October, Eight O'Clock and Other Stories
my pleasure to add another book of Norman Manea's on the tracker! imagine how excited I was to find two books by this author that I had been hoping to find....
like several other items, given these tags of holocaust and shoah...i've doubtless forgotten to tag some uploads with this. while it deals with these events, this book--like most the others--deal to no small degree with the postwar period as well.
A collection of short stories stemming from the Romanian author's detention in a Nazi concentration camp as a child evokes a sense of the horror and absurdity of war and Romanian politics.
dresses, shirts, shoes, even some candlesticks. T h e w o n d e r of a hamlet living on a cloud, with white peaceful houses, lost under the manes of long-haired trees, on streets where undulating coaches rolled by. A metropolis! A fairy tale! Amazement at the miracles and the stillness and terror of a house; enchantment because it was that house; amazement, wonder, and fear of what was happening inside it. The slow hours, the sinking into the sofa. The angles, the colored criss-crossing of so
silence, apart. That is how they left the cinema and that is how the group found them: silent and apart. They had looked for a bench on the church grounds, but none were free. So, pensive and deflated, in fact somehow shrunken, they followed the others in the direction of the forest. Evening. People recovered the vitality of the previous sum mers, they started to breathe the sky above, toward which they sometimes felt themselves rise to caress the contours of the moon. The suitor was counting on
our equal slices of the rationed, pro ductive future. I would have needed the strength to wish for more than was possible. If one were to tell you about the sea, and about one’s obses sions with it, the words would only too soon sound suspect. I feel accused. The obscure motivations, the uncertainty of even the most detailed evocations, cannot improve our dialogue. I lose the energy to cross the barrier of speech. Some time passed; hesitation nailed me to my seat, the silent room lost its
that’s all, just your hand!” I am dying, breath, bruise, hang on, hang on to the hand, hang on. He squeezes, squeezes the bony claw, panting, water in mouth, nose, throat, engorged by water, disgorging water, sinking, lost. The tar rises to the sky, groans and subsides, dark and oily. Rage in the battered head, the shore, they’re galloping along the shore, the woman in red, in a red dress, or blue, the horizon red or blue embroiders the red white blue dress, the shore, I call out, there are
newsletter. “I said to him, you seem to be an educated man,” the super recounted to me, but the man just hemmed and hawed and mumbled some sort of an excuse. Once there had been no partitions. Old building, well built, huge apartments, rich people. Then they built partitions thin as cigarette paper, reallocated living space, redid everything. Bricks, you couldn’t find one in these new partitions; they don’t insulate and yet the acoustics are far from perfect. Simply annoying, that’s all.