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Tu rostro mañana #1
Fever and Spear
Part spy novel, part romance, part Henry James, Your Face Tomorrow is a wholly remarkable display of the immense writing gifts of Javier Marias. With Fever and Spear, Volume One of his unfolding novel Your Face Tomorrow, he returns us to the rarified world of Oxford (the delightful setting of All Souls and Dark Back of Time), while introducing us to territory entirely new--espionage. Our hero, Jaime Deza, separated from his wife in Madrid, is a bit adrift in London until his old friend Sir Peter Wheeler retired Oxford don and semi-retired master spy recruits him for a new career in British Intelligence. Deza possesses a rare gift for seeing behind the masks people wear. He is soon observing interviews conducted by Her Majesty's secret service: variously shady international businessmen one day, would-be coup leaders the next. Seductively, this metaphysical thriller explores past, present, and future in the ever-more-perilous 21st century. This compelling and enigmatic tour de force from one of Europe's greatest writers continues with Volume Two, Dance and Dream."
396 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2002
319 people are currently reading
7029 people want to read
About the author
Javier Marías
136 books2,405 followersJavier Marías was a Spanish novelist, translator, and columnist. His work has been translated into 42 languages. Born in Madrid, his father was the philosopher Julián Marías, who was briefly imprisoned and then banned from teaching for opposing Franco. Parts of his childhood were spent in the United States, where his father taught at various institutions, including Yale University and Wellesley College. His mother died when Javier was 26 years old. He was educated at the Colegio Estudio in Madrid.
Marías began writing in earnest at an early age. "The Life and Death of Marcelino Iturriaga", one of the short stories in While the Women are Sleeping (2010), was written when he was just 14. He wrote his first novel, "Los dominios del lobo" (The Dominions of the Wolf), at age 17, after running away to Paris.
Marías operated a small publishing house under the name of Reino de Redonda. He also wrote a weekly column in El País. An English version of his column "La Zona Fantasma" is published in the monthly magazine The Believer.
In 1997 Marías won the Nelly Sachs Prize.
Marías began writing in earnest at an early age. "The Life and Death of Marcelino Iturriaga", one of the short stories in While the Women are Sleeping (2010), was written when he was just 14. He wrote his first novel, "Los dominios del lobo" (The Dominions of the Wolf), at age 17, after running away to Paris.
Marías operated a small publishing house under the name of Reino de Redonda. He also wrote a weekly column in El País. An English version of his column "La Zona Fantasma" is published in the monthly magazine The Believer.
In 1997 Marías won the Nelly Sachs Prize.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 416 reviews
November 30, 2024
Verbosity… The narrator does nothing but talks to himself… And slowly the world he lives in starts surfacing up…
His attitude to life is that of an outsider… The world passes him by… Nothing happens… It is more a coma than a fever… But he has a lot of trivial observations… After the party is over he contemplates the civil war… It wasn’t a romantic fight for ideals… It was a snake pit abiding by the dog eat dog law…
The characters are a faceless crowd… The narrator, whatever he says, remains faceless too… And now he is recruited…
He who has no face today will have no face tomorrow.
…what am I doing in another country behaving like a nervous fiancé or, worse, like an insignificant lover or, worse, like a pathetic suitor who refuses to accept what he already knows, that he will always be rejected? That time is no more, it is not my time now, or, rather, my time has passed…
His attitude to life is that of an outsider… The world passes him by… Nothing happens… It is more a coma than a fever… But he has a lot of trivial observations… After the party is over he contemplates the civil war… It wasn’t a romantic fight for ideals… It was a snake pit abiding by the dog eat dog law…
The characters are a faceless crowd… The narrator, whatever he says, remains faceless too… And now he is recruited…
The work got off to a gradual start, by which I mean that once the contract had been agreed, they began giving me or asking me to undertake various tasks, which then increased in number, at a brisk but steady rate, and, after only a month, possibly less, I was a full-time employee, or so it seemed to me.
He who has no face today will have no face tomorrow.
September 24, 2020
Not Smiley's People
Four themes in different keys. The question is whether there is harmony or discord.
Opening with an over-scrupulous Proustian introduction, the protagonist, Deza, considers the disintegration of his marriage. He tries to formulate a theory of the case, to name the cause, as it were. He declares that "things only exist once they have been named." But names, particularly proper names, are an issue for him. Deza is variously Jaime, Jacobo, Jacques, and Jack depending on the company he keeps. The reader is forewarned that "A very thin line separates facts from imaginings...because imaginings are already facts." It's not a surprise therefore that Deza muses “...no one should trust me either."
Deza observes himself (apparently) rather critically, but he also has the capacity for prophetic judgement of others. Thus his Holmesian ability to suss out the bona fides of a variety of people for the mysterious figure of Tupra who is the central pillar of the second theme. Tupra's business interests aren't at all clear to Deza but not obviously shady enough to scare the latter off. Sherlock without the integrity.
The third story is a mystery involving the disappearance of a (real) Spanish Communist and the assassination of Deza's uncle during the Spanish Civil War. These events are also linked to the unexplained betrayal of his father in Franco Spain. Much is made of the connection with the James Bond figure of Ian Fleming's From Russia With Love, in which book there appear to be significant references to at least the first event.
Finally, there is the tale of Wheeler, the emeritus Oxford don, who, like a character out of Le Carre's Smiley's People, is an old hand in the British Secret Service. Wheeler also has some problems with name-stability. He, too, has had some vague involvement with the Spanish Civil War but on whose side and to accomplish what end?
The title comes from a comment half-way through made by Deza in an attempt to explain his father's betrayal. "How can I not know today your face tomorrow...?" he says. In other words: Isn't the real character of a person obvious long before he acts? Shouldn't one be able to see betrayal before any overt act to betray? One might assume therefore that this is the central theme that brings the four complex threads together.
But Marias then throws a rather hefty body blow to the reader who might be struggling with his complexity. "There is nothing worse than looking for a meaning or believing there is one." Deza says about two-thirds through. Not all that encouraging is it?
Clearly Marias is an accomplished stylist. This shows even in translation. He can roam from Proustian meditation to Bond-like adventure. But the shifts can become somewhat disconcerting and ultimately even tedious.
Definitely Schoenberg rather than Elgar.
Four themes in different keys. The question is whether there is harmony or discord.
Opening with an over-scrupulous Proustian introduction, the protagonist, Deza, considers the disintegration of his marriage. He tries to formulate a theory of the case, to name the cause, as it were. He declares that "things only exist once they have been named." But names, particularly proper names, are an issue for him. Deza is variously Jaime, Jacobo, Jacques, and Jack depending on the company he keeps. The reader is forewarned that "A very thin line separates facts from imaginings...because imaginings are already facts." It's not a surprise therefore that Deza muses “...no one should trust me either."
Deza observes himself (apparently) rather critically, but he also has the capacity for prophetic judgement of others. Thus his Holmesian ability to suss out the bona fides of a variety of people for the mysterious figure of Tupra who is the central pillar of the second theme. Tupra's business interests aren't at all clear to Deza but not obviously shady enough to scare the latter off. Sherlock without the integrity.
The third story is a mystery involving the disappearance of a (real) Spanish Communist and the assassination of Deza's uncle during the Spanish Civil War. These events are also linked to the unexplained betrayal of his father in Franco Spain. Much is made of the connection with the James Bond figure of Ian Fleming's From Russia With Love, in which book there appear to be significant references to at least the first event.
Finally, there is the tale of Wheeler, the emeritus Oxford don, who, like a character out of Le Carre's Smiley's People, is an old hand in the British Secret Service. Wheeler also has some problems with name-stability. He, too, has had some vague involvement with the Spanish Civil War but on whose side and to accomplish what end?
The title comes from a comment half-way through made by Deza in an attempt to explain his father's betrayal. "How can I not know today your face tomorrow...?" he says. In other words: Isn't the real character of a person obvious long before he acts? Shouldn't one be able to see betrayal before any overt act to betray? One might assume therefore that this is the central theme that brings the four complex threads together.
But Marias then throws a rather hefty body blow to the reader who might be struggling with his complexity. "There is nothing worse than looking for a meaning or believing there is one." Deza says about two-thirds through. Not all that encouraging is it?
Clearly Marias is an accomplished stylist. This shows even in translation. He can roam from Proustian meditation to Bond-like adventure. But the shifts can become somewhat disconcerting and ultimately even tedious.
Definitely Schoenberg rather than Elgar.
February 24, 2019
Me siento pequeñito ante cualquier texto de Marías. Leo embobado su laberíntico discurso y disfruto tanto de la vía principal como de las incontables vías secundarias repletas de sinuosas disquisiciones que el autor va entrelazando sin pausa y con la maestría propia de aquellos que, como Wheeler, ese personaje del que Marías se sirve para resucitar a otro, Rylands, este de su novela Todas las almas, de la que esta se puede considerar en cierto sentido su continuación pues comparten narrador y personaje principal y al que al fin ponemos nombre –Jacques, pero también Jaime, Jacobo, Yago o Jack–, puede permitirse “excursos de excursos de excursos y regresar al cabo donde quería”.
La forma es, como suele ser habitual en él, la confidencia, sin apremios que la constriñan, sin trama que la encorsete, y ante la que uno no osa interrumpir por no romper el ritmo, por no quebrar la atmósfera reveladora y así disfrutar del autor que Marías siempre ha ambicionado ser, ese que ya es para mí pues indiferente es de lo que me hable, sólo quiero que siga hablando.
Una y otra vez se cuestiona la palabra, su significado, las diferencias que en los mismos se da entre distintos idiomas, la relevancia de aquello que tiene su palabra en uno pero no en otro, el hecho de que tanto lo que decimos como lo que nos decimos está influenciado por el propio idioma elegido o solo puede ser bien expresado en él; una y otra vez Shakespeare , una y otra vez los mantras de la novela, “No debería uno contar nunca nada”, “Nada de lo que hubo se borra jamás del todo”, “Todo tiene su tiempo para ser creído”, “A veces resulta imposible explicar lo más decisivo”, “Hoy se detesta la certidumbre”, “Uno olvida mucho más lo que escribe que lo que lee, si le va dirigido; lo que envía que lo que recibe, lo que dice que lo que escucha, cuando agravia que cuando es ofendido”…
Y, por supuesto, no faltan ni la intriga de una mancha de sangre, de un pasado misterioso, de una mujer con un perrito, ni la historia de amor, la pasada y la por venir.
La forma es, como suele ser habitual en él, la confidencia, sin apremios que la constriñan, sin trama que la encorsete, y ante la que uno no osa interrumpir por no romper el ritmo, por no quebrar la atmósfera reveladora y así disfrutar del autor que Marías siempre ha ambicionado ser, ese que ya es para mí pues indiferente es de lo que me hable, sólo quiero que siga hablando.
“Él tenía mucho que contar y que argumentar siempre…; su conversación me enseñaba, me instruía y me deslizaba ideas o me las renovaba, por no decir que me cautivaba.”Una verdad exagerada, es cierto, pues sugerentes y provocadoras son las muchas ideas que contienen estas páginas. La primera de ellas se encuentra ya en el párrafo que inicia la novela y en el que nos advierte de los peligros del contar, y quién mejor que un escritor que del contar ha hecho su vida, del impudor su oficio, para prevenirnos de ese deseo constante e insaciable del ser humano.
“Contar es casi siempre un regalo, incluso cuando lleva e inyecta veneno el cuento, también es un vínculo y otorgar confianza, y rara es la confianza que antes o después no se traiciona, raro el vínculo que no se enreda o anuda, y así acaba apretando y hay que tirar de navaja o filo para cortarlo.”Contar es problemático porque no siempre se sabe cómo, no siempre es explicable lo importante, demasiados factores confluyen, no siempre es claro el orden de causalidad de esos factores o no siempre somos conocedores de todos los factores e incluso no sería raro que esos factores se hayan ido transformando en nuestra memoria hasta trastocar significados. Y por si esto no fuera suficiente razón para elegir el silencio, es de todos sabido que lo dicho se presta siempre a la tergiversación, a ser utilizado en nuestra contra. Lo dicho puede ser motivo de traición, de denuncia, de venta. Lo dicho nos debilita, nos sitúa en una situación de dependencia ante el que sabe, de fragilidad ante el que ha descubierto el modo de influirnos, de persuadirnos, de manipularnos.
“Borrar, suprimir, cancelar, y haber callado ya antes, esa es la aspiración del mundo.”Pero tan imposible es borrar lo dicho, pretender que “lo que fue no haya sido”, como callar. Estamos impelidos a hablar, a relatar, a argumentar y a refutar, a exponer y a exponernos. Nos queman los secretos, nos repugna el olvido y la ignorancia por parte de los otros de lo que sabemos, de lo que hemos vivido y de lo que hemos pensado o solo soñado, no soportamos que desaparezca nuestra huella, nos pesa en el alma no liberar de nuestra alma tanto lo horroroso e inconfesable como la alegría, la esperanza y el amor.
“En el fondo sólo nos interesa e importa lo que compartimos, lo que traspasamos y transmitimos. Queremos sentirnos parte de una cadena siempre, cómo decir, víctimas y agentes de un inagotable contagio.”Y aunque yo me cuento entre aquellos que prefieren no contar, entre los que raramente hablan de lo que sienten, de lo que sintieron, de lo que hicieron o les hicieron o harán, no por ello estoy a salvo. Siempre hay alguien para el que somos transparentes, siempre hay alguien que nos cale, que intuya lo que somos y lo que somos capaces de hacer y de no hacer y lo que podríamos llegar a hacer, alguien capaz de traer al presente nuestro “rostro mañana”.
"Los individuos llevan sus probabilidades en el interior de sus venas, y sólo es cuestión de tiempo, de tentaciones y de circunstancias que por fin las conduzcan a su cumplimiento"Nosotros mismos podríamos ser ese alguien para otros, ser uno de los elegidos, de los "intérpretes de personas" o "traductores de vidas" o "anticipadores de historias", y así evitar la traición futura, la puñalada en la espalda, saber lo que a lo mejor no querríamos saber pues en el fondo odiamos el conocimiento y la certidumbre, e intuimos que “esa luz suspicaz, recelosa, interpretativa, inconforme con las apariencias y con lo evidente y llano” pueda encubrirnos la superficie, lo simple, nublarnos la visión de lo que no tiene doblez ni secreto y así convertirnos en nuestro propio dolor y nuestra fiebre.
“Nos aburren la protección y la prevención y la alerta, y a todos nos gusta arrojar el escudo lejos y marchar ligeros blandiendo la lanza como un adorno.”Es más, nos aterra el precipicio de la equivocación, la posibilidad de lo improbable, la responsabilidad de lo visto y errado, y entonces el don del conocer se trastoca una vez más en maldición. ¿Se puede conocer hasta ese punto? ¿Podemos estar seguros del afecto presente, de la traición futura? ¿Se puede cambiar, se puede ser mañana en el que no se es hoy?
Una y otra vez se cuestiona la palabra, su significado, las diferencias que en los mismos se da entre distintos idiomas, la relevancia de aquello que tiene su palabra en uno pero no en otro, el hecho de que tanto lo que decimos como lo que nos decimos está influenciado por el propio idioma elegido o solo puede ser bien expresado en él; una y otra vez Shakespeare , una y otra vez los mantras de la novela, “No debería uno contar nunca nada”, “Nada de lo que hubo se borra jamás del todo”, “Todo tiene su tiempo para ser creído”, “A veces resulta imposible explicar lo más decisivo”, “Hoy se detesta la certidumbre”, “Uno olvida mucho más lo que escribe que lo que lee, si le va dirigido; lo que envía que lo que recibe, lo que dice que lo que escucha, cuando agravia que cuando es ofendido”…
Y, por supuesto, no faltan ni la intriga de una mancha de sangre, de un pasado misterioso, de una mujer con un perrito, ni la historia de amor, la pasada y la por venir.
«Ella me mejoraba, me hacía más alegre y ligero, no tan cavilador, mucho menos peligroso, mucho menos enturbiado. 'My dear, my dear', pensé, y lo pensé en inglés porque era la lengua que estaba hablando y además hay cosas que avergüenzan menos en una que no es la propia, incluso si sólo son para el pensamiento. 'Si se me diera el olvido', pensé ahora ya en español. 'Si me lo dieras tú, tu olvido.'»
July 30, 2024
It is a novel in which the narrator analyses himself with insight and honesty, a feast for the soul. Such a book probably cannot be written at 25. You must have lived and suffered a lot to create such a masterpiece.
February 11, 2013
A difficult yet very rewarding read. It took me so many days to finish this. I thought it would only take me around 10 days to finish this book but it dragged on to almost a month. The reason? The frequent appearance of beautiful passages that I have to stop reading and think through them. Pause. Think of what Marias is saying. Do a self-reflection. More often than not, whenever I do a self-reflection at night, I have to close my tired eyes. Then because I've been reading a lot, it is very hard to open them again. So, I sleep even just after reading a few pages of this book, my second by my new favorite Spanish author, Javier Marias.
Before writing this review, I read all the existing ones by my GR friends. I thought that I wanted to show my gratitude to Javier Marias by coming up with a clever review to entice my other GR friends to read this too. I thought I would go over each of the many dogeared pages where all those beautiful passages appear. Read them all again and pick maybe 2-3 and blockquote them in italics in this review. If I was not satisfied, maybe I would also go and read what the literary critics wrote in The New York Times, Guardian, etc and steal some ideas from them.
But I changed my mind. Why? I have been doing all of those for 3 years now and with 1,713 friends in Goodreads, I would like to believe that I was already able to establish some credibility with those of you who regularly read (and like) my reviews. I have always tried to be honest. If the book is not good, then I rate it with 1 or 2 stars. If the book is good, I rate it with at least 3 stars.
So, just take my word for this book: brilliant.
Why only 4 and not 5 stars? This has been mentioned by some of my GR friends: the plot is thin but what makes this really interesting, aside from those beautiful thought-provoking passages is the unique way Marias told the tale of Jacques Deza who, like his boss, Peter Wheeler, has the ability of reading people by just observing them - facial expressions, things they say, how they say them, mannerisms, reactions to questions, etc. Then during those verbal exchanges were thoughts that just went on and on striking any topics under the sun. However, those topics were beautifully tackled by Marias' prose that, like what I already explained above, could make you stop reading because you'd like to savor them.
Beautiful first third of the book. I am looking forward to the second and final thirds.
Marias for a Nobel prize? Considering this and my first by him (All Souls)? I not a bit surprised if some people think he's a big contender.
Before writing this review, I read all the existing ones by my GR friends. I thought that I wanted to show my gratitude to Javier Marias by coming up with a clever review to entice my other GR friends to read this too. I thought I would go over each of the many dogeared pages where all those beautiful passages appear. Read them all again and pick maybe 2-3 and blockquote them in italics in this review. If I was not satisfied, maybe I would also go and read what the literary critics wrote in The New York Times, Guardian, etc and steal some ideas from them.
But I changed my mind. Why? I have been doing all of those for 3 years now and with 1,713 friends in Goodreads, I would like to believe that I was already able to establish some credibility with those of you who regularly read (and like) my reviews. I have always tried to be honest. If the book is not good, then I rate it with 1 or 2 stars. If the book is good, I rate it with at least 3 stars.
So, just take my word for this book: brilliant.
Why only 4 and not 5 stars? This has been mentioned by some of my GR friends: the plot is thin but what makes this really interesting, aside from those beautiful thought-provoking passages is the unique way Marias told the tale of Jacques Deza who, like his boss, Peter Wheeler, has the ability of reading people by just observing them - facial expressions, things they say, how they say them, mannerisms, reactions to questions, etc. Then during those verbal exchanges were thoughts that just went on and on striking any topics under the sun. However, those topics were beautifully tackled by Marias' prose that, like what I already explained above, could make you stop reading because you'd like to savor them.
Beautiful first third of the book. I am looking forward to the second and final thirds.
Marias for a Nobel prize? Considering this and my first by him (All Souls)? I not a bit surprised if some people think he's a big contender.
September 10, 2011
So yeah, I suppose that if you write an actionless, multi-volume novel with a vulgarly high comma-to-period ratio and no actual events save a party and stuffy rich erudite people yakking, you must be consciously placing yourself in a specific European literary tradition, and inviting certain comparisons to some celebrated, endless plotlessness that has come before. So yes, to answer the question blazing in everyone's mind: if Marcel Proust were Spanish and writing a twenty-first-century spy novel, I suppose it might be at least vaguely like this.
This is one of those books that makes me confused about my own literary tastes, which is something that I certainly appreciate. I think of myself as a girl who needs robust narrative and appreciates a certain down-to-earthiness in my novels, but I guess I'm not, or I wouldn't get into shit like this.
I'm totally obsessed with the opening lines:
One should never tell anyone anything or give information or pass on stories or make people remember beings who have never existed or trodden the earth or traversed the world, or who, having done so, are now almost safe in uncertain, one-eyed oblivion. Telling is almost always done as a gift, even when the story contains and injects some poison, it is also a bond, a granting of trust, and rare is the trust or confidence that is not sooner or later betrayed, rare is the close bond that does not grow twisted or knotted and, in the end, become so tangled that a razor or knife is needed to cut it.
What I love here is the jolt of that language and the ideas there that shocks me into a completely foreign mode of thought. It's a fascinating beginning, which does demand a little work to read. I mean, it's pretty obvious that this is going to be a highly interior, idea-heavy novel, and that's not the sort of thing I really think that I like.
But I guess sometimes it is, because I did like this very much, and I'm planning to read the next one whenever -- yawn, scratch, facebook status update -- I get the time. I think what I realized is that I don't just read for the diversion and entertainment that comes from a plot; I also read to get outside my own head, to sublet, as it were, somebody else's, and what this book succeeds so well in doing is in abetting that flight: I moved out of Jessica and into the mind and life of a multi-nombre-de-pilaed Sr. Deza, estranged from his wife and kids back in Madrid, living on his own in London. The transition to this guy's brain wasn't effortless, but maybe felt better earned and all the more real for that. Marías didn't swing in through the window on a vine and grab me and drag me off by my hair, it was a much slower wearing down, like an awkward but persistent courtship, but it never felt difficult or unpleasant, more just cautiously slow.
So I guess I don't really have one kind of book that I like. All I ultimately care about, I've realized -- in books yes, but more generally in life -- is not being bored. This book didn't bore me -- which isn't at all to say that I'm sure it's not boring, so don't get mad if you check it out and find that it is -- so I thought it was terrific, and I'm not sure any more needs to be said.
Anyway, I know this isn't much of a review or a convincing recommendation, but I wish more people on here would read this so we can dork out about it together. If you enjoy Proust or other stuff that's mostly just people thinking long, comma-spliced thoughts without a full stop to breathe, and might be interested in a killingly slow spy novel (there is blood! and a naked lady! I'm exaggerating the boringness!), then you ought to look into this, because it's pretty fucking great.
This is one of those books that makes me confused about my own literary tastes, which is something that I certainly appreciate. I think of myself as a girl who needs robust narrative and appreciates a certain down-to-earthiness in my novels, but I guess I'm not, or I wouldn't get into shit like this.
I'm totally obsessed with the opening lines:
One should never tell anyone anything or give information or pass on stories or make people remember beings who have never existed or trodden the earth or traversed the world, or who, having done so, are now almost safe in uncertain, one-eyed oblivion. Telling is almost always done as a gift, even when the story contains and injects some poison, it is also a bond, a granting of trust, and rare is the trust or confidence that is not sooner or later betrayed, rare is the close bond that does not grow twisted or knotted and, in the end, become so tangled that a razor or knife is needed to cut it.
What I love here is the jolt of that language and the ideas there that shocks me into a completely foreign mode of thought. It's a fascinating beginning, which does demand a little work to read. I mean, it's pretty obvious that this is going to be a highly interior, idea-heavy novel, and that's not the sort of thing I really think that I like.
But I guess sometimes it is, because I did like this very much, and I'm planning to read the next one whenever -- yawn, scratch, facebook status update -- I get the time. I think what I realized is that I don't just read for the diversion and entertainment that comes from a plot; I also read to get outside my own head, to sublet, as it were, somebody else's, and what this book succeeds so well in doing is in abetting that flight: I moved out of Jessica and into the mind and life of a multi-nombre-de-pilaed Sr. Deza, estranged from his wife and kids back in Madrid, living on his own in London. The transition to this guy's brain wasn't effortless, but maybe felt better earned and all the more real for that. Marías didn't swing in through the window on a vine and grab me and drag me off by my hair, it was a much slower wearing down, like an awkward but persistent courtship, but it never felt difficult or unpleasant, more just cautiously slow.
So I guess I don't really have one kind of book that I like. All I ultimately care about, I've realized -- in books yes, but more generally in life -- is not being bored. This book didn't bore me -- which isn't at all to say that I'm sure it's not boring, so don't get mad if you check it out and find that it is -- so I thought it was terrific, and I'm not sure any more needs to be said.
Anyway, I know this isn't much of a review or a convincing recommendation, but I wish more people on here would read this so we can dork out about it together. If you enjoy Proust or other stuff that's mostly just people thinking long, comma-spliced thoughts without a full stop to breathe, and might be interested in a killingly slow spy novel (there is blood! and a naked lady! I'm exaggerating the boringness!), then you ought to look into this, because it's pretty fucking great.
April 17, 2019
Yorumu yakınlarda gireceğim. Mızrak şu an tekrardan beynimde!
October 8, 2014
I can’t help it, Javier Marias’ voice seduces me. It’s a purely cerebral seduction, but still sexy in its smooth (& feverish) unspooling of its own explorations of itself inside my head. Admittedly, to actually read the whole of this book requires a seduction, and a willingness on the part of the reader to cede control of his/her own reading experience to the overwhelming, unrelenting voice; for this voice's self-love (a self-love that is also selfless) to be loved by another.
It’s all in the voice, and if its peculiar intellectual negligees don’t draw you deeper into Marias’ cranial boudoir (for rather traditional pleasures after all is said and done), then you’re left out in the cold, a cold many readers would probably rather be in anyway, and that’s understandable. It’s all in the voice, and its saturating verbal power is reminiscent of Sebald, like an endless stream of voice straight into your ear, or in your face. And as with Sebald this voice is so seemingly natural and so personalized that fiction has the illusion (or is it?) of blending into nonfiction. But unlike Sebald Marias is a game player, a bit of a prankster, though that quality of his is at the service of an urgency in this book, the pranksterism manifesting in a rarefied detachment within some self-absorbed inner cosmos and an insistence on exhausting every topic raised, almost every seed of every idea planted in every statement, like the author had given himself a challenge; it’s almost Oulipian!
This is part 1 of his 3 volume Your Face Tomorrow – not a trilogy, mind you, but a single novel published in 3 parts. The voice throughout is the same, and in the novel the person behind the voice is recruited to serve in a peripheral way in British Intelligence, in league with spies and other covert operators. He is recruited because of his almost preternatural abilities of observation, in his skills of minutely observing people’s behaviors and determining what their inner intentions are, whether they’re lying, and what they’re hiding. So it bears some resemblance to a conventional spy yarn of international intrigue, but instead of focusing on the outer developments of a labyrinthine plot he goes inward to explore the nature of deceptions (both intentional and not) and the ways in which language, voice, is an accomplice (both intentionally and not) in these deceptions. There’s much more going on, such as investigations of personal relationships and the identities within these relationships, and how these deceptions and relationships play out in the larger arenas of societies at war with others and themselves, and within time as it unfolds, often negating itself in its own unfolding; but just with this little taste you should see that there are meta-hijinks at play, but serious hijinks.
And though it’s only mentioned once in this volume, this is very much a post-9/11 novel, an investigation into the extremely vague nature of what this possibly endlessly protracted War on Terror is. Not that he gets explicitly into the WoT, but he delves deeply, directly and obliquely, into the “new paranoia” of what it means to live when everyone is a potential suspect, a potential terrorist. But it’s not presented as if this new state of affairs is anything novel, having put in appearance many times in the past – the Spanish Civil War and WWII-time England are explored here – but rather it’s revealed to be in the very nature of human consciousness itself, and human relations, and is only more or less latent or active depending on the severity of the times and conditions.
It’s all in the voice, and if its peculiar intellectual negligees don’t draw you deeper into Marias’ cranial boudoir (for rather traditional pleasures after all is said and done), then you’re left out in the cold, a cold many readers would probably rather be in anyway, and that’s understandable. It’s all in the voice, and its saturating verbal power is reminiscent of Sebald, like an endless stream of voice straight into your ear, or in your face. And as with Sebald this voice is so seemingly natural and so personalized that fiction has the illusion (or is it?) of blending into nonfiction. But unlike Sebald Marias is a game player, a bit of a prankster, though that quality of his is at the service of an urgency in this book, the pranksterism manifesting in a rarefied detachment within some self-absorbed inner cosmos and an insistence on exhausting every topic raised, almost every seed of every idea planted in every statement, like the author had given himself a challenge; it’s almost Oulipian!
This is part 1 of his 3 volume Your Face Tomorrow – not a trilogy, mind you, but a single novel published in 3 parts. The voice throughout is the same, and in the novel the person behind the voice is recruited to serve in a peripheral way in British Intelligence, in league with spies and other covert operators. He is recruited because of his almost preternatural abilities of observation, in his skills of minutely observing people’s behaviors and determining what their inner intentions are, whether they’re lying, and what they’re hiding. So it bears some resemblance to a conventional spy yarn of international intrigue, but instead of focusing on the outer developments of a labyrinthine plot he goes inward to explore the nature of deceptions (both intentional and not) and the ways in which language, voice, is an accomplice (both intentionally and not) in these deceptions. There’s much more going on, such as investigations of personal relationships and the identities within these relationships, and how these deceptions and relationships play out in the larger arenas of societies at war with others and themselves, and within time as it unfolds, often negating itself in its own unfolding; but just with this little taste you should see that there are meta-hijinks at play, but serious hijinks.
And though it’s only mentioned once in this volume, this is very much a post-9/11 novel, an investigation into the extremely vague nature of what this possibly endlessly protracted War on Terror is. Not that he gets explicitly into the WoT, but he delves deeply, directly and obliquely, into the “new paranoia” of what it means to live when everyone is a potential suspect, a potential terrorist. But it’s not presented as if this new state of affairs is anything novel, having put in appearance many times in the past – the Spanish Civil War and WWII-time England are explored here – but rather it’s revealed to be in the very nature of human consciousness itself, and human relations, and is only more or less latent or active depending on the severity of the times and conditions.
December 31, 2021
The first 16 pages or so I found rough sledding because they contain almost no concrete detail. These pages are all about not trusting others, keeping your mouth shut, how readily others will betray you and so forth. Though this opening passage sets the tone for the novel well — it is a cerebral, highly digressive, novel of ideas, obsessed with history, its retention and denial, its wholesale manufacture and dissemination — it is not what you would call a boffo opening. It’s rather dead, actually. However, once Marías starts writing about his characters the story begins to open up, though it never rises to the level of a novel of action. Georges Simenon or Leonardo Sciascia this guy is not.
The first person narrator, Jacobo Deza, is just divorced. He’s about forty and until recently lived in Madrid with his wife Luisa, but they have separated for reasons unknown and he has now come to London working for BBC on programmes about Spain and its culture. He has academic connections at Oxford where he once taught. There the history professor/spy Peter Wheeler introduces him to the suave Mr. Bertram Tupra who in turn hires him for his business of clandestine intelligence assessment. He become a kind of consulting spy, paid to read and interpret people. He's also known for his formidable memory and intelligence.
Ultimately, the job of interpretation of others that Dezas is hired to do is very close to the fictional process. Two things occur to me here. First, Dezas job is really to provide narratives for the British State about all the foreign strangers with whom it must deal. Without such narratives the intelligence community could not really survive. So we can see that need, a ravenous one, as a measure of the insecurity of the state, since it knowingly accepts wholesale fictions in lieu of facts it does not have access to. Second, Marías means Dezas's trade to be a comment on the fictional process itself. I'm fuzzy on this (the book demands multiple readings and this is my first) but there is some parallel Marías wants to draw between the foolhardiness of accepting fiction for facts in intelligence work and the need for fiction by the average real-world reader.
Once narrator Dezas starts his person-interpreting intelligence work in earnest the reader is confronted by a number of seemingly random descriptions of various persons unconnected to the larger narrative. The story is more about the little intelligence unit's ability to manufacture those profiles. It’s more about what the profiles say about the profilers. I believe the psychological term here is called “projection,” Freudian lingo that Marías never mentions. What are we led to think about the profilers by what they see in others? Remember, their work is all intuitive. They base their assumptions on nothing factual except the roughest biographical data. It’s a fascinating idea and it works though it makes for dense narrative. A beach read this is not.
Then there's the fact that these readers of people see themselves as an elite. With the exception of Dezas, who knows he is creating fictions, they believe themselves to be seers of a kind, possessed of a very rare human gift. Though there's nothing supernatural about it, it is rather a deeply intuitive gift.
One of Marías's chief devices for conveying suspense, which we first come across in the long dinner party scene at Oxford, is omission and delay. He will pose a question or proposition of seemingly overwhelming interest, and then digress — in a fascinating fashion it must be admitted — on related or not-so-related matters until the reader's curiosity grows to truly heart-gnawing proportions. The writing is of a very high order. If Marías had succeeded in sustaining it throughout it would have been a masterpiece. He does not quite manage that though. I have mentioned my problem with the opening. The last section with Professor Wheeler in his garden also seems problematic, overlong and in need of cutting. So I will have to call this novel merely Excellent and award it four rock-solid stars.
The line by line narrative pleasure here runs very high. It's that rare sort of book that lifts one's spirit and bears it joyfully along (almost) for the duration. There is no pretense here that we are reading a written document. Rather, we are meant to believe that we are in narrator Jacobo — also Jaime, also Diego, also Jack, also Iago (!)— Dezas's head. We are meant to be reading one person’s running thoughts. Of course we’re reading no such thing, but like Virginia Woolf Javier Marías knows how to suggest a simulacrum of cognition with all its attendant digressions, anxieties, enthusiasms, insights and so on.
The narrator readily admits that he does not know much of what is going on. His is a process of continual discovery and analysis. Marías thereby embraces here that singular strength of the first-person narrator, unreliability. Though in Jacobo’s case it does not seem willful. In fact, there seems to be a forthright attempt to piece together what little he knows into a coherent whole. I found it enormous fun to follow his ideas as he stumbles on some dissonant fact or other and tries to reconsider how it might fit into the overarching puzzle before him. But the novel always remains just that: a fragment. This partial knowledge of course sets him up very neatly to be blindsided at some point further on.
There are two further volumes in the Your Face Tomorrow series. Total novel length actually runs to around 1250 pages. Most of the first half of this first volume (entitled "Fever"; the second half is entitled “Spear”) is given over to a single party in Oxford with a the friendly professor/spy Peter Wheeler and lots of internal digressions by Dezas. Yet it functions as a novel of suspense. That seems to me almost paradoxical in a novel so leeched of action. That Marías is able to pull it off is quite a trick.
The book is almost entirely without sex, too. Is there anything more annoying than to be reading along contentedly one minute only to find oneself fully aroused the next? This wouldn’t be so bad if the narrative thrust wasn’t entirely interrupted during fictional sex. But it’s the rare writer who can make coition a functional part of the narrative. Marías, bless him, doesn’t even try. Someone said here that there wasn't enough character development, and I would agree. In the traditional sense there isn't much. But Marías is trying to imply character in a kind of refracted way, especially through the intelligence profiles mentioned above, and also in the long speeches by Wheeler and others. So it's there, though kind of inverted.
The book will have deeper pleasures for you if you know something about the Spanish Civil War, World War II, the Cambridge spies (Philby, Blunt, etc.), but this is not required background by any means. The novel is sufficiently explanatory. It occurred to me that the book is in fact a fascinating recapitulation of most mid-20th century hatred and aggression as it affects the principals of the novel, but we'll see. I still have 850 pages to go. Highly recommended.
The first person narrator, Jacobo Deza, is just divorced. He’s about forty and until recently lived in Madrid with his wife Luisa, but they have separated for reasons unknown and he has now come to London working for BBC on programmes about Spain and its culture. He has academic connections at Oxford where he once taught. There the history professor/spy Peter Wheeler introduces him to the suave Mr. Bertram Tupra who in turn hires him for his business of clandestine intelligence assessment. He become a kind of consulting spy, paid to read and interpret people. He's also known for his formidable memory and intelligence.
Ultimately, the job of interpretation of others that Dezas is hired to do is very close to the fictional process. Two things occur to me here. First, Dezas job is really to provide narratives for the British State about all the foreign strangers with whom it must deal. Without such narratives the intelligence community could not really survive. So we can see that need, a ravenous one, as a measure of the insecurity of the state, since it knowingly accepts wholesale fictions in lieu of facts it does not have access to. Second, Marías means Dezas's trade to be a comment on the fictional process itself. I'm fuzzy on this (the book demands multiple readings and this is my first) but there is some parallel Marías wants to draw between the foolhardiness of accepting fiction for facts in intelligence work and the need for fiction by the average real-world reader.
Once narrator Dezas starts his person-interpreting intelligence work in earnest the reader is confronted by a number of seemingly random descriptions of various persons unconnected to the larger narrative. The story is more about the little intelligence unit's ability to manufacture those profiles. It’s more about what the profiles say about the profilers. I believe the psychological term here is called “projection,” Freudian lingo that Marías never mentions. What are we led to think about the profilers by what they see in others? Remember, their work is all intuitive. They base their assumptions on nothing factual except the roughest biographical data. It’s a fascinating idea and it works though it makes for dense narrative. A beach read this is not.
Then there's the fact that these readers of people see themselves as an elite. With the exception of Dezas, who knows he is creating fictions, they believe themselves to be seers of a kind, possessed of a very rare human gift. Though there's nothing supernatural about it, it is rather a deeply intuitive gift.
One of Marías's chief devices for conveying suspense, which we first come across in the long dinner party scene at Oxford, is omission and delay. He will pose a question or proposition of seemingly overwhelming interest, and then digress — in a fascinating fashion it must be admitted — on related or not-so-related matters until the reader's curiosity grows to truly heart-gnawing proportions. The writing is of a very high order. If Marías had succeeded in sustaining it throughout it would have been a masterpiece. He does not quite manage that though. I have mentioned my problem with the opening. The last section with Professor Wheeler in his garden also seems problematic, overlong and in need of cutting. So I will have to call this novel merely Excellent and award it four rock-solid stars.
The line by line narrative pleasure here runs very high. It's that rare sort of book that lifts one's spirit and bears it joyfully along (almost) for the duration. There is no pretense here that we are reading a written document. Rather, we are meant to believe that we are in narrator Jacobo — also Jaime, also Diego, also Jack, also Iago (!)— Dezas's head. We are meant to be reading one person’s running thoughts. Of course we’re reading no such thing, but like Virginia Woolf Javier Marías knows how to suggest a simulacrum of cognition with all its attendant digressions, anxieties, enthusiasms, insights and so on.
The narrator readily admits that he does not know much of what is going on. His is a process of continual discovery and analysis. Marías thereby embraces here that singular strength of the first-person narrator, unreliability. Though in Jacobo’s case it does not seem willful. In fact, there seems to be a forthright attempt to piece together what little he knows into a coherent whole. I found it enormous fun to follow his ideas as he stumbles on some dissonant fact or other and tries to reconsider how it might fit into the overarching puzzle before him. But the novel always remains just that: a fragment. This partial knowledge of course sets him up very neatly to be blindsided at some point further on.
There are two further volumes in the Your Face Tomorrow series. Total novel length actually runs to around 1250 pages. Most of the first half of this first volume (entitled "Fever"; the second half is entitled “Spear”) is given over to a single party in Oxford with a the friendly professor/spy Peter Wheeler and lots of internal digressions by Dezas. Yet it functions as a novel of suspense. That seems to me almost paradoxical in a novel so leeched of action. That Marías is able to pull it off is quite a trick.
The book is almost entirely without sex, too. Is there anything more annoying than to be reading along contentedly one minute only to find oneself fully aroused the next? This wouldn’t be so bad if the narrative thrust wasn’t entirely interrupted during fictional sex. But it’s the rare writer who can make coition a functional part of the narrative. Marías, bless him, doesn’t even try. Someone said here that there wasn't enough character development, and I would agree. In the traditional sense there isn't much. But Marías is trying to imply character in a kind of refracted way, especially through the intelligence profiles mentioned above, and also in the long speeches by Wheeler and others. So it's there, though kind of inverted.
The book will have deeper pleasures for you if you know something about the Spanish Civil War, World War II, the Cambridge spies (Philby, Blunt, etc.), but this is not required background by any means. The novel is sufficiently explanatory. It occurred to me that the book is in fact a fascinating recapitulation of most mid-20th century hatred and aggression as it affects the principals of the novel, but we'll see. I still have 850 pages to go. Highly recommended.
April 26, 2021
“Senin yarınki yüzünü, gösterdiğin yüzünün ya da taktığın maskenin ardında var olan ya da biçimlenen ve ancak benim beklemediğim bir anda göstereceğin yüzünü bugün nasıl tanımam?
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Bu bilinebilir, çünkü insanlar ihtimallerini damarlarında taşırlar; o ihtimalleri gerçekleştirmeleri sadece zaman, dürtü ve koşullara bağlıdır. Bilinebilir.”
Kitabı tam olarak “allahım çok güzel ama gerçekten konumuz tam olarak ne noktasından, çok güzelsin ama kitap orada biter mi” şeklindeki duygu geçişleriyle, paragraflar arasında dağılan konularda kaybolmaktan büyük bir keyif alarak bitirdim. Kitaba dair daha detaylı bir yorumu biraz daha sindirip yazmak istiyorum ama özet olarak; çok güzel bir kitap-seri, mutlaka okuyun derim.
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Bu bilinebilir, çünkü insanlar ihtimallerini damarlarında taşırlar; o ihtimalleri gerçekleştirmeleri sadece zaman, dürtü ve koşullara bağlıdır. Bilinebilir.”
Kitabı tam olarak “allahım çok güzel ama gerçekten konumuz tam olarak ne noktasından, çok güzelsin ama kitap orada biter mi” şeklindeki duygu geçişleriyle, paragraflar arasında dağılan konularda kaybolmaktan büyük bir keyif alarak bitirdim. Kitaba dair daha detaylı bir yorumu biraz daha sindirip yazmak istiyorum ama özet olarak; çok güzel bir kitap-seri, mutlaka okuyun derim.
Want to read
October 4, 2016Henüz çok başındayım ama şunu söyleyebilirim ki son senelerde okuduğum en güzel, en yoğun ve en muntazam edebiyat metini bu. Anlatım dili insanı heyecanlandıran kusursuzlukta. Elbette bunun en önemli sebeplerinden biri kitabı çeviren Roza Hakmen'in sınırlar ötesi çevirisi. 'Kayıp Zamanın İzinde' çevirisiyle, alt edilemeyecek bir rüşt ispatı yapan Hakmen'in Proust'dan sonra okuduğum, en az onun kadar çarpıcı eşsiz çevirisi estetik zevkin doruğu.
May 3, 2021
okuduğum hiçbir şeye benzemeyen kitapları okumaktan aldığım tadı hiçbir şeyden alamadım. belki almanlık... yani şakası bir tarafa, gerçekten okuduğum hiçbir şeye benzemiyor ve okurken bazı anlarda böyle şok etkisi yaratan, kafamda minik havaifişekler patlatan kitaplara ve onları yazan insanlara VE onları hakkıyla çevirebilen insanlara çok büyük hayranlık duyuyorum, hatta biraz da kıskanıyorum, ne yalan söyleyeyim.
bu kitapta yapılan iş neyse ben de onu yapmak istiyorum yahu. beni bulun.
ha bir de, nuh nebiden kalma ispanyolca sözlüğümü raftan indirdim bu kitap için. öyle bir kitap. dil öğrenme şevkinizi tetikliyor. hani bazen, "iyi ki bu yazarı türkçe okuyabiliyorum" filan deriz ya; bu kitapta iki "iyi ki"m vardı: birincisi, iyi ki anadilim ingilizce değil. zira kitabın büyük bir kısmı ingilizce'ye çeviriyle ilgili. ikincisi, iyi ki, iyi ki, iyi ki roza hakmen gibi bir çevirmenimiz var ve bu kitabı o çevirmiş. ne büyük şans bizim için.
konusu, kitabın güzelliği filan bir tarafa; çeviri ve yabancı dil konularına ilgi duyan herkesin mutlaka okuması lazım. bayıldım.
bu kitapta yapılan iş neyse ben de onu yapmak istiyorum yahu. beni bulun.
ha bir de, nuh nebiden kalma ispanyolca sözlüğümü raftan indirdim bu kitap için. öyle bir kitap. dil öğrenme şevkinizi tetikliyor. hani bazen, "iyi ki bu yazarı türkçe okuyabiliyorum" filan deriz ya; bu kitapta iki "iyi ki"m vardı: birincisi, iyi ki anadilim ingilizce değil. zira kitabın büyük bir kısmı ingilizce'ye çeviriyle ilgili. ikincisi, iyi ki, iyi ki, iyi ki roza hakmen gibi bir çevirmenimiz var ve bu kitabı o çevirmiş. ne büyük şans bizim için.
konusu, kitabın güzelliği filan bir tarafa; çeviri ve yabancı dil konularına ilgi duyan herkesin mutlaka okuması lazım. bayıldım.
June 23, 2020
Jaime Deza eşinden yeni ayrıldı. Üniversitede İspanyolca dersleri veriyor.
Tabii bir de insanların maskelerinin ardındaki yüzlerini görebiliyor.
Ama bu yarın’ın konusu.. Şimdi başka şeyler konuşmak gerek.
Örneğin kimilerince romantik bir savaş olan Guerra Civil Española (İspanya İç Savaşı)’yı, faşist bir lider ile yönetilmeyi.
Ya da biraz daha geriye gidip dünya savaşını deşmeyi.. Dilerseniz şu andan bahsedelim.
Konuşmamanın-görmemenin- duymamanın ve en önemli bilmemenin dayanılmaz hafifliğinden.
Çünkü siz izleniyor ve dinleniliyorsunuz. Farkında bile olmaksızın hem de.. Sizi dinleyen yakınlarınız da olabilir, sizi izleyen komşunuz da..
Deza ile öğreniyoruz durumu ve Deza ile içine çekiliyoruz girdabın..
.
Javier Marias ile böyle görkemli bir tanışmayı hayal etmiyordum. Evet seveceğimden emindim ancak bu denlisini beklemiyordum. Öncelikle söylenmesi gereken şey şu: Bir başlangıç, bir son, bol olay var sanıyorsanız; yanılıyorsunuz.
Ve benim de şaşırma sebebim tam da bu yokluk. Sadece uzun gözlemler – anlık çıkarımlar – söz sanatları ve karakterin gözleri olabilmek yetiyor bu eseri sevebilmek için. İlk sayfadan son sayfaya dek bir örgütün farkında oluyorsunuz, merakla bekliyorsunuz. Bu merak sizi sarıp sarmalıyor. Marias okurunu avucunun içine alıyor..
.
Marias’ın dili- anlatımı kadar sevdiğim bir diğer şey: Roza Hakmen gibi anadili hariç üç dilde akıcı çeviri yapabilen bir sanatçının çevirisini okumak. Javier Marias’ın eser boyunca İspanyolca-İngilizce karşılaştırmaları yapıp; dilbilimsel farklılara değindiğini de göz önünde bulundurursak; iki dile de hakim bir çeviri sanatçısının seçilmiş olmasını alkışlamak gerekiyor, tabii Hakmen’in başarısını da..
Tabii bir de insanların maskelerinin ardındaki yüzlerini görebiliyor.
Ama bu yarın’ın konusu.. Şimdi başka şeyler konuşmak gerek.
Örneğin kimilerince romantik bir savaş olan Guerra Civil Española (İspanya İç Savaşı)’yı, faşist bir lider ile yönetilmeyi.
Ya da biraz daha geriye gidip dünya savaşını deşmeyi.. Dilerseniz şu andan bahsedelim.
Konuşmamanın-görmemenin- duymamanın ve en önemli bilmemenin dayanılmaz hafifliğinden.
Çünkü siz izleniyor ve dinleniliyorsunuz. Farkında bile olmaksızın hem de.. Sizi dinleyen yakınlarınız da olabilir, sizi izleyen komşunuz da..
Deza ile öğreniyoruz durumu ve Deza ile içine çekiliyoruz girdabın..
.
Javier Marias ile böyle görkemli bir tanışmayı hayal etmiyordum. Evet seveceğimden emindim ancak bu denlisini beklemiyordum. Öncelikle söylenmesi gereken şey şu: Bir başlangıç, bir son, bol olay var sanıyorsanız; yanılıyorsunuz.
Ve benim de şaşırma sebebim tam da bu yokluk. Sadece uzun gözlemler – anlık çıkarımlar – söz sanatları ve karakterin gözleri olabilmek yetiyor bu eseri sevebilmek için. İlk sayfadan son sayfaya dek bir örgütün farkında oluyorsunuz, merakla bekliyorsunuz. Bu merak sizi sarıp sarmalıyor. Marias okurunu avucunun içine alıyor..
.
Marias’ın dili- anlatımı kadar sevdiğim bir diğer şey: Roza Hakmen gibi anadili hariç üç dilde akıcı çeviri yapabilen bir sanatçının çevirisini okumak. Javier Marias’ın eser boyunca İspanyolca-İngilizce karşılaştırmaları yapıp; dilbilimsel farklılara değindiğini de göz önünde bulundurursak; iki dile de hakim bir çeviri sanatçısının seçilmiş olmasını alkışlamak gerekiyor, tabii Hakmen’in başarısını da..
July 2, 2016
The need for a Marias book is a physical uncompromising yearning, . A novel 1,200 pages long broken down into three volumes. Can you imagine, three volumes of Marias magic to quell the need. A magic carpet ride for a month or more.
Marias jumps in right away through his main character Deza, can the truth be derived at from the gathering of facts rather than the circumlocutions of impressions. Does one, after memorizing all the detail and facts of a painting, aware of each brushstroke and its assimilation into the overall painting before us, capture the painting, its essence? A problem with this mode of viewing a painting is that it exists then only in the past or a presumptive future when the past will be recounted.
It may be all that is left if one cannot trust anyone. Then, one cannot give oneself over to anyone or anything, a painting included. Gathering facts by those removed from self-intrusion either through will or an absence of self will theoretically lead to an assessment of who people are and who they will be in the future. Their face tomorrow.
Deza and his elderly mentor Wheeler, both from Oxford, are working for British Intelligence, due to their uncanny ability to see within a person something closer to their essence by their tics of behavior and gesture. All is recorded without the perturbance of emotion. This is deemed a necessary attribute for the post war British spies of this clandestine unit. Possibly a detriment in social life, their life is their work. Little else exists beyond it. Our life is to read about them.
In this Intelligence process the impossibility of pure assessment of another, no matter how isolated one is removed from one self and others is impossible. There are always blinders on no matter how shaved and small. We human’s are limited to some degree by our history, culture, and unwittingly need to project our conflicts, weaknesses, etc. onto others. But we may be getting down to the crust of the book. These agents and main characters are so terminally isolated from their own feelings and experiences, they may be removed from projection. Good for them bad for me. The rest of the 386 pages were painfully lived within their minds. This is where they lived. An unexciting, bland, gloom ridden aperture into lives lived alone and apart. A robotic quality persists. By the last 100 pages I was seeking help. I phoned 911 but they refused to come. They were tied up with others in the area reading this book but would eventually get back to me. I didn’t care. At least I heard another human’s voice and one that relayed feeling. Inhales and exhalations.
My own problem rests within my pair of blinders with the inscriptions of the many Marias novels I loved. Other than his last book, I have enjoyed his books immensely and went into this expecting the learned voice, aura of the adventure of intellectuality, the repetitiveness creating a rhythm and lingo of his own. An irrefutable voice needing nothing but its own authorial tone. In this book these strengths flattened. Overused his easy hum of digressions spawned lectures. It was a book of lectures. I don’t enjoy being lectured to or at, especially for 386 pages and by one dimensional people who have been rewarded by their entrance into the Intelligence community for being one dimensional. I would have enjoyed it if told in the third person where the narrator, a more rounded human might relay the story with some texture of feelings for these others.
I can’t believe I’m talking about Marias like this. If you are a true Friend you will stop me. Right?
If taken as a lengthy case study on the life of those profoundly isolated from themselves-Deja finds a folder on himself where the conclusions were that he had no interest in himself, exploring himself, but only on others, (A means of protection for not looking, seeking himself?)-it might be interesting in an Anthropology, Sociology, Psychology, University Department. From the beginning of the book it is made clear that no one is to be trusted. Therefore the best mode of action is the non-action of not speaking to anyone including oneself, to say nothing, to forget or lose ones own language. Even in a book about spies this is gloom, dreariness. Having it take place as a means of relating to oneself is frightening. More frightening is the possibility of one’s language gone still, and these agency people having no self. This is precisely what makes them effective in their job and Marias goes the 386 pages to tell us that. An un-admirable marathon. A strange quest.
I believe his initial quest was to show not tell. Then, he got caught in the netted web of his style. Previously, its warm solemn tone, its repetitions, the explaining in alternative words, concocted into a meditative softened chant where the material of the work grew from, and its magical stew. In, Your Face Tomorrow, he seemed to have a story idea then attempted to fit it into his style. It didn’t work in reverse. The style wore thin quickly and soon became painful. I would much rather think of YFT this way than Marias having run through his material to be written and now is left with the worn out remnants of what previously worked so well. Much like aging athletes having difficulty letting go and hanging on too long. Remembered then for their fading years. I would like to remember Marias for his Oxford novels where his style proved vital and the text thrived.
There was no pulse. I checked it three times. CPR proved fruitless. It was a painfully long slog taking much out of me that I wouldn’t choose to put myself through again. So, why didn’t I choose to close the covers and toss it? The idea of having hope that something would happen never entered my mind since nothing had happened. There was no indication that these mechanical stand-ins for characters, with their cogs and gears monotonously churning, had the capability of responding to any stimuli. Their only destination was a rigid straight line. If it led to walking into a wall they turned until the next wall sent them back to their original spot. I went on out of respect for Marias. A strange case of loyalty to a man who provided me so much. The fact that he will never know, unless someone here tells him, does not matter. It is more important that I know and that I gave him what I consider a fair shake, All that I could give.
It is important to note that I am a reader who enjoys experimental writing, who often sees plot as a threat to the texture and weave of style within a book I am reading. I wish I could say this was an experimental attempt. Also, I wish I could say I am not ranting but I am. I think this comes from the disappointment of a writer I so respected and enjoyed. Thus, I have been hoodwinked by my expectations. I don’t expect the next two volumes and its some 900 pages to be much different. No way I would explore if this is true or not. I know that my reading of this book, my impressions and responses, for myself is accurate but I am open and hope that in some court of deciding the value of works of literary fiction I missed something and Marias did come through with a gem. Until then I will shelter in place.
Marias jumps in right away through his main character Deza, can the truth be derived at from the gathering of facts rather than the circumlocutions of impressions. Does one, after memorizing all the detail and facts of a painting, aware of each brushstroke and its assimilation into the overall painting before us, capture the painting, its essence? A problem with this mode of viewing a painting is that it exists then only in the past or a presumptive future when the past will be recounted.
It may be all that is left if one cannot trust anyone. Then, one cannot give oneself over to anyone or anything, a painting included. Gathering facts by those removed from self-intrusion either through will or an absence of self will theoretically lead to an assessment of who people are and who they will be in the future. Their face tomorrow.
Deza and his elderly mentor Wheeler, both from Oxford, are working for British Intelligence, due to their uncanny ability to see within a person something closer to their essence by their tics of behavior and gesture. All is recorded without the perturbance of emotion. This is deemed a necessary attribute for the post war British spies of this clandestine unit. Possibly a detriment in social life, their life is their work. Little else exists beyond it. Our life is to read about them.
In this Intelligence process the impossibility of pure assessment of another, no matter how isolated one is removed from one self and others is impossible. There are always blinders on no matter how shaved and small. We human’s are limited to some degree by our history, culture, and unwittingly need to project our conflicts, weaknesses, etc. onto others. But we may be getting down to the crust of the book. These agents and main characters are so terminally isolated from their own feelings and experiences, they may be removed from projection. Good for them bad for me. The rest of the 386 pages were painfully lived within their minds. This is where they lived. An unexciting, bland, gloom ridden aperture into lives lived alone and apart. A robotic quality persists. By the last 100 pages I was seeking help. I phoned 911 but they refused to come. They were tied up with others in the area reading this book but would eventually get back to me. I didn’t care. At least I heard another human’s voice and one that relayed feeling. Inhales and exhalations.
My own problem rests within my pair of blinders with the inscriptions of the many Marias novels I loved. Other than his last book, I have enjoyed his books immensely and went into this expecting the learned voice, aura of the adventure of intellectuality, the repetitiveness creating a rhythm and lingo of his own. An irrefutable voice needing nothing but its own authorial tone. In this book these strengths flattened. Overused his easy hum of digressions spawned lectures. It was a book of lectures. I don’t enjoy being lectured to or at, especially for 386 pages and by one dimensional people who have been rewarded by their entrance into the Intelligence community for being one dimensional. I would have enjoyed it if told in the third person where the narrator, a more rounded human might relay the story with some texture of feelings for these others.
I can’t believe I’m talking about Marias like this. If you are a true Friend you will stop me. Right?
If taken as a lengthy case study on the life of those profoundly isolated from themselves-Deja finds a folder on himself where the conclusions were that he had no interest in himself, exploring himself, but only on others, (A means of protection for not looking, seeking himself?)-it might be interesting in an Anthropology, Sociology, Psychology, University Department. From the beginning of the book it is made clear that no one is to be trusted. Therefore the best mode of action is the non-action of not speaking to anyone including oneself, to say nothing, to forget or lose ones own language. Even in a book about spies this is gloom, dreariness. Having it take place as a means of relating to oneself is frightening. More frightening is the possibility of one’s language gone still, and these agency people having no self. This is precisely what makes them effective in their job and Marias goes the 386 pages to tell us that. An un-admirable marathon. A strange quest.
I believe his initial quest was to show not tell. Then, he got caught in the netted web of his style. Previously, its warm solemn tone, its repetitions, the explaining in alternative words, concocted into a meditative softened chant where the material of the work grew from, and its magical stew. In, Your Face Tomorrow, he seemed to have a story idea then attempted to fit it into his style. It didn’t work in reverse. The style wore thin quickly and soon became painful. I would much rather think of YFT this way than Marias having run through his material to be written and now is left with the worn out remnants of what previously worked so well. Much like aging athletes having difficulty letting go and hanging on too long. Remembered then for their fading years. I would like to remember Marias for his Oxford novels where his style proved vital and the text thrived.
There was no pulse. I checked it three times. CPR proved fruitless. It was a painfully long slog taking much out of me that I wouldn’t choose to put myself through again. So, why didn’t I choose to close the covers and toss it? The idea of having hope that something would happen never entered my mind since nothing had happened. There was no indication that these mechanical stand-ins for characters, with their cogs and gears monotonously churning, had the capability of responding to any stimuli. Their only destination was a rigid straight line. If it led to walking into a wall they turned until the next wall sent them back to their original spot. I went on out of respect for Marias. A strange case of loyalty to a man who provided me so much. The fact that he will never know, unless someone here tells him, does not matter. It is more important that I know and that I gave him what I consider a fair shake, All that I could give.
It is important to note that I am a reader who enjoys experimental writing, who often sees plot as a threat to the texture and weave of style within a book I am reading. I wish I could say this was an experimental attempt. Also, I wish I could say I am not ranting but I am. I think this comes from the disappointment of a writer I so respected and enjoyed. Thus, I have been hoodwinked by my expectations. I don’t expect the next two volumes and its some 900 pages to be much different. No way I would explore if this is true or not. I know that my reading of this book, my impressions and responses, for myself is accurate but I am open and hope that in some court of deciding the value of works of literary fiction I missed something and Marias did come through with a gem. Until then I will shelter in place.
September 14, 2022
Truly mesmerizing!
This is not for everyone, this novel, and I don’t mean this in a denigrating way. This novel is 400 pages long and yet there’s hardly any action in it; almost all of the time we are in the head of the Spanish emigré Deza in England, finding our way through his observations and thoughts, in sentences of sometimes over half a page. Curious coincidence: the main character bears the same first name (Jacques) as that of the main character in W.G. Sebald's 'Austerlitz', and it happens that after a few dozen pages I spontaneously thought of Sebald: the slow pace, the very meticulously observing of other people, and the very cerebral style. Of course comparisons with Proust are also obvious.
This means this indeed is not a easy novel, and so it’s a read that requires a lot of attention and repeated rereading. Nevertheless, Marias managed to keep my attention almost till the end. That certainly is due to the beautiful style in which this novel is written, to the pertinent reflections on human behavior, but above all also to elements of suspense such as the link with the Spanish civil war, the recurring theme of betrayal, and the atmosphere of espionage surrounding the dialogues. Very occasionally I felt Marias went a bit too far, and became too verbose. For example in the particularly long digressions by Deza’s mentors Wheeler. But perhaps these digressions have a function that only becomes clear in the next parts. Because this novel is only the first part in what has become a trilogy. I already look forward to the next one. (Rating 3.5 stars)
This is not for everyone, this novel, and I don’t mean this in a denigrating way. This novel is 400 pages long and yet there’s hardly any action in it; almost all of the time we are in the head of the Spanish emigré Deza in England, finding our way through his observations and thoughts, in sentences of sometimes over half a page. Curious coincidence: the main character bears the same first name (Jacques) as that of the main character in W.G. Sebald's 'Austerlitz', and it happens that after a few dozen pages I spontaneously thought of Sebald: the slow pace, the very meticulously observing of other people, and the very cerebral style. Of course comparisons with Proust are also obvious.
This means this indeed is not a easy novel, and so it’s a read that requires a lot of attention and repeated rereading. Nevertheless, Marias managed to keep my attention almost till the end. That certainly is due to the beautiful style in which this novel is written, to the pertinent reflections on human behavior, but above all also to elements of suspense such as the link with the Spanish civil war, the recurring theme of betrayal, and the atmosphere of espionage surrounding the dialogues. Very occasionally I felt Marias went a bit too far, and became too verbose. For example in the particularly long digressions by Deza’s mentors Wheeler. But perhaps these digressions have a function that only becomes clear in the next parts. Because this novel is only the first part in what has become a trilogy. I already look forward to the next one. (Rating 3.5 stars)
October 30, 2018
Klasik Marias veya İngilizce tabirle “vintage Marias”. Marias’ın ismini sağlamlaştırdığı belirtilen üçlemenin ilk kitabı Ateş ve Mızrak. Edebi bir casusluk romanı olarak nitelendirilebilir. Ama yazarın esas meselesi, diğer romanlarında olduğu gibi, insanın doğasını deşmek, keşfetmek. Bu bağlamda İngiliz gizli servisinin “insan sarrafı” arayışı ilginç bir şekilde ele alınmış bu kitapta. İnsanoğlu karmaşık bir varlık, çözmesi kolay değil. Böyle kitaplar bu meseleyle ilgilenenlere biraz ışık tutuyor, yön gösteriyor. Bu serinin usta çevirmen Roza Hakmen tarafından dilimize kazandırılmış olması da bizim şansımız. İkinci kitaba el atıyorum hemen...
April 13, 2024
edebiyata doymak ancak böyle bir metinle mümkün olabilirdi
May 3, 2025
Montserrat Roig, la gran escritora catalana, se preguntaba si había aprendido más de la vida o de los libros y su respuesta no deja lugar a dudas: los libros ganan. Nos enseñan más que lo que vivimos, porque —los amantes de la literatura— leemos más historias de las que vivimos, y nos permiten ver lo invisible, nos ayudan a poner palabras donde la vida a veces no alcanza. Son una forma de atravesar el mundo, de entender las complejidades de lo humano, de mirar hacia adentro y, sobre todo, de invitarnos a pensar, a cuestionar, a tomar posición. Y en esos momentos en los que todo parece pesar demasiado, solo la literatura sabe cómo aligerar la carga.
Sé lo que algunos piensan de Fiebre y lanza, de Javier Marías: que es 'verborreica', que 'no pasa nada', que el lenguaje no tiene chispa (¿de veras?). Pero ahí está su magia. Marías no escribe para complacerte; escribe para arrastrarte a un estado casi meditativo, donde las pausas y los rodeos son tan importantes como lo que parece central. Lo que algunos ven como vacío, yo lo llamo espacio para pensar. Y el lenguaje 'insípido'... bueno, para mí es como una conversación con un amigo inteligente que no necesita gritar para hacerse escuchar.
Porque eso es precisamente lo que Fiebre y lanza nos enseña: a pensar, a cuestionar, a tomar posición. No es una novela que te entregue certezas; es una experiencia que te desafía, te arrastra y te deja con más preguntas que respuestas. Javier Marías nos ofrece una mirada sobre el tiempo, la memoria y la identidad, poniendo a prueba todo lo que creíamos saber. Fiebre y lanza te sumerge en un torrente de pensamientos, te obliga a enfrentarte a lo incierto, y lo que es aún más desconcertante: te hace aceptar que, a veces, no hay nada claro. Y eso está bien.
Fiebre y lanza no es de esas novelas que se leen rápido, con una sonrisa de satisfacción al final y luego las olvidas. No. Más bien es el tipo de libro que te deja mirando al techo, pensando: '¿He entendido algo o simplemente he sido parte de un juego mental del autor?' Y, spoiler: probablemente se trata de lo segundo.
Javier Marías abre su trilogía Tu rostro mañana con una novela que no tiene prisa, y, en honor a la verdad, tampoco le importa si tú sí la tienes. Jacques, Jaime, Jacobo, Diego o Jack Deza (que todas esas variantes de nombre recibe nuestro narrador y protagonista) es un tipo tan observador como melancólico. Acaba de dejar atrás su vida en Madrid y está en Londres, trabajando para BBC Radio, cuando recibe una propuesta intrigante de una organización tan secreta como inescrutable, un grupo ambiguo con tintes de agencia de inteligencia, que parece sacada de una película de espías existencialistas. Su misión: predecir el futuro comportamiento de las personas basándose en lo que son hoy. Suena fascinante, ¿no? Pues lo es, aunque también es una montaña rusa de monólogos internos y reflexiones que te hacen cuestionar hasta cómo saludas por las mañanas.
El tiempo y la memoria son el corazón de esta novela. Aquí no hay flashbacks rápidos ni saltos temporales evidentes; todo se descompone y recompone como un recuerdo que no estás seguro de haber vivido. ¿Cuánto de lo que recordamos es verdad? ¿Cuánto es construcción? Marías juega con estas preguntas como un gato juega con un ratón, y nosotros, claro, somos el ratón. Pero, ¿realmente lo somos? ¿O tal vez somos algo más, atrapados en una red de pensamientos que no sabemos cómo deshacer?
Y ahí es donde entran las digresiones de Marías. No son meros adornos ni una muestra de verborrea; son el motor de la novela. A medida que Deza se adentra en su mente, la acción no se detiene, sino que se transforma: las pausas, lejos de ser interrupciones, se convierten en momentos clave de revelación, donde el lenguaje, la memoria y la naturaleza humana se desvelan en toda su complejidad. Marías desentraña cómo las palabras no solo describen la realidad, sino que la crean, y cómo lo que decimos —y , sobre todo, lo que callamos— tiene el poder de transformar nuestras vidas y relaciones.
Mientras Jacques observa las vidas que lo rodean, Marías no se apresura a resolver el misterio de su protagonista. En vez de eso, se detiene, juega con la repetición de ideas y nos invita a reflexionar sobre lo que realmente importa, dejando que cada pausa se convierta en una revelación. Este recurso se conoce como 'redundancia estilística' o 'repetición variada'. Consiste en repetir una misma idea utilizando diferentes palabras o estructuras, buscando enfatizarla o darle más profundidad.
En el estilo de Marías, esta repetición no es meramente mecánica. Al contrario, le da una calidad casi poética a sus textos. Las palabras se van transformando, adquiriendo nuevos matices, y eso genera una sensación de eco constante, como un pensamiento que no termina de dejar de resonar: “O, si lo ven, o vislumbran, o…”. Esa repetición, lejos de ser redundante, crea una sensación de tensión, como si estuviéramos atrapados en un bucle mental del que no podemos salir.
¿Cuántas veces hemos manipulado sin querer, o sido manipulados sin saberlo? Estas preguntas reverberan en cada conversación, especialmente en las que Deza mantiene con figuras clave como Wheeler y Tupra, quienes parecen comprender mejor que nadie el peso de las palabras.
Lo mismo ocurre con la memoria. En los fragmentos que Deza recuerda de su vida en Madrid, Marías no se limita a usar la nostalgia como un recurso literario; la convierte en un campo de batalla filosófico. La memoria, ese terreno tan imperfecto y caprichoso, deja de ser una fiel cronista del pasado y se transforma en una herramienta que, más que recordar, reescribe continuamente lo vivido.
¿Y qué queda de nosotros cuando nuestros recuerdos se desvanecen en la niebla de la inestabilidad? A medida que Deza se sumerge en sus recuerdos, el autor también nos obliga a poner en duda nuestras propias certezas, a reconsiderar todo lo que creemos saber sobre el pasado.
Marías convierte la memoria en un terreno pantanoso, un espacio donde la nostalgia no es solo un recuerdo, sino una reconstrucción constante de quiénes somos. Nos muestra cómo la memoria es, en última instancia, una ficción que escribimos a medida que avanzamos en la vida. ¿Qué queda de lo que fuimos si incluso nuestros recuerdos son inestables? Este es uno de los grandes enigmas de la novela, y una de las preguntas más difíciles de resolver.
Y luego está el comportamiento humano, el gran enigma que Deza debe desentrañar. Su trabajo no es solo observar, sino interpretar y prever; pero, ¿es posible realmente predecir cómo se comportarán las personas? ¿Podemos reducir al ser humano a patrones predecibles? Marías utiliza las reflexiones de Jacques para recordarnos lo compleja e inabarcable que es la naturaleza humana. Incluso quienes nos son más cercanos siguen siendo, en muchos sentidos, un misterio.
En este contexto, el lenguaje de Marías puede sentirse envolvente, obsesivo, casi hipnótico, pero también como un bucle del que no puedes salir. A mí me recordó a esos amigos que te cuentan una anécdota con tantas idas y vueltas que cuando terminan no sabes si era graciosa, trágica o ambas cosas. Pero, de alguna forma, funciona. Te quedas ahí, atrapado, queriendo más.
Jacques Deza, además, no es el clásico héroe. Es más bien un observador nato, uno que ve demasiado y dice menos de lo que sabe. Es como si todo el peso del mundo pasara por su filtro personal, y lo que sale es una mezcla de agudeza, melancolía y un toque de ironía que lo hace terriblemente humano.
Si vas a leer Fiebre y lanza, prepárate para algo diferente. No es un libro que te despida con una palmadita en la espalda y adiós muy buenas. Es una invitación a quedarte en ese espacio incómodo donde todo parece resbaladizo y nada es lo que esperabas. Marías no busca agradarte ni convencerte; te da una lección de humildad literaria. Te deja pensando que tal vez no sabemos nada, que el conocimiento es solo otro juego, y que las certezas que tanto buscamos son el mayor de los engaños. Si te atreves a entrar, no saldrás igual. Es de esos libros que te recuerdan por qué lees: no solo para entretenerte, sino para enfrentarte a ideas que te desafían, que te sacuden y que te hacen crecer. Y, sobre todo, es una novela que no te deja escapar: porque en cada digresión, en cada pausa, Marías parece decirte que ahí, precisamente ahí, está la esencia de todo.
Y mientras sigues caminando por la vida, con más preguntas que respuestas, Fiebre y lanza será una de esas historias a las que sigues dándole vueltas, porque, en su caos ordenado, ha hecho algo que pocos logran: hacerte reflexionar. Y eso, en este mundo de respuestas rápidas, inmediatez y opiniones prefabricadas, probablemente sea un tesoro.
Reseña de Fiebre y lanza (Trilogía Tu rostro mañana I)
Reseña de Baile y sueño (Trilogía Tu rostro mañana II)
Reseña de Veneno y sombra y adiós (Trilogía Tu rostro mañana III)
Sé lo que algunos piensan de Fiebre y lanza, de Javier Marías: que es 'verborreica', que 'no pasa nada', que el lenguaje no tiene chispa (¿de veras?). Pero ahí está su magia. Marías no escribe para complacerte; escribe para arrastrarte a un estado casi meditativo, donde las pausas y los rodeos son tan importantes como lo que parece central. Lo que algunos ven como vacío, yo lo llamo espacio para pensar. Y el lenguaje 'insípido'... bueno, para mí es como una conversación con un amigo inteligente que no necesita gritar para hacerse escuchar.
Porque eso es precisamente lo que Fiebre y lanza nos enseña: a pensar, a cuestionar, a tomar posición. No es una novela que te entregue certezas; es una experiencia que te desafía, te arrastra y te deja con más preguntas que respuestas. Javier Marías nos ofrece una mirada sobre el tiempo, la memoria y la identidad, poniendo a prueba todo lo que creíamos saber. Fiebre y lanza te sumerge en un torrente de pensamientos, te obliga a enfrentarte a lo incierto, y lo que es aún más desconcertante: te hace aceptar que, a veces, no hay nada claro. Y eso está bien.
Fiebre y lanza no es de esas novelas que se leen rápido, con una sonrisa de satisfacción al final y luego las olvidas. No. Más bien es el tipo de libro que te deja mirando al techo, pensando: '¿He entendido algo o simplemente he sido parte de un juego mental del autor?' Y, spoiler: probablemente se trata de lo segundo.
Javier Marías abre su trilogía Tu rostro mañana con una novela que no tiene prisa, y, en honor a la verdad, tampoco le importa si tú sí la tienes. Jacques, Jaime, Jacobo, Diego o Jack Deza (que todas esas variantes de nombre recibe nuestro narrador y protagonista) es un tipo tan observador como melancólico. Acaba de dejar atrás su vida en Madrid y está en Londres, trabajando para BBC Radio, cuando recibe una propuesta intrigante de una organización tan secreta como inescrutable, un grupo ambiguo con tintes de agencia de inteligencia, que parece sacada de una película de espías existencialistas. Su misión: predecir el futuro comportamiento de las personas basándose en lo que son hoy. Suena fascinante, ¿no? Pues lo es, aunque también es una montaña rusa de monólogos internos y reflexiones que te hacen cuestionar hasta cómo saludas por las mañanas.
” ¿Cómo puedo no conocer hoy tu rostro mañana, el que ya está o se fragua bajo la cara que enseñas o bajo la careta que llevas, y que me mostrarás tan sólo cuando no lo espere?”Deza no es un narrador típico; es un espectador del mundo, pero también un filósofo que se pierde en sus pensamientos. Si pensabas que un narrador observador no podría ser interesante, déjame decirte que Marías consigue que cada pausa, cada digresión, sea una revelación. Como en la vida, todo lo que parece una interrupción termina siendo lo que realmente importa.
El tiempo y la memoria son el corazón de esta novela. Aquí no hay flashbacks rápidos ni saltos temporales evidentes; todo se descompone y recompone como un recuerdo que no estás seguro de haber vivido. ¿Cuánto de lo que recordamos es verdad? ¿Cuánto es construcción? Marías juega con estas preguntas como un gato juega con un ratón, y nosotros, claro, somos el ratón. Pero, ¿realmente lo somos? ¿O tal vez somos algo más, atrapados en una red de pensamientos que no sabemos cómo deshacer?
Y ahí es donde entran las digresiones de Marías. No son meros adornos ni una muestra de verborrea; son el motor de la novela. A medida que Deza se adentra en su mente, la acción no se detiene, sino que se transforma: las pausas, lejos de ser interrupciones, se convierten en momentos clave de revelación, donde el lenguaje, la memoria y la naturaleza humana se desvelan en toda su complejidad. Marías desentraña cómo las palabras no solo describen la realidad, sino que la crean, y cómo lo que decimos —y , sobre todo, lo que callamos— tiene el poder de transformar nuestras vidas y relaciones.
Mientras Jacques observa las vidas que lo rodean, Marías no se apresura a resolver el misterio de su protagonista. En vez de eso, se detiene, juega con la repetición de ideas y nos invita a reflexionar sobre lo que realmente importa, dejando que cada pausa se convierta en una revelación. Este recurso se conoce como 'redundancia estilística' o 'repetición variada'. Consiste en repetir una misma idea utilizando diferentes palabras o estructuras, buscando enfatizarla o darle más profundidad.
En el estilo de Marías, esta repetición no es meramente mecánica. Al contrario, le da una calidad casi poética a sus textos. Las palabras se van transformando, adquiriendo nuevos matices, y eso genera una sensación de eco constante, como un pensamiento que no termina de dejar de resonar: “O, si lo ven, o vislumbran, o…”. Esa repetición, lejos de ser redundante, crea una sensación de tensión, como si estuviéramos atrapados en un bucle mental del que no podemos salir.
¿Cuántas veces hemos manipulado sin querer, o sido manipulados sin saberlo? Estas preguntas reverberan en cada conversación, especialmente en las que Deza mantiene con figuras clave como Wheeler y Tupra, quienes parecen comprender mejor que nadie el peso de las palabras.
”No debería uno contar nunca nada, ni dar datos ni aportar historias ni hacer que la gente recuerde a seres que jamás han existido ni pisado la tierra o cruzado el mundo, o que sí pasaron pero estaban ya medio a salvo en el tuerto e inseguro olvido. Contar es casi siempre un regalo, incluso cuando lleva e inyecta veneno el cuento, también es un vínculo y otorgar confianza, y rara es la confianza que antes o después no se traiciona, raro el vínculo que no se enreda o anuda, y así acaba apretando y hay que tirar de navaja o filo para cortarlo.”El lenguaje en Fiebre y lanza no solo comunica, sino que transforma. Lo que Jacques conversa con personajes como Wheeler y Tupra no son solo palabras, son filosofías en acción. No es casualidad que Marías insista tanto en lo que decimos y lo que callamos. Las palabras son el campo de batalla, y no siempre sabemos quién ganará.
Lo mismo ocurre con la memoria. En los fragmentos que Deza recuerda de su vida en Madrid, Marías no se limita a usar la nostalgia como un recurso literario; la convierte en un campo de batalla filosófico. La memoria, ese terreno tan imperfecto y caprichoso, deja de ser una fiel cronista del pasado y se transforma en una herramienta que, más que recordar, reescribe continuamente lo vivido.
¿Y qué queda de nosotros cuando nuestros recuerdos se desvanecen en la niebla de la inestabilidad? A medida que Deza se sumerge en sus recuerdos, el autor también nos obliga a poner en duda nuestras propias certezas, a reconsiderar todo lo que creemos saber sobre el pasado.
Marías convierte la memoria en un terreno pantanoso, un espacio donde la nostalgia no es solo un recuerdo, sino una reconstrucción constante de quiénes somos. Nos muestra cómo la memoria es, en última instancia, una ficción que escribimos a medida que avanzamos en la vida. ¿Qué queda de lo que fuimos si incluso nuestros recuerdos son inestables? Este es uno de los grandes enigmas de la novela, y una de las preguntas más difíciles de resolver.
Y luego está el comportamiento humano, el gran enigma que Deza debe desentrañar. Su trabajo no es solo observar, sino interpretar y prever; pero, ¿es posible realmente predecir cómo se comportarán las personas? ¿Podemos reducir al ser humano a patrones predecibles? Marías utiliza las reflexiones de Jacques para recordarnos lo compleja e inabarcable que es la naturaleza humana. Incluso quienes nos son más cercanos siguen siendo, en muchos sentidos, un misterio.
En este contexto, el lenguaje de Marías puede sentirse envolvente, obsesivo, casi hipnótico, pero también como un bucle del que no puedes salir. A mí me recordó a esos amigos que te cuentan una anécdota con tantas idas y vueltas que cuando terminan no sabes si era graciosa, trágica o ambas cosas. Pero, de alguna forma, funciona. Te quedas ahí, atrapado, queriendo más.
Jacques Deza, además, no es el clásico héroe. Es más bien un observador nato, uno que ve demasiado y dice menos de lo que sabe. Es como si todo el peso del mundo pasara por su filtro personal, y lo que sale es una mezcla de agudeza, melancolía y un toque de ironía que lo hace terriblemente humano.
Si vas a leer Fiebre y lanza, prepárate para algo diferente. No es un libro que te despida con una palmadita en la espalda y adiós muy buenas. Es una invitación a quedarte en ese espacio incómodo donde todo parece resbaladizo y nada es lo que esperabas. Marías no busca agradarte ni convencerte; te da una lección de humildad literaria. Te deja pensando que tal vez no sabemos nada, que el conocimiento es solo otro juego, y que las certezas que tanto buscamos son el mayor de los engaños. Si te atreves a entrar, no saldrás igual. Es de esos libros que te recuerdan por qué lees: no solo para entretenerte, sino para enfrentarte a ideas que te desafían, que te sacuden y que te hacen crecer. Y, sobre todo, es una novela que no te deja escapar: porque en cada digresión, en cada pausa, Marías parece decirte que ahí, precisamente ahí, está la esencia de todo.
Y mientras sigues caminando por la vida, con más preguntas que respuestas, Fiebre y lanza será una de esas historias a las que sigues dándole vueltas, porque, en su caos ordenado, ha hecho algo que pocos logran: hacerte reflexionar. Y eso, en este mundo de respuestas rápidas, inmediatez y opiniones prefabricadas, probablemente sea un tesoro.
Reseña de Fiebre y lanza (Trilogía Tu rostro mañana I)
Reseña de Baile y sueño (Trilogía Tu rostro mañana II)
Reseña de Veneno y sombra y adiós (Trilogía Tu rostro mañana III)
November 30, 2024
https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2024...
“Ya te he dicho que el mayor problema es que no solemos querer ver, no nos atrevemos. Casi nadie se atreve a mirar de veras, y menos aun a confesarse o contarse lo que ve de veras, porque a menudo no es grato lo que se contempla o vislumbra con esa mirada que no se engaña, con la más profunda que no se conforma nunca con atravesar todas las capas, sino que después de la ultima todavía insiste.
Pero nadie quiere ver nada y así nadie ve casi nunca lo que está delante, lo que nos aguarda o depararemos tarde o temprano, nadie deja de entablar conversación o amistad con quien solo nos traerá arrepentimiento y discordia y veneno y lamentaciones, o con aquel a quien nosotros traeremos eso, por mucho que lo vislumbremos en el primer instante, o por manifiesto que se nos haga.”
Escribir comentarios (no me gusta llamarlas reseñas porque no me parecen lo suficientemente objetivas) me ayuda mucho a reordenar el libro una vez leído, independientemente de la experiencia de compartir lo leído. Pero es verdad que no las considero tanto reseñas porque tienen que ver más con mi experiencia personal a la hora de leer, y a veces reconozco que no soy lo suficientemente objetiva, en el sentido de que lo que destaco de un libro es precisamente lo que me sirve a mí misma, e igual no escribo estos comentarios con una perspectiva más amplia valorando los pros y los contras. Ya a estas alturas después de tantos libros he desarrollado un criterio tan personal que a veces me parece que voy por libre y mis comentarios acaban valiendo solo para mí, pero no llegan a ser lo suficientemente objetivos para que le sirva a quién me lea. Este libro de Javier Marías me viene muy bien para esta reflexión, porque al igual que empecé el comentario de Sonata Cartesiana con la reflexión de que la lectura de Gass me había servido como una exploración de mi misma, en el caso de esta novela de Javier Marías me ha ocurrido algo parecido, porque aun siendo Fiebre y Lanza una novela con un argumento salteado de un cierto suspense, lo que me parece más interesante no es tanto ese misterio argumental y en torno al pasado de la Guerra Civil sobre el que JM construye su novela, sino que las partes realmente fascinantes tienen que ver con la exploración intimista que hace el narrador de sí mismo. Deza, que se siente profundamente solo en Londres después de separarse (“Descuida, no quiero decir que ahora te vayas a quedar para siempre, estoy seguro de que volverás a Madrid más pronto o más tarde, los españoles no aguantáis alejados de vuestro país demasiado tiempo; aunque seas madrileño, sois los menos añorantes”) y aunque se siente involucrado con una serie de personajes y con un cierto misterio, realmente se está explorando a sí mismo, haciendo plenamente partícipe al lector de ello.
“Mientras que en una pantalla se ofrece la oportunidad de espiar y ver más y saber más por tanto, porque uno no está pendiente de las miradas devueltas ni se expone a su vez a ser juzgado, ni ha de repartir concentración o atención entre un diálogo en el que participa (o su simulacro) y el frío estudio de un rostro, de unos gestos, de las inflexiones de voz, las pausas falsedades.
...aunque mucha gente no dé nunca el paso ni cruce la raya, y así nunca salga de sus simples e inexplicables atracción o rechazo: para ellos inexplicables, al jamás dar ese paso y detenerse en lo epidérmico siempre.”
Como en la mayoría de las novelas de JM, aquí volvemos a uno de sus temas recurrentes de siempre, la necesidad de guardar secretos, y por supuesto no solo la necesidad de desenterrarlos, sino a la postre, la inevitabilidad de que se revelen. Me viene a la mente una cita de "Mañana en la batalla piensa en mí", que en su momento me impactó y que de alguna forma ha vuelto a surgir una y otra vez como leitmotiv en sus novelas "Es cansado moverse en la sombra y espiar sin ser visto o procurando no ser descubierto, como es cansado guardar un secreto o tener un misterio...", porque en las novelas de Marías sus personajes, sus narradores, siempre se mueven en la sombra, escondidos tras un espionaje metafórico que les hace querer ser partícipes pero al mismo no involucrarse, tal como dice, “detenerse en lo epidérmico siempre”. Siendo como es Fiebre y Lanza la primera parte de una trilogía, puede que tengamos la impresión de que no sepamos hacia donde nos va a conducir pero sí que vamos siendo conscientes de que de lo que se trata es de penetrar en la vida de las personas, de desentrañarlas, y eso solo se podrá hacer si hay alguien agazapado “espiando” y “analizando” a los demás, como será el caso de Deza, el narrador, un hombre con una habilidad especial para ver más allá de las apariencias de lo que una persona quiere aparentar, descifrando más allá del habla y del lenguaje corporal de la gente, o lo que es lo mismo, penetrar en sus secretos...
“Toby me dijo que siempre admiraba, a la vez que temía, el don especial que tenías para captar los rasgos caracteristicos y aun esenciales, tanto exteriores como interiores, de tus amigos y conocidos, a menudo inadvertidos, ignorados por ellos mismos. O incluso de gente que habías visto de refilón o de paso.
Escucha, Jacobo: según Toby, tú tenias el raro don de ver en las personas lo que ni siquiera ellas son capaces de ver en sí mismas, o no suelen. O, si lo ven, o vislumbran, acto seguido rehúsan verlo: se dejan tuertas por el fogonazo y luego se miran ya solo con el ojo ciego. Ese es un don hoy rarísimo, cada vez más infrecuente, el de ver a a la gente a través de ella misma y directamente, sin mediaciones ni escrúpulos, sin buena voluntad, ni tampoco mala, sin esforzarse, cómo decir, sin predisposiciones y sin hacer dengues.”
“Así que he aprendido a temer cuanto pasa por el pensamiento e incluso lo que el pensamiento aun ignora, porque he visto casi siempre que todo estaba ya ahí, en algún sitio, antes de llegar a él, o de atravesarlo. He aprendido a temer, por tanto, no solo que se concibe la idea, sino lo que la antecede o le es previo. Y así yo soy mi propio dolor y mi fiebre”. Realmente es difícil contar de qué va este primer volumen de la trilogía Tu Rostro Mañana, porque tampoco es que ocurran muchas cosas, independiente de que Jacobo Deza, un español recién separado que acude a una cena en Oxford que en un principio le parece sospechosa por lo anodina, aparentemente. Peter Wheeler, el anfitrión, un profesor que Deza conoció en Oxford y que fue una especie de mentor, le pide al narrador su opinión sobre Bertram Tupra, otro asistente a la fiesta. Desde un principio Deza sospecha que hay algo detrás de esta fiesta y en la petición que le hace Wheeler sobre observar a Tupra y pedirle su opinión sobre él: esta asombrosa capacidad o talento que tiene Deza para descifrar a la gente, es puesta a prueba justo en esta fiesta. No sabemos hasta qué punto será una encerrona o una entrevista de trabajo, para que si Deza pasa la prueba, pueda unirse a ellos en los servicios secretos. Wheeler y Tupra son espías (“Yo he sido espía, me dijo”) y aunque quieran convertir a Jacobo Deza en otro espía, yo no diría que esta sea una novela de espías porque aquí el argumento no es tan importante como lo es el estudio de personajes y sobre todo las reflexiones que hace Deza sobre su frustración ante lo incierto y poco fiable de la vida, o, de la traición de las personas:
“-Sí, las personas no son de una pieza, Jacobo, y tu padre está en lo cierto. Y nadie es para siempre así o de esta manera, quién no ha visto asomar pronto en alguien querido un alarmante e inesperado rasgo (y entonces se le hunde a uno el mundo); siempre hay que estar alerta y nunca dar por definitivo nada; o no todo, mejor dicho, porque algunas cosas sí son sin vuelta.“
Se puede decir entonces que este primer volumen es el reclutamiento por un equipo del servicio de inteligencia británico formado por sus antiguos conocidos y mentores de Oxford, aunque esto yo diría que es resumirlo muy superficialmente, aunque sí que puede ser una excusa para Javier Marías para volver a detenerse en otro de esos temas recurrentes suyos, relacionado con los secretos, y este es el de la identidad, o el de las diferentes identidades, que también ha surgido una y otra vez en otras novelas suyas, no tanto el espionaje sino el camuflarse bajo varias versiones de uno mismo: “Aprendí que lo que tan solo ocurre no nos afecta apenas o no más que lo que no ocurre, sino su relato (también el de lo que no ocurre)”. Jacobo Deza, también llamado Jaime, Jacques, Jack, Diego… dependiendo de las diferentes etapas de su vida o de los estados de ánimo de los demás, es llamado a lo largo de la novela por estos diferentes nombres y aunque se reconozca en todos, quizá el de Jacques sea con el que más cómodo se siente, que es con el que lo llamaba su madre. Así que ya antes de que Deza se involucre en este grupo de inteligencia, ya viene con parte de los deberes hechos, en el sentido de que sus nombres podrían ser sus distintas versiones de él mismo, y una vez corroborada su habilidad para descifrar los rostros, quizás sea la persona idónea para este reclutamiento.
“La gente va y cuenta irremediablemente y lo cuenta todo mas pronto o más tarde, lo interesante y lo fútil, lo privado y lo público, lo íntimo y lo superfluo, lo que debería permanecer oculto y lo que ha de ser difundido, la pena y las alegrías y el resentimiento, los agravios y la adoración y los planes para la venganza, lo que nos enorgullece y lo que nos avergüenza, lo que parecía un secreto y lo que pedía serlo, lo consabido y lo inconfesable y lo horroroso y lo manifiesto, lo sustancial, el enamoramiento y lo insignificante el enamoramiento.” ("El enamoramiento es insignificante, su espera en cambio es sustancial", Mañana en la batalla piensa en mí)
En "Fiebre y lanza" obtenemos una historia a medias pero sí que sabemos que hay una traición en el pasado relacionada con su padre durante la Guerra Civil Española. Los padres de Deza estuvieron muy involucrados durante la contienda y su padre estuvo a punto de morir a causa de la traición de su mejor amigo (“.. y rara es la confianza, que antes o después no se traiciona, raro el vínculo que no se enreda o anuda, y así acaba apretando y hay que tirar de navaja o filo para cortarlo"). Todo este pasado todavía influye a Deza porque no puede aceptar que su padre no viera venir esta traición, y que nunca tuviera la más mínima sospecha de su amigo. Es un tema central en la novela y la que dota la novela de un cierto suspense, pero al mismo tiempo es un hecho del pasado que lo ha convertido en quién es, un hombre que no revela nada bajo la superficie, hermético. Marías está continuamente dándole vueltas al hecho de que la mayoría de las personas son incapaces de ver más allá de sus narices, o se niegan a percibir la verdad cuando la ven. Manipulamos los hechos a nuestra conveniencia para que vayan encajando con lo que queremos ver, por este motivo, la habilidad que tiene Deza para desentrañar lo que hay bajo la superficie “interesada” de la mayoría de las personas, resulta un talento fundamental para predecir de qué serían capaces los individuos en un futuro (“porque los hombres llevan sus probabilidades en el interior de sus venas, y solo es cuestión de tiempo, de tentaciones y circunstancias que por fin las conduzcan a su cumplimiento”), una forma de adelantarse al futuro descifrando sus rostros para ese mañana, si seguirían siendo los mismos después de las distintas circunstancias de sus vidas, o serían capaces de traición.
“Pero mira: lo que se planteó o se propuso ese grupo fue justamente averiguar de qué serían capaces los individuos con independencia de sus circunstancias y conocer hoy sus rostros mañana, por así decir: saber ya desde ahora cómo serían en el mañana esos rostros; y averiguar, por citar tus palabras o las de tu padre, si una vida decorosa lo habría sido de todas formas o lo era solo de prestado …
¿Cómo puedo no conocer hoy tu rostro mañana, el que ya está o se fragua bajo la cara que enseñas o bajo la careta que llevas, y que me mostrarás tan solo cuando no lo espere?”
El trabajo de Deza que será desvelar el secreto que se esconde en los rostros, es un tema fascinante porque el mismo Deza es un camaleón, el rostro de hoy y cómo será mañana, es lo que tiene que descifrar, así que como dije en un principio, más que una novela de suspense o de espías es sobre todo una novela sobre un estudio de personajes, y el personaje principal a descifrar será el mismo Deza, sonriente en su apariencia, hermético a medida que el lector quiere desentrañarlo. Cada pequeño gesto nuestro, inconsciente, revela mucho más de nosotros que lo que queremos transmitir. Y tal y como surge una y otra vez en la temática de Marías, aunque contar, hablar, es una cuestión de comunicación y confianza, las confidencias se traicionan continuamente, así que el silencio es la única vía segura. La comunicación, la confianza, la traición, los secretos y el silencio. Yo diría que este es el resumen de esta novela colosal que se corta abruptamente en pos de su segunda parte.
“A veces resulta imposible explicar lo más decisivo, lo que más nos ha afectado, y guardar silencio es lo único que nos salva en lo malo, porque las explicaciones suenan casi siempre algo tontas respecto al daño que uno hace o nos han hecho.“
♫♫♫ El puente azul - Radio Futura ♫♫♫
“Ya te he dicho que el mayor problema es que no solemos querer ver, no nos atrevemos. Casi nadie se atreve a mirar de veras, y menos aun a confesarse o contarse lo que ve de veras, porque a menudo no es grato lo que se contempla o vislumbra con esa mirada que no se engaña, con la más profunda que no se conforma nunca con atravesar todas las capas, sino que después de la ultima todavía insiste.
Pero nadie quiere ver nada y así nadie ve casi nunca lo que está delante, lo que nos aguarda o depararemos tarde o temprano, nadie deja de entablar conversación o amistad con quien solo nos traerá arrepentimiento y discordia y veneno y lamentaciones, o con aquel a quien nosotros traeremos eso, por mucho que lo vislumbremos en el primer instante, o por manifiesto que se nos haga.”
Escribir comentarios (no me gusta llamarlas reseñas porque no me parecen lo suficientemente objetivas) me ayuda mucho a reordenar el libro una vez leído, independientemente de la experiencia de compartir lo leído. Pero es verdad que no las considero tanto reseñas porque tienen que ver más con mi experiencia personal a la hora de leer, y a veces reconozco que no soy lo suficientemente objetiva, en el sentido de que lo que destaco de un libro es precisamente lo que me sirve a mí misma, e igual no escribo estos comentarios con una perspectiva más amplia valorando los pros y los contras. Ya a estas alturas después de tantos libros he desarrollado un criterio tan personal que a veces me parece que voy por libre y mis comentarios acaban valiendo solo para mí, pero no llegan a ser lo suficientemente objetivos para que le sirva a quién me lea. Este libro de Javier Marías me viene muy bien para esta reflexión, porque al igual que empecé el comentario de Sonata Cartesiana con la reflexión de que la lectura de Gass me había servido como una exploración de mi misma, en el caso de esta novela de Javier Marías me ha ocurrido algo parecido, porque aun siendo Fiebre y Lanza una novela con un argumento salteado de un cierto suspense, lo que me parece más interesante no es tanto ese misterio argumental y en torno al pasado de la Guerra Civil sobre el que JM construye su novela, sino que las partes realmente fascinantes tienen que ver con la exploración intimista que hace el narrador de sí mismo. Deza, que se siente profundamente solo en Londres después de separarse (“Descuida, no quiero decir que ahora te vayas a quedar para siempre, estoy seguro de que volverás a Madrid más pronto o más tarde, los españoles no aguantáis alejados de vuestro país demasiado tiempo; aunque seas madrileño, sois los menos añorantes”) y aunque se siente involucrado con una serie de personajes y con un cierto misterio, realmente se está explorando a sí mismo, haciendo plenamente partícipe al lector de ello.
“Mientras que en una pantalla se ofrece la oportunidad de espiar y ver más y saber más por tanto, porque uno no está pendiente de las miradas devueltas ni se expone a su vez a ser juzgado, ni ha de repartir concentración o atención entre un diálogo en el que participa (o su simulacro) y el frío estudio de un rostro, de unos gestos, de las inflexiones de voz, las pausas falsedades.
...aunque mucha gente no dé nunca el paso ni cruce la raya, y así nunca salga de sus simples e inexplicables atracción o rechazo: para ellos inexplicables, al jamás dar ese paso y detenerse en lo epidérmico siempre.”
Como en la mayoría de las novelas de JM, aquí volvemos a uno de sus temas recurrentes de siempre, la necesidad de guardar secretos, y por supuesto no solo la necesidad de desenterrarlos, sino a la postre, la inevitabilidad de que se revelen. Me viene a la mente una cita de "Mañana en la batalla piensa en mí", que en su momento me impactó y que de alguna forma ha vuelto a surgir una y otra vez como leitmotiv en sus novelas "Es cansado moverse en la sombra y espiar sin ser visto o procurando no ser descubierto, como es cansado guardar un secreto o tener un misterio...", porque en las novelas de Marías sus personajes, sus narradores, siempre se mueven en la sombra, escondidos tras un espionaje metafórico que les hace querer ser partícipes pero al mismo no involucrarse, tal como dice, “detenerse en lo epidérmico siempre”. Siendo como es Fiebre y Lanza la primera parte de una trilogía, puede que tengamos la impresión de que no sepamos hacia donde nos va a conducir pero sí que vamos siendo conscientes de que de lo que se trata es de penetrar en la vida de las personas, de desentrañarlas, y eso solo se podrá hacer si hay alguien agazapado “espiando” y “analizando” a los demás, como será el caso de Deza, el narrador, un hombre con una habilidad especial para ver más allá de las apariencias de lo que una persona quiere aparentar, descifrando más allá del habla y del lenguaje corporal de la gente, o lo que es lo mismo, penetrar en sus secretos...
“Toby me dijo que siempre admiraba, a la vez que temía, el don especial que tenías para captar los rasgos caracteristicos y aun esenciales, tanto exteriores como interiores, de tus amigos y conocidos, a menudo inadvertidos, ignorados por ellos mismos. O incluso de gente que habías visto de refilón o de paso.
Escucha, Jacobo: según Toby, tú tenias el raro don de ver en las personas lo que ni siquiera ellas son capaces de ver en sí mismas, o no suelen. O, si lo ven, o vislumbran, acto seguido rehúsan verlo: se dejan tuertas por el fogonazo y luego se miran ya solo con el ojo ciego. Ese es un don hoy rarísimo, cada vez más infrecuente, el de ver a a la gente a través de ella misma y directamente, sin mediaciones ni escrúpulos, sin buena voluntad, ni tampoco mala, sin esforzarse, cómo decir, sin predisposiciones y sin hacer dengues.”
“Así que he aprendido a temer cuanto pasa por el pensamiento e incluso lo que el pensamiento aun ignora, porque he visto casi siempre que todo estaba ya ahí, en algún sitio, antes de llegar a él, o de atravesarlo. He aprendido a temer, por tanto, no solo que se concibe la idea, sino lo que la antecede o le es previo. Y así yo soy mi propio dolor y mi fiebre”. Realmente es difícil contar de qué va este primer volumen de la trilogía Tu Rostro Mañana, porque tampoco es que ocurran muchas cosas, independiente de que Jacobo Deza, un español recién separado que acude a una cena en Oxford que en un principio le parece sospechosa por lo anodina, aparentemente. Peter Wheeler, el anfitrión, un profesor que Deza conoció en Oxford y que fue una especie de mentor, le pide al narrador su opinión sobre Bertram Tupra, otro asistente a la fiesta. Desde un principio Deza sospecha que hay algo detrás de esta fiesta y en la petición que le hace Wheeler sobre observar a Tupra y pedirle su opinión sobre él: esta asombrosa capacidad o talento que tiene Deza para descifrar a la gente, es puesta a prueba justo en esta fiesta. No sabemos hasta qué punto será una encerrona o una entrevista de trabajo, para que si Deza pasa la prueba, pueda unirse a ellos en los servicios secretos. Wheeler y Tupra son espías (“Yo he sido espía, me dijo”) y aunque quieran convertir a Jacobo Deza en otro espía, yo no diría que esta sea una novela de espías porque aquí el argumento no es tan importante como lo es el estudio de personajes y sobre todo las reflexiones que hace Deza sobre su frustración ante lo incierto y poco fiable de la vida, o, de la traición de las personas:
“-Sí, las personas no son de una pieza, Jacobo, y tu padre está en lo cierto. Y nadie es para siempre así o de esta manera, quién no ha visto asomar pronto en alguien querido un alarmante e inesperado rasgo (y entonces se le hunde a uno el mundo); siempre hay que estar alerta y nunca dar por definitivo nada; o no todo, mejor dicho, porque algunas cosas sí son sin vuelta.“
Se puede decir entonces que este primer volumen es el reclutamiento por un equipo del servicio de inteligencia británico formado por sus antiguos conocidos y mentores de Oxford, aunque esto yo diría que es resumirlo muy superficialmente, aunque sí que puede ser una excusa para Javier Marías para volver a detenerse en otro de esos temas recurrentes suyos, relacionado con los secretos, y este es el de la identidad, o el de las diferentes identidades, que también ha surgido una y otra vez en otras novelas suyas, no tanto el espionaje sino el camuflarse bajo varias versiones de uno mismo: “Aprendí que lo que tan solo ocurre no nos afecta apenas o no más que lo que no ocurre, sino su relato (también el de lo que no ocurre)”. Jacobo Deza, también llamado Jaime, Jacques, Jack, Diego… dependiendo de las diferentes etapas de su vida o de los estados de ánimo de los demás, es llamado a lo largo de la novela por estos diferentes nombres y aunque se reconozca en todos, quizá el de Jacques sea con el que más cómodo se siente, que es con el que lo llamaba su madre. Así que ya antes de que Deza se involucre en este grupo de inteligencia, ya viene con parte de los deberes hechos, en el sentido de que sus nombres podrían ser sus distintas versiones de él mismo, y una vez corroborada su habilidad para descifrar los rostros, quizás sea la persona idónea para este reclutamiento.
“La gente va y cuenta irremediablemente y lo cuenta todo mas pronto o más tarde, lo interesante y lo fútil, lo privado y lo público, lo íntimo y lo superfluo, lo que debería permanecer oculto y lo que ha de ser difundido, la pena y las alegrías y el resentimiento, los agravios y la adoración y los planes para la venganza, lo que nos enorgullece y lo que nos avergüenza, lo que parecía un secreto y lo que pedía serlo, lo consabido y lo inconfesable y lo horroroso y lo manifiesto, lo sustancial, el enamoramiento y lo insignificante el enamoramiento.” ("El enamoramiento es insignificante, su espera en cambio es sustancial", Mañana en la batalla piensa en mí)
En "Fiebre y lanza" obtenemos una historia a medias pero sí que sabemos que hay una traición en el pasado relacionada con su padre durante la Guerra Civil Española. Los padres de Deza estuvieron muy involucrados durante la contienda y su padre estuvo a punto de morir a causa de la traición de su mejor amigo (“.. y rara es la confianza, que antes o después no se traiciona, raro el vínculo que no se enreda o anuda, y así acaba apretando y hay que tirar de navaja o filo para cortarlo"). Todo este pasado todavía influye a Deza porque no puede aceptar que su padre no viera venir esta traición, y que nunca tuviera la más mínima sospecha de su amigo. Es un tema central en la novela y la que dota la novela de un cierto suspense, pero al mismo tiempo es un hecho del pasado que lo ha convertido en quién es, un hombre que no revela nada bajo la superficie, hermético. Marías está continuamente dándole vueltas al hecho de que la mayoría de las personas son incapaces de ver más allá de sus narices, o se niegan a percibir la verdad cuando la ven. Manipulamos los hechos a nuestra conveniencia para que vayan encajando con lo que queremos ver, por este motivo, la habilidad que tiene Deza para desentrañar lo que hay bajo la superficie “interesada” de la mayoría de las personas, resulta un talento fundamental para predecir de qué serían capaces los individuos en un futuro (“porque los hombres llevan sus probabilidades en el interior de sus venas, y solo es cuestión de tiempo, de tentaciones y circunstancias que por fin las conduzcan a su cumplimiento”), una forma de adelantarse al futuro descifrando sus rostros para ese mañana, si seguirían siendo los mismos después de las distintas circunstancias de sus vidas, o serían capaces de traición.
“Pero mira: lo que se planteó o se propuso ese grupo fue justamente averiguar de qué serían capaces los individuos con independencia de sus circunstancias y conocer hoy sus rostros mañana, por así decir: saber ya desde ahora cómo serían en el mañana esos rostros; y averiguar, por citar tus palabras o las de tu padre, si una vida decorosa lo habría sido de todas formas o lo era solo de prestado …
¿Cómo puedo no conocer hoy tu rostro mañana, el que ya está o se fragua bajo la cara que enseñas o bajo la careta que llevas, y que me mostrarás tan solo cuando no lo espere?”
El trabajo de Deza que será desvelar el secreto que se esconde en los rostros, es un tema fascinante porque el mismo Deza es un camaleón, el rostro de hoy y cómo será mañana, es lo que tiene que descifrar, así que como dije en un principio, más que una novela de suspense o de espías es sobre todo una novela sobre un estudio de personajes, y el personaje principal a descifrar será el mismo Deza, sonriente en su apariencia, hermético a medida que el lector quiere desentrañarlo. Cada pequeño gesto nuestro, inconsciente, revela mucho más de nosotros que lo que queremos transmitir. Y tal y como surge una y otra vez en la temática de Marías, aunque contar, hablar, es una cuestión de comunicación y confianza, las confidencias se traicionan continuamente, así que el silencio es la única vía segura. La comunicación, la confianza, la traición, los secretos y el silencio. Yo diría que este es el resumen de esta novela colosal que se corta abruptamente en pos de su segunda parte.
“A veces resulta imposible explicar lo más decisivo, lo que más nos ha afectado, y guardar silencio es lo único que nos salva en lo malo, porque las explicaciones suenan casi siempre algo tontas respecto al daño que uno hace o nos han hecho.“
♫♫♫ El puente azul - Radio Futura ♫♫♫
January 15, 2012
Myriad readers of the Essays by Montaigne have remarked, how'd he know? This implies some spooky insight into our interior motivations that the Mayor of Bordeaux anticipated 400 years ago. It translates into vanity. That said, I felt often over the last few days that Javier Marias was privy to many of my own streams of though. This is an astonishing treatise on language, memory and history.
October 13, 2016
kişisel hikayelerden yapılan toplumsal çıkarımları, derin analizleri ile beni yakalayan, zaman zaman uzun diyalogları ile sıkan, hiçbir karakterine yakınlık hissedemediğim ama bir şekilde elimden de bırakamadığım bi’ okuma deneyimi oldu..
yine de, ikinci cilde başlamak için sabırsızlanıyorum..
yine de, ikinci cilde başlamak için sabırsızlanıyorum..
March 4, 2009
I believe Marias will be the next European writer of my generation (after Orhan Pamuk) to win the Nobel Prize. This novel comes in three volumes, but Javier insists it is a single text. How can you not be intrigued by a 1,000-page novel that begins with the sentence: "One should never tell anyone anything or give information or pass on stories or make people remember beings who have never existed or trodden the earth or traversed the world, or who, having done so, are now almost safe in uncertain, one-eyed oblivion."?
September 5, 2021
Başlarken 2-3 güne bitiririm diye düşünmüştüm. Ama dikkatli ve sindirerek okuması gerektiğini farkedince hiç acele etmedim. Biraz kafa karıştırıcı gibi gelse de suya girince zamanla alışıyorsunuz :))
Özel yeteneği insanları dinlemek olan karakterimizin eşinden ayrıldıktan sonra yaşadığı yalnızlık ve sonrasında yaşadıkları gibi görünse de konusu, tam da öyle değil gibi 🤔
Özel yeteneği insanları dinlemek olan karakterimizin eşinden ayrıldıktan sonra yaşadığı yalnızlık ve sonrasında yaşadıkları gibi görünse de konusu, tam da öyle değil gibi 🤔
April 24, 2018
Estou pelos cabelos com as divagações deste homem! Saber o que Javier Marías pensa da vida tem interesse quando se lê o primeiro livro dele... e o segundo... e o terceiro... e o quarto. Ao quinto já não se aguenta.
Li cem páginas. E quando penso que isto só termina daqui a mil, apetece-me gritar. Como é tarde, a vizinhança dorme, é melhor desistir...
Li cem páginas. E quando penso que isto só termina daqui a mil, apetece-me gritar. Como é tarde, a vizinhança dorme, é melhor desistir...
January 16, 2019
Um bom ensaio, mas um mau romance.
Sr. Marías, leia T. Bernhard, sff. Obrigado.
Sr. Marías, leia T. Bernhard, sff. Obrigado.
August 23, 2021
“Uma pessoa nunca sabe de todo se ganha a confiança de alguém, e menos ainda quando a perde.”
“«Tudo tem o seu tempo para ser acreditado, até o mais inverosímil e descabelado», dissera Tupra sem dar à sua frase a menor importância. «Às vezes dura dias tão-somente, esse tempo, mas às vezes dura sempre.»”
“(…) tendemos a desconfiar incrivelmente das nossas percepções quando já são passado e não se vêem confirmadas nem ratificadas de fora por ninguém, renegamos da nossa memória às vezes e acabamos por contar a nós próprios inexactas versões daquilo que presenciámos, não confiamos como testemunhas nem em nós próprios, submetemos tudo a traduções, fazemo-las dos nossos nítidos actos e nem sempre fiéis, para que assim os actos comecem a ser indistintos, e por fim entregamo-nos e damo-nos à interpretação perpétua, até do que nos consta e sabemos de ciência certa, e assim fazemo-lo flutuar instável, impreciso, e nunca nada está fixado nem nunca é definitivo e tudo nos baila até ao fim dos dias, talvez se dê o caso de praticamente não suportarmos as certezas, nem sequer as que nos convêm e reconfortam, para já não falar das que nos desagradam ou nos questionam ou doem, ninguém se quer transformar nisso, na sua própria dor e sua lança e sua febre.”
“Como pode não se ver no longo tempo que quem acabará e acaba por nos perder nos vai perder? Não se intuir nem se adivinhar a sua trama, a sua maquinação e a sua dança em círculo, não farejar a sua aversão ou respirar a sua desdita, não captar a sua vagarosa vigilância e a lentíssima e languescente espera, e a consequente impaciência que quem sabia durante quantos anos teria tido que conter? Como posso não conhecer hoje o teu rosto amanhã, o que já está ou se forja sob a cara que mostras ou sob a máscara que trazes, e que me mostrarás somente quando não o esperar?”
“Um dia tens de me falar um pouco mais disso, se quiseres, claro, e se souberes fazê-lo, às vezes torna-se impossível explicar o mais decisivo, o que mais nos afectou, e guardar silêncio é a única coisa que nos salva no mau porque as explicações soam quase sempre tolas relativamente ao mal que a pessoa faz ou lhe fizeram. Não costumas estar à altura do mal sofrido ou causado, e não se aguentam, não é verdade?”
“Em jovem, bem sabes, a pessoa tem pressa e receia não viver o bastante, não gozar experiências suficientemente variadas e ricas, a pessoa impacienta-se e acelera os acontecimentos, se puder, e carrega-se deles, faz provisão, a urgência do jovem por somar cicatrizes e forjar um passado, essa urgência é bem estranha. Ninguém devia ter esse medo, nós, os velhos, devíamos estar a ensiná-lo às pessoas, embora não saiba como, hoje ninguém os ouve. Porque no final de qualquer vida mais ou menos longa, por monótona que tenha sido, e anódina, e cinzenta, e sem sobressaltos, haverá sempre demasiadas recordações e demasiadas contradições, demasiadas renúncias e omissões e mudanças, muitas marcha-atrás, muito arriar bandeiras, e também demasiadas deslealdades, isso é garantido. E não é fácil ordenar tudo isso, nem sequer para o contar a si próprio.”
“Tinha um olhar sonhador e diáfano, e muito alegres os lábios, afectuosamente irónicos. Gracejava muito, não deixou para trás os usos dos seus juvenis anos, nunca esteve em condições de o fazer. Uma vez disse-me porque me amava com esses lábios.: «Porque gosto de te ver ler o jornal enquanto tomo o pequeno-almoço, quanto mais não seja por isso. Vejo na tua cara como amanhece o mundo e como amanheces todas as manhãs, que és a minha vida e o representante principal do mundo. De longe o mais visível.» Essas palavras regressam inesperadamente, ao ouvir o timbre e a dicção idênticos, e ao ver o sorriso tão comparável. E então a pessoa sabe de imediato que nesta mulher madura que acabam de lhe apresentar bem pode confiar, absolutamente. Sabe que não lhe fará mal, ou pelo menos não sem o avisar.”
“Uma pessoa nunca devia contar nada.»”
“«Tudo tem o seu tempo para ser acreditado, até o mais inverosímil e descabelado», dissera Tupra sem dar à sua frase a menor importância. «Às vezes dura dias tão-somente, esse tempo, mas às vezes dura sempre.»”
“(…) tendemos a desconfiar incrivelmente das nossas percepções quando já são passado e não se vêem confirmadas nem ratificadas de fora por ninguém, renegamos da nossa memória às vezes e acabamos por contar a nós próprios inexactas versões daquilo que presenciámos, não confiamos como testemunhas nem em nós próprios, submetemos tudo a traduções, fazemo-las dos nossos nítidos actos e nem sempre fiéis, para que assim os actos comecem a ser indistintos, e por fim entregamo-nos e damo-nos à interpretação perpétua, até do que nos consta e sabemos de ciência certa, e assim fazemo-lo flutuar instável, impreciso, e nunca nada está fixado nem nunca é definitivo e tudo nos baila até ao fim dos dias, talvez se dê o caso de praticamente não suportarmos as certezas, nem sequer as que nos convêm e reconfortam, para já não falar das que nos desagradam ou nos questionam ou doem, ninguém se quer transformar nisso, na sua própria dor e sua lança e sua febre.”
“Como pode não se ver no longo tempo que quem acabará e acaba por nos perder nos vai perder? Não se intuir nem se adivinhar a sua trama, a sua maquinação e a sua dança em círculo, não farejar a sua aversão ou respirar a sua desdita, não captar a sua vagarosa vigilância e a lentíssima e languescente espera, e a consequente impaciência que quem sabia durante quantos anos teria tido que conter? Como posso não conhecer hoje o teu rosto amanhã, o que já está ou se forja sob a cara que mostras ou sob a máscara que trazes, e que me mostrarás somente quando não o esperar?”
“Um dia tens de me falar um pouco mais disso, se quiseres, claro, e se souberes fazê-lo, às vezes torna-se impossível explicar o mais decisivo, o que mais nos afectou, e guardar silêncio é a única coisa que nos salva no mau porque as explicações soam quase sempre tolas relativamente ao mal que a pessoa faz ou lhe fizeram. Não costumas estar à altura do mal sofrido ou causado, e não se aguentam, não é verdade?”
“Em jovem, bem sabes, a pessoa tem pressa e receia não viver o bastante, não gozar experiências suficientemente variadas e ricas, a pessoa impacienta-se e acelera os acontecimentos, se puder, e carrega-se deles, faz provisão, a urgência do jovem por somar cicatrizes e forjar um passado, essa urgência é bem estranha. Ninguém devia ter esse medo, nós, os velhos, devíamos estar a ensiná-lo às pessoas, embora não saiba como, hoje ninguém os ouve. Porque no final de qualquer vida mais ou menos longa, por monótona que tenha sido, e anódina, e cinzenta, e sem sobressaltos, haverá sempre demasiadas recordações e demasiadas contradições, demasiadas renúncias e omissões e mudanças, muitas marcha-atrás, muito arriar bandeiras, e também demasiadas deslealdades, isso é garantido. E não é fácil ordenar tudo isso, nem sequer para o contar a si próprio.”
“Tinha um olhar sonhador e diáfano, e muito alegres os lábios, afectuosamente irónicos. Gracejava muito, não deixou para trás os usos dos seus juvenis anos, nunca esteve em condições de o fazer. Uma vez disse-me porque me amava com esses lábios.: «Porque gosto de te ver ler o jornal enquanto tomo o pequeno-almoço, quanto mais não seja por isso. Vejo na tua cara como amanhece o mundo e como amanheces todas as manhãs, que és a minha vida e o representante principal do mundo. De longe o mais visível.» Essas palavras regressam inesperadamente, ao ouvir o timbre e a dicção idênticos, e ao ver o sorriso tão comparável. E então a pessoa sabe de imediato que nesta mulher madura que acabam de lhe apresentar bem pode confiar, absolutamente. Sabe que não lhe fará mal, ou pelo menos não sem o avisar.”
“Uma pessoa nunca devia contar nada.»”
September 11, 2022
Ostensibly a story about a Spanish academic recruited into a unnamed and unofficial group run by British academics for the British and friendly governments, which employs people able to ascertain someone’s true character and how they may behave in the right (or more commonly) wrong circumstances – i.e. what will their face be tomorrow. Really a book about impressions, memory, secrets, trust, betrayal with the Spanish civil war as an often present backdrop.
Extremely hard to read, as every sentence is beautifully crafted but to the point of being over-written and elaborate, often piling on a series of repetitions; as an example (which could actually be referring to large parts of the book)
Unlike The Man of Feeling the novel is lengthy and so Marias’s complex prose which often turns in on itself does cross over into being unreadable.
The book also suffers from the Spanish literary conceit that ageing academics and writers are irresistible to young women, and generally its female characters are rare, and clichéd and its male figures snobbish.
As a result it was I think only on my 4th attempt that I did not abandon this book part way through - something that I almost never do with the 100 or so books I read a year.
When the book works it can be really strong – for example a fascinating discourse on how the “Careless Talk Costs Lives” campaign backfired as it encouraged people to think their ramblings might be of importance as well as attracting them to the threat of danger that they may have betrayed a national secret; but that it lead to the formation of this group as one which could take advantage of people’s talkative nature to ascertain their real and future characters.
Extremely hard to read, as every sentence is beautifully crafted but to the point of being over-written and elaborate, often piling on a series of repetitions; as an example (which could actually be referring to large parts of the book)
an inexplicable phase, meaningless like all tautologies, empty words, a rudimentary concept
Unlike The Man of Feeling the novel is lengthy and so Marias’s complex prose which often turns in on itself does cross over into being unreadable.
The book also suffers from the Spanish literary conceit that ageing academics and writers are irresistible to young women, and generally its female characters are rare, and clichéd and its male figures snobbish.
As a result it was I think only on my 4th attempt that I did not abandon this book part way through - something that I almost never do with the 100 or so books I read a year.
When the book works it can be really strong – for example a fascinating discourse on how the “Careless Talk Costs Lives” campaign backfired as it encouraged people to think their ramblings might be of importance as well as attracting them to the threat of danger that they may have betrayed a national secret; but that it lead to the formation of this group as one which could take advantage of people’s talkative nature to ascertain their real and future characters.
May 28, 2020
öncelikle bu kitaba başlayacaksanız kesinlikle serinin en azından 2. kitabını elinizin altında bulundurun. ben kitabın ilk 100 sayfasını okuduktan sonra kitabın çok heyecanlı bir yerde biteceğini fark ettim ama aksiyon almam için çok geçti artık kfgddsj
bir kitap düşünün james bond hikayesi kadar aksiyonu varmış gibi yapıp size olup olmadığını anlatıcının dahi bilmediği şeyler(neyler) üzerinden bir şeyler anlatıyor olsun. kitapta aksiyon olmamasına rağmen kitabı soluksuz okutuyor, what kind of sorcery is this?!!
linguistiğe karşı ilgisi olan okurlar bu kitaba bayılacaklar(misal ben, Sine, Yazgülü). çünkü anlatıcı anlattıklarını ingilizce ve ispanyolca dil karşılaştırmalarıyla beraber aktarıyor. ve siz çok şanslı bir türk okuyucu olarak her iki dile olağanüstü hakim olan ve mükemmel çeviri yapan Roza Hakmen kaleminden okuyorsunuz bu kitabı. kitabı türkçe'ye Roza Hakmen'den başka biri çevirmiş olsaydı eminim bütün kitap boyunca keşke Roza Hakmen çevirseydi diye ağlayarak okurdum, teşekkürler Metis.
Shakespeare ve Don Quixote'ye yazarın derinden bir ilgisi olması kitabı benim için ayrıca güzelleştirdi.
Kitabın başında sizi hiç bilmediğiniz bir şeye hazırladığı ilk birkaç bölüm hayatımda okuduğum en iyi girişlerden biriydi.
5 yıldız vermemin sebebi kitabın kusursuz olması değil, aslına bakarsanız laf kalabalığı yaptığı, bence tıraşlanabilir dediğim tercihleri vardı fakat anlatma biçimi o kadar iyi ki kusurlar kapanıyor. ikinci kitap için sabırsızlanıyorum. seriyi bitirince geriye döner bir şeyler daha eklerim belki.
bir kitap düşünün james bond hikayesi kadar aksiyonu varmış gibi yapıp size olup olmadığını anlatıcının dahi bilmediği şeyler(neyler) üzerinden bir şeyler anlatıyor olsun. kitapta aksiyon olmamasına rağmen kitabı soluksuz okutuyor, what kind of sorcery is this?!!
linguistiğe karşı ilgisi olan okurlar bu kitaba bayılacaklar(misal ben, Sine, Yazgülü). çünkü anlatıcı anlattıklarını ingilizce ve ispanyolca dil karşılaştırmalarıyla beraber aktarıyor. ve siz çok şanslı bir türk okuyucu olarak her iki dile olağanüstü hakim olan ve mükemmel çeviri yapan Roza Hakmen kaleminden okuyorsunuz bu kitabı. kitabı türkçe'ye Roza Hakmen'den başka biri çevirmiş olsaydı eminim bütün kitap boyunca keşke Roza Hakmen çevirseydi diye ağlayarak okurdum, teşekkürler Metis.
Shakespeare ve Don Quixote'ye yazarın derinden bir ilgisi olması kitabı benim için ayrıca güzelleştirdi.
Kitabın başında sizi hiç bilmediğiniz bir şeye hazırladığı ilk birkaç bölüm hayatımda okuduğum en iyi girişlerden biriydi.
5 yıldız vermemin sebebi kitabın kusursuz olması değil, aslına bakarsanız laf kalabalığı yaptığı, bence tıraşlanabilir dediğim tercihleri vardı fakat anlatma biçimi o kadar iyi ki kusurlar kapanıyor. ikinci kitap için sabırsızlanıyorum. seriyi bitirince geriye döner bir şeyler daha eklerim belki.
December 25, 2020
Javier Marias gibi bir yazar olabilmek için entelektüel bir anne babaya, okumak ve yazmak için harcanan bir ömre, kendini bilgiye adamaya ihtiyaç var sanırım. Bunlar yeterli mi peki? Bunlara sahip herkes bu kadar derin yazabilir mi ondan da şüpheliyim. Belki bir de yetenek gerekiyordur. Kendisi bir kaç seneye nobel alamazsa sürpriz olur bana göre. Hoş alamasa da yazdıkları değerini yitirecek değil.
Herkese göre bir roman asla değil. Belli bir edebi birikime ve kültürel seviyeye sahip olmak gerekiyor. Bende de bunlardan yeterince olmadıgı için yer yer zorlandığımı itiraf etmem lazım. Kendinizi zorlamaktan hoşlanıyorsanız hiç çekinmeden Marias'ın dünyasına dalabilirsiniz. Aksi takdirde nefret edip bir kenara atma ihtimalini göz ardı etmeyin derim.
Herkese göre bir roman asla değil. Belli bir edebi birikime ve kültürel seviyeye sahip olmak gerekiyor. Bende de bunlardan yeterince olmadıgı için yer yer zorlandığımı itiraf etmem lazım. Kendinizi zorlamaktan hoşlanıyorsanız hiç çekinmeden Marias'ın dünyasına dalabilirsiniz. Aksi takdirde nefret edip bir kenara atma ihtimalini göz ardı etmeyin derim.
June 30, 2020
Alkışlar ve hayranlıklarla serinin ilk kitabını bitirdim. Fakat bu ne muazzam bir okumaydı.
Seriye devam ediyorum, bakalım daha ne kadar hayran kalacağım..
Mutlaka başlayın.
Keyifli okumalar!
Seriye devam ediyorum, bakalım daha ne kadar hayran kalacağım..
Mutlaka başlayın.
Keyifli okumalar!
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