کتاب ساندویچ ژامبون

اثر چارلز بوکوفسکی از انتشارات نگاه - مترجم: علی امیر ریاحی-دهه 1980 میلادی

اولین چیزی که یادم می‌آید، مخفی بودن زیر چیزی‌ست. زیر یک میز. من پایه‌ی میز را می‌دیدم. پای آدم‌ها را، و بخشی از رومیزی را که آویزان بود. آن زیر تاریک بود و من آن زیر بودن را دوست داشتم. به گمانم در آلمان بودیم. و من یک یا دو سال بیشتر نداشتم. سال ۱۹۲۲. من زیر میز حس خوبی داشتم. و ظاهرا هیچ‌کس از بودن من در آن‌جا خبر نداشت


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كاش اين كتابش رو قبل از ((عامه پسند)) خونده بودم، اونوقت به احتمال زياد قلمش در عامه پسند رو هم بيشتر ميفهميدم و دوست ميداشتم
اگه هنوز كتابي از بوكوفسكي نخوندين پيشنهاد ميكنم با اين كتاب ، خوندن آثارش رو شروع كنيد


مشاهده لینک اصلی
بوکوفسکی اصلا نویسنده ی محبوب من نیست.. بعیده دیگه چیزی ازش بخونم. اینو هم رها کردم.
ولی یا از بوکوفسکی چیزی نخونید یا زبان اصلی بخونید. ترجمه کتاب خیلی خیلی بد بود. پر از سانسور، انقدری که چیزی از اصل کتاب باقی نمیمونه. بعدش رفتم سراغ زبان اصلیش ولی خب جذاب نبود واسم..

مشاهده لینک اصلی
My life did not resemble Henry Chinaskis. No abusive father here. No ritualized beatings. No helpless mother. No culture of fighting. One lost fight was enough to teach me the purposelessness of all that. I liked school. Not that I go to the reunions. Sure there was the pimply phase, but nothing like the scourge of boils that rendered Henry a monster.

And yet...and yet...

Something rang so true reading this book. The sense of alienation. The understanding of the absurdity of it all. The rejection of class and mores. The resort to isolation. Somehow I got to the same godless, cynical place, where I can look back with a sense of inevitability.

You know how you pick a book up, flip a few pages, read the first sentence, perhaps, or a few strands of dialogue to get a sense of whether it will be worth the effort? I did that here and thought this would be trite, unsatisfying and nihilistic. But I bought it anyhow, couldnt put it down and feel that Ive learned something about myself from reading about someone who isnt like me at all.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
“At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”

― Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye


@description@


Reading Charles Bukowski in public is a rather curious thing. Every once in a while, you come across some line or paragraph that is suffused with such a potent strand of open misanthropy it makes you chuckle. You think to yourself: @Surely this man is exaggerating here, merely going for comedic or shock [email protected] What do you do? You decide to test his theory. You look up, take in your surroundings, watch ordinary humans go about their daily business and return to the passage you just read. Then it hits you. @Oh shucks, hes kind of right here. What does that say about me? Am I turning into a -toned down- Bukowski [email protected] The ones who appreciate Bukowski have this experience often, I presume (also hope).

Ham on Rye tells of the formative years (1920-45, roughly) of Bukowskis alter ego Henry Chinaski. In effect it is a loosely structured, even somewhat sloppy autobiography. Writing this book surely must have been emotionally punishing for Bukowski though. There is some serious, unresolved pain here, one supposes most of it not dealt with through any professional channels. Which would have been very unlike him, of course. Bukowski is the quintessential lone wolf, he dealt with his pain on his own terms. It wouldnt have given him the venom he needed, nor made him the figure he turned into.

He goes into lengthy detail about his horrendous childhood. The domineering and abusive father, the spineless mother, and the soul-crushing social alienation he experienced as a child and young adult. Dreams are shattered, any sense of self-worth is ground into the earth at inception and even the tiniest hint of human warmth displayed is slowly being squeezed out. Unsurprisingly, the only route open to the character is direct revolt and nihilism. A rejection of all social conventions, common @[email protected] and, above all, expectations.

Yet for all the abject misery this is a supremely funny and vigorous book, if you know what to look for and share Bukowskis brand of humour. What really did surprise me though was that there is a tenderness here that I didnt find in either Post Office , Factotum or Women. At the ending of the book Bukowski seems to have found some degree of peace, some acceptance of his present state and past. Considering the tumultous, unpleasant life he had led up until then, this is one hell of a miracle.

You can level many accusations against Bukowski, both as a writer and as a person. Sure, his writing is blunt, unrefined, perhaps too reliant on cheap gross out effects. He was an alcoholic, a misanthrope, even a thoroughly vile man when he got you in his crosshairs, but what he surely wasnt was unfeeling. Underneath all that bravado and machismo there beat the heart of a disappointed, yet true, romantic. Sadly, that person never had a chance to flourish. That is the source of Bukowskis greatness and tragedy both.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Holy shit!

This is the story of Henry Chenaski, Charles Bukowski’s alter ego, who had a helluva depressing childhood in large part due to a father who was a real son of a bitch and whom I blame for Henry’s later love of the bottle, to a lesser extent due to the Depression that hit the States, and Los Angeles, when Henry grew up.

My heart bled for young Henry; like when his father forced him to mow the lawn when all the other kids on the street were out playing. When Henry was done, his father put his head down on the lawn, cheek on grass, spotted a stray blade of grass and (view spoiler)[ beat young Henry – again – with his leather belt (hide spoiler)].

There was something about his loneliness and his plight, in the first part of the book, which reminded me of Holden Cauldfield ( The Catcher in the Rye). Both Henry and Holden throw around goddamned tough language whenever possible but are essentially lost kids. (There’s even the word ‘rye’ in the titles of both stories, surely two of the only titles in literary history to use that word).

Apart from his pestilential father, Henry suffered from the meanest boils imaginable and went through a horrible ordeal for years trying to get rid of them while being painfully aware that a head full of boils (not to mention a back) didn’t exactly attract the girls. At this point he met one of the few good people to cross his path during his childhood, the nurse who treated him for the boils: ‘She was the kindest person I’d met in eight years.’ (Henry’s mother wasn’t unkind to Henry; she just didn’t stop Henry’s father but rather joined Henry in his victimhood).

As Henry grew up, the graphic details increased. There were perhaps one or two of these I could have done without, but you sense it’s part of the honesty project here; if Henry (a.k.a. Charles) thought about these things – as there’s evidence to support he did, excessively so – they went into the book. He got more obsessed with girls (and their legs, and their hair, and their….), and as he grew older, he became obsessed with women. And with booze. He turned into the Bukowski I’d read about. This novel provided much of the background.

Here’s another classic and perhaps even defining situation: Right after his high school graduation, Henry’s father is – once again – on Henry’s case about not amounting to much. ‘Why did I have a son like you?’ he says to Henry, comparing him to some other kid. ‘How come you never applied yourself?’ etc. etc. No congratulations, no ‘good job, son – you did what I never managed to do’. None of that. I found myself saying out loud, (view spoiler)[’Well, Mr. Chenaski, maybe if you hadn’t spent your years as a father beating up your son with a leather strap once or twice a week for the tiniest thing and in stead taken an interest in him, he might have amounted to more. (hide spoiler)]

While I felt for the kid Henry Chenaski, I felt increasingly annoyed with his unpleasant adult self who, perhaps unsurprisingly, seemed bent on drinking himself into a stupor and general oblivion whenever possible, picking fights and heading deliberately for the low life on skid row. As a young man he seemed determined to become a loser while disdaining anyone who wasn’t. Though somehow: Who could blame him?

It felt good to sit alone in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.

Henry’s existential derailment seemed circular and monotonous towards the end, which perhaps underlines the authenticity and the tragedy of his life if not the sense of literary appreciation on my part. Still, there were many linguistic gems – in that completely non-show-off-y kind of way, which in some ways also characterizes Catcher: an informal, mid-20th century, colloquial tone which lays bare a life, sometimes annoys, sometimes draws on your sympathy, sometimes makes you laugh and often gives you glimpses of what kind of writer Hank/Charles was to become.

Potential landlord: You working?
Henry: I’m a writer
PL: You don’t look like a writer
H: What do they look like?

Even in Henry’s increasing feeling of alienation, we sense something else underneath the scarred surface, an energy with which he might learn to suppress his apparent death wish.

Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.


مشاهده لینک اصلی
Ο Χένρι Τσινάσκι μεγαλώνει σε ένα δύσκολο περιβάλλον,σε μια φτωχή οικογένεια με έναν πατέρα που συχνά ξεσπάει πάνω του και μια μητέρα αδιάφορη.Στο σχολείο τα πράγματα δεν είναι καλύτερα,δεν έχει φίλους,δεν μπορεί και δεν θέλει να προσαρμοστεί,συχνά μπλέκει σε καυγάδες και ,σαν κερασάκι στην τούρτα,στην εφηβεία αποκτάει μεγάλο πρόβλημα ακμής που σχεδόν τον παραμορφώνει.
Ποιος μπορεί να τον κατηγορήσει που είναι τόσο κυνικός;
Βρίσκει καταφύγιο στο ποτό και στα βιβλία:«Ήταν απόλαυση! Οι λέξεις δεν ήταν βαρετές, οι λέξεις ήταν πράγματα που έκαναν το μυαλό σου να γυρίζει όταν τις διάβαζες, ένιωθες τη μαγεία, μπορούσες να ζήσεις χωρίς τον πόνο, με ελπίδα, ανεξάρτητα από το τι είχε συμβεί».
Oι λέξεις του Μπουκόφσκι σίγουρα δεν είναι ποτέ βαρετές.Μπορεί να είναι σκληρές,@βρώμικες@ ,αλλά βαρετές όχι.
Το Τοστ ζαμπόν είναι σε μεγάλο βαθμό αυτοβιογραφικό βιβλίο και αυτό το κάνει ακόμα πιο ενδιαφέρον.Δεν έχω διαβάσει κανένα βιβλίο του Μπουκόφσκι που να μην μου άρεσε αλλά αυτό και οι Γυναίκες είναι τα αγαπημένα μου μέχρι στιγμής.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Masculinity is hilarious. Men are expected to kick ass and fuck anything that moves, as long as your peers approve of those whose asses are to be kicked, or that the housing for the orifice you seek to penetrate meets their requirements. In other words, dudes are fucking stupid. We covet the approval of other dudes when other dudes do little to nothing for us.

@GET ALL THE [email protected] is their battle song. But make sure the girl is sexy enough so that your buddies dont rag you over fucking some troglodyte.

@KICK ALL THE ASS,@ they cry! And when you dont, youre a pussy. Because all men want pussy more than they wish to be one.

@BEAT IT [email protected] they scream. Because sometimes the line between sex and violence is blurred for men. But sex is just as important as violence and requires the same amount of masculinity to achieve. SO ONWARD WAYWARD COCK!

Fuck off. Its silly. The only thing required of you to @BE A [email protected] is that you have a penis. Thats it. You only need one thing to be a woman. Guess what that is? You guessed it. A vagina.

And because its bound to come up, Im not here to debate gender identity. If you identify as something other than the sex you were born, I respect that. Im talking about the prerequisites for gender status. Or, if you will, the absurdity of gender expectations.

I was called a @[email protected] and a @[email protected] a lot when I was younger because Id only fight to protect myself. I wouldnt instigate a fight over words, or to defend my honor. Because of this, my masculinity was always in question. Years later, I got married and had two kids. Guess there was never anything wrong with my @[email protected] My parts work just fine.

I said all that to say this: I love this fucking book. It pokes fun at every aspect of masculinity and the absurdity of manhood. I find it funny beyond belief that Bukowskis character Henry Chinaski (allegedly an alias for himself, and this book a fictionalized auto-biography of his own life) would point out the posteriors of men just as much as he pointed out boobs and vaginas (or, in his words, @[email protected]). He also used words like @[email protected] and @[email protected] to describe men in the book. Everything about this novel challenges gender norms and thats probably what I dug most about it.

The book is vulgar and its crudeness speaks to the theme. Youll read about everything from old people fucking to guys jacking off dogs to teenage boys looking up through bleachers to scope out a bared vagina. Bukowski pulls no punches. He pours water into the male psyche to find all the holes and short circuit the machinery.

I dug every page of this novel. It is thought provoking and laugh-out-loud funny. Any book that pulls that off gets all the stars from yours truly.

In summation: This novel is, simply put, brilliant. It works as both parody and serious literature. If you think never the twain could meet, I suggest you read this book and look past the simple language to see the bigger message. Bukowski had Vonnegut-level skills, yo.

Final Judgment: Sings, @NOW YOURE A MAN, A MAN MAN [email protected]

مشاهده لینک اصلی
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