Αχ αυτό το βιβλίο με μπέρδεψε πολύ. Έχει μέρες που το τελειώσα, αλλά ακόμα και τώρα δεν έχω ξεκάθαρη γνώμη. Σε σημεία το βρήκα πολύ έντονο, κλειστοφοβικό, με περιγραφές που σου άφηναν σκέψεις και σε άλλα σημεία απλά βαριόμουν. Δεν είναι όλα τα βιβλία για ολους.

4.5

Menos de dos meses le faltaban a Ernesto Sábado para cumplir 100 años cuando le llegó el día de partir. El físico argentino convertido en escritor fue unos de los pesos pesados de la literatura en español y dejo tras de sí lo que se podría decir una de las grandes obras de la literatura latinoamericana, con su peculiar concepción del universo. La mayoría de la gente ha oído de este libro alguna vez en su vida. Es el túnel.



Argentina. Mediados de los años 40. Juan Pablo Castel es un pintor incomprendido. Es alabado por la crítica pero él desdeña de esas personas que admiran su arte, los cree falsos porque no lo alcanzan a entender. Hasta que en una exposición, uno de sus cuadros es comprendido por una mujer. Una tal María Iribarne. Entonces él hará lo posible por acercarse a ella, el único ser que al parecer lo comprende.

Reseña completa: http://rapsodia-literaria.blogspot.co...

«Confesso che neppure io so cosa intendo con “vero amore”»

Breve romanzo- monologo.
Scritto nel 1948 ma pubblicato nel 1967
Siamo a Buenos Aires.
Juan Pablo Castel, pittore di una certa fama ha ucciso Maria Iribarne.
Ce lo dice subito e precisa che questo vuole essere il racconto per spiegare ciò che è successo.

Ci sono relazioni claustrofobiche che nulla hanno a che fare con l’amore.
Sono elastici che si tendono come fosse un gioco che alterna masochismo a sadismo.
La gelosia, il sospetto, il dubbio sono ingredienti che, in dosi eccessive nutrono questi rapporti malati.
Ragionamenti costruiti su pericolosi sillogismi (”María e la prostituta avevano avuto un’espressione simile; la prostituta simulava piacere; María, dunque, simulava piacere; María è una prostituta”), domande che danno il ritmo e invece che costruire scavano fossati tra realtà e un’immaginazione perversa.
Nulla a che fare con ciò che dovrebbe essere chiamato Amore ma tanto con la sfera dei disturbi, delle patologie mentali trascinate nel tempo probabilmente antichi fardelli costruiti nei tempi dell’infanzia.
Spesso infatti sono vecchie ferite che al primo apparire di una cicatrice si scavano per provare ancora quell'antico dolore.
Uomini, all'apparenza.
Bambini feriti, nella sostanza.
Dovrebbero fare tenerezza se non fosse che la loro mancanza di misura nel capire ed accettare un abbandono ed un rifiuto li rende esseri pericolosi.

La critica ne ha fatto un emblema delle patologie dell’artista io più blandamente trovo che Sabato abbia meravigliosamente interpretato la sfera di una mente malata.
Castel è un uomo imprigionato:
bloccato in un’espressione artistica che reputa non compresa (un successo che si basa su interpretazioni arbitrarie), separato dall'umanità tutta che vede con occhi di misantropo.
Una gran solitudine dentro al Tunnel e il desiderio non di uscirne ma di bloccare un altro essere lì con lui.

Letto velocemente, con grande rabbia e la voglia di uscirne fuori.
La grande rabbia, ovviamente è per l’attualità di questo Male...

” ...in ogni caso, c’era un solo tunnel, buio e solitario: il mio, il tunnel in cui avevo trascorso l’infanzia, la giovinezza, tutta la mia vita.”

It should be sufficient to say that I am Juan Pablo Castel, the painter who killed María Iribarne.

That is how the story unfolded itself. It began with that one sentence - a simple, staightforward confession.

After I finished the novella, it felt like waking up from a dream. Not just a normal dream but a nightmarish one. The kind that leaves you dazed as its after effect.

There was one person who could have understood me. But she was the very person I killed.n

It's no secret that Castel was the one who killed María Iribarne. This is a book about his coming out with the truth behind his terrible actions but that was it. He made no mentions of justifying his deeds nor does he shows much remorse over the dead woman he loved.

It was... disturbing.

But then again, everything about this painter is. It's horrifying to read through what goes on in this madman's mind. He had this hatred toward humanity boiling inside him and he purged it out heatedly in his words. In his eyes, all human beings are assholes. He even view them (us) as hypocritical, ass-kissing bastards. The way he wrote it, you can almost feel this hate-passion of his in your heart.

I scorn all humankind; people around me are vile, sordid, stupid, greedy, gross, niggardly. I do not fear solitude; it is almost Olympian

Then he'd go deep on the subject that makes you ponder - really ponder over the meaning of it all. It's infectious and... wonderful.

n
On a tiny planet that has been racing toward oblivion for millions of years, we are born amid sorrow; we grow, we struggle, we grow ill, we suffer, we make others suffer, we cry out, we die, others die, and new beings are born to begin the senseless comedy all over again.

. . .

Was our life nothing more than a sequence of anonymous screams in a desert of indifferent stars?

It is his total cynicism toward man that draws me in to him. I confess, I agreed to some of his opinions. Hell, I could even find myself relating to him and for that I am deeply disturbed...

When he got obsessed with María and started to stalk her everywhere at anytime. I was way more than disturbed. I was fucking terrified. When he gets passionate over someone or something, he fully dedicate himself to it - to the point of nearly reaching the brink of madness, and when he finally broke, the outcome was terrible.

The relationship portrayed was very abusive, very cruel... I nearly couldn't stomach it and wanted to stop but this book would never let me. Besides.. How can I stop when I'm addicted to what Castel has to say? How can I leave this book when I can clearly see that he is getting sicker in his head and madder in his actions? The answer is simple - I simply can't.

This book isn't for everyone, I can guarantee that. You'll be sickened and haunted by it and perhaps, you may even find yourself in Juan Pablo Castel. Maybe that will make you hate the book for it but in my case, I am awed.

In the end, it all comes down to the questions. Did he killed María Iribarne out of love or hate? Was María really what he perceived her to be?  The Tunnel is open to your own suggestions.


Pre-review

What a psychotic book this was. It feels like waking up from a terrible nightmare. So crazy, it's good.

See more reviews on books of all kinds of genres at...
n  n

پیش از هر چیز به‌نظرم مقدمه مترجم را جدی نگیرید‌ هر کس جزئیات تجربه‌های درونی زندگی را بازگو کرد لزوما اگزیستانسیالیست از نوع سارتر و کامو نیست، گرچه شباهت‌هایی داشته باشد. از متوسط بودن ترجمه هم که بگذریم، با توجه به محتوای داستان احتمالا با اثر پرسانسوری روبرو هستیم

من دو بعد در اثر می‌بینم، بدون تلاش برای لو دادن داستان. یک بعد روان‌کاوانه که تلاش می‌کند درونیات انسانی را با تمرکز بر تناقض‌های کلام و عمل انسان موشکافی کند، و دیگری برخی جنبه‌های وجودی در مواجهه با تنهایی مغرورانه که فرد را در مقابل جامعه قرار می‌دهد. و اثر راهش را آنجا از اگزیستانسیالیسم جدا می‌کند که بجای پرداختن به وضع وجودی و مواجهه‌اش با دنیا در قالب تصاویری زنده و تجربه زیسته، تاکید بسیاری بر کلام دارد، حرف و حرف و حرف. گفتگوهای پرشمار بین دو کاراکتر اصلی که در لحظات اندکی حس شگرف تجربه‌هایی وجودی می‌دهد، مانند صحنه نشستن در کنار آب و خیره شدن به زیبایی که در کلام نمی‌گنجد و عدم پایداری آن، و علم به بازگشت به همان زندگی راکد نوعی رنج اگزیستانسیال تحمیل می‌کند.

If you want to foreground a sociopath-misogynist-stalker's sense of urban isolation and alienation against a woman's prolonged emotional and physical abuse at the hands of the same person and call it existentialist literature, your choice. Just don't expect me to appreciate it.

One of the first things I did after coming back home from my summer trip, is grabbing Ernesto Sabato's Tunnel for the second time. I had first read it in early 2008. It was in my head throughout the summer. I felt that I have missed the book and I need to re-read it. By it, I mean its mood, its characters, its amiable yet aggressive narrative style.

The Tunnel is simply a great novella. It talks about one of the main reasons behind literary production: human loneliness and the search for a connection with the eternal. The main character is a painter, Juan Pablo Castel, who gets obsessed with one of his gallery's visitors, Maria. This obsession with Maria takes up most of the pages and is tiring for us readers, yet so intense that it becomes contagious.

Life or existence to Juan Pablo is like Maria, and he doesn't seem to understand it. In one instant he is laying his head on her lap by the shore "like a baby." In another, he is violently grabbing her arm to get her to confess about something that his doubt created. And, finally, in another instance he murders her. (dont worry this is not a spoiler, it is actually the first line of this book.)

This crazy relationship and this obsession is all in Juan Pablo's head and heart and in his confusion. It is the tunnel that he has created or was born into. A tunnel that is parallel to everything and never seems to intersect with anything but his loneliness.

With all this being said, the main attraction of the novella, for me, is its impeccable enthusiasm. Imagine, for example, Albert Camus' The Stranger, Meursault, but with all the enthusiasm. I can say that Sabato's Juan Pablo Castel is Camus' Meursault but in the opposite direction, with an overdose of enthusiasm towards his loneliness and confusion instead of Meursault's lethal apathy.

After reading this book for the second time, I feel energized, enthusiastic, and in the same time melancholic. The exact feelings that I wanted to remind myself of.

Dark book. Inside the mind of a derranged obsessed man. Not a pleasant read but well written.

Čitaocu ovog djela poklonjena je vrlo skupa ulaznica za posjetu lavirintu ljudske psihe, svijetu bolesne "ljubavne" opsjednutosti, opsesije ljubomorom i strašću prema jednoj ženi. Mi u ovom kratkom efektnom djelu možemo sagledati kako furiozno funkcioniše mozak u uvodu i razvoju nečega što predhodi jednome zločinu iz strasti. Priča oskudne a tako primamljive fabule, raskošnog sugestivnog stila, dobrih dijaloga. Ne znam samo kako ranije nisam upoznala Ernesta Sabatoa. Mea culpa.

Virtuozni prikaz pomračenog uma nestabilnog protagoniste koji sugestivno deluje i na čitaoca koji će i sam podozrevati ekstreme ljudske psihe. Ljubomora, opsesija, posesivnost i druga stanja u koja ulazi Huan Pablo Kastel pothranjeni su trikom subjektivnog pripovedanja gde se onemogućava čitaocu da sagleda širu sliku niti da se pronikne u sumnjivo ponašanje misteriozne Marije Iribarne.

5/5

You know I was going to review this book but then it occurred to me that I would never know if you have read my review. I mean yes, I do get likes but suppose people are liking them without reading them. Of course, why would anyone do that? Two possibilities seem to suggest themselves – either they want to make a fool of me by making me keep writing reviews that no one reads or to distract me from something. Of course, that in itself calls for a mass conspiracy because so many people from so many countries will be liking my reviews – unless of course, it is one person with many fake accounts. Now that I think about it the possibility seems very real…

…. The above is how our protagonist might have started a review. But now to proper review:
I don’t know if it can be defined that way but all art – whether it be painting, writing, singing etc, all art forms seems to be tools, of communication – of communicating in superior ways. It is like that teenager boy writing poems to his sweat-heart sort of thing – or making albums, quoting great poets when one doesn’t feel gifted oneself – because our normal everyday language isn’t enough to express what we feel.

But what about artists? What yearnings must they have in themselves to make it their profession to develop those tools; to be on constant look out, at just the right word, phrase, color etc? Why should MB write, leave alone his manuscript of Master and Margarita’ leave alone keep them knowing that they are as good as their death warrant? ‘Manuscripts don’t burn’ one hears in the answer but why don’t they? Is it that they live in constant fear of being misunderstood like Kafka was?

Perhaps getting the message right in itself not enough, there must also need be the person who can understand the message. And thus, Nabokov’s irritation at wrong interpretations of his works and Van Gogh’s sorrow, who though created most beautiful paintings, never found a pair of eyes in which that beauty is reflected. Perhaps that is why artists seek posterity and immortality – to carry to their death bed the hope that what they have to say will be one day be heard in just the way they wanted. The protagonist in the ‘Invitation to a Beheading’ by Nabokov gives his writings to his executioners in desperation and asks them not to destroy them as long as he is alive so that he could at least have a theoretical chance of finding a reader.

So, is it for that theoretical chance of finding someone who will understand him that keeps the artist going? It seems to be true in the case of Juan Pablo, our protagonist here, for whom the whole life was like a dark tunnel (yes that explains the title) where he lived in solitude because, as he puts it, ‘no one understood him’.

The trouble begins when he finds a woman does understand him. And he discovers that he has a lot more to say than that single painting. She wants that too – because the need for understanding is mutual. It doesn’t matter who paints and who reflects. Only our guy can’t have enough – his overt-thinking, over-analytical, pathological brain can’t believe his good fortune. Like Anna Karenina, he needs constant assurances of her fidelity – as is often the case of those who fell in love when they had long given up on any chance of finding it. Like her, he too dwells over suicide but rather prefers killing his girlfriend.

Camus commissioned its publishing – and the narrator here too finds himself a stranger in his world but his solitude because he is a nihilist but rather because of his misanthropy. It also shows similarity to ‘Lolita’ in that Juan Pable might be putting his own version and suppressing the voice of his victim.

n  On a tiny planet that has been racing toward oblivion for millions of years, we are born amid sorrow; we grow, we struggle, we grow ill, we suffer, we make others suffer, we cry out, we die, others die, and new beings are born to begin the senseless comedy all over again.n

Meet Juan Pablo Castel. He's 38 years old, a painter. Cynical. A killer. In his mind, there are two kinds of people. Himself and the rest. He spends his whole life moving in what he describes as a tunnel, while evreyone else is outside roaming freely around the world. Until one day, in a random turn of events, he notices Maria Iribarne looking through the wall of his tunnel and he is devastated. One could say he falls in love but that would only be a euphimism for what it is he truely feels for her.

Sabato paints a raw picture of his hero, depicting everything through his eyes and thus making the reader dive deep into a state of twisted obsessions. Castel wants to possess the only human who understood him if for just a second. And of course, he is constantly in a state of suspicion and jealousy leading to his mistreating Maria. Characteristic to his self-delusion is when he remembers everything being dreamy in the past

n  Everything then had been miraculous, dazzling, but now the world was somber, cold, devoid of meaning.n

when in reality it was nothing like that as he never stopped causing uneasiness to Maria by interrogating her every time they would meet. What is frightening, is that I've met at least one such person in the past.

n  Dear God, how can you have faith in human nature when you think that a sewer and certain moments of Schumann or Brahms are connected by secret, shadowy, subterranean passageways.n

A magnificent, dark novel not suitable for those who like the sugar-coated and cheesy. Excellent.