дървени въглища, тежкия сладникав аромат на буков дим. Дървосекачите – неповторимата смесица от смола и бензинови изгорели газове. Шофьорите ще влязат с полъх на масла, грес и прегрял, облъскан метал. Миризмата на пот ще обедини тези противоречиви аури.“„Къде е онази светлина, която като фенерче на нощен пазач трябва да пада върху спящите, отрудените, загубилите свяст и в златното си кръгче да заваря сърцата им, за да имат сила сутрин да станат и да започнат всичко отначало? Черната карта на нощта се разгръща между хоризонтите. Нито върховете, нито кулите са достатъчно твърди, за да я пробият. Селцата – лепенки на бузата на земята, пътищата – драскотини, обривът от градчета час преди полунощ, три часа преди зазоряване – нищо не предсказва възкресението, нищо не предсказва опрощението на вината, макар че небето е по-голямо от земята. Нощ, нощ, нощ, ковачът Крук разказва насън история без край, дълга като живота на всички хора, сякаш иска да се изповяда за всичко, което е видял, което е чул, да се изповяда за всички добри, лоши и никакви неща, защото животът е разновидност на греха, за което можеш да забравиш денем, но нощта е безмилостна, за това знае Левандовски, знаят за това и Гацек, и Едек, и всички, защото когато умът спи, миналите и бъдещите постъпки сядат на гърдите ти, а тежестта им е неописуема. Тогава сърцето бие едва-едва, замира, едва изпомпва застиващата кръв и дори и най-малката капчица блясък не разрежда сгъстената от страха материя и може само да чакаш, докато тъмносинята боя на зората не покрие стъклата. Само това може да се направи.“„Времето има кълбовидна форма – това най-добре го знаят жените. За тях то се дели на деветмесечни цикли. Между едно и друго раждане израждат овце и някои от тях постигат пълна прилика с животните, що се отнася до броя на бременностите. Пет деца, седем, девет, във всеки случай достатъчно, за да се повярва, че животът е само безкрайна верига от раждания и смърт. За да се изтръгне човек от този кръг са необходими добродетел или прегрешение. Първото Юзек култивира дотолкова, доколко е необходимо за живот сред хората. Прави го умерено и мимоходом. Но когато казва: „Ама как се натряскахме!“ или когато говори за „по времето на Гомулка“ и „ по времето на Герек“ от гледна точка на количеството кражби и доколко лесни са били, в гласа му звучи нескривана гордост и задоволство. Точно, сякаш тези актове са мярка за суеверност, сякаш с тяхна помощ е спасил своето индивидуално съществуване и му е придал смисъл.“ „Потокът на времето се хлъзгаше между къщите, носеше се през площада, обикаляше двете пейки на кръст, обмиваше руините на кметството, които за двеста години бе успял да подяде, да зарази с гниене, да оплакне от мазилката им и които накрая сигурно щеше да отнесе, както пороят отнася леките, ненужни и забравени предмети. Времето течеше също и от небето, лееше се като ленива мед, пръскаше се върху металните люспи на паважа, но нито течението му, нито пък някоя капка бяха в състояние да повлекат след себе си каквото и да е по-голямо събитие.“(hide spoiler)]

  • Dov Zeller
    2019-04-06 08:00

    I am in the middle of this one and not sure I am going to finish it. I learned of it through another goodreads person who also included the link. (It had been available on Scribd but isn't any longer.)I found that some of the stories really drew me in and some were less accessible. More than that, each time I began to feel like I was really entering the world of a story it ended and I had to start all over again. So it was a lot of effort and hard to connect. That said, I do hope to finish it at some point. And I especially liked the story or chapter called Kosciejny (this is one of those books that feels like it could be a story collection, a novel, a bit of contemporary historical fiction with a little magical realism, some combination of all three.)Here are some quotes:And even though it was cold, Blacksmith Kruk didn’t move, didn’t hunch his shoulders, didn’t try to button up his denim shirt. H continued his story mindful not to leave anything out, and everything had its own weight, everything had its own proper place in the story, as if memory and speech were gifts he was not allowed to waste. (30 from Kruk)Dark, nomadic essences flowed under Janek’s kobold skin. But they had been watered down by alcohol the blood of sedentary generations, and the hopelessness of a limited horizon, where the sun rose behind a picket fence hung with babies’ diapers and women’s cottons and linens. The houses were filled with children’s shrieking. Not wails of hunger yet, but then again, nobody knew what the future had in store. In the guise of springtime, it would reveal the deterioration. Old people would die as usual. And the vanishing snow would expose the slow gangrene in the fields and buildings and in the piles of laboriously collected things, rotting and leaning to one side only to collapse and return once again to the somnolent and sluggish earth. (34)Kosciejny looked like he usually did, a little like a scarecrow that had just escaped from the garden. That’s exactly how skinny, forty-year-old men in overalls look. Time rubs their features away, and it’s only in old age, when they have come reconciled with it, that they get their own one-of-a-kind faces back. Maybe so death can tell them apart. (51)(From Kosciejny)He cut off the head with short, quick strokes. Two mongrels were hanging around nearby. Then the tip of the knife slipped along the belly, along the legs, and the skin came off like a stocking. Steam was rising in the cold morning air. It was already over— skin, carcass, entrails, everything neatly separated. A simple and precise dissection of existence. (52) (From Kosciejny)Then K continued on his journey out. Peaceful, drowsing, just like the horses, one foot after the other to the edge of night, where darkness flowed over the mountains like rich, black milk. (53)“…dirt and freedom always intermingle.” (53)“I don’t feel sorry for you, I just pity the horses.” (53)

  • Malcolm
    2019-04-24 05:06

    This is a lovely novel from one of the 'new school' of Polish writers (see Natasza Goerke elsewhere in this list) set in a fictitious village in the Beskid Mountains or nearby, close to the Polish-Slovak border. Initially seeming to be a short story collection, the tales start to weave together to become a touching and quite poignant novel of being on the edge – of Poland, of social change, of life/death, and several other sorts of marginality. Even marginal characters, some of whom appear for little more that couple of lines, seem to layer and build up a moving sense of life in the once-was-a-collective-farm/village.I'd never read Stasiuk before – but once again Prague's Twisted Spoon Press has come through with a fine piece of central European fiction to remind me that there is really good work being done that seldom if ever makes its way into English.

  • Radek Gabinek
    2019-03-29 01:59

    Andrzej Stasiuk again :) Tym razem moim łupem padł zbiór opowiadań o małej miejscowości w Beskidzie Niskim, której mieszkańcy zmagają się z upiorami przeszłości w trakcie przemian ustrojowych. Cień PRL-u, a nawet czasów jeszcze bardziej odległych ciąży na ludziach, którzy tu mieszkają i uniemożliwia im powstanie na nogi z marazmu, apatii i zawieszenia. Przyznam, że do tej pory nie trafiłem jeszcze na książkę Andrzeja Stasiuka, która by mi się nie spodobała, aczkolwiek "Opowieści galicyjskie" mimo, że są uznawane za jedną z najważniejszych jego dzieł, a nawet dorobiły się adaptacji filmowej, nie chwyciły mnie za gardło tak mocno jak dotychczasowe pozycje które wyszły z pod jego ręki.Atmosfera opowiadań, które znajdziemy w niniejszej książce jest mocno dołująca, co nie dziwi wcale zważywszy na twórczość Stasiuka, która wcale przecież nie należy do lekkich, łatwych i przyjemnych, a ponadto trudno oczekiwać motywacyjnej, optymistycznej literatury w historii toczącej się w cieniu PGR-ów. W oparach alkoholu, w towarzystwie biedy i bezrobocia, życie toczy się smętnie, a klaustrofobia charakterystyczna dla społeczności tu żyjącej i bezsensowność egzystencji jest aż nadto zauważalna. Pośród tego wszystkiego krąży zagubiony pomiędzy światami wiecznymi duch, starający się uniknąć potępienia, który doprasza się o uwagę i modlitwę. Czy natomiast uda mu się kogoś przebudzić swym wołaniem przypominającym wołanie na pustyni? - kwestia nad wyraz wątpliwa jak szybko można się zorientować. Nie potrafię określić czy w opowieściach Stasiuka czuć klimat charakterystyczny dla Galicji, bo nie bardzo wiem jaki to miałby być klimat. Wiem natomiast, że zarówno krajobrazy jakie kreśli tutaj Andrzej Stasiuk jak i mentalność ludzi żyjących w tej wsi to rzecz charakterystyczna nie tylko dla Polski z czasów transformacji ustrojowej, ale do dziś widoczna w różnych miejscach naszego kraju. Przytłaczający wydźwięk tych opowiadań, będących raczej rozdziałami jednej historii niż samodzielnymi utworami, jest okraszony mistycyzmem i jak to bywa u tego autora - egzystencjalnymi rozważaniami na temat roli pamięci, czasu i dziedzictwa. Te ostatnie elementy należą do moich ulubionych w twórczości Stasiuka i dlatego trochę ich jak dla mnie było tutaj jakby mało. Z tego też chyba względu "Opowieści galicyjskie" nie będą należeć do moich ulubionych książek jego autorstwa. Nie oznacza to jednak wcale, że ta książka nie zachęca do refleksji i nie wnosi nic dla wrażliwego i otwartego czytelnika. Jest tylko trochę trudno dotrzeć do tych wątków pośród tego przygnębienia i depresji.Kończąc już opinię na temat tej książki ( bo nie bardzo wypada się bez końca rozpisywać nad książką niezbyt przecież obszerną, którą każdy może przeczytać w wolnej chwili) chciałbym zaznaczyć, że niewielu jest pisarzy, którzy tak jak Andrzej Stasiuk oddają emocje i za ich pomocą oddziaływują na czytelnika aż tak wyraźnie. Czytając "Opowieści galicyjskie" człowiek ma wrażenie, że męczy się na kacu wraz z bohaterami tej opowieści, zapomina że ma cel w życiu i pracę i momentami oddaje się atmosferze beznadziejności nawet jeśli perspektywa bohaterów tej opowieści jest mu zupełnie obca. Choćby ta umiejętność autora zasługuje na to, aby poświęcić te parę chwil na lekturę książek takich jak ta. Przecież to między innymi jest nieocenioną wartością literatury, że możemy wchodzić w różne skóry, niekoniecznie sprawdzając wszystko w realu. Ja natomiast bardzo się cieszę, że mam przed sobą jeszcze wiele książek Andrzeja Stasiuka. A może polecicie mi po którą sięgnąć w pierwszej kolejności? :)

  • Sean
    2019-03-25 04:53

    A pitch-perfect genre-bending tale of an eroded village limping along in post-communist Poland, at the southern border with Slovakia. The initial connected story-portraits of individual characters eventually give way to a more unified narrative imbued with mystery and the supernatural. An itinerant narrator ducks in and out of a river of fluid time, moving seamlessly between past and present. Stasiuk's prose is slow but uncluttered, allowing space to take in his descriptions of the natural world and the sometimes ambiguous human connection to it. If the book were longer I'd be more than pleased to still be reading it...Nothing felt like happening, nothing, nothing. The stream of time slipped between the houses, rolled through the market square, and passed the two benches set crosswise. It flowed over the ruins of the town-hall tower, which over the past two hundred years it had managed to erode, infect with rot, and wash clean of plaster, and which it would certainly overcome in the end, like a flood carries away things that are light, unnecessary, and forgotten. Time also flowed from the sky, poured out like slow molasses and sloshed against the pavement's metallic shell. But neither its stream nor a single splash could manage to pull any greater event behind it.

  • Pelle_kb
    2019-04-06 07:10


  • Adam Dupaski
    2019-03-29 10:19

    Intense portrayals of Polish village underclass after the closing of a local collective farm post-89. Temporal warps and alcoholism, ruins of Uniate churches and memory burnt into the land, tractor jealousy and murderous ghosts. Best read once quickly than much more slowly again in wandering around Stasiuk's borderlands.

  • Allix Davis
    2019-04-11 07:17

    A lovely selection of short poetic stories based in Poland

  • Kika
    2019-04-21 02:14

    Oh, Stasiuk vie!

  • Paulina (aspiringliterati)
    2019-04-21 09:15

    A very quick but still enchanting through and through read.

  • Hanna
    2019-04-22 07:16Кажуть, що Анджей Стасюк пише подібно до Бруно Шульца. Але мені більше подобається, бо він ближчий до реальності. І якщо перейнятися цими описами і зрозуміти їх, то вони видаються дуже і дуже вдалими та точними. Короткі оповідання про окремих реалістичних персонажів якогось забитого села в Польській Галичині 90-х років, які поступово переплітаються в у вже магічний клубок. Як на мене, автор дуууже гарно підловлює побут, характери, обставини тих років. Оповідання напевно варто читати тим, хто хоче зрозуміти ту атмосферу.

  • Ricardo Avella
    2019-04-23 06:14

    3.6 stars, not really 4. I truly enjoyed some parts of this book. Very poetic, beautiful and sensitive descriptions of space and place. But others (maybe half of it) where really hard to digest instead.I have read Stasiuk before, and I really enjoyed Fado for example. But this collection of character portraits never ceased to remind me of an unoriginal version of the works by Sherwood Anderson or Juan Rulfo, but in Poland.

  • Paweł Fiszer
    2019-04-09 06:55

    Zbiór opowiadań o anty-Arkadii. Pogranicze, Polska D, E albo i F w melancholijnym stasiukowym wydaniu. Świat zastyga, jakby oblepiony leniwym blaskiem popołudniowego słońca, to znów niknie w podpełzającej pod płoty domostw szarości wieczornego nieba. Postaci utkane z prawdy i samej prawdy, a przecież wydają się być na poły cieniami, marami, do tego stopnia, że i duch nikogo nie dziwi.Stasiuk w swoim klasycznym, kanonicznym wręcz wydaniu. Ukłon.(Kurtyna, oklaski)

  • Pennie Larina
    2019-04-13 07:55

    Несподіванно чудово. Читала б і читала далі.

  • Nazariy Zanoz
    2019-03-30 07:09

    Ранній Стасюк особливо прекрасний. Деякі оповіді можна розбирати на цитати, особливо описи. Те відчуття ефимерности й спавжности Галичини, де б вона не була.

  • Phil Sun
    2019-04-15 04:10

    My mind would wander while reading this book, only to snag on a startling image or acute turn of phrase. At first it felt like I was reading studies of characters, interesting yet impressionistic. Setting is paramount: somewhere in rural Poland, on the border with Slovakia, just as the Iron Curtain is falling down and the state collective farm is a decomposing corpse. Village life revolves around the pub and the church, while display windows glow with new consumer products, their labels appearing as "incantations in an incomprehensible language". Where history is centuries-deep, uncertain, sometimes invented, the people are "disinherited"; they can only live in the present, which is at once bleak and sublime in a "wooded and desolate landscape" that is "aromatic" on "warm and windless days". Finally, two-thirds of the book in, there is something like a plot, via tenuous connections made between characters. In an existentially marginal place, even death is uncertain.

  • Rafael
    2019-04-11 09:04

    Realmente aunque dice el titulo "cuentos" cada uno de los cuentos es parte de un todo. El libro te da una visión de la gente común, campesinos, herreros, mecánicos, mujeres sufridas del campo, niños , inclusive los clérigos del lugar que conviven y toda esta vida unida a sus recuerdos y a su religión .

  • Matus Miksik
    2019-04-19 09:55

    the book takes a while to sink in, but after it does... yeah, it is all connected, most importantly author's style of writing and the black and white time-frozen village setting. the paradox here is obvious, the main catalyst of the book is it's slow pace... and it can really hold a reader in grip - though not in the usual way

  • Mieczyslaw Kasprzyk
    2019-03-30 07:10

    The first time I came across Stasiuk. A series of well-written and gripping tales of disfunctional individuals in the forested rural backwaters of post-communist Poland (there's the disfunctional again) that gradually come together in unity...Stasiuk is GOOD!

  • Patryk
    2019-03-25 02:20

    Nie jest lekko ;)

  • Joey turner
    2019-04-16 02:06

    A wonderful collection of (linked) stories set in post-communist Poland where time and existence is painted as it truly is: Absurd, (though there is much more to the work).

  • Katrien Steenssens
    2019-04-03 04:16

    ! schitterend

  • Andrew
    2019-04-16 09:13

    Very inventive story-telling ala Tokarczuk or Huelle. The Polish New Wave of fiction is awesome.